Murder at an Irish Chipper

Book 10: Irish Village Mystery

by Carlene O'Connor

Genres: Mystery; Cozy Mystery; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Set in a charming Irish village, the latest installment in bestselling author Carlene O’Connor (“queen of the cozy police procedural”—Publishers Weekly) cozy Irish Village Mystery series.

Siobhán’s brother Eoin’s new family restaurant, The O’Sullivan Six, is so close to opening—but waiting on the necessary permits plus the heat of July in the village of Kilbane in County Cork is driving everyone a bit mad. Macdara Flannery comes to the rescue with a plan—take a holiday by the sea and stuff themselves with fish and chips to support the struggling business of the aptly named Mrs. Chipper.
 
But when they arrive, a crowd is gathered in front of the closed shop: a local fisherman with a fresh cod delivery, a food critic, Mrs. Chipper’s ex-husband who’s opening a competing fish and chips shop directly across the street, and a repairman to fix the vent for the deep fryer. With Siobhán and Macdara as witnesses, a local handyman gets the locked door open, only to find the proprietor lying dead and covered in flour at the base of a ladder, its rungs coated in slippery fat. Clearly this was not an accidental tragedy . . .
 
Even as the local garda take over the murder investigation, Siobhán and Macdara can’t help themselves from placing their long-delayed honeymoon on hold—at least until they can help apprehend an elusive killer.

Release date: February 20, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

It was done. Vera Cowley—or Mrs. Chips, as everyone in town called her—stepped back and admired the handiwork. Her custom-made bookcase for her chipper. Hers and hers alone. The bookcase that Corman, aka Mr. Chips, had ridiculed.

“A bookshelf in a chipper?” he’d said in that tone she’d grown to hate.

“No. A bookcase in a chipper. A special bookcase. Custom-made.” For this exact spot in the corner where it would be a perfect fit. (And it was.)

He’d scrunched up his bushy white eyebrows. “No bookshelves in chippers!”

“Bookcase.” That was one of his many problems. The man never listened. Now she’d lost a husband but gained a bookcase, and it was perfection. She stepped to the side to view it from yet another angle, trying to ignore everything else in the small chipper in need of repair. The old red leather peeling off the booths. The chipped beige-tiled floors. The kitchen equipment that was nearly as old as she was. At least it all worked. All but the hood vent. And that was why she was here early waiting on the repairman. Tom Dowd. He was late. You absolutely could not count on anyone these days, especially husbands and repairmen. Forty years of marriage and Corman leaves her with the same dingy chipper, only to open a brand-new one across the street. Brand-new! The nerve.

For about the hundredth time that morning, she crossed back to the window and peered out. The new MR. CHIPS was painted blue, just like she’d always wanted. Corman Cowley had done it to upset her. What a small man. Back then she’d wanted it blue like the sea, and he’d insisted they paint it red. An angry color from an angry man. Everything about his new place was designed to rattle her. The pretty blue paint, MR. CHIPS on a sign so large one could probably see it from outer space, and that mean-spirited banner announcing his grand opening: All that and no old bag!

But the most shocking bit was the mural. She would recognize Tara Flaherty’s (her ex-best friend) work anywhere. And what a ridiculous mural it was. A fish—a cod, she presumed—grinning while eating a basket of chips. Now. That was just absurd. A fish eating the chips? Why would a fish eat the chips? And why, when the customers were also going to be eating the fish, would they want to see the thing all alive and smiling? And how could Tara do that to her? She was obviously right to accuse her ex-best friend and her ex-husband of knocking boots. The writing was on the shop wall; the proof was in the painting.

A divorce. A divorce all because Vera had asked for two things. One: their sign to read MR. AND MRS. CHIPS. Two: a switch to vegetable oil, which was much healthier than frying the cod in beef fat drippings. Stubborn old goat that he is, he had refused. That is the only reason she delivered jars of beef fat to the doorsteps of their customers. She felt obligated to show them what was going into their bodies. Mr. Chips lost the plot altogether. He threatened to have her committed to a mental health institution. He was the one who needed to be committed. To their marriage. This was when she did something that she hadn’t done in forty years. She stood her ground. Using the ladder from their garden shed and old paint they had stored, she’d added a bespoke S to the sign. MRS. CHIPS. That’s when he filed for divorce.

They were married in a Catholic church by a priest. That was forever. That only ended in death.

Now there were two chippers across from each other. Unsustainable. But she would never leave Lahinch, a town she fiercely loved. She loved the small beaches, the ocean, the promenade, the shops, the galleries, the restaurants. She even loved the tourists. It was summer, the best time of all. Loaded up with surfers, golfers, and those who just wanted to float in the sea. She crossed to the wall near her new bookcase where she had printed and framed a newspaper article: “Save the Chipper!”

It was a feature on her, and it wasn’t just a plea for charity. They were sending a food critic/restaurant reviewer from a popular website to do a write-up on her new top-secret curry sauce. (She had admittedly raved about it to the reporter, and it had piqued the woman’s interest.) Ms. Madeline Plunkett. She was due to arrive today. Take that, Mr. Chips. You and your smiling cod.

Madeline Plunkett looked posh. Vera had stalked her In-stagram account. Her outfits—they probably cost more than the chipper. A gorgeous young Black woman who had just moved to Ireland from London. She had more than one hundred thousand followers. One hundred thousand! Maybe Madeline would write up something brilliant and entice a few of those followers to her chipper. Which was why Tom Dowd had better get his lazy arse down here and fix her hood vent pronto!

She couldn’t serve Madeline Plunkett fish and chips if her deep fryer wasn’t working. She needed Madeline to love her—especially her curry sauce. She needed Madeline to be so impressed that she wouldn’t notice her chipper was a bit dingy. Vera hoped that Madeline hadn’t minded all the messages she had left on her voice mail. The town was going to have to be loyal to her once that article was out. She would see to it that Mr. Chips went out of business. She would bury him for good.

She snatched a pile of bills from a nearby booth and imagined putting a match to them and hurtling the fireball into the front window of Mr. Chips. She threw them back onto the booth, wishing it were a rubbish bin instead. Ruminating on her debt made her furious. And not just at her ex but also at that weasel of a loan officer, Mike McGee. His bank was directly across the street, and she knew plenty about how that man operated. Shady. She’d seen his handshake deals with gamblers stumbling out of the empty shop front between the bank and Mr. Chips. She had seen it all. And she was taking names.

At least Detective Sargeant Healy had believed her when she said something funny was going on across the street late at night. He’d approached Mike McGee straight away. She watched the entire thing through her binoculars from her upstairs flat, but sadly she could not read lips. But from the serious expression on Detective Sargeant Liam’s face and the shame on McGee’s, he was giving it to him good. She had no idea what would become of it, but she hoped it would be something. And to think she always remembered that Mike McGee liked his chips with extra vinegar. She’d give him extra vinegar!

Traitor. This town was full of them, and every single one was going on her list. Still no sign of Tom Dowd, and she could not stop looking at that mural. She poked her head out the front door and scoured the street. Deadly silent, not a soul to be seen. Vera wondered where the tall lady in the yellow hat had gone. She’d seen her early this morning, head down, stride quick. She seemed to be pacing. Nothing was open this early, and who took a morning stroll in a fancy hat? Keep your nose on your own face, Vera.

She grabbed the can of black spray paint someone had recently left on her doorstep, shook it like she hated it, threw the door to her chipper open, and marched across the street. Halfway there, she stopped. When she’d first discovered the black spray paint on her doorstep, she thought it was in reaction to leaving jars of beef fat drippings on doorsteps. Was this person encouraging her to vandalize Mr. Chips? Or was it Tara or Corman daring her to do something about it. Either way, she was doing it. She continued across and shook the can of paint again. Joy spread through her. This was going to be fun.

Mrs. Chips was all smiles when she returned to the footpath in front of her shop and surveyed her work. The nasty message on the banner—All that and no old bag—was now obliterated. Blacked out. The mural looked brilliant if she did say so herself. She had sprayed horns and fangs on the grinning cod, then added vomit pouring out of its mouth onto the basket of chips. Take that, Mr. Chips. Still smiling, Vera headed back inside. A ladder was leaning up against the wall near the hood vent. Finally. The repairman was here at last.

“Tom?” she called. “It’s about time you showed up. You’d better give me a discount. Time is money, you know.” There was no answer, or any movement anywhere. She turned back to the front door, poked her head out again, and scoured the street for his lorry. No sign of it. She hadn’t heard the rumble of his engine, but she’d been hyperfocused on her spur-of-the-moment paint job. Where was he? To be safe, she shut and locked the door. She shouldn’t have left it wide open, but she’d been gone only a few minutes. She approached the ladder cautiously. Was it the one from her garden shed? The one that had been missing? It certainly looked like it. Maybe that’s where Tom was, rummaging through her things, too lazy to bring his own gear.

The ladder rested just below a shelf near the ceiling, where she had stored a heavy bag of flour. Underneath the bag dangled a piece of twine. Where had that come from? Vera Cowley could not stand when things were out of place. Loathed it. Everyone knew that. Did Tom leave that string?

“Hello?” she yelled. No answer. She was going to give him a piece of her mind, but first she had to deal with that string. She headed for the ladder and put her hands on either side, jostling it to make sure it was steady. Right as rain. She ascended the ladder, and it wasn’t until she was on the third step that her feet began to slide. There was something slick on the treads. She should descend and let Tom deal with that piece of twine. But only a few more steps and she could grab it. She’d be careful. She took another step, and her foot nearly slid into the empty space between the steps. She cried out as she scrambled to keep her balance. The ladder rattled and swayed. Someone had coated the treads with grease! She could smell it now, and she’d know that smell anywhere. Beef fat drippings. Was this revenge for leaving jars of the stuff on doorsteps? Maybe someone had slipped on it and this was payback. She’d meant no harm, but now she was climbing a ladder with treads as slick as black ice.

Had Corman done this? What was he playing at? Her heart thudded against her rib cage as she slowly, slowly tried to keep her balance and think. Tread carefully. Is that where the saying came from? Stop talking nonsense. Hang on until Tom arrives. I never should have locked the door. What if he can’t get in? Careful, old girl. Careful. This wasn’t safe. She knew in her gut she was not safe. She was halfway up the ladder. What a sick, sick man.

She was here, so might as well tidy up, get rid of that piece of twine. She reached her hand up and could almost touch it. A baby’s breath away. Let it go, Vera, let it go. But she could not. She just could not. It wasn’t in her nature. She stretched just a little bit farther. Got it. She tugged on the string, expecting it to come away easily. What she didn’t expect was for the four-stone bag of flour to come with it. She stared in horror as it came straight for her, and that’s when she panicked. As she tried to scramble down, her feet flew out from underneath her, and soon the world was tilting backward as the heavy bag continued its trajectory. Her last thought before the bag struck her head and her head struck the floor was that she was going to haunt Mr. Chips until the day he died.

It wasn’t easy for Siobhán O’Sullivan to ignore the whinging of her siblings, even with her head shoved as far into the freezer as it could go. Kilbane had hit 32 degrees Celsius, close to breaking the all-time record—33.3 degrees Celsius logged at KilKenny Castle in 1887. She wondered if the folks back then had had anything cool to stick their heads in, perhaps an ice bucket, but had a feeling she should count herself lucky. Eoin was pacing and yammering on about the permit delays that were preventing The O’Sullivan Six, his new farm-to-table restaurant, from opening; Gráinne was fanning herself with a fashion magazine and moaning about the styling appointment she had to cancel because mascara kept running down her face; Ann’s camogie game through the University of Limerick GAA had been canceled because of the excessive heat; and Ciarán couldn’t play his new video game because the internet was out. Instead, he had plopped himself close to their one fan and was talking into it, making his voice wobble. He was in real danger of a blade cutting off his tongue.

Siobhán pulled her head out of the freezer just in time to see Macdara come through the front door. Her handsome husband took a few steps in, then made eye contact with Siobhán as he eyed the freezer.

He grinned and his dimple appeared. “Is it hot in here?”

“It is now,” Siobhán said with a grin of her own.

“Ew,” Gráinne said without looking up from her magazine.

Ciarán said something indecipherable given he was still speaking into the fan.

“It’s going to cut your tongue right out of your mouth,” Siobhán said for the hundredth time. She shut the freezer and sunk into a kitchen chair.

Macdara held up his newspaper. “I’ve got an answer to our woes,” he said.

“Which ones?” Ann asked. Eoin laughed, Gráinne snorted, Ciarán cooed into the fan, and Siobhán waited.

“Save the chipper,” Macdara said. “There’s an article about a chipper in Lahinch in danger of closing.”

“Lahinch?” Gráinne said, sitting up and letting her magazine slip to the floor. “I want to go to Lahinch.” Situated on the northwest coast of County Clare on the Liscannor Bay, the town was a delightful seaside resort.

“Save the chipper?” Siobhán said, gravitating toward the newspaper.

“Touted to be one of the best in Ireland, Mrs. Chips is going through a nasty divorce and could use some support.”

“Mrs. Chips?” He had everyone’s attention.

“That’s the name of her chipper, and I suppose it’s what everyone in town calls her,” Macdara said. He set the newspaper down, grabbed a kitchen towel, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“I want to save the chipper,” Siobhán said. Fish and chips—especially heavenly curried chips—were one of Siobhán’s top reasons for living.

“We can have that honeymoon after all,” Macdara said.

“The wedding was well over a year ago,” Siobhán pointed out. She didn’t know how that was possible, but there it was: time was winning the race.

Macdara shrugged, once again flashing that dimple. “Better late than never?”

“That’s the last thing I want to do,” Ciarán said, finally turning away from the fan. “Go on your honeymoon.” His voice was deep now, and although technically he was nearly a grown man, he was a bit immature for his age. That didn’t bother Siobhán one bit. If she could bottle him up and keep him young forever, she would do it in a heartbeat. It was nearly impossible to imagine him out of the house fending for himself, although lately she had been dropping hints (and catalogues) about going to University. Despite getting his Leaving Certificate, he was taking a year off before applying to University, a decision everyone supported. He wanted to work at Eoin’s restaurant, and he’d agreed to continue with his fiddle lessons. He was quite good at it but had a lazy streak that required a bit of finagling. He’d be the last of them to fly the coop, although Ann was still living at home while commuting to U of L, the University of Limerick. She hadn’t declared a major yet, but she was playing on their camogie team, which had brought everyone a bit of excitement this first year; it had been a thrill to attend her games, even if they were all a bit hoarse for days after from the cheering and screaming.

“Don’t worry, pet, it won’t be romantic at all,” Siobhán said to the youngest O’Sullivan.

Macdara laughed. “Be still my heart.”

“I’ll stay here,” Ciarán said.

“Of course you’ll come with us,” Siobhán said. “All of you.”

Ann cocked her head. “You really want us to go on your honeymoon?” She was probably the most thoughtful one of the brood.

“Why not?” Siobhán said. “We won’t honey, we’ll just moon.”

“No,” Ciarán said. “Hard no.”

“There’s surfing in Lahinch,” Ann said. “I want to go surfing.”

“And girls in bikinis,” Eoin said, clapping Ciarán on the back. The last time Siobhán had been in Lahinch, there were pale middle-aged women in cover-ups, but she kept her gob shut.

“And loads of ice cream,” Gráinne said. “For those of you who don’t care about your figures.”

“I’ll go if I don’t have to hang around with you lot,” Ciarán said.

“That’s the spirit,” Siobhán said.

Eager faces stared at Macdara, waiting for his reaction. Macdara laughed and threw open his arms. “I guess we’re all going on a honeymoon.”

“But only if James agrees to come,” Siobhán said. “I haven’t seen him in ages.” Her older brother was always renovating a house somewhere in Ireland. But right now, he was in County Clare so he had no excuse not to join them. They could even take a trip to the nearby Cliffs of Moher. Lahinch was a popular destination for surfers, golfers, and weary folks looking to be healed by a good soak in the bay. It had been ages since she’d been, and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it herself.

“Wasn’t James just here last week for a visit?” Macdara asked.

“Exactly,” Siobhán said. “It’s been ages. I’ll give him a bell.” She lunged for her mobile phone.

“This is shaping up to be the honeymoon of my dreams,” Macdara said.

“I think you mean your worst nightmares,” Ciarán said. “And I second that.”

Just being near the ocean brought an instant relief to the overheated O’Sullivan-Flannerys. They stood on the street where two chippers faced off—one to Siobhán’s left, and the other to her right. They were on the side of Mrs. Chips, which indeed had seen better days. But given there was a long line in front of her shop, and no line in front of Mr. Chips, the “Save the Chipper” article must have done the trick. Siobhán’s siblings had all dumped their luggage on the footpath, nearly obscuring Macdara, who stood behind the giant pile. Gráinne was the last to add to it, and she let her bag down with a thunk.

“What’s in there?” Ciarán asked. “A pile of bricks?”

“Yes,” Gráinne said. “In case we end up staying in an inn made of sticks and you huff and you puff and you blow it all down.” Gráinne grinned and Ciarán frowned. “We can’t check in to the inn until three, and I know this one is going to stand here and drool over the thought of curried chips.” Gráinne jerked her thumb in Siobhán’s direction before turning to Macdara. “Do you mind if I leave my bag here while I have a wander?”

“Not a bother,” Macdara said. “I’ll watch all the bags, so if anyone wants to have a wander, go to it, lads.”

“Thanks, mate,” Eoin said, clapping him on the back.

“Deadly,” Ciarán said. “Can I go surfing?”

“Two problems with that,” Siobhán said. “One, you don’t have a surfboard. Two—and I would consider this the most important bit—you don’t know how to surf.”

“There’s a surfing school,” Ciarán said. “I saw it on our way in.”

“I want to surf,” Ann said. Of all of them, she was the most athletic. “That would be class.”

“Why don’t you just have a walkabout and we’ll figure out all the activities later,” Siobhán said.

“We’re totally surfing!” Ciarán pumped his fist, and Ann shifted her backpack as she eyed the pile of luggage and then Macdara. Ciarán scooped up Trigger, their Jack Russell Terrier, kissed him on the head, and tucked him under his arm. He was a good little traveler, content as long as he was with one of them.

“Go on, so,” Macdara said with a nod to her backpack. “I’ll mind it.” Ann grinned, slipped if off her shoulders, and placed it gently on the pile.

She whirled around and faced Gráinne. “Race ya.” Gráinne didn’t hesitate. She began running down the street toward the sea, her flip-flops slapping on the footpath and her silk cover-up billowing behind her as she held on to her floppy hat with one hand. Ann took off and within seconds had passed Gráinne, whipping off her hat in the process. Gráinne’s shriek made heads turn. Or maybe it was her nice figure and black hair blowing in the wind. Sometimes Siobhán was jealous of her sister’s take-no-prisoners approach to life. She wished she could be more carefree, but then what would she do about all the burdens permanently resting on her shoulders?

“Are you coming?” Ciarán said to Eoin. Eoin looped an arm around Ciarán and nodded.

“Should we race?”

“Nah,” Ciarán said. “Racing’s for girls.” Eoin and Ciarán ambled away, and Ciarán could be heard yammering on about surfing. Eoin had been so focused on his soon-to-open restaurant that, out of all of them, he needed this break the most. Then again, Siobhán and Macdara had been working nonstop since their wedding. Marriage always took a back seat to crime. They all needed this getaway.

“It doesn’t look like either of them are open,” Siobhán said, looking between the chippers.

“It’s not yet noon,” Macdara pointed out.

“But their signs say eleven.” The chipper across the street was obviously new, the blue paint so fresh, Siobhán could still smell it. Then again, maybe she was smelling spray paint. Someone had vandalized the banner across the top of the chipper and messed with the mural on the side of the shop. The cod had horns and fangs and was vomiting onto a basket of chips. “Yeesh,” she said.

“Young lads, no doubt,” Macdara said with a shake of his head. “Although it is kind of funny.”

“Don’t say that to Mr. Chips,” a tall man standing at the back of the line piped up. He was dressed in a tan suit, which seemed an odd choice for the weather.

Siobhán had an urge to rip his blazer off and fan it in his direction. Siobhán’s mobile phone. . .