Murder in an Irish Bookshop Read online

  Books by Carlene O’Connor

  Irish Village Mysteries

  MURDER IN AN IRISH VILLAGE

  MURDER AT AN IRISH WEDDING

  MURDER IN AN IRISH CHURCHYARD

  MURDER IN AN IRISH PUB

  MURDER IN AN IRISH COTTAGE

  MURDER AT AN IRISH CHRISTMAS

  MURDER IN AN IRISH BOOKSHOP

  CHRISTMAS COCOA MURDER

  (with Maddie Day and Alex Erickson)

  Home to Ireland Mysteries

  MURDER IN GALWAY

  MURDER IN CONNEMARA

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Murder in an Irish Bookshop

  CARLENE O’CONNOR

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Eoin’s Irish Stew

  Pepper Stew

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Mary Carter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2020945597

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3079-4

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: March 2021

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-3085-5 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-3085-2 (e-book)

  Given this book was written during a worldwide pandemic, I want to dedicate it to all of us who lost someone, healed someone, stayed home, wore masks, protested, pitched in, sacrificed, and loved. Also to the astronauts who gave us hope and a view of our precious earth without borders.

  This book is also dedicated to Leah, whose husband contacted me during the pandemic. She shares the same birthday and I was happy to celebrate with her by naming a character after her. Cheers!

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my editor, John Scognamiglio, and my agent, Evan Marshall. I am so lucky that these men are so supportive, always willing to help with plot questions or advice. Thanks, Evan, for lending your “agent hat” to this book. Thank you, Caroline Lennon, for giving voice to all my characters. Thank you to all my friends, colleagues, and acquaintances willing to share recipes, tips, info, and support. Thank you to Bridget Quinn, Andrea Carter, Susan Collins, Kevin Collins, Lorraine, Tracy Clark, and Annmarie and James Sheedy. My family is always there for me, so I’d like to thank them as well: Carl and Jill Carter, Pat Carter, Melissa Carter-Newman, Amelia Newman, Elijah Newman, and Matthew Newman. Thank you to James and Vincent Collins, who cheered me up during quarantine with their beautiful singing and dancing. Never stop! Thank you to my neighbors who dropped cookies and treats at my door and helped celebrate my quarantine birthday: shout out to Kari Bloom, Marie Guillory, and Nathalie Gribinski!

  Chapter 1

  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.

  Chapter 2

  Siobh
án 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:

  TURN THE PAGE

  COME FOR THE VIBES, STAY FOR THE SCRIBES.

  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 aske
d. “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.”

  Chapter 3

  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.