Chapter 6
The next evening, Siobhán and Aretta arrived at Turn the Page, to once again find a full crowd standing on the footpath. It looked as if everyone who had attended the morning mass for Margaret O’Shea was here, only the somber black outfits were replaced by cheerful spring colors. Soon, a sleek limo pulled up in front of the bookshop. “You don’t see that often around here,” Siobhán observed. Except for funerals. She left that bit out. For a second she wondered if the limo was for her. A surprise. For her birthday. Tomorrow, she reminded herself. Then again, wouldn’t the perfect way to surprise her be to plan something for today when she was least suspecting it?
They were definitely up to something. Not one of her siblings, or her fiancé, had even mentioned it. No dinner invites, no leading questions about what she might like to do for her special day, no sneaky hints of a surprise to come, no teasing that she was growing old. They were either up to something, or they were horrible, horrible people. Her focus returned to the limo.
The driver, a short but energetic man in a dark suit, jumped out of the vehicle and held the door open as if royalty was about to emerge. The authors were here. Excitement shone in Aretta’s eyes as a glamorous woman stepped out. Dressed in a shimmering skirt, suede coat, and sunglasses that swallowed her pretty face, Deirdre Walsh was still recognizable to Siobhán. She had looked each of them up last night. The black-haired beauty was the one with the tree nut allergy. She’d self-published a dense literary novel, and someone (Siobhán had a feeling it was Deirdre herself) had dubbed her the Female James Joyce. Holding a book against her soft suede coat, she scanned the crowd, as if trying to figure out if they were friends or foes.
Oran stepped out of the crowd. “Deirdre Walsh,” he exclaimed. “Welcome, welcome, welcome.”
Three welcomes. My, my, my. Aretta was trying to peer around Deirdre and into the black mouth of the limo.
“Who are you waiting for?” Siobhán asked her.
“Nessa Lamb. I hope I can get an autograph.” Aretta reached into her pocket and pulled out a worn paperback. Musings on a Hill. “It is filled with great insight.”
The comment struck a chord of fear in Siobhán. This was why she hadn’t joined the book club. What if she read it and didn’t find any insights? What if they turned to ask her what she thought and all she could say was that she enjoyed reading it with a lovely bag of crisps and chocolate that melted on her tongue? Siobhán had mused plenty on hills, but never once thought of writing about it. Were some people just born scribes?
Next, a middle-aged man with purple-rimmed glasses and a lavender suit emerged from the limo. Spring had certainly started to infuse people’s wardrobes. Had a memo been circulating that everyone should dress like colorful Easter eggs and Siobhán had missed it? This was Darren Kilroy, the agent. He stopped and held out his hand, helping a petite brunette out. Unlike the others, she was dressed in muted shades of gray. It made the dozen red roses she was carrying stand out.
“That’s her,” Aretta said.
Nessa Lamb looked as mild and sweet as her surname. She blinked at the crowd, then looked away as if it physically hurt to maintain eye contact. The last to emerge was a tall younger man, his curly black hair a sharp contrast to his pale face. He wore a brown blazer, plaid shirt, and denims. Apparently, he missed the Easter-egg-wardrobe memo as well. He smiled at the crowd and waved. Lorcan Murphy. The one who had mistakenly opened the door to Margaret O’Shea’s room. Siobhán hoped she’d get a chance to ask him about it, although she had to be careful not to send ripples of alarm through any of them. She wasn’t here to accuse anyone of anything untoward, she just hated loose ends.
Siobhán had researched all of the authors last night and despite being an “indie author,” meaning he self-published all of his works, Lorcan Murphy had the most commercial success out of the three. He wrote both murder mysteries and westerns. Dara had several of his westerns and Siobhán could tell he was eager to meet him. Siobhán was wondering why Oran had included him, as his books didn’t fit Oran’s literary criteria. That’s when she noticed Padraig’s right hand. He clutched one of Lorcan’s books, Under a Rust-Colored Sun. On it, a cowboy sat atop a horse, head down, hat covering his face, looking as if he couldn’t go another minute, the sun (indeed the color of rust) beating down on him. Siobhán knew you weren’t supposed to judge a book by its cover, but just looking at the knackered cowboy made her want to take a nap. But Padraig McCarthy was certainly a fan. Good for Padraig. Maybe Oran would soon realize he needed to open the bookshop up to books from all genres.
The authors were ushered into the bookshop first, followed by Siobhán and Aretta. Padraig stood at the door, asking each person if he or she were in possession of any tree nuts. Moments later she heard a shout. “Peanuts!” Padraig said, pointing to Darren Kilroy. “He has a bag of peanuts! ”
Darren immediately put his arms up as if he was being arrested. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “The bag has never been opened. They’ve been in that pocket since I flew to London for a book fair. It completely slipped me mind.” He clapped Padraig on the back, a bit too hard from the way Padraig lurched forward. “Fair play to ye.”
“Not a bother,” Padraig said, righting himself and straightening his tie. Although his face said it was indeed a bother. “The bag has not been opened. Tragedy averted.” He glanced at Oran as if he was seeking confirmation.
“A bit of irony,” Oran said. “No harm done.” Siobhán didn’t see the irony, but she wasn’t prepared to get schooled by Oran McCarthy.
“I’ll take them outside immediately and find a rubbish bin,” Darren Kilroy said, throwing an apologetic glance to Deirdre Walsh, who didn’t seem at all alarmed, and hurrying toward the exit.
As soon as the literary agent returned and the authors were seated, the patrons were let in, and soon the bookshop was standing room only. Oran welcomed the audience and introduced their guests of honor. Nessa Lamb had published three books and she had won numerous awards for her latest book, Musings on a Hill. Siobhán caught Deirdre Walsh rolling her eyes halfway through Oran calling out Nessa’s long list of accolades, but Lorcan Murphy bobbed his head, his face reacting positively to each one.
Deirdre Walsh had one title out, Melodies, a weighty tome she clutched in her hand. Oran cleared his throat and read from a sheet of paper. “Melodies is an in-depth study of madness brought on by a matriarch’s struggle for fairness and redemption.” Deirdre mouthed the words along with him and then grimaced when Oran had nothing to add.
“Lorcan Murphy is the popular author of the mystery series Dead Elf on a Shelf—” Oran’s introduction was interrupted by a burst of applause from Leigh Coakley and her ladies’ book group. They all had red roses pinned to their outfits.
“Will you be keeping them in stock?” Leigh asked loudly. “We’re big fans.”
“We will of course,” Padraig said before Oran could answer otherwise.
“Hopefully that applies to all of us,” Deirdre said.
“Of course it does,” Lorcan piped up with a grin. “And thank you to my fans.” He gave a seated bow.
“Fans?” Deirdre said. She patted Lorcan’s knee. “There’s a first time for everything.”
He tilted his head in her direction, and gave a shrug.
Nessa leaned forward. “Lorcan Murphy has more fans than you and I put together.”
“It’s not a competition,” Lorcan said, waving his hand and grinning like a Cheshire cat. “But look who’s talking. You made the Forty under Forty list. Impressive.”
“Thank you,” Nessa said, eyes scanning the crowd for possible fans lying in wait. “What a thrill. I didn’t expect it at all. It was such an honor.”
Deirdre coughed into her hand and it sounded as if she’d spit out a word: “Baloney.”
“A pleasure just to be noticed,” Lorcan added, with a quick frown in Deirdre’s direction.
Deirdre once again muttered something under her breath, but nobody seemed to catch it. Oran cleared his throat. “I’d like to direct my first question to Nessa Lamb.”
“Typical,” Deirdre said. Nessa Lamb threw her a searing look.
“You say you were not prepared for such an overwhelming reaction to Musings on a Hill?”
Nessa Lamb placed her hand on her heart like she was at a rugby game about to belt out the Irish national anthem. “It’s been the greatest honor of my life. And I wasn’t going to mention it, but Lorcan already let the cat out of the bag, so I might as well! Being called one of the hottest forty novelists under forty?” Her gaze flicked once again to Deirdre, who looked to be in her mid to late forties. “I never would have thought it.” She laughed. “I finally have followers on social media. More followers than I know what to do with! ”
A sound rang out, something between a snort and a laugh. All heads turned to Deirdre Walsh. Even she looked startled at her outburst. “Pardon,” she said.
“I set out to write Musings on a Hill for myself.” Nessa Lamb directed her comments back to the audience. “I am so humbled to receive all this attention. From fans and agents.” This time her gaze fell squarely on Darren Kilroy before flicking away with a smile.
Let the competition begin.
“Oh, come on. I bet you wrote this little humble-brag speech while musing on that hill,” Deirdre said. She looked to Lorcan and then Darren as if hoping to share a laugh, but both of them had suddenly spotted their favorite tome on the shelves and were staring at it with rapt fascination.
“I was never one for speeches,” Nessa said, shaking her head. “But I am so touched that my words tumbled all the way down that hill and into this wonderful village.” She turned to the crowd. “I can’t think of a better place to announce another piece of good news. On the way here I learned that I’ve won the Irish Scribe of the Year award.” The crowd erupted in applause. Siobhán watched Deirdre Walsh. Her face went scarlet in an instant. Had she applied for the same award? Nessa was still talking. “The cash prize will allow me to quit my job and live my dream of being a full-time writer.”
The applause thundered. Deirdre fumbled for her bottle of water, and gulped it down as Darren Kilroy patted her on the back. She pushed Darren away, splashing water on the both of them. “Congratulations,” Deirdre said through bared teeth. “I was up for that award myself as you well know.”
Nessa Lamb looked stricken. Her hand was back on her heart. “I swear to ye,” she said, addressing the crowd, “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize it was open to anyone who claimed to write a book.” She said it so softly, Siobhán wasn’t sure she realized it was an insult.
“Claimed to write a book?” Deirdre rose out of her chair. Siobhán pictured ashes, and a phoenix rising. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Nessa Lamb said, her voice rising a little. “I just assumed there were certain criteria to be eligible for that award, and I must admit I’ve never even heard of you.”
“Believe me,” Deirdre Walsh said, “you’ve heard of me.”
“No,” Nessa said, shaking her head. “Not until today.”
“Then you have no idea what I’m capable of, or the quality of my writing,” Deirdre said.
“That is true,” Nessa agreed. “I suppose readers can be slow to catch on as well.”
Lorcan raised his hand. “Yes, Mr. Murphy,” Padraig said, practically glowing with adoration.
“We indie authors should really stick together,” he said, turning to Nessa and Deirdre. “This is getting a bit rude if you don’t mind.”
“One of you might not be an indie author after signing with Darren Kilroy,” Oran McCarthy said. From the panicked look on his face, it was obvious he was in damage-control mode. “I’m sure he’ll get you a big publishing deal, just like Michael O’Mara.”
Darren Kilroy, who had just taken a sip of his tea, began to choke. It took him a few moments to recover. “There’s only one Michael O’Mara,” he said. “But I’ll do me best.”
“Michael O’Mara is a dime a dozen,” Deirdre said. “If a woman wrote his books, none of us would probably have ever heard of her.”
A gasp rang out from Leigh Coakley, who shot out of her chair. “Take that back.”
“I will not,” Deirdre said. She held up her weighty tome. “I write about real people. Real struggle. It’s fire-breathing dragons and hollow nothings mused about on hills you’re all after? Is it? We’re all supposed to sell out to the man, is that it?”
“Whoa,” Nessa said. “My musings are not hollow. They’re very deep.”
“Those dragons represent the human struggle,” Leigh said. “Underneath all that fire, and flying, Gritana is just like us.”
“And they’re very entertaining,” another member of the book club said. “The way he tries to keep up with his pesky scales reminds me of my mani/pedi routine.” The women in the book club laughed.
Deirdre shook her head. She zoned in on Oran McCarthy. “Then why don’t you carry Michael O’Mara’s books?”
Oran’s face reddened. “That is under consideration,” he said. “We’ve only just opened.”
Deirdre chortled. “The old boys’ club is alive and well.”
“Several of my short stories have been published in renowned magazines,” Nessa said out of nowhere. “And not one reviewer has ever called me hollow.”
“Does anyone even read magazines anymore?” Deirdre asked. Her eyes scanned the crowd as if expecting an answer. “Except in the bathroom?”
At this point, Siobhán would take working with criminals over squabbling writers.
Lorcan shook his head. “Ladies, ladies, ladies. Where is your sense of decency and decorum?”
This time Nessa let out a snort. “Where was yours when you stumbled into some poor old lady’s room in the middle of the night?”
“Hey!” Lorcan Murphy’s face went scarlet. “That was an honest mistake.” He crossed his arms and bounced his left knee. Nessa Lamb had struck a nerve. “I didn’t sleep a wink after she screamed those names at me, and then to learn she passed away?” He shook his head. “That was a terrible thing to say. I would expect it from Deirdre, but you?”
“Me?” Deirdre said. “You would expect it from me? How dare you.”
“I apologize. That came out wrong,” Nessa said. “That poor woman.” She crossed herself. Soon the entire ladies’ book club was crossing themselves, and then the gesture spread to nearly everyone else in the room.
“It was dark,” Lorcan said, still stung. “Her room was right next to mine.”
“I’m sure the bottle of wine you consumed in the back garden had nothing to do with it,” Deirdre said.
Nervous laughter rang from the crowd. Oran stiffened and he shot a look to Padraig, who didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he was glued to the drama. Darren Kilroy rose. “I do not like this behavior. I understand you are all under a great deal of stress. All your books are worthy or you wouldn’t have been invited. But I beg you. Either conduct yourselves with some decorum and decency, if I may quote Lorcan Murphy, or I shall be signing none of you.”
“You may,” Lorcan said. “Quote me.”
Nessa and Deirdre took their seats. Deirdre slumped. “I’m more interested in readers than awards anyhow.” She turned to Lorcan. “As are you I assume?” She had plastered a smile on her pretty face, but the tension was still heavy in the air.
Lorcan shrugged, uncrossed his legs, and crossed them the other direction. “I don’t pay much attention to either, to be honest.”
Deirdre laughed. “You’re both full of blarney.”
“Are you looking to sign award-winning authors?” Leigh Coakley asked Darren Kilroy.
“Sure, lookit,” he said, when he realized they were waiting for an answer. “Who doesn’t like to sign a winner? Doesn’t hurt sales either, to announce you’ve won a prestigious award.” He cleared his throat again. “But I do think we’ve gone off the rails a bit.”
Nessa nodded her head in agreement. Her hand went back to her heart. “Thanks a million.”
“Haven’t you won the Blazing Saddle Award?” Padraig asked Lorcan. It was as if he wanted to keep the drama going.
Lorcan nodded. “I did indeed. And was nominated for the Six Shooter, but so far it’s only grazed me.” He chuckled at his own pun.
“Were you prepared for the success of Dead Elf on a Shelf?” Leigh asked.
Lorcan shook his head. “I did it as a lark on Christmas when me kids asked why the fecking elf hadn’t moved off his shelf.” The crowd laughed and Lorcan brightened up. “They thought it was because they were naughty.” Heads began to nod in the crowd. “The next day I put a knife through the elf and poured some red sauce over him, and told the kids he was stabbed in his sleep because he was the naughty one.” The laughter ratcheted up and Lorcan was loving it. “They started asking me who killed him, and before you know it I was killing every Elf on a Shelf over and over again.” He began making a jabbing motion by way of demonstrating. One could imagine if he looked like that when Margaret O’Shea opened her door, it would have put the heart in her crossways.
The thought gave Siobhán pause. When he talked of killing, his eyes took on a glow. Was he telling the truth? Had he entered Margaret’s room by accident? Or was her death anything but natural?