Everything’s coming up roses for garda Siobhán and the rest of O’Sullivan family in quaint Kilbane, County Cork, Ireland—until a murder investigation blooms out of a deadly gardening competition.
While Siobhán studies for her Detective Sargeant exams, her brother, Eoin, prepares for the grand opening of his new restaurant, The O’Sullivan Six, and concocts a plan to enter Kilbane’s Top Garden Contest to boost business. But trouble brews when Eoin hires a mercurial landscape designer known for her killer designs. His new partner’s unflattering reputation and questionable practices nearly eclipse her talents—and plunge the prestigious competition into chaos.
A lush and intricate winning garden emerges from the controversy, with a spectacular golden statue in the center of the display. But in a devastating twist, the work of art leads to the shocking discovery of a bold and brutal work of murder.
Everyone in town has an opinion about who committed the crime and planted the evidence, from easily bribed sponsors to green-with-envy gardeners. And with another golden statue found in Eoin’s garden display, rumors about his involvement intensify. As local gossip buzzes and a list of suspects grows, it’s up to quick-witted Siobhán and her husband, Macdara, to suss out the guilty culprit’s identity . . . before the competition buries another victim.
Release date:
February 25, 2025
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
304
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If you’ve never had the pleasure, let me assure you that a quintessential Irish garden in the height of summer is a magnificent sight to behold. Vibrant blooms in a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors, shrubbery crafted by artists, playful fairies, gnomes, and angels, all forming a path to an ornate fountain in the center. Imagine if you will, a stately manor house beckoning in the distance, proudly standing behind sturdy limestone walls. But if all you see is the beauty, then you’re a fool. Because did you know that many of those manor houses exist because of the violent dissolution of monasteries? Wealth thrown to the aristocracy and Tudor men, eager to feast on someone else’s lands while the Irish farmer toiled and struggled? You might dislike me for educating you, but can you fault me if some people prefer their roses in the form of little colored glasses?
Besides, you are liable to point out, an Irish garden can exist anywhere. They can flourish in front of sweet little cottages with thatched roofs. In the back of semidetached flats in town. Even windowsill boxes can be transformed into a flowering bonanza. I’ll give you that—gardens are for everyone, and they can flourish everywhere. But do you know what else gardens hold? Weeds that choke and drown. Secrets that are burrowed deep into the rich, dark soil. Sharpened weapons: spades and rakes and stakes. Oh, my. Butterflies that flutter with beauty in front of your face while darting bees sting you in the back. Yes. One must look closely at Irish gardens, for one never knows what lurks amongst the blades. I know someone who purports to be a nature lover and to nature she will return. Would you like to know my favorite time to visit a garden? At night, of course. When it’s shrouded in a cloth of dark. Danger can lurk. Danger can strike. Do you see the resemblance? Manicured lawns, objects made of stone, angels hovering about, and things buried deep in the earth? If you haven’t figured it out, I’d be happy to spell it out. One man’s garden might be another man’s grave.
“Would you please read that one again?” Siobhán O’Sullivan drummed her fingers on their farmhouse kitchen table, something Macdara had already somewhat politely asked her not to do. Her study-weary husband sighed. They had been at it all night. Morning had announced itself through the kitchen window, bold and uninvited, blinding them with a ray of sunshine. At least there was coffee, and Macdara had warmed blueberry scones in the oven. The rich smell of the heavenly concoctions filled their small kitchen and took the edge off the torture.
Normally Eoin would have stepped in to make them brekkie, but he was ensconced with his restaurant opening. Ann was away at her first year at the University of Limerick, even though the summer had barely begun, she’d moved to campus upon returning from their holiday at sea because she was on the camogie team and practice would start soon. At least she was close to home. Gráinne and James, on the other hand, had stayed behind in Lahinch to renovate Gráinne’s new inn, and Ciarán, who had just passed his Leaving Certificate had concluded (against Siobhán’s will) to take a “gap year.” It meant he was technically still living at home but more often than not was out with friends or fellow musicians. She fully supported his fiddle playing, and he was fierce talented at that, but she was bracing nearly every day for him to announce that he was running away with a band. As usual, life was changing faster than Siobhán could keep up. And with all this chaos swirling around her, the task of passing her detective sergeant exams was daunting.
Camped out next to her, a pile of textbooks teetered like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Preparing for the exams from home had been challenging enough, but now there was commotion going on outside, and this went way beyond rattling wind and chirping birds. Chainsaws, drills, workmen barking orders—it was madness, and for once it wasn’t all taking place in Siobhán’s poor head. But it was too late to find a quieter place to focus; she’d promised Eoin that she would keep an eye out for a special delivery. His restaurant, The Six, was going to have its soft opening in two days. If that wasn’t enough, he had rented out the field in front of it to a contestant for Kilbane’s Top Garden Contest. Cassidy Ryan. Tomorrow was the first day of the contest and the town was abuzz with excitement.
Siobhán’s mam had had a green thumb, and their back garden in town had been an oasis of fresh herbs and flowers. Often, Naomi O’Sullivan would dry and hang the herbs in the kitchen of the family bistro and adorn the tables with fresh cut flowers. How her mam would have loved the garden competition, maybe even taken home the coveted prizes of ten thousand euro and The Golden Rose.
“Officer Healy is on patrol,” Macdara was saying. “It’s evening and he’s nearly finished for the day. He’s strolling down the street—”
“I thought he was walking.”
Macdara gave her a look. She had a dreadful feeling they were building up to their first big fight as a married couple. He took a deep breath and she had no doubt he was counting to ten in his head. “Walking, strolling, there’s no difference.”
“Of course there’s a difference.”
“Do tell.”
“Why is he strolling if he’s on duty? He should be less relaxed and more alert.”
“Fine. Officer Jennings—”
“Healy—”
“Right. Officer Healy. It would be easier to remember if I could get through the question at least once without interruption.” He stared at Siobhán as if daring her to say something. She was doing a lot more than counting in her head, but she kept her gob shut. Exams were hard, but there were days that marriage was even harder. “Officer Healy is walking down the street, as alert as he can possibly be at the end of a very long day, and here comes your fella Mike. Mike waves Officer Healy down—”
Macdara was paraphrasing and talking too fast. These questions were ridiculous. There was no choice but to interrupt again; she was the one who would be taking the test, and she needed clarification. “Why does Mike need to wave Officer Healy down if he’s already approaching him?”
Macdara threw the manual down on the kitchen table. “We’re not getting anywhere! I haven’t even gotten to the accident.” He stood and headed for the kettle.
Siobhán glanced at the practice manual and imagined setting it on fire. “What accident?”
“Exactly!” Macdara said, as he rummaged around in the cupboard for a box of tea. He continued to talk as he set about preparing two cups. “Mike tells Officer Healy that he saw a man named Joe plow into a cyclist and take off.”
Apparently her overachiever husband had memorized the entire scenario. There were days she would have found this an attractive quality. Today was not one of them. She tapped her pencil on the table; it helped her think. “Does this Mike fella wear glasses?”
Macdara frowned as he dropped tea bags into the mugs. “That’s nowhere in the scenario!”
Siobhán crossed her arms and stared at her notes. “It should be. I would think that would be very important, don’t you?”
“For the love of curried chips, will ya please just shut your gob until I finish the question?”
Siobhán’s jaw tightened. She was going to blow before the kettle. She didn’t even bother to count this time. “Did you just tell your wife to shut her gob?” She lasered him one of those looks only a wife can give. “And before you answer, I’ll be adding me own crime question to the list if your answer is yes.”
“You will, yeah?”
Siobhán nodded. “If a wife kills her husband but he totally had it coming because he egged her on by telling her to shut her gob when she’s trying to study for one of the most important tests of her career—is she really responsible for his death?”
“Yes,” Macdara said. “She most certainly is.” He paused and cocked his head. “How would you do it?”
“I’d slip something into your tea.” Macdara stared at the mugs on the counter. Siobhán grimaced, pulled the manual toward her, and skimmed the inane passage. “‘Joe saw Mike plow into a cyclist and drive away. Luckily the cyclist is not harmed. His name is Kevin. Mike chats with him and finds out he’s forty years of age, with a wife and two sons.’ ” She pushed it away again, disgusted. “What on earth does that have to do with being hit by a car?”
“I didn’t write the question and you didn’t finish it.” She gestured for him to do so. “He chats with your one, then fifteen minutes later Officer Healy is driving about, and he sees the vehicle—”
“Wait. How could he see the vehicle? You didn’t even say the color, make, or model.”
“He obviously knew all of that.”
Siobhán shook her head. If only she could meet with these men—and she knew it was men who designed nonsensical practice questions, she’d murder them too. “It’s not obvious at all.”
The kettle whistled and Macdara wet the tea. He stirred in milk and sugar and brought them to the table. “Sans poison, dear wife.” He set hers in front of her and gently touched her shoulder. “I know you’re nervous. But this is never going to work if we can’t even get through a single question.”
He was right. She hated when he was right. “Fine.”
Macdara eagerly sat down and supped his tea before pulling the manual toward him. “ ‘He stops the car, they pull to the side of the road, and he orders him to get out.’ Now. Ready for the question part of the question?” She pursed her lips and nodded. “ ‘Is Officer Healy within his rights to conduct a breathing test?’ ”
“Yes, if—”
Macdara held up his index finger and wagged it. “It’s multiple choice. I haven’t read the choices.” Siobhán crossed her arms, slouched in the chair, and patiently waited. “ ‘A: No. He has no right to tell him what to do and he shouldn’t have stopped him in the first place. B: No, he has no proof the accident even happened—he only suspects it happened. C: Yes. But the test must take place within or close to an area where the requirements for Joe to cooperate can be imposed—’”
Siobhán pounded her fist on the table. “What in the world does that even mean?”
“ ‘Or D: Yes. Officer Healy can do whatever he wants because he’s a police officer.’ ” Siobhán opened her mouth, and there was her husband’s index finger again. It wasn’t the first time she thought about biting it. “Don’t do it, Siobhán,” Macdara warned. “Do not say D.”
“I cannot answer the question if I do not understand what in the world they’re trying to say in answer C.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate because explanation C is the correct answer.”
“What?” She was starting to wish there was whiskey in her tea.
Macdara began to mansplain. “Since Officer Healy has spoken to the cyclist hit by the vehicle and confirmed the accident—”
“It didn’t say he confirmed the accident. It said he confirmed your one was forty years of age and married with two sons.”
“If the cyclist didn’t confirm the story, I’m sure it would have said that cyclist denied it. Why would they even write up this question if there was no accident?” By now they had both risen to their feet and were competing to project their voices over the commotion outside. Siobhán was wondering exactly where this argument was headed when someone pounded on the front door. Had they disturbed the workers outside? Saved by the bang. Siobhán hurried to the window above the kitchen sink and peered outside. Planted at the front door was a baby-faced deliveryman and next to him was an enormous wooden crate. It had to be for Cassidy Ryan and her garden design. Siobhán opened the window.
“That goes to the white tent,” she said, startling the poor man. He whipped his head around and raised his cap. He was so young. Nineteen at the most.
He glanced nervously in the direction of the large tent. It was big enough to house a traveling circus. All the gardens in the competition had tents erected around them so that their creations would be hidden until the official unveiling. “Where exactly would you like it?” His voice started off deep and then squeaked.
“You’re not going to like me answer,” Siobhán said.
“Join the club,” Macdara piped up.
The poor lad looked terrified. “I’ll take you over to the tent,” Siobhán said. “If the recipient isn’t there, I can sign for it.” She glanced at Macdara. “I need some fresh air.”
Macdara rose and grabbed the manual. “Not a bother. I can walk and talk.”
Ugh. He was relentless. They headed outside and Siobhán once again glanced at the enormous person-sized crate. It was propped up on a rolling dolly. “Is it an elephant?”
The lad leaned forward and glanced at a sticker on the crate. “Statue.”
“She’s going all out.” Cassidy Ryan had already caused quite a bit of trouble with the other gardeners, and not just because she was a blond bombshell who flirted with every male in sight. She was the only professional landscape designer of the group, and the other gardeners were incensed. Unfortunately, no one had thought to write a clause barring professionals into the bylines, so they were stuck. It wasn’t just the test questions that were aggravating. It was life. Rules and regulations. Everything revolved around rules and regulations. As Siobhán led the way, she could hear the wheels of the dolly squeaking and bumping, not to mention a fair amount of grunting as the delivery lad strained under the weight.
Macdara continued to yammer behind her. “If Officer Healy has reasonable grounds to believe Joe hit the cyclist, then he can ask for the breath test.” He was committed to her passing these exams and using tough love to accomplish it. Was he worried it would be a poor reflection on him if she didn’t pass the first time around? And why was this flustering her so much? She was normally an excellent student. Her head just wasn’t in it. Did she even want to be a detective sergeant? Wasn’t one in the family enough? “Can we put this on hold?” She called over her shoulder. “I need a break.”
“The Road Traffic Act basically states that if an accident happens as a result of a motor vehicle on the road, and the officer believes that this person was in charge of the vehicle when the accident occurred, then the officer has legal authorization to administer a preliminary breath test.” Macdara waited for her to respond.
“There was an accident?” the delivery lad asked when silence stretched. He sounded worried.
“See?” Siobhán said. “That’s what I said.”
“I didn’t write these questions,” Macdara said. “You asked for my help.”
“You took the test, didn’t you?” Siobhán asked. She was getting her back up, but she couldn’t help it.
“I wouldn’t be a detective sergeant if I hadn’t taken the tests.” He paused. “And you won’t be either.”
He did not just say that. In front of this delivery-baby no less. Siobhán eyed the crate again. It was big enough to stuff her husband into—maybe she could convince the lad to haul him away. “You could have at least given headquarters feedback on how idiotic these questions are.”
“You’re blaming me for taking the test? I don’t have to help you study, you know. I do have other things I could be doing.”
“Like what?” Macdara was off for the week following their holiday and he was still trying to be a “man of leisure.”
“Don’t you worry about it.”
“Consider yourself officially dismissed.” They reached the tent. It was situated across from Eoin’s farm-to-table restaurant, a short stroll away. Once the garden was unveiled, restaurant guests could walk through the installment either before or after their meal, and it would remain on the property throughout the summer for folks to enjoy. It was ingenious of Eoin to think about doing this, even if it had gotten him in some hot water with the other contestants. Now that they were near the tent, Siobhán was surprised that all was quiet. “Hello?” she called out. “Cassidy Ryan? There’s a large delivery here. Some kind of statue?”
There was no reply. “She must be on break,” Siobhán said. “Would you like me to sign for it?”
The lad glanced at his paperwork. “It clearly states that only Cassidy Ryan can sign for it.”
“A rule follower,” Macdara said. “Good man.” He gave Siobhán a pointed look.
“Wait here then and I’ll see if me brother knows where she is.” Siobhán ignored Macdara and headed for the restaurant.
Macdara followed her. “Let’s try another question. Susan is walking to work one morning—”
“Not strolling?” Siobhán shot back.
“Two men suddenly come up behind her—Harry and Joe—”
“Is this the same Joe who struck the cyclist?”
“They say, ‘We won’t hurt you as long as you give us the bag!’ ” Macdara was getting into it, acting out the role. Just as he was speaking, the restaurant doors opened and a young woman with long brunette hair emerged with a camera slung around her neck. She had not only caught the tail end of his statement, but Macdara was acting as if Siobhán had a handbag and he was going to snatch it.
The woman’s eyes were panicked. “Leave her alone!” she yelled, running toward Siobhán. She started to tug on Macdara as she screamed at Siobhán. “Where’s your bag?”
“I’m not carrying one,” Siobhán said. She glared at Macdara. “And neither was the person in that scenario.”
The woman let go of Macdara and stepped back, confusion planted on her pretty face.
“Of course she was carrying a handbag,” Macdara said. “How could they try and rob it off her if she wasn’t?”
“Then why doesn’t it clearly state that she’s carrying a handbag? Good old Harry and Joe just said, ‘Give us the bag!’ For all I know it was a SuperValu bag.”
The woman’s eyes ping-ponged between them, her shiny pink lips agape. She was slim and her dewy face was dotted with freckles. “Do either of you want me to call someone?”
Macdara turned to the young woman. “We’re reading test questions,” he said. “My stubborn wife is studying to become a detective sergeant.” He shook his head. “Or should I say she’s actively avoiding studying.”
Siobhán put her hands on her hips, realizing that to this young woman she probably looked like a typical wife nagging her husband. But some things couldn’t be helped. “And my detective-sergeant husband is drilling me with practice questions that do not make an ounce of sense because they were written by men with limestone for brains!” Siobhán could feel her blood pressure tick up. She wanted to hit something. Preferably him.
“Stop overthinking every single little detail,” Macdara said. “When you become a detective sergeant, you can lobby to change the questions. But if you don’t get out of your own stubborn way, you’re never going to pass the exams!”
“How many times are you going to call me stubborn?”
“As many as it takes to get through to you!”
The woman backed away slightly, her hand going to her camera. If she started to film them, Siobhán was going to yank it off her neck and stomp on it. She was dying for the woman to start filming them. The young woman held up her right hand and flashed a diamond on her engagement finger. “Should I take this as a warning?”
“Yes,” they said in stereo.
Siobhán tried to calm herself by staring out at the fields. Summer was here and everything was green. Maybe it would help her see less red. “Please excuse my rude husband.”
“Rude?” Macdara said. “Rude?!”
“We just returned from our honeymoon. Isn’t it obvious?” Siobhán said.
“The honeymoon’s over,” Macdara said, throwing his arms out.
The woman was studying her engagement ring as if she’d just realized something deadly was wrapped around her finger.
“We’re sorry we frightened you,” Siobhán said to the woman. “I swear. We’re normally not like this.”
“Not a bother.” She looked around as if she wanted to flee.
“We’re looking for Cassidy Ryan. But first things first. I’m Siobhán O’Sullivan-Flannery and the rude old goat behind me is my husband, Macdara.”
“Fantastic,” Macdara said. “I’m a rude old goat. Noted.”
“And I’m a stubborn wife. Noted.”
“Say less and you’ll hear more,” Macdara said.
“You know what?” Siobhán whirled around. “I will say less. In fact, for the record, I am officially giving you the silent treatment.” She mimicked locking her lips and throwing away the key.
“It’s my lucky day,” Macdara said, throwing his arms open. “I love the silent treatment!”
“Molly Murphy,” the woman said, taking out a pad of paper and biro. “For the Kilbane Times. I’m the reporter and photographer for Kilbane’s Top Garden Contest.”
“You are?” Siobhán blurted out. She looked like a baby too. A baby with a job and a fiancé. Everyone looked like babies. Twenty-something and bright-eyed. Siobhán was getting old. And cranky. “Brilliant.” They had just had their first big row in front of an engaged reporter. Typical.
Molly jotted something down on her pad, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. Siobhán could hear Macdara breathing. No doubt he was fuming. But he was the one who just couldn’t give things a rest. This wasn’t her fault.
Eoin emerged from the restaurant. His ginger hair was slicked back, and he was wearing a white apron, white shirt, and black denims. He looked sharp. Long gone were the days where acne dotted his face and he wore American baseball caps backward. He was a man now, clear complexion, nice hair . . . handsome. And she was bursting with pride. All her siblings were grown up, although she still thought of Ciarán as a baby. “What’s the story?” he asked. “Did I hear arguing?” He raised his eyebrow and took in the pair.
“There’s a delivery lad by the tent who needs Cassidy Ryan’s signature,” Siobhán said, gesturing. “Would you look at the size of that crate?”
They began to walk back toward the crate, and the young reporter tagged along. “I haven’t seen her since the wee hours of this morning,” Eoin said. “Saw her pop in and out of the tent but she didn’t stay long. Just long enough to berate her garden crew. She’s not answering calls or texts either.”
“These aren’t the wee hours?” Macdara asked.
Eoin laughed. “You weren’t the only pair up all night. With the competition opening tomorrow, I bet all the gardeners have been at it ’round the clock.”
Siobhán nodded. Everyone had been putting in a lot of preparation for this event. Every year it brightened up the town with flowers and ambition. “And with your restaurant opening, you’ve been working even harder.”
They reached the outside of the tent and the delivery lad looked at them expectantly. “Sorry, luv,” Siobhán said. “Cassidy Ryan isn’t here.”
The lad stared at the crate and groaned. “If she doesn’t sign for it, I have to take this back.” He lifted his cap and stared at it with dread. Sweat glistened on his forehead. “It’s really, really heavy. Even with the dolly.. . .
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