Chapter 5
Her father’s bookshelf was in the corner of Siobhán’s bedroom, and Dubliners was on the first shelf. She would just bring the book, and if Oran McCarthy wasn’t happy with the quote she picked out, she’d knock him on the head with it. Besides, she was going on official garda business.
On the way, hustling ahead of her on the footpath, Siobhán spotted Leigh Coakley, or rather she spotted Leigh’s unmistakable golden curls bouncing as she hustled toward the bookshop. Coakley, the owner of Blooms, a local flower shop, was also an aspiring writer. She must have felt a presence behind her, for she whirled around, her hazel eyes alert. She relaxed when she saw it was Siobhán.
“You put the heart in me crossways,” Leigh said, holding a book and a bouquet of roses in every color imaginable across her chest. She looked around, then leaned in and whispered, “Ever since poor Margaret O’Shea I’ve been a bit on edge. You know yourself.”
“I know. Tis awful.”
“Isn’t it though?” Leigh shook her head. “She was in some mood the night of our book club.”
“I heard.” Siobhán eyed the roses in Leigh’s hand. “Going to the bookshop?” Are those roses a bribe?
Leigh nodded, her expression radiating excitement. “I hear not everyone gets in.”
Siobhán was thrilled to be able to impart some wisdom onto the locals. “You have to quote James Joyce.”
“Or Seamus Heaney,” Leigh said, mentioning the famous Irish poet/playwright and nodding. “History says/don’t hope on this side of the grave. ”
“Pardon?”
“It’s a Seamus Heaney quote.”
“Of course,” Siobhán said brightly. “I brought Dubliners.” Siobhán lifted the book.
“It can’t be ubiquitous.”
“I’m aware.”
“Speaking of my ladies’ book club . . . would you like to join?” She held up the book in her hand. Musings on a Hill, by Nessa Lamb. “I’ve just started it but I’m already hooked.”
Siobhán had never heard of the author or the book. She knew the answer should be yes, that she’d love to join a book club. And it did sound lovely. But also, time consuming. “I wish I could. We’re training a new garda, so my calendar is chocker-block.”
“Aretta Dabiri?”
News did travel fast. “Yes,” Siobhán said. “Garda Dabiri.”
“I heard she’s a voracious reader, so I intend on inviting her to the book club as well.”
“Wonderful.” Siobhán hesitated on the next question. It could be considered poor taste, and did it even matter? But curiosity had gotten the best of her. “Do you know what Margaret was so upset about that evening?”
“I heard one of the authors ruffled her feathers. Lorcan Murphy I believe it was.”
“What happened?”
“Apparently, he had a bit too much to drink and stumbled into her room instead of his.”
That sounded alarming. A strange man bursting into one’s room would give anyone a fright. “Wasn’t her door locked?”
“She had just gone in herself and was turning to lock the door when it opened.”
“And?”
“And that was it. He didn’t get a foot inside, mind you. After gathering inside Margaret’s room for the book discussion, we were finishing up in the back garden—those of us who wanted a drink. Margaret, as you know, was a teetotaler, and so out of respect we decided to imbibe in the garden. You could hear her hollering at the poor man all the way from the back garden. The names she called him. We didn’t even realize Margaret knew all those words.” Leigh shuddered at the memory. “Even the pair of wolfhounds turned tail.”
Siobhán laughed. Then her thoughts returned to Margaret and she sobered up. “The poor dear.”
Leigh waved it off. “Lorcan Murphy meant no harm. His room is next to hers. It was an understandable error.” She sighed. “Still. He gave her quite a fright.”
“But you saw her after that? And she was alright?”
Leigh cocked her head. “I didn’t see her during that or after. Lorcan Murphy came out to the back garden and told us what happened. Believe me, the poor man was mortified.”
“I see.”
“You don’t think it has anything to do with her death, do you?”
“No, no. I’m only curious,” Siobhán assured her.
“If you change your mind, you’re welcome any time.”
“Change my mind?”
“About the book club.”
“Thanks a million, I’ll keep it in mind.” What was she afraid of? Falling asleep every time she tried to read the chosen book? Yes, because that is exactly what would happen. Then she’d show up to the book group and end up looking like an eejit. Unable to comment on the theme or scope, or poetic descriptions. Drool on the pages. No thank you. She sighed as they reached the bookshop. Once again there was a long line. “I’m on official business, I’ll see you later,” Siobhán said as she headed to the front door.
When she drew close, Oran McCarthy pointed like the Grim Reaper. “The line is back there.”
“I’m afraid we need to discuss capacity.”
He sighed. Then turned his sign to CLOSED. “I hope this isn’t a trick to get in.”
“I have a copy of Dubliners right here.”
He pursed his lips. “Word is spreading. I’ll have to change it up.”
There was a groan from the line as he ushered her in and shut the door behind him. “I’ve only fifteen in at the moment, and our capacity is a hundred and twenty.”
Siobhán eagerly stepped in, enveloped by the lovely scent of paper and pulp. The shop was gorgeous. Wide pine floors, antique cream paint on the walls, and matching pine bookshelves filled with colorful spines lined every wall. She couldn’t wait to start touching them. She was still thinking of perusing the romance section but didn’t see any signs above the shelves delineating the genres. She spotted a giant poster by the register, propped up on an art easel:
IRISH AUTHOR NIGHT
VISITING AUTHORS:
NESSA LAMB
DEIRDRE WALSH
LORCAN MURPHY
VISITING LITERARY AGENT
DARREN KILROY
She didn’t recognize any of the names. Of course, Nessa Lamb was the author of Musings on a Hill, but she only knew that from running into Leigh Coakley. Her fingers would be sore from Googling. “Tomorrow night,” Siobhán said as if she hadn’t already heard. “How wonderful.” Her eyes drifted to a shelf near the counter where another poster stood that read: STAFF RECOMMENDATIONS. They were not alphabetical or even ordered according to year, and the handwriting was small and seemed hectic, as if the writer was in a race to get down the overflowing list of names: James Joyce, Roddy Doyle, Bram Stoker, Maeve Binchy, Geraldine Quigley, Anne Griffin, Niamh Boyce, Jonathan Swift, Samuel Beckett, W.B. Yeats, C.S. Lewis, John Banville, Seamus Heaney, Patrick Kavanagh, Colum McCann, Tana French, Paul Murray, Colm Toibin, Emma Donoghue. Andrea Carter. Adrian McKinty. She was getting dizzy.
“Just a wee start,” Oran said. “Padraig is still working on the list.” Siobhán nodded. At this rate, if she wanted to read even half of the names on that list, she would need to quit her job.
Oran shifted, then shoved his thick glasses up with his index finger. “I was hoping I could have a few guards on duty for the author readings.”
“Why is that?”
Oran pointed to the poster. “Why, it’s Nessa Lamb, of course.” He peered down at her from his glasses, waiting for a certain reaction to the name Nessa Lamb.
“Of course.” She had never heard of her before today. “She has mad fans, does she?”
Oran blinked repeatedly. “I would certainly hope so. In Galway and Dublin she would, so.”
Was he trying to say they weren’t cultured enough in Kilbane? Then why had he bothered setting up shop here? “Even so, how rowdy do book fans get?”
“Nessa Lamb fans should be calm enough, alright. But what about Darren Kilroy?” He waited for a response.
“I see,” she said when she couldn’t come up with anything else.
His eyes narrowed in disapproval. “You know who he is?”
She’d had enough of his snobbery. She pointed to his sign. “Is this another test? To see if I’m literate? He’s a literary agent as we can both see there.” Her blood pressure was ticking up.
Oran cleared his throat. “I meant no offense, Garda. None at all. He’s Michael O’Mara’s literary agent.”
“Right, so.” Michael O’Mara she’d heard of. You’d have to live under a rock not to. He was the author of the popular fantasy series starring a dragon. What was the name of the series? She was too young to start forgetting things, wasn’t she? The Dragon Files. That was it. From what she knew, the dragon could no longer breathe fire and was on a quest to restore his power. There were at least twenty installments, maybe more, and the poor thing was still breathing vapors. “Michael O’Mara’s agent, that is impressive.”
“Tis,” Oran said, sounding friendly for the first time. “And he has agreed to sign one of our emerging Irish authors by the end of the week. It will really put us on the map.”
“Sign one of them?”
Oran sighed. “Represent them. Become their agent.”
“I see.”
“It’s a huge deal.”
Siobhán nodded. “Do you have Michael O’Mara’s books in stock?” Maybe herself and her siblings could all start reading them together in the evenings.
“The Dragon Files?” Oran scrunched his nose. “No. We only sell literary fiction and history.”
“You’re joking me.”
He thrust his chin up as if she’d just challenged him. “I certainly am not.”
“No fantasy?” He didn’t blink. “Romance?” He pursed his lips in disapproval and shook his head. “Science fiction?” Another shake. “Thrillers? Graphic novels? Murder mysteries?” Her pitch and volume went up as he rejected each genre with a look of pure disdain.
“Do you not understand what I mean when I say literary fiction?” He nearly spit out the words. He certainly had a big mouth for a Sheep Man.
Another male voice piped up from somewhere behind Oran. “I disagree with him and am diligently working to change his mind if that makes you feel any better.” He pointed to the Staff Recommendations. “As Oran mentioned, I am still working on this list and I intend to keep it very inclusive.”
Oran seemed to shudder. “They’ll just have to purchase some of those elsewhere.”
The other man sighed and gave Siobhán a look. She took a moment to study him. He was planted behind the register, hiding behind a huge stack of books waiting to be shelved. He had similar glasses to Oran, but was a good ten years younger, dressed in denims and a T-shirt with a black blazer. Hip. And very handsome. If Oran was the Sheep Man, this must be his herder.
“That’s my better-younger-half, Padraig,” Oran said. “His leniency in books notwithstanding.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Siobhán O’Sullivan. You need only call me Garda O’Sullivan if I’m on a case.” Padraig took in her uniform, saluted with a grin, then returned to his book. Friendlier than his husband but not chatty. Noted. “I also own Naomi’s Bistro with my siblings. We do hope to see you both there soon.” She waited for some kind of reaction or acknowledgment. Tanks for the basket of scones! No such luck. Were they low-carbers? Vegans? Should she mention they could cater to all dietary needs?
“Here’s a flyer for the event tomorrow,” Oran said, handing it to her. “I need the guards to make sure no one enters with any kind of tree nuts on their person.”
He pointed to a WARNING notice on the flyer, splashed in red: No nuts of any kind!
“I’m afraid you don’t know this village,” Siobhán said. “There’ll be a room full of them.”
Oran frowned, but Padraig burst into laughter.
“This is very serious,” Oran said. “We’ve been warned that Deirdre Walsh is deathly allergic to tree nuts.”
“I’m only messing with ya. I know it’s a very serious allergy. You should double-check everyone at the door. And make sure you don’t go over capacity.”
She glanced at the schedule for Irish Authors Week. The authors would be doing a signing on her birthday. Now that was special. She could buy each of their books and have them signed to her. Or maybe to the O’Sullivan Six. This might encourage her brood to read. And as far as her birthday . . . she’d planned on warning everyone, including or maybe especially Macdara, not to make a big fuss over it, but no one had mentioned it. Just as well. Unless they were planning something. They’d better not be. “What about children’s books? Do you have children’s books?”
“Children can read literature,” Oran said. “Or an adult can read it to them.”
“Are you joking me?”
“Let me stop you right there. I will never be joking you.”
Cheeky.
“It’s true,” Padraig said. “He’s entirely humorless.” Oran threw Padraig a look, Padraig shrugged. “Unless it’s Bloomsday and then he’s cheerful all day and into the evening. You’ll see yourself on the sixteenth of June.” Bloomsday was an official celebration of James Joyce, named after the protagonist Leopold Bloom, in Ulysses. The Kilbane Theatre often had readings to celebrate Bloomsday; they’d be thrilled to have support this year. Oran and Padraig smiled at each other. At least Oran seemed affectionate toward his husband. But what kind of business owner starts off his grand opening by kicking people out of his shop and poking fun at them?
“Do you have any books by Marian Keyes?” she squeaked.
“We definitely need to get in Marian Keyes,” Padraig said. He put his hand on his heart. “I loved Rachel’s Holiday. And do you follow her on Twitter? She’s hysterical.” From the way Oran’s face was contorting, he did not agree.
“No,” Oran said. “We do not carry any books by Marian Keyes.”
“One day,” Padraig said. “One day soon.”
“Maeve Binchy?” If Oran said no to this the day might seriously end in fisty-cuffs.
“Of course we have Maeve Binchy,” Oran said. “Do you take us for savages?” Padraig rolled his eyes behind Oran’s back and gave her another shrug. “I’d better get back to the line,” Oran said. “Feel free to browse while you’re here.”
“Tanks.”
Padraig’s gaze remained on her as Oran headed for the door. “I promise I’ll work on him.”
Siobhán smiled and nodded, and then thought there was way too much smiling and nodding for the sour mood that had enveloped her. Padraig was going to have his work cut out for him. Now what was she going to do? She’d rather have her brood here, and she was still disappointed there were no romances, or adventure books, or children’s books. Was she a simple person? Didn’t everyone have a right to like what they liked?
“Finally,” Leigh Coakley said as she burst into the shop, petals falling from the roses in her hand. “Where’s Padraig?”
Siobhán and Padraig turned. Leigh’s coat was now off, revealing a yellow suit with a red rose pinned on the lapel. She was bright and jarring. She handed the colorful bouquet of roses to a confused Padraig.
“I’m Leigh Coakley,” she said. “I run the flower shop in town. Blooms.”
“Blooms!” he said with a laugh. “We were just speaking of Bloomsday.”
“No relation, but we do make arrangements for every occasion.” She gestured to the roses cradled awkwardly in his hand. “Please accept those as a welcoming gift.” He blinked as if her suit was blinding him, inhaled the scent of the flowers, and smiled. He set them on the counter.
“Thank you.” His nose began to twitch and he gave the flowers the side-eye. Was he allergic?
“You’re welcome.” She stared at the flowers. “Do you not have a vase?”
“We haven’t unpacked everything yet,” Padraig said.
“I should have brought you one. I just assumed you had one of your own.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll fetch something soon.”
Leigh bit her lip, looking as if she’d just handed him a goldfish and it was flopping around on the counter gasping for a bowl of water. “I simply must have copies of all the visiting authors’ books.” She pointed to the sign. “Deirdre Walsh, Nessa Lamb, and Lorcan Murphy.”
“Wonderful,” Padraig said. He pointed to a table in the middle of the store. “You’ll find them all right there.”
“Including Michael O’Mara?”
“I’m afraid not.” Padraig lowered his voice as if he was afraid Oran would overhear.
“But his agent will be here,” Leigh Coakley said, sounding outraged. “Some people are speculating he might make a surprise visit himself!”
“They would be wrong,” Padraig said. “But Darren Kilroy will be here. And by the end of the week, one of our lucky visiting authors will have him as his or her agent.”
“But you must have copies of The Dragon Files somewhere in the store?” Leigh threw a glance to Siobhán. “Rumor has it Gritana might get his fire back in the new release.”
“God willing,” Siobhán said, then crossed herself.
“I am afraid we are not carrying O’Mara’s books at the moment,” Padraig said carefully.
Leigh Coakley gasped. “My ladies are not going to be happy to hear dat.” She flicked her eyes over to Siobhán, then back to Padraig. “I have a very active ladies’ book group.”
“Wonderful.”
“They were expecting The Dragon Files.”
“I hope you and they will attend regardless.”
“Irregardless.”
“Regardless.”
“I don’t tink so.”
“You don’t think you’ll attend?”
“I think it’s irregardless.”
“Whatever you tink is best.”
Irregardless, or regardless, Siobhán O’Sullivan needed her headache tablets. She picked out North, by Seamus Heaney, Light a Penny Candle and Tara Road, by Maeve Binchy, and a book by each of the visiting authors. She paid for them, and as she dropped them into her new Turn the Page bag, a trill of excitement ran through her. A simple canvas bag held entire worlds within it. Characters and images that would materialize with the opening of a page. Emotions that would well in her from another human being at another time and place taking pen to paper. She couldn’t remember when a purchase had pleased her more, not counting chocolates. What a good omen for her birthday.
An image of Margaret O’Shea lying dead on the footpath rose to mind, squashing her happiness. What was she doing there on the footpath, hours before the bookshop was slated to open? How did she get there? Why had she ventured out that morning when she’d done nothing of the sort the past year? It had to be to visit the bookshop. And given she was a big reader and had hosted the book club the night before, maybe there was a connection. If Margaret O’Shea had been that excited to visit the bookshop, she should be standing here right now with her own worlds tucked into a canvas bag. Terribly, terribly sad. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to poke around, ask a few questions. She could speak with the authors soon at the bookshop. That settled that. Three visiting authors and a big-time literary agent. And only one of them would get signed. How exciting. For one of them. Unfortunately, two of them were going to be in for a world of hurt.