Chapter 11
Siobhán didn’t know what she was expecting, but this was a surprise. If it were true, a bombshell. “What kind of proof?”
He threw open his arms, then let them flap by his side. “That’s what I was trying to find out.”
No reason justified trying to break into a dead woman’s room before the gardaí could get there, but at least this one held a ring of truth. “If Nessa Lamb didn’t write Musings on a Hill, did Deirdre say whose work she thought Nessa had plagiarized?”
“No.” He paused as if considering whether or not to say more. “We were interrupted by Lorcan Murphy.”
“Lorcan?” Siobhán asked. Was he the handsome man Aretta had seen flirting with Deirdre? No offense to Darren Kilroy, but he didn’t fit the description.
“Yes. He joined us, and the two of them started talking, and I slipped away. Shortly after, the lights went out.”
“Where were you standing?”
He didn’t hesitate. “By the register.” This matched Siobhán’s memory as well. At least the part about Oran standing by the register. She became lost in her thoughts as she visualized the bookshop. When she didn’t respond right away, Darren seemed to grow paranoid. “Ask Oran if you don’t believe me. He was standing behind the register. He’ll remember.”
The register was only a few feet away from where Deirdre’s body was found. Had Lorcan and Deirdre moved over to the bookshelf with the secret passage after Darren left? “Did you catch any of their conversation?”
Darren frowned. “No. But please don’t read into it. They certainly seemed friendly.”
“Don’t you worry,” Siobhán said. “It’s your job to read into things, not mine.” She smiled. He tried to smile back but his lips failed him.
“That’s why I wanted to get into her room. I can’t sign Nessa Lamb if she’s plagiarizing. It would ruin my reputation, my career.” He began to pace. “Not to mention the reputation of my other authors.”
“Such as Michael O’Mara.”
Darren stopped pacing. “Yes. He’s one of my most prolific authors. I have a duty to protect him.” He shook his head. “I’d rather face a slew of his fire-breathing dragons than face an angry Michael O’Mara any day.” He slumped onto the edge of the bed. Siobhán was tempted to ask him if the poor dragon was going to get his fire back in the next installment, because even though she hadn’t yet read the books, she really wanted to know, but she forced herself to focus on the matter at hand. “What if Deirdre was making it all up?” Darren continued. “Trying to cast doubt on Nessa to slice the competition?”
“Have you spoken about this to anyone else?” If Nessa Lamb had learned that Deirdre was accusing her of plagiarizing. . . Siobhán could only imagine how it had made her feel. It was, quite frankly, a motive for murder.
Darren shook his head. “I haven’t mentioned it to a soul. That would be slander!”
“And where is this supposed notebook now?” She was inclined to believe him, but she didn’t want him to know that, so she was keeping her language skeptical.
“I assume you’re going to find it either on the floor near Deirdre or on her person. She was still in possession of it when the lights went out.” Siobhán was now eager to fetch this notebook and made a reminder note in her own. “You said you don’t know much about the book business?” Darren Kilroy said.
“Not much.”
“It’s cutthroat.”
“Many businesses are.”
“Yes. You run a family bistro, don’t ya?”
“Yes.” He’d done his homework too. The question in her mind was . . . why?
“There was quite the crowd in the bistro after Deirdre was discovered.” He shuddered. “Not just the people from the bookshop, but it appeared many in your village were drawn out by the event.”
He wasn’t wrong, but her skin prickled at the observation. “Your point?”
“It’s simply a fact. Tragedy can affect sales. Good or bad. In the case of the macabre—I didn’t make this up—Deirdre’s book sales will probably skyrocket. For a very limited time. I know that sounds horrible, but she for one would be thrilled. The real reason I wanted into her room was to see if she was telling the truth about Nessa Lamb. But it’s also true that she was eager for me to read her new work, and yes, I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone, and get ahead of the competition.” He gasped, then placed his hand over his heart. “I didn’t mean to say kill.”
“Don’t sweat it.” Given that he was literally sweating, they were both tripping over their words. “But if Deirdre’s not alive to choose who publishes it, what difference does getting a hold of her memoir make?” They would need to find out if Deirdre had a will and who the beneficiaries were.
“My first objective, to be quite honest, was to determine whether or not she had proof of Nessa plagiarizing her hit novel. Aside from that, I wanted to read Deirdre’s memoir first, and if I was in love with the manuscript I would have dealt with the executor of her estate, whoever inherits the rights to her work, plead my case. I was truly—partially—trying to honor the only thing she ever asked of me.”
And profit off her death. Cutthroat was right. “I’m going to ask that you remain in town for the duration you were already scheduled. The rest of the week.”
Apparently, he wasn’t expecting this. “What?” he cried. “Why? I’ve told you everything.”
“I’ll be asking all of our suspects to remain.” She emphasized the word suspects. “It’s what? Four more days?”
He counted off on his fingers, then nodded. “I don’t understand. You can take my business card. Reach me by phone. Dublin isn’t that far away—I could come back if you needed me.”
“If you were planning on being here anyway, why the rush to return to Dublin?”
“Michael O’Mara has been contacting me nonstop. He’s a bit on the needy side. This would be the perfect time to make the trek to Bere Island before returning to Dublin.”
“You can speak with him on the phone instead.”
Darren stood up. “I don’t believe that you can force me to stay.”
“Probably not. But if you leave against our wishes it will force me to move you to the top of my suspect list.”
“I see. Will you at least . . .” He hesitated.
“Let you know if we find proof of Nessa plagiarizing?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I could do that.” She wasn’t sure she could, or would, but she was willing to let him think she would in order to get him to stay in town. “And I may not know the book business—but I’m a heat-seeking missile when it comes to the murder book.”
He swallowed again, and nodded. “I shall remain.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. She had a feeling she and Judge Judy would be besties. “We’ll be contacting you when we’ve scheduled formal interviews at the garda station.”
He showed her to the door. “May I ask one favor?” he said.
“Go on, so.”
“You won’t mention to anyone about my notebook, or Deirdre’s accusation? If there’s a killer on the loose . . .”
“Course I won’t. We collect evidence, we don’t give it out.” She opened the door and exited his room. She heard the locks engage and a thud, as if he’d thrown his body against the door. She’d rattled him. Was it the fear of an innocent man worried a killer could come after him? Or a killer, worried he was going to get caught?