Murder in an Irish Bookshop: A Cozy Irish Murder Mystery

Book 7: Irish Village Mystery

by Carlene O'Connor

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

When a new bookstore in the County Cork Irish village of Kilbane closes the book on an author’s life, it’s up to Garda Siobhán O'Sullivan to resolve the story . . .

Between training the new town garda and trying to set a wedding date with her fiancé, Macdara Flannery, Siobhán is feeling a bit overwhelmed. But an author event at the new bookstore featuring Irish writers taking up residency in Kilbane offers a welcome distraction.
 
One author, Deirdre Walsh, spends more time complaining about the unfairness of the publishing industry and megastar bestselling authors like Nessa Lamb instead of her own body of work. After the evening ends in a battle of words, Deirdre’s body is found the next day in the back of the store—with pages torn from Nessa’s books stuffed in her mouth. Now, Siobhán must uncover which of Kilbane’s literary guests took Deirdre’s criticisms so personally they engaged in foul play . . .
 
“A mélange of clues from classic mysteries plus plenty of Irish charm produce an enjoyable read.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“Outstanding . . . O’Connor reinforces her place as the queen of the cozy police procedural.” 
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
 

 

 

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Release date: February 23, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Cozies

Print pages: 306

Sample

The Twins’ Inn looked cheery in the orange glow of the morning light. Kilbane, County Cork, Ireland, had a backin-time charm that often took visitors by surprise. Once befuddled that anyone, let alone Padraig and Oran McCarthy, would open a bookshop here, after spending some time in Kilbane and witnessing its charm, it made perfect sense now. Kilbane may not have held the same bustle as an Irish city, but there was no doubt it had character. Everyone was fast asleep—perhaps the argument that had broken out last night had taken its toll—and now residents were blissfully unaware of the trouble to come. It was a powerful feeling, knowing something they did not. The kind of power a writer well knows, playing God, crafting his or her stories. A tinge of red on the horizon foretold the approach of ominous weather. It was fitting; a storm was brewing in more ways than one. The pair of gray wolfhounds who had perched last night like statues by the office door, their regal bodies stiff, their ears alert to every sound, was nowhere to be seen. Asleep inside no doubt. But not for long. Good boys.

Everything, in the space of twenty-four hours, had changed. Human beings never had enough. They were bottomless pits of need. Insatiable. The argument played internally on an endless loop:

You can’t do this.

I am already doing it.

I’ll ruin you.

I’d like to see you try.

Don’t push me. You. Are. No one. You. Are. Nothing.

Words said in anger. Give it time. Give it a chance. Patience. The most powerful virtue of them all. And time had gone by. There had been no more mention of this preposterous idea, this act of outright betrayal. One could almost breathe again. Go to bed without worry pressing down like an anvil. Wake up without the dread of a ringing phone. Damage control. One hoped it was all forgotten. Forgiveness was another matter. But then this. A note. Five little words written on a piece of paper taped to the door. Five little words. The proverbial cat was out of the bag, and he was already screeching. The cat might have nine lives, but humans did not.

One might argue that in the act of putting those five little words to paper, the writer was to blame for what was to come. The valley of death. Walk, my lovely, walk. There wasn’t much time. Every detail must be considered. It would cause waves, of that there was no doubt, and adjustments would have to be made. No choice, no choice, no choice. Don’t think. Do. Action was character. The method was there, in and out like a soft breath, no need to think twice. Poison. Who needed old lace when arsenic alone would do? Thank heavens the purchase had been made when this avoidable debacle first began. The regular Web now held the same opportunities as the Dark Web. What had been once unthinkable was now easy-peasy. Guided by gut instinct, and backed up by preparation. Preparation was always key. And everyone knows: practice makes perfect.

And now, the skies had come to play. Thunder and lightning, nature’s stamp of approval. Ireland would see heavy thunderstorms over the next few days and warnings of power outages abounded. The ideal setting for a murder. Atmospheric. You did this. Your death was brought on by your hands. I am but a messenger. But first, the details. It was always in the details. The crime scene would tell a story, and a story needed to be shaped.

Siobhán O’Sullivan wouldn’t have believed spring was here (at last!) were it not for clear evidence on her morning run. Bluebells, daffodils, and snowdrops paraded their colors in planters along the footpath and in back gardens, sedge warblers and swallows sang from trees sprouting shiny green buds, and the light breeze was embedded with the scent of approaching rain. Renewal. It put an extra zip in her morning run through her village.

Mike Granger, who was sweeping the footpath in front of his fruit and veg market, waved as she ran by and she waved back. Otherwise there were only a few souls in sight. The early birds. Was it any wonder her morning run was often the best part of Siobhán’s day? Most of the other shops in Kilbane were still dark: Sheila’s Hair Salon, Annmarie’s gift shop, and Gordon’s Comics wouldn’t open for another several hours. A faint light was on in Liam’s hardware shop; he would most likely be opening soon and closing late as folks rushed in to buy candles, batteries, and peat for their fires. Severe storms were expected in the next few days and rumors of power outages had everyone scrambling for supplies. O’Rourke’s Pub would be dark until lunch but then they would be jammers. Even the ladies who power-walked in their tracksuits seemed to be sleeping in. When she passed the caravan park she noticed a few Travelers were up and one of their donkeys was happily grazing by the river. The lad seeing to the donkey gave her a nod and she nodded back. In the distance, a farmer plodded along the road pushing a wheelbarrow.

How she loved the near solitude of the mornings. Shop fronts, awash with pinks, blues, and yellows, were muted in the morning light, giving off a mystical glow. The sound of her runners on the pavement, the toll of Saint Mary’s church bell, its spire rising proudly above her medieval walled town, and the presence of their gorgeous ruined abbey bolstered Siobhán’s spirits and kept her moving forward.

She headed for King John’s Castle and the town square, eager to reach her destination even though she knew it wouldn’t open until ten this morning. The entire village was over the moon about the new bookshop opening today. Oran and Padraig McCarthy, a married couple who had just moved from Galway, had announced the opening of the bookshop last month, and since then Siobhán had run past every morning, anticipating the wonders to come.

She’d been plagued with guilt that she hadn’t had time the past few years for pleasure reading, and she was determined to change that. A nice birthday prezzie for herself, maybe even a romance. And a Maeve Binchy of course, or maybe two. Her mam had been a big fan and reading them would almost be like having a visit with her. She’d have to hide any romances from Macdara Flannery, or there would be no end to the teasing. Then again, she could tease him about the plethora of paperback westerns clogging his bookshelf. (And she’d be lying if leafing through them hadn’t conjured up images of Macdara in a cowboy hat, galloping in on a horse. But not a white one—she was perfectly capable of saving herself. She just liked the image of him in a cowboy hat, galloping through town, holsters on the ready.)

She would buy each of her younger siblings a book too, and encourage them to read every night before bed like she and James used to do. She passed King John’s Castle and there it was to the right, the old building that had been vacant so long, the previously dusty windows now covered in velvet blue curtains, the sides painted a fresh green, the sign above in navy and gold:

The day was finally here. A bookshop in Kilbane. Why had it taken so long for someone to open one? They had the library, and of course one could drive to Cork or Limerick, but finally there would be one just down the street. She for one would do everything she could to support them. She wondered if the impending rainstorm would be good or bad for business. In her experience at the bistro, rain could either keep people out or drive them in. She had a feeling that they would turn out in droves for the bookshop, even with thunder and lightning in the forecast. Unfortunately, not everyone behaved during storms; they were a little like full moons that way. But keeping townsfolk from the bookshop was too big of an ask. Not that they were nosy, per se (aside from the regular curtain-twitchers), but everyone had been waiting anxiously to meet the owners, Oran and Padraig McCarthy. Besides, it might be fun to cozy up in a bookshop during a storm. Customers could then flock to Naomi’s Bistro with their purchases and sit by a roaring peat fire. They could stay open late; Siobhán would take the shift herself. Potato and leek soup and brown bread would go well with the rain. Apple tarts for dessert. Yes, soups and desserts would be well stocked. And if townsfolk were in the bistro, happy out for a feed, she could at least keep an eye on them. She made a mental note to stop by Liam’s hardware shop herself for candles and torch batteries, and then she would pop into the market for loads of crisps and chocolates.

Hopefully Oran and Padraig wouldn’t find life in Kilbane too mundane after the hustle and bustle of Galway City. To her dismay, they’d kept to themselves thus far, not venturing into Naomi’s Bistro for a cuppa, not even to say hello, not even once. Eoin had even dropped off a welcome basket of scones and nary a reply. Opening a new business was time consuming, that was probably all there was to it. She’d make sure to personally invite them to the bistro. Turn the Page. She loved it. Just like she’d soon be turning the page to her twenty-ninth birthday, three days from now. It was hard to believe her twenties were nearly gone. Starting a new chapter. She was now eager to return home, shower and dress for work, so that she could hit the garda station early and time her break to coincide with the bookstore’s opening hour.

She was back at the bistro, showered, dressed in her garda uniform, and halfway through her first heavenly cappuccino, when she heard pounding on the door to the bistro. Startled, she opened it to find Bridie, a neighbor and employee, bedraggled and breathing hard on the doorstep. Had she just come from a spin class? “Hi, luv. Did you lose your key?” Siobhán asked, before she caught the look on Bridie’s face. Troubled was putting it mildly. It was only then that Siobhán noticed a basket in Bridie’s hands with a pie on top. Lemon meringue from the looks of it. A card on top of the basket said: WELCOME.

“It’s for the bookshop owners.” Bridie did not step inside. Her brunette curls were sticking to the side of her pretty face, her breath still labored. “She’s dead. She’s lying near the bookshop, and she’s dead.” The words came out in a rush. “You know she never leaves the inn. What in heaven’s name is she doing lying on the footpath near the bookshop?”

“Who are you on about, pet?” Bridie was in shock, the signs evident on her face and in the way her words tumbled out incoherently.

“I’ve been minding her. I tucked her into bed last night, and she was fine. And by fine I mean she argued with her book club, or maybe it was the twins—you could hear her yelling from the back garden, like. And she returned in a horrid mood. Everything I did was wrong, and of course she was going to school me. And I know it’s no time to complain, but you know how she is. I brought her chicken soup. Do you think there was something wrong with the soup? Maybe it was something someone brought to the book club? She was fine last night, I tell you she was her miserable old self!” Bridie gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth.

“Take a breath.” Siobhán reached out, set the basket with the pie down, and then took Bridie’s hands. She breathed in by way of example. Bridie finally copped on and took a deep breath. Tears pooled in her eyes. “I was going to call the guards when I saw you run by. I need to call Father Kearney. Do you think it was her heart? Or old age? It couldn’t have been the chicken soup. Why was she wandering out in this weather when she hasn’t gone beyond the inn in over a year?” Bridie grabbed Siobhán’s shoulders. “I made the soup. I ate the soup and I’m fine. Do you think she was depressed because she sold the inn? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What was she doing out and about at this hour of the morning?”

By now Siobhán had pieced it together, and she too could not believe it. Margaret O’Shea, the former owner of the Kilbane Inn. “Margaret?” Siobhán asked. “Are you on about Margaret O’Shea, luv?”

Bridie nodded, tears pouring down her cheeks. “She’s dead. She is lying on the footpath near the bookshop and she’s dead.”

Siobhán’s disbelief remained until she was on the footpath standing over poor deceased Margaret O’Shea. She was lying perhaps twenty feet away from the shop, feet facing it, as if she had been heading straight for it. Her walker lay on its side next to her but didn’t appear damaged. She was dressed in a thick gray jumper and wool skirt. Her face, always stern in life, looked peaceful, and her eyes were blessedly closed. Her arms were by her sides, hands palms out. Her handbag had landed a foot away, and a pair of glasses poked out from underneath her shoulder.

Standing at the top of the town square, Siobhán could see King John’s Castle to her immediate left, and the Kilbane Garda Station across the street. Margaret O’Shea had undoubtedly not been the first poor soul to die in the town square (given its turbulent history she was most likely one of many), but she was the only one in these modern times, and even though she’d been a stern woman at times, Siobhán had always had a fondness for her, not to mention a great deal of respect. Until a year ago she had run the Kilbane Inn all by herself. To be running a business at seventy-something years of age on her own was something to be proud of. A profound sadness enveloped Siobhán as she stared down at her. “How did I not pass her on my run?” Siobhán wondered out loud. They must have just missed each other, which meant that Margaret had not been deceased for very long.

Bridie stood behind her, and having lost her battle with her tears, she was now openly weeping. “What was she even doing here?” Bridie wailed. “It must have taken her ages to walk.”

“Maybe one of the twins dropped her off.” The Kilbane Inn, now named the Twins’ Inn, was run by identical twins Emma and Eileen Curley. Margaret still lived in her room on the premises, and as Bridie had stated earlier, she had not left the grounds in the past year. Had the excitement of the bookshop opening caused Margaret to venture out? Siobhán leaned closer to the walker. “There’s no mud,” she observed out loud. The journey from the inn would have required passing through sections where there was no footpath, only farmers’ fields. If she had walked here, there should have been muck on her walker. Perhaps she’d taken the roads, a choice that would have lengthened an already long walk for a woman in her condition.

“It doesn’t make any sense at all,” Bridie said. “It’s just wrong seeing her lying here.”

Siobhán agreed. It did feel wrong. Had Margaret O’Shea known this would happen, she would have been mortified. Even looking at her felt wrong. “Perhaps she’s here for the same reason you were,” Siobhán said, scouring the ground for a pie, or tin of biscuits. “Leaving a welcome gift for the McCarthys.”

“She was a big reader,” Bridie said. “But the ladies in the book club always brought her books.”

“What’s the story?” At the sound of the deep voice behind them, they turned in unison. Macdara Flannery was approaching with two additional guards. She should remember to call him Detective Sergeant Flannery in front of everyone else. Even though he would be chuffed to bits if she called him her fiancé.

“It’s Margaret O’Shea,” Siobhán said. “Bless her soul. Bridie found her.”

“How did you know she was here?” Macdara asked. “Poor dear.” He bowed his head in front of the body, and once he was done he pulled a notebook out of his pocket as he turned to Bridie.

“I was going to leave a welcome pie at the door to the bookshop,” Bridie said. “I nearly tripped over her in the dark.”

Macdara glanced down the side street visible from their spot on the corner. There, a giant hand-painted sign loomed over the building depicting a gentleman with a raised pint: BUTLER’S UNDERTAKER, LOUNGE, AND PUB. Sometimes a cheeky board sat out front that read: Patrons Wanted Dead or Alive. Today the footpaths would remain clear as everyone prepped for the storm.

Siobhán knew where Macdara’s thoughts were at this moment. He didn’t want to leave Margaret lying here. He wanted to call Butler’s and have her taken to the funeral home. If a death was unexpected and/or suspicious, the state pathologist would need to be called in. In those cases the body could not be moved from the scene. His eyes met Siobhán’s. “What are you thinking?”

“She was fine last night,” Bridie said. “More than fine. She was a spitfire at the book club. I brought her chicken soup.”

“She’s in her late seventies, luv,” Siobhán said. “Her health has been declining this past year.” She glanced at the handbag. “She wasn’t robbed. There are no signs at all of foul play.” And given the pristine state of her walker she had most likely been dropped off by someone at the inn. But why this early? The bookshop wasn’t even open. Perhaps she wanted to avoid the crowds. Was someone coming to pick her up?

“You don’t think it was the soup, do ye?” Bridie asked.

“I don’t see any evidence of that,” Siobhán said. “This wasn’t your fault.”

Bridie gasped and nodded. “I’ll call Father Kearney,” she said.

“I’ll call Butler’s,” Macdara said. “Let’s get her out of sight before businesses start to open.” He was right. No doubt Margaret was looking down telling them to hurry up and do their jobs. He looked down at Margaret. “I’m sorry, luv. Rest in peace.” His eyes fell to the bookshop. “I’m going to need you to call the McCarthys,” he said to Siobhán. “Ask them to postpone the bookshop opening for at least a day while we do our due diligence on this one.”

Fantastic. She had a feeling that even Bridie’s lemon meringue pie wouldn’t sweeten that news.

The next morning, it wasn’t until Siobhán showered and changed from her run, and planted herself in front of her cappuccino maker in the dining room, that she remembered. A new garda was starting today. Aretta Dabiri. She would be Ireland’s first female garda of African descent. Her father had immigrated to Ireland from Nigeria. It was cause for celebration. After the sad day they’d had yesterday, welcoming a new garda and resident was just the cheer the village needed. That and the upcoming opening of the bookstore—Take Two.

The McCarthys hadn’t even answered her phone call yesterday; they had to send the gardaí to the door to ask them to postpone the opening while they canvassed the area, and had the twins check on Margaret’s room back at the inn just to make sure there was nothing amiss. The only strange bit so far was that no one at the inn had admitted to giving Margaret a ride into town. Siobhán had been sure it was one of the twins. Of course, Margaret had friends in the village, so it was probably just a matter of time before they learned who picked her up and dropped her off. But until that point, it was going to gnaw on Siobhán. After one of the twins entered Margaret’s room, she assured the guards there was nothing amiss, apart from the smell of bleach. This, she claimed, was not out of character. Margaret was a tidy woman who fiercely believed that cleanliness was next to godliness. And Margaret insisted on doing her own cleaning because she highly valued her privacy.

Granted, Windex was her preferred cleaning solution, but there were no signs that anyone had broken into her room. The previous evening the entire ladies’ book club had met in Margaret’s room, along with visiting Irish authors who were in Kilbane to celebrate the bookshop’s grand opening. It made sense to the twins that after such a gathering, Margaret chose to use a stronger cleaning solution. She was a bit of a germaphobe. Despite being a tidy woman, she had still refused the twins’ offer to upgrade her room. It smelled musty, the twins relayed, no matter how much Windex or bleach she used. Most of them had partaken of Bridie’s chicken soup and none of the others had fallen ill. It appeared that Margaret O’Shea had died of natural causes.

Margaret had no close relatives, and no one saw any need to call in the state pathologist. It would have been better if she had died peacefully in her bed, but what’s done was done. Father Kearney scheduled an evening mass, and the twins were seeing to the funeral arrangements. Given Margaret had still been living on the property, they felt obliged. It was no surprise the events had momentarily shifted thoughts of the new garda to the side. But now, the day was here, and Siobhán’s excitement returned. She could not wait to meet Aretta Dabiri.

The smell of rashers, sausages, and black and white pudding drifted into the dining room. Her brother Eoin was up and starting brekkie. Brown bread was cooling on the racks; Siobhán had been up hours before her run preparing the pans and sliding them into the cooker. It probably meant she’d be crashing in the afternoon, but maybe all the new events of the day would keep her hopping.

“You’re up early,” she said when Eoin ambled out. He was looking sharp in a black apron, his hair combed neatly back. There were days she had a hard time processing the change, how the Yankees cap always turned backward had disappeared from his head, and his skin had cleared up. Eoin O’Sullivan was now handsome. She could see a lot of her da in him. And his culinary skills and artistic skills had progressed, making him a catch. It was no wonder the bistro had seen an uptick in young female customers. So far, her younger brother had been pretending not to notice, but the mystery of why the baseball cap was gone and he was always neatly turned out was solved. Siobhán wondered if there was one lass in particular he was trying to impress, or was he just basking in the attention of many? He was the face of Naomi’s Bistro and she couldn’t be prouder.

“James woke me up when he snuck out this morning,” Eoin said.

“Snuck out?” Siobhán asked. “Where was he off to?” Their oldest brother, James, had just returned home after months in Waterford with his fiancée, Elise. She did not return with him. He’d been in one of his moods lately, as dark as the weather. Siobhán wondered if he was having second thought. . .