Murder at an Irish Session

Book 12: Irish Village Mystery

by Carlene O'Connor

Genres: Cozy Mystery; International Crime & Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

As pregnant Siobhán O’Sullivan awaits bringing her new life into the world, she’s bringing new life to her village of Kilbane in County Cork, Ireland, with a music and matchmaking festival. But one matchmaker is about to find out that Cupid’s arrow can be fatal in the latest Irish Village Mystery from USA Today bestselling author Carlene O’Connor.

Siobhán loves to see the joy playing trad music brings to her brother Ciaran, but his concern that he’ll never find a mate pulls at her heartstrings. So she proposes that Kilbane host a music and matchmaking festival to draw single trad musicians. While renowned matchmaker Liam Noone plays Cupid with his Lucky Book, music—and hopefully love—will fill the pubs and the autumn air.

Turning over his precious Lucky Book to Siobhán for safekeeping, Liam takes the stage to introduce matched musician couples who will kick off the festival in the town square. Suddenly all goes black. When the lights come back on, the matchmaker has met his maker, impaled through the heart with an arrow made from the sharpened bow of a bass.

Was it the fiddle player, the flute player, the drummer, the piper, the squeeze box player, or the bass player who struck a sour note? Garda Siobhán and her husband Macdara must pick up the tempo to make whoever committed this crime of passion face the music…

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Liam Noone, Ireland’s “King of Matchmaking,” stood in the back of Fitzgerald’s Pub, tapping his feet and bopping his head to a lively trad session. It seemed the entire town of Kilbane had turned out for this music and matchmaking festival, and with five days to go until the official opening, anticipation was high and the atmosphere was downright electric. He wasn’t surprised at the turnout—traditional Irish music sessions were always good craic. This evening, musicians of all ages and sexes were grouped together in the corner of the pub, forming as much of a circle with their chairs as they could manage in the cramped space. The instruments this evening included fiddles, guitars, a squeeze-box, a bodhrán drummer, and several pipers. Trad music was a somewhat loose structure housed within a timeless tradition and that was part of its magic. The vibe of the session on any given night depended on who showed up with what instrument.

And as if top-notch feel-good music wasn’t enough, throwing the prospect of love into the mix amplified this celebration to a whole new level. Liam never imagined he would have taken on this challenge a second time—to find matches for single Irish trad musicians—but after last year’s stint in Doolin, where he matched six single musicians in a town known for its trad sessions, a local reporter featured him in an article, and it seemed word had spread. So, one year later, when a woman named Siobhán O’Sullivan contacted him and requested the same service in Kilbane, County Cork, Liam Noone jumped at the opportunity.

His job was full of surprises and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. Irish traditional music sessions were played in a variety of places: pubs, festivals, out in the fresh air, gathered around a peat fire (when it was still legal to set peat on fire), or even around the dinner table. As long as there were skilled musicians who had the instruments and knew how to play jigs, reels, and waltzes, a trad session could be formed. Tonight, the session leader was Jim McVeigh, a seasoned local musician from what Liam had been told, and he was currently tuning his guitar and taking suggestions around the circle as to what to play next.

A robust and smiling man, Jim was somewhere in his sixties with whitish-gray hair and a matching beard and mustache. He was full of life and full of tunes. Jim nodded to the publican who ferried over pints for himself and his fellow musicians.

Liam’s business was based on observing folks, figuring out who they were and what made them tick. His job was to dig beneath the surface, dive past who they claimed to be and discover who they really were instead. People rarely understood themselves, which is where Liam came in. This was a talented group, and Liam was thrilled to be tasked with finding matches for the single ones among them. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason Liam wanted to be involved, but if he proceeded as usual, no one would ever be the wiser.

But time was of the essence: he had one week to interview potential love matches. Musicians were best suited for each other; not only were most of their free hours taken up playing their tunes, they spoke a language unto themselves. Musical notes replaced words, head nods and foot taps became exclamations, and eye contact between musicians was often intense and always engaging. If there was one chink in the armor, it was that Liam always felt a bit jealous to be on the outside of their circle. It was hard to imagine a stronger bond than one forged by the love of music. Trad sessions popped up even without audiences, impromptu gatherings spurred on by passion. There was no doubt about it, these people loved what they did, and the fact that they had an audience was simply a bonus. He could imagine that non-musicians who married into this lot might feel like a third wheel to their first love: music.

“If you’re just joining us, welcome,” Jim McVeigh called to the crowd. “I hope you enjoyed that set of polkas, and now we’re moving on to our jigs: ‘One Hundred Pipers,’ ‘The Rakes of Kildare,’ and ‘Cock o’ the North.’”

As the first tune in this set rang out, their instruments blended seamlessly with one another, producing an optimistic and jaunty melody with just a touch of longing. The kind of song that conjured up images of lush green fields, family gatherings, and Irish pride. And although Liam couldn’t tell a jig from a reel, he was thoroughly swept up in the melody that had nearly everyone bobbing their heads and tapping their feet.

The publican, a man with broad shoulders and puffy cheeks, sported a large grin as his head moved to the music. No doubt he was thrilled with the crowd that these seasoned musicians had drawn.

Across the room, Liam’s two assistants, Grace Collins and Ron Gallagher, had their heads bent over a clipboard, hashing out the schedule for this weekend. All work and no play. Just the way Liam liked his employees. Grace had insisted on lugging that whale of a harp all the way here, and Ron, with his fancy suit and determined expression, seemed poised to take over Liam’s matchmaking throne.

That was never going to happen.

Liam clutched his Lucky Book and wondered what people would think if they only knew the secrets that were written within its pages. He never let anyone read it, and many assumed that was because he was too stingy. Why should he share tips he’d spent a lifetime accumulating?

But its secrets were the real reason he never let the book out of his sight. Lately, however, he’d been a bit forgetful. Leaving the book in full sight of Ron, putting it down somewhere and then having to search for it—and rifling through it in pure view of Nosy Nellies. What was happening to him? Stress. Forty-something was too young for his carelessness to be age-related. He vowed to be more careful.

He was the third professional matchmaker in his family, after his grandfather and his father, but despite their teachings, it hadn’t taken him long to learn that the heart wanted what the heart wanted, and when it came to other people and their personal desires, secrets always surfaced. Capitalizing on that had turned into a lucrative side hustle. It was positively addicting and he couldn’t stop now even if he wanted to. Sometimes he shuddered to think what his father and grandfather would say if they had lived long enough to see him in action. As far as he knew they had both taken the straight and narrow road, which was the reason they always fell short of the lifestyle they should have been living. Love was wonderful and romantic, but it didn’t pay the bills.

“Blackmail” was such an ugly word. Liam preferred to think of it as engaging in “privacy protection” for a fee. After all, he didn’t force people to divulge their deepest, darkest secrets, now did he?

Additionally, if one was willing to sweeten the pot for their preferred match, it proved they were committed, and wasn’t that a good quality in a future partner? But some folks hadn’t paid their latest installment, and this week he was going to have to rectify that. The ones who still owed would soon receive a message loud and clear that it was time to pay. Whether they interpreted it as a gentle reminder or a threat was their problem. Thank goodness he had his little rendezvous with a certain someone to take his mind off of business. She was probably waiting for him in the hotel at this very moment. What a delicious turn of events.

“I can’t find my bow,” a perturbed musician could be heard saying as Liam weaved his way toward the exit. “Has anyone seen my fecking bow?”

Liam’s phone buzzed, alerting him to a text message, just as he reached the door. He glanced at it.

We need to talk

It was from an unknown number. We need to talk … that was something a lover said, wasn’t it? It had better not be someone who owed him trying to wriggle out of the agreement. He shook his head, stuffed the phone back in his pocket and turned his mind back to the woman he would soon be holding in his arms. Given that himself, the six musicians he’d invited (all ones he’d previously matched), and Ron and Grace were staying at the Kilbane Inn, he’d booked himself and his paramour a room in Charlesville. The less people gossiping about his love life, the better. Everyone seemed perplexed as to why the King of Matchmakers was a single man. If they had his access to available beautiful women, desperate for love, they would do the same.

He stepped onto the footpath only to be greeted by a gust of wind so strong it slammed the door behind him. He pulled his jacket tight and prayed the weather would improve for this weekend’s activities. His mind returned to the annoying text. Better to nip it in the bud. He dashed off a quick reply.

Who is this?

It wasn’t the first time someone thought they could turn the tables on him. But he had something they did not—nothing to lose. He was the one holding incriminating evidence. Voice recordings, photos, letters, confessions. It was mutual destruction with them taking the brunt of it. And if someone did decide they would rather punish him no matter the consequences, he could always lie. Besides, he’d made sure to cover his tracks, and the only hard proof that he was a blackmailer was in his Lucky Book (and if anyone wanted it, they were going to have to pry it out of his cold, dead hands). The more he tried to dismiss the mysterious text message, the more he perseverated on it. Tonight was all about ceol agus craic. Music and fun. A whole lot of fun to be exact. But now he was totally distracted. Troubled thoughts were no aphrodisiac. Maybe he was taking the message too seriously. He needed to show this “unknown caller” that he wasn’t taking the bait. He paused on the footpath outside the pub, and quickly sent another reply:

Talk is cheap

He added a smiley emoji so the person would know he wasn’t bothered in the least. Immediately, his phone buzzed.

Cheap is the woman waiting for you in Charlesville

The kind of talk we need to have is going to be expensive

Very expensive.

He froze. Who in the world was he dealing with, and how did someone know about her? He was nothing if not discreet. And who talked like that? That reply was not only confident, it was downright ominous. What did they know? Had someone been rifling through his Lucky Book when he slept? That wasn’t possible, was it? Enough of this. He would take the bull by the horns. He dialed the number and waited for it to ring. Someone picked up, then immediately disconnected the call. His phone buzzed again.

Meet me at the abbey in 15 minutes

Come alone

Bring two books: Your Lucky Book and a matchbook

A matchbook! What nerve. Just as he was contemplating what to do, another text buzzed in. This time he knew the number, it was this evening’s date, and it included a sexy photo. Now this was the kind of text he’d been waiting for. His thumbs hovered over the tiny keyboard on his phone. Wait. Should he be worried that someone knew where he and this angel were meeting? Should he try and find another hotel? Ding. It was her again, a photo of her blouse … on the hotel room floor. And just like that he deleted the ominous texts and blocked the mystery caller. Let them wait at some local abbey in the cold and the dark. He had a much more exciting date to keep.



Twins. Siobhán and Macdara were having twins. Four months in, and it still didn’t feel real. Whereas herself and Macdara were over the moon about the babies, the challenges that lay ahead of them were daunting. She needed this festival to distract her from the terror that rose within her whenever she thought about taking care of two wee ones. She was still trying to get her head wrapped around one. She tried to remind herself that she’d practically raised her four siblings (five if you counted her older brother, James), although none of them were babies when her parents died. When the doctor handed herself and Macdara the sonogram, and pointed out the two little passengers inside her womb, Siobhán insisted there had to be some mistake.

“Having two isn’t that much harder than having one,” Macdara told her later, when they were back at home and Siobhán was sobbing into a vanilla milkshake. “People with dogs say that all the time.”

Her head popped up. “I know you did not just compare our unborn children to dogs.”

Macdara grimaced. “Fur babies are babies too.” With that he scooped up Trigger, their Jack Russell terrier. “Mammy didn’t mean that,” he cooed, as Trigger licked his face.

“I am not Trigger’s mammy. If that dog could pitch me out and take over the household, he’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Trigger yipped and gave her a look, proving her point. But one glance into his big brown eyes and she softened. “C’mere to me.” She held her hands out for the dog. Macdara handed him to her, and she massaged his little head before a planting a kiss on it. “I didn’t mean it. Of course you’re our baby too.”

“This morning, I saw him sniffing his own poo,” her sister Gráinne piped up. She was sprawled on the living room sofa, flipping through television channels, manicured toes painted bright blue and propped up on the armrest, her long black hair hanging in messy waves around her pretty face.

James, the eldest O’Sullivan, was tending to the fire, but when Gráinne delivered her little zinger he threw his head back and roared with laughter. Siobhán was starting to regret luring the pair of them away from Lahinch for a week by talking up the matchmaking festival. The two of them had moved to the seaside town a few years ago after a family holiday. They seemed happy-out. James was doing construction, and Gráinne was running an oceanfront inn. And now, apparently, they were both dating, but neither had yet to cough up too many details. Siobhán was thrilled for them but there wasn’t a day gone by that Siobhán didn’t wish the six of them were still under the same roof. Even now with their youngest sister Ann away at University of Limerick, Siobhán felt anxious, like a part of her own body was missing. But Ann was thriving too, so much so that her visits home had become less and less. Siobhán knew this was what she wanted for all of them—to have full and happy lives—but did they have to have them so far away? Technically, Ann wasn’t far from home at all, but far enough that they hardly ever saw her. Hopefully, the babies would lure everyone home—Siobhán would need the help, and who could resist newborn twins?

Five more months to go. It might as well be five years. The only sane thing to do was ignore the future completely and live in the now. It was bad enough that her mother-in-law, Nancy Flannery, had planted herself at their house and was nitpicking on everything Siobhán put in her mouth, whereas Macdara was fussing over her as if she was a porcelain cup teetering on the edge of a table. But the final straw came when the youngest O’Sullivan, Ciarán, floated the idea of moving to Australia, in search of love.

“Australia! Is this just because you want to see a kangaroo?” Siobhán asked.

“And find love,” Ciarán said, thrusting up his index finger. “But if I can’t find love, at least I’ll see a kangaroo.”

“We can go on holiday there sometime, you can see your kangaroo, and then we’ll come back and you can find love right here in Kilbane.”

He shook his head. “Kilbane is a love wasteland.”

“What about Sara O’Grady? She’s lovely.”

“Sara O’Grady? A redhead?” He shook his head. “I’d rather chew me own arm off. And I need it to play the fiddle.”

“You do realize you’re speaking to someone who is in the redhead family?”

“You always say yours is auburn. But … yes, I realized.”

“I don’t just say it’s auburn, it is auburn.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You’re the one who just called yourself a redhead. But you’re right—practically everyone else thinks of you as one.”

“And you don’t like redheads?” Maybe Australia wasn’t so far after all.

“It’s not that I don’t like them, I just don’t want to date my sister.”

“Right.” From somewhere behind her, Macdara was having trouble controlling his laughter.

“And you know,” Ciarán added, “there’s the whole temper thing.”

Siobhán was forced to squash her gut reaction because she would only be proving his point. “What about …” She tried to think of another girl in Kilbane that would be nice for Ciarán but drew a blank. Love wasteland. “You just need to go into Cork city more often—or Limerick.”

“Only another trad musician would understand me. And they’re never my age. They’re all grannies!”

“I’m sure they’re not all grannies.”

“Fine. I’ll date someone in their thirties. Is that what you want?”

Ciarán was in his early twenties, and even so, he seemed much younger than his chronological age. But he was right about one thing. The dating pool in Kilbane was not only small, it was somewhat swampy. Falling in love in a town where everyone knew everyone else’s business, specifically, everyone’s embarrassing moments, and that was not for the faint of heart. Siobhán had been lucky in love, and she wanted the same for her siblings. Of all of them, Ciarán seemed the most clueless about finding a match. She hadn’t even known love was on his mind until his pronouncement that he intended to fly Down Under. She couldn’t imagine him so far away—it would absolutely break her heart. It was bad enough Gráinne and James were in Lahinch, but at least they were still in Ireland. And that’s when brilliance struck.

She had just read an interview about this matchmaker, Liam Noone, who had successfully paired six young musicians. A year had passed and the reporter was checking to see how many of his matches were still together. Interestingly, all of the ones who were musically inclined were still going strong. Granted, none of them had gotten married yet, but Siobhán thought that was wise. Rushing into marriage was never a good idea. Could they afford to throw a festival here in Kilbane? Would Liam Noone even be willing to come? Siobhán immediately began researching what it would take, and when he finally agreed (for a price), it was as if heaven itself had opened the gates of love.

And focusing on this festival was loads better than listening to her mother-in-law’s well-intended but very old-fashioned superstitions. Nancy had lists of things for Siobhán to do and lists of things not to do. Siobhán was all for the to do: adopting healthy eating habits, taking her prenatal vitamins, and making her husband rub her feet nightly, but the latter advice was driving Siobhán mental. Do not walk into a graveyard. Do not walk past a graveyard. Do not look in the mirror. Do not lift your hands up over your head. … When Siobhán had had enough, she’d asked Macdara to intervene. He’d agreed, but at the last minute, he panicked. “Maybe a compromise?”

Siobhán’s hands instinctively went to her hips, as if she was already practicing her mammy pose. “Such as?”

“At least agree to this one.” Macdara threw a desperate look to his mam before turning back to Siobhán. “Do not bring a mirror into a graveyard and raise your hands up over your head while looking into it?” Neither his mam nor Siobhán talked to him the rest of the day.

Siobhán glanced at the clock. It was nearly noon. Volunteers would be in the town square by now, setting up for the festival. Macdara was starting his shift soon and James and Gráinne had been busy all morning keeping things in order at the house. With all she had going on, Siobhán appreciated the backup. “Better get my legs under me. I’m meeting Eoin and Ciarán in the square.” Eoin, the most artistic among them, had agreed to make a cardboard cupid that they could plant in the square, just past King John’s Castle where participants would enter for this evening’s opening trad session. He’d asked Siobhán to come take a look at it.

Before she reached the door, Macdara handed her a green smoothie. “Mam made this for you.”

Siobhán gritted her teeth. It resembled a swamp in a cup. “How thoughtful.” She missed her daily cappuccinos. Nancy had been up before the sun and was out doing her messages. No doubt picking up more rabbit food for the pregnant woman. “Thank her for me.”

“If only she could see your face.” Macdara grinned. “Your expression says it all.”

Cupid’s arrow was never meant to kill, but apparently, the giant cut-out that Eoin O’Sullivan created hadn’t received the memo. With furled brows and menacing eyes, the winged infant looked less like a matchmaker and more like a hired assassin. “What do you think?” Eoin asked. “Honestly.”

Many moments in life require complete honesty. This was not one of them. Siobhán hesitated as she tried to think of a polite way to tell her brother that if she had to look at his creation much longer it was going to give her—not to mention her unborn babies—horrible nightmares. The town square was starting to transform: A makeshift stage had been erected in the center of the square, covered by a large white tent. String lights were being hung around the circumference of the tent, food trucks were rolling in, vendors were setting up stands, and Eoin was testing whether or not his cupid display could withstand the wind. This week Mother Nature had been blowing her way through Kilbane, hurling advertisements, stray bits of rubbish, tree branches, and unsuspecting hats across town. Unfortunately, the weekend forecast called for more of the same.

It was one of the reasons that most of the music and matchmaking events this coming weekend would take place inside local pubs, shops, and restaurants. This would allow attendees to hop from one location to another where they could mingle and listen to trad sessions. The twist was that whereas most traditional Irish music sessions consisted of musicians of all ages and relationship statuses, these would all consist of singles looking for love. But the kickoff even. . .