Murder at the Blarney Bash

Book 5: Beacon Bakeshop Mystery

by Darci Hannah

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Female Sleuths; Mystery; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Follow the aroma of shamrock sugar cookies to the Beacon Bakeshop, a lighthouse on the shores of Lake Michigan where amateur sleuth Lindsey Bakewell is busy preparing for Beacon Harbor’s St. Patrick’s Day festivities – with a little help from her adorable Newfoundland, Wellington, of course!

Lindsey is baking up a storm—shamrock sugar cookies, Guinness chocolate cupcakes, Irish soda bread—for the well-timed grand opening of the Irish import gift shop, the Blarney Stone, owned by her boyfriend’s uncle, Finnigan O’Connor, recently relocated from the Emerald Isle.

But it’s Uncle Finn himself who seems full of blarney when he gleefully reveals a pot of real gold he claims he stole from an actual leprechaun. And Finn’s fortune takes a turn for the worse when he’s arrested for the bludgeoning of a small unidentified man dressed as a leprechaun—the murder weapon alleged to be his now-missing shillelagh.

Eccentric Uncle Finn may enjoy believing he’s outwitted a leprechaun, but he would never be so deluded as to clobber one with his walking stick. Now Lindsey will need more than the luck of the Irish to seize a golden opportunity to catch the real killer . . .

Release date: January 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

“Wellington!” My adorable, fluffy Newfoundland dog was still on the groomer’s table as I entered Peggy’s Pet Shop and Pooch Salon. “You look gorgeous!” I told him because it was true. Welly’s silky black coat glistened like a polished onyx. He gave a wag of his bushy tail, indicating he was happy to see me. But he obviously wasn’t loving his emergency morning trip to Peggy’s salon. Welly was a dog with pendulous, silky black ears and expressive brown eyes, and he was using them to their fullest effect on me now. The look he shot me, lowering his fluffy ears to match his droopy eyes, was filled with such mournful gloom that I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Welly’s long stint on the groomer’s table was his own doing. “I hope he smells as good as he looks,” I told Peggy.

“He ought to,” Peggy informed me as she set down her grooming brush. Peggy wasn’t only the owner of Peggy’s Pet Shop and Pooch Salon, but she was also a good friend. The moment I had left my finance career in New York City to open a bakery in a lighthouse in the small village of Beacon Harbor, Michigan, I knew that I was going to need a good groomer for Wellington. My lighthouse was right on the shores of Lake Michigan, and Welly was a breed of dog that couldn’t resist the pull of water; be it giant lake or muddy pond, it made little difference. In the relatively short time I’d been in Beacon Harbor, Peggy and I had become fast friends. This morning, however, she had literally saved me after Wellington had cornered a skunk by the boathouse on his predawn sniff-and-dash around the lighthouse grounds. Needless to say, the skunk had gotten the last word in that brief encounter.

Peggy continued. “This one’s spent half the morning in the washtub. You’d imagine that a dog like Wellington, who thinks nothing of swimming in that frozen lake out there, wouldn’t mind a nice, sudsy, warm bath every now and again. But you’d be wrong. This big guy sure puts up a fuss. It took three of us and a half box of treats just to get him into the tub.”

“Sorry about that.” My apology was genuine. Peggy offered a smile and waved me through the little half gate that separated the reception area from the grooming tables. Welly, I noticed, was the only client currently in the building. I stood beside him and gave him a good sniff. “Wow! I can’t believe you got that nasty smell out of his fur.”

“After two baths with the recommended wash, this boy was smelling a whole lot better. Should it ever happen again, Lindsey, you can make the mixture yourself. Just combine one quart of hydrogen peroxide with a quarter cup of baking soda, and one teaspoon of Dawn dish soap. As you can see, it works like a charm.” Peggy was a dear, but I honestly couldn’t see myself whipping up that concoction at four in the morning.

“I never expected the skunk to be out on such a frigid morning. I thought they hibernated.” I offered a shrug. After all, it was March in Michigan, which wasn’t a whole lot different from February in Michigan. Both months were snowy, dreary, and bitter cold. Although, to be fair, it was gradually warming up, or so the weatherman claimed, but one hardly noticed with the wind chill. Maybe skunks were just a tad more sensitive to the slightest change in temperature, I thought. Peggy, however, knew far more about skunks than I did. It was likely due to her clients having so many encounters with them.

“Skunks don’t hibernate, Lindsey, they go into a torpor. It’s nearly the same thing, but a torpor doesn’t last as long as true hibernation. However, what you and Welly might not have been aware of is that March is prime mating season for skunks.” She tied a cute bandana around Welly’s neck, adjusted it, then gave his fur a gentle ruffle. “That little critter was looking for love . . . until Welly scared the stink out of him.”

“Literally,” I agreed with a grim smile. “My boathouse still reeks from the encounter. I hope it goes away soon. The grade-school Leprechaun Parade is about to begin any minute now and, as you know, the Beacon Bakeshop is the end of the parade route. I don’t want that lingering nastiness from Mr. Skunk to throw any shade on our festive shamrock sugar cookies and green leprechaun punch. The kids are really looking forward to them, or so I’ve been told. We had a bit of a rough morning at the bakeshop due to that smell. For instance, Betty came in as usual, but she was holding a handkerchief over her nose. She then ordered her usual latte and cinnamon roll and took it to go. Can you imagine that?” Betty Vanhoosen was the owner of Harbor Realty, the president of the Chamber of Commerce, town busybody, and my good friend. She came to the bakeshop every morning that we were open and had never taken her latte to go!

“I can only imagine,” Peggy commiserated with a shake of her head. “Well, I’m sure that brisk March wind coming off the lake will whisk it away in no time.”

“I hope so. By the way, I love that white, shamrock-covered bandana you put on Welly. The kids are going to love it too.”

“It’s our March special,” she said with a smile. “As you know, St. Patrick’s Day is tomorrow. After that we’ll pack these beauties away until next year. I also heard through the grapevine that this handsome big guy has an Irish girlfriend.” Peggy gave Welly a loving pat, then clicked on his leash, allowing him to escape the grooming table. Welly was overjoyed by this tantalizing glimmer of freedom.

“He does,” I agreed, giving my dog a big hug. The grade school kids were going to love the silkiness of his fur. Wellington was a big draw for the children of the town. It would never do to have him stinking to high heaven. I cast Peggy a grin. “He’s smitten with Bailey,” I told her as I proceeded to the register with her.

The Bailey in question was a beautiful, pristine white, Great Pyrenees dog that belonged to Finnigan O’Connor, my boyfriend, Rory’s, Irish uncle. Uncle Finn, as he was called, surprised Rory last November when he told his nephew that he and his daughter, Colleen, were moving to Beacon Harbor to open an Irish gift shop and micro-pub called the Blarney Stone. Rory was ecstatic. Both his parents had passed before I met him, and he didn’t have any close relatives in the area. Uncle Finn was Rory’s mother’s younger brother and, according to Rory, Uncle Finn was his favorite. My parents lived in Beacon Harbor during the summer months, and I loved having them around. Although they adored Rory and embraced him like family, I always felt a bit sad for my boyfriend for not having that love and support that only parents can give. Therefore, when Finn and Colleen decided to move from their home in Ireland to come to America, we were both thrilled.

On a personal note, Finn and Colleen’s good news had kept me from focusing on the fact that my best friend, Kennedy Kapoor, had left Beacon Harbor to spend some time with her family in London. It had been a rough October. There’d been a murder on Halloween night in the village, and Kennedy and I had both gotten involved. I didn’t blame my friend for leaving or, to paraphrase her own words, wanting to find herself again. However, by leaving Beacon Harbor, Ken had broken the heart of Tuck McAllister, a young police officer and a dear friend to both Rory and me. Of course, Kennedy and I had kept in touch because that’s what besties do. However, the passing of time and the distance between us were beginning to wear on our friendship, not to mention her giddy text messages, short phone calls, and unsettling Instagram posts she’d felt inclined to share with the world.

I had just paid for Welly’s grooming when Peggy hit me with another grin.

“I also heard another rumor,” she ventured. “I heard that Kennedy is back in town.”

I waited a heartbeat too long before I blurted, “She is. Got in last night. I better get going. I need to be at the Beacon before the little leprechauns arrive.”

“Well, the parade has already started,” she said, tapping her watch. “Great news about Kennedy. I realize that it’s probably too early for her to open Ellie and Company for the summer season—”

“It is,” I was quick to tell her. My bestie Kennedy Kapoor, who she was referring to, was not only a famous Instagrammer and fashionista, she was also a co-owner of my mother’s seasonal clothing boutique, Ellie & Company.

“I thought so,” Peggy acknowledged with a little nod. “Well, she must be visiting then. Good for her. I was simply remarking that Kennedy has quite an eye for pet grooming. When she suggested that teddy-bear cut for that darling poodle, Trixie, last October, I thought she was nuts. But boy was she on to something there. Thanks to Kennedy, Trixie and her owner, Cali, have started a new trend in town.” A smile crossed Peggy’s lips at the thought. “When you see her, tell her I said hello, will you?”

“Of course. But I’m sure you’ll be able to tell her yourself. She’s going to be at the St. Patrick’s Day party at the Blarney Stone tomorrow.”

“Ooo, that’s right! It’s opening day for that darling Irish shop. I hear there’s even a little pub there that will only serve Irish beer and whisky. I’ve been hankering for a good Guinness! I also know that the Beacon Bakeshop is doing the catering.”

“We are. FYI, we’ve been going through a lot of green food coloring as well as quite a bit of Guinness and Baileys. We’re pulling out all the stops for this grand opening,” I told her with a grin. “Guinness chocolate cupcakes with Baileys buttercream frosting, shamrock cupcakes, shamrock sugar cookies, crème de menthe brownies, and a Baileys cheesecake that will knock your socks off, not to mention samples of Uncle Finn’s sticky toffee pudding, and Colleen’s prize-winning Irish soda bread.”

“I will definitely be there. And an FYI to you, Lindsey Bakewell. That Finnigan O’Connor is quite the charmer. With those dark Celtic looks and that Irish accent, you’re going to have every single middle-aged woman in the county there vying for his attention. Hope you’re planning on a big crowd.”

“I am,” I said, then headed for the door. At the very least I had to make it back to the Beacon before the parade got there. The annual grade-school Leprechaun Parade was truly going to be a spectacle this year. That was because Finn and Colleen O’Connor, with their gorgeous dog, Bailey, were leading the parade. Having just moved to the village from Ireland, and both possessing charming Irish accents, it was a no-brainer. Plus, their Irish shop was opening on St. Patrick’s Day, and to celebrate they were giving vouchers to every student marching in the parade for a free shamrock good-luck charm at the Blarney Stone. Welly and I were just about to slip through the door when Peggy stopped me.

“Before you go, I have to ask you a question. Is it just the kids who are dressing up this year?”

“I think so. Why?”

“That’s odd,” she remarked with a troubled expression. “We had a strange occurrence about ten minutes before you arrived. Welly started barking at the window,” she remarked, pointing at the large front window that overlooked the parking lot. Peggy’s salon sat at the corner of Sixth Street and Waterfront Drive, which was a couple of blocks from the heart of downtown, and one street over from Main Street. “I thought he saw you coming in,” she continued, “but when I turned to look, I swear I saw a leprechaun staring back at me.”

“It was undoubtedly one of the children,” I told her, and turned to the door again. Welly was in a hurry to leave.

“No.” The way she said this stopped me in my tracks. “No, it couldn’t have been. The person was the size of a child, but his costume was too good—too authentic. He looked like he stepped right out of the history books, wearing an old-fashioned green suit, knee breeches, with a matching green top hat. He had bright orange hair and a long beard of the same color, but I don’t think they were fake. If it had been a child, his features would have looked smooth and youthful. He would have been a cute leprechaun, not the ugly, unsightly one staring right at me with those beady little eyes.” There was a touch of concern in her voice as she spoke, but I had the feeling she was pulling my leg.

“Peggy, the leprechaun you saw was a child wearing a mask. I’m sure of it. They make pretty convincing masks these days, and kids love wearing them.”

“Oh!” She breathed a sigh of relief, as if the thought had never crossed her mind. “That must be it! It was obviously just a mask. Either that or I saw a real leprechaun!” Her unsettling laughter followed Welly and me out the door.

As I drove out of Peggy’s parking lot, I realized that she was correct. Main Street was already blocked off for the parade. It wouldn’t be a long parade, I thought, as I avoided the roadblocks by turning down another street that ran parallel to our main downtown shopping district. As I crossed Main Street from two blocks away, I could see the children already marching with their classmates and teachers toward my lighthouse while their parents, grandparents, and happy villagers lined both sides of the street, clapping and cheering them on. Dressed in their warmest winter gear, every child appeared to be wearing a green top hat and a red beard made from construction paper. For a town that didn’t have a true St. Patrick’s Day Parade, I found the grade-school Leprechaun Parade to be utterly charming. However, I was running late. I knew that Teddy, my fabulous assistant baker, and the rest of the Beacon’s excellent staff had everything under control, but I wanted to be there when all those little leprechauns marched into the bakeshop to get their St. Patrick’s Day treats!

“Hang on, Welly,” I called to the back seat, getting ready to step on the gas the moment we passed the police station. I looked in the rearview mirror as I spoke and saw my dog already lounging across the seat as if he didn’t have a care in the world. His fur glistened; he smelled like a rose. Obviously, the whole skunk incident of the morning had faded from his memory. “If we’re late today, it’s because of you,” I reminded him. As usual, he thought I was talking about a treat and wagged his tail. Then, however, with a suddenness that belied his great size, Welly sprang to his feet and gave a loud series of barks out the window. My entire body flinched from the noise. At that very same moment something hard careened into the side of the Jeep, causing the entire vehicle to wobble.

“What the . . . ?” I blurted, hitting the brakes. Welly was still barking as my head swiveled to the passenger side window. It couldn’t have been a car that hit us because we were in the middle of the block. I also couldn’t see anything that made sense. Then something small and green popped into view.

“Heavens!” I cried, throwing the Jeep into park. I turned off the engine. The thought that I had just hit a child turned my knees to jelly. Technically, the child had run into the passenger side of the Jeep, but that didn’t make me feel any better. It had been quite a loud thud. Feeling a bit sick, I sprang out the door and ran to the other side to see if the child was injured. Poor thing was probably late for the parade, like me, I thought as I leapt onto the curb. Yet to my astonishment, no one was there. Welly, however, was still barking, only this time he was barking out the driver’s side window. I ran around the Jeep again and was just in time to see a swiftly moving person, dressed as a leprechaun, turn down a narrow alleyway between two buildings, where he vanished. The thought that my eyes were deceiving me did cross my mind. The person, about the size of a fourth- or fifth-grader, was wearing a very convincing leprechaun costume, not at all like the construction-paper top hat and beard of the school children. He didn’t run like a child either. He was swift, yet there’d been a slight limp to his gait, as if he had a knee problem . . . or was older than he appeared. Of course, hitting my Jeep could have been responsible for that as well. Another thing that struck me was that this small person was carrying a beautifully carved walking stick, the kind Rory’s uncle Finn would call an Irish shillelagh. I closed my eyes and thought of Peggy. I had been so quick to dismiss her leprechaun sighting, and now I felt a bit guilty about it. I wasn’t going to be able to explain my sighting either, for fear of sounding like a loon. I now understood how it felt to be that person in the woods who sees a Sasquatch, forgets to take a picture, yet still thinks it’s a good idea to tell everyone about the sighting. Ahem, crazy!

Out of some deep-seated maternal reflex, I called across the empty street, “Are you okay?” My heart was still beating like a war drum! “Did I hurt you?” But whoever or whatever had hit my Jeep didn’t answer. The leprechaun was gone.

I didn’t have long to think about the strange encounter, because another startled cry hit my ears, this one coming from the opposite side of the Jeep. Welly, the knucklehead, had spun back around again and continued barking, all the while spitting tendrils of drool all over the insides of the windows. It looked as if a spider with a severe medical condition had tried to make a web in there. Highly disturbing. And I had just cleaned them too!

“Help! Quickly! Quickly!” The frantic voice not only pulled me from my messy window issue, but it had also struck a nerve. I ran back around the Jeep to the passenger side once again. That’s when I saw Mrs. Hinkle running down the steps of the village hall building. The moment she saw me she began flailing her arms.

“Lindsey! Lindsey, oh, it’s just terrible! We’ve been attacked!”

“Mrs. Hinkle, are you alright?” I ran to meet the older woman.

Clare Hinkle had to be in her seventies if she was a day. That’s why seeing her move so quickly shocked me. Mrs. Hinkle came to the bakeshop every now and again. I knew her to be a sweet older woman who dedicated much of her life to serving the village of Beacon Harbor. Betty Vanhoosen had told me that Clare Hinkle had worked at Village Hall since she was in her early twenties. Now she was the village clerk, a duty she took very seriously.

“I’m okay, but did you happen to see a leprechaun run through here?”

“Umm . . .” Wow. What was I supposed to say to that? I cleared my throat and offered an unconvincing, “Possibly?” Oddly enough, Mrs. Hinkle seemed satisfied with my answer.

“I figured as much when I saw you there.” She took a deep breath and blurted with renewed anger, “That creature attacked Fred Landry—in broad daylight!”

Hearing that, I ran back to the Jeep and popped open the door, releasing Welly. If, by chance, Mrs. Hinkle was mistaken and the attacker was still inside the building, Welly’s sheer size and protective instincts would make them think twice about pulling any more shenanigans. Mrs. Hinkle agreed, and together Welly and I followed her into the building.

The moment we entered the modest, red brick, two-story building, Welly seemed to pick up on a scent. He sniffed around the floor a moment, then made a beeline for the stairs that led to the second floor, and Fred Landry’s office.

“The others have gone to watch the parade,” Mrs. Hinkle explained as we followed my dog. “I was just on my way there as well when I walked out of my office and looked across the hall. That’s when I saw a streak of green behind the desk in Fred’s office. Then the leprechaun burst through the door and came towards me, forcing me back into my office. I shut my door, peeked out the window, and watched him disappear down the stairs. I immediately ran to Fred’s office to see what the ruckus was all about, thinking it was a disgruntled taxpayer embracing the holiday. We get that all the time. Disgruntled taxpayers,” she clarified. “Not leprechauns. However, when I found Fred lying on the floor, I realized what had happened. He’d been physically attacked. But that’s not the strangest part . . .”

Mrs. Hinkle was undoubtedly going to tell me just what the strangest part of her story was when I believed I discovered it myself. Welly had pushed through the office door the moment I had opened it and went directly to Fred Landry. My heart stilled for a beat or two when I saw the poor man lying facedown in a pool of his own blood. More disturbingly, he was covered in green and gold glitter.

“All the glitter!” Mrs. Hinkle cried. “Why is he covered in glitter?”

“Good Lord! Mr. Landry’s been murdered! Quick, call 911!”

“The police are just a few doors down, dear,” she reasoned. “I was going to fetch the sergeant myself, until I saw you.”

I stood beside the body, careful to avoid stepping in blood, when Welly started to whine. I was still staring at all the glitter. GLITTER? The word rang out in my head like a bullet from a shotgun. Blood and glitter were definitely not a good mix. It was highly disturbing and looked utterly surreal.

“What do you suppose the point of all this glitter is?” Mrs. Hinkle asked me.

“I haven’t a clue, but his head’s been bashed in.”

“By that nasty leprechaun,” she added, crossing her arms on her chest. I honestly couldn’t tell what she thought was more disturbing, the thought of a vicious leprechaun with a penchant for glitter, or her dead coworker.

Mrs. Hinkle cleared her throat, adding in a much lighter tone, “I heard they were a bit ornery, but I’ve never heard that they were murderers. They’re part of the fairy folk, you know.”

Dear heavens, had everybody gone mad? Leprechauns? Fairy folk? A man was murdered by some person in a costume who then sprinkled the victim with glitter. This had the mark of a psycho serial killer to me. However, to dear Mrs. Hinkle I said, “Um, I rather think that this is not the work of a leprechaun.”

“I saw him with my own eyes!”

“I did too. I don’t really know what I saw. Did you make the call yet?” I prodded, changing the subject. Just then, however, Welly gave a hefty nudge to the dead man’s arm. To my amazement, the dead man let out a soft groan.

“He’s not dead, Mrs. Hinkle!” I cried, dropping to my knees beside Mr. Landry. “Hold the police. Call an ambulance first!” I would have done it myself if I hadn’t left my cell phone in my purse, which was still in my Jeep. Mrs. Hinkle then surprised me by picking up the receiver on Fred’s office phone.

“You just have to dial nine to get a line out,” she informed me as she made the call. She then called the police as well. “They’re closer,” she reasoned. “The ambulance is coming from the other side of town and that parade will clog up the works, if you know what I mean. Best try to stop the bleeding.”

“Right,” I said, taking off my coat and rolling up my sleeves. I looked around the room, hoping to see a towel or something I could use to pack the wound on the back of his head. Mr. Landry’s office was impressively tidy. I then noted that Mrs. Hinkle was wearing a smart dress that not only looked comfy, but expensive. I was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans and a lovely moss-green. . .