Chapter 17
Twenty minutes later Siobhán and Macdara stood in front of Deirdre’s room, suited up in booties and gloves. The laptop in the middle of Deirdre’s bed wasn’t the only new addition to the room since they’d last entered. On the bedside table were three of Lorcan Murphy’s westerns, two of Dead Elf on a Shelf, Nessa Lamb’s Musings on a Hill, and no less than five installments of The Dragon Files, by Michael O’Mara. On the other bedside table sat ten copies of Deirdre’s latest book, Melodies.
A long period of silence ticked by as Siobhán and Macdara stared at the books and the laptop.
Siobhán was the first to break the silence. “Do you think whoever stole these didn’t realize we had already been in the room and so they put them back?”
“The crime scene tape on the door hasn’t been disturbed,” Macdara said.
“Good point.” Unlike some motels, this one did not have any adjoining rooms. They checked the bathroom and confirmed that the window was still nailed shut.
“We never followed up on this,” Siobhán said. “We should check at the hardware shop to see if any of our visitors bought nails or a hammer.”
“I don’t think our killer would be that obvious,” Macdara said.
“But sometimes they are.”
“I’ll add it to the list,” Macdara said as they returned to the main room. “But that window was nailed shut the last time we visited. And the crime scene tape hasn’t been disturbed.” He folded his arms and scanned the room again. “How did the killer get in?”
“It’s a mystery.” Siobhán picked up one of Lorcan’s books. It was not signed. She quickly went through the rest. None of them were autographed. “Let’s assume these belong to Deirdre. Why did she bring all of these here?”
“Oppo research?” Macdara suggested. “Look what I found,” he said, gesturing to piles of notebooks near the laptop. “The killer is trying to bury us in red herrings. I do not like this one bit.”
Cunning. They still had to process this new information, treat it as evidence, and the killer knew that. Was he taunting them? Or simply a professional at throwing up smoke screens? “Is the laptop password protected?”
Macdara opened the screen. “Tis.” Siobhán gravitated to the notebooks; there were three of them. She opened the first. There, in neat handwriting, on the very first page, Deirdre had jotted down passages from other authors’ books:
LORCAN MURPHY
The dust had barely settled when Rob Brant crested the hill on his purebred stallion, spurs jingling in the hot sun.
NESSA LAMB
The breeze is cool and the long night stretches in front of me. I’ve seen clouds before, but there’s something about the muted swirls above my head that keep me transfixed. It’s as if they’re speaking directly to me, or maybe I’m going mad.
MICHAEL O’MARA
Gitana inhaled, hoping if he blew as hard as he could, his fire would return with a vengeance. Instead, he exhaled nothing but toxic vapors. Not even a little spark, nor did he feel heat in his belly. Just a cold lump where the heat once raged. He was a has-been, a loser, a waste of a dragon.
LORCAN MURPHY
I woke up to discover the Elf had indeed moved, because instead of being perched on the shelf with that irritating little smile, the wee thing was face down on me plate with red sauce all around him and a giant cleaver stuck in his back.
Siobhán jumped when she realized Macdara was behind her, reading over her shoulder. “What in the world?” he said.
“If this turns out to be Deirdre’s handwriting, it looks as if she’s copying passages of their work.”
“I can see that,” he said. “But why?”
“Do you think . . . was it actually Deirdre who was plagiarizing?”
Macdara frowned. “Given what little commercial success she’s had, if she was, I’d say she plagiarized the wrong author.”
“Maybe she planned on choosing one of these next,” Siobhán said.
Macdara considered it. “Perhaps she’s just writing down her favorite passages from each?”
“Perhaps. But she didn’t seem like a fan of anyone else’s work but her own.”
“It’s probably a fascinating character study, but how does it help us find her killer?”
“I don’t know,” Siobhán said, putting the notebook down with a sigh. “Any Michael O’Mara biros?”
Macdara looked around. “I don’t see any here.”
“Then the one near her body may have been hers.”
Macdara entered the bathroom once more. After a moment, he called out to Siobhán. “Look at this.”
On the back of the toilet was an unopened pack of cigarettes. Benson and Hedges, a common brand. “Another red herring?” Siobhán asked. “They were not there before.”
“We have to treat it as evidence,” Macdara said. He marked the pack with evidence tape. The forensics team would have to return and bag all of the new objects. “Did you ever see Deirdre smoke?”
“No. But I only saw her at the bookshop and of course she wouldn’t have been smoking there.”
“She could be one of those who sneak one here and there. If so, she didn’t have a chance to open this pack.”
Siobhán returned to the main room, strode over to the closet, and put her nose to Deirdre’s dresses. Then she did the same with the clothes in her luggage bag. “I don’t smell a trace of smoke.” She was about to close the closet door when something on the upper shelf caught her eye. A black leather handbag. “Her handbag,” she said. She opened it. In its depths sat a small makeup bag. No wallet, phone, or keys. This may not have been her preferred handbag. “This wasn’t here before either.” Siobhán had never had a case where a murderer returned evidence. “Whatever the killer was worried about us finding has no doubt been removed.”
“Is there a motel key?” Macdara asked.
Siobhán carefully went through the handbag. “No.”
“The killer still has it. At least we know how he or she got into the room. The twins are going to need to change the locks.” Macdara scratched his chin. “Why did the killer want to return her things?”
“Either because he or she removed incriminating evidence—”
“Or wanted to plant it,” Macdara finished.
“Can we even trust that all these items belonged to Deirdre?”
“I suppose we can’t.” Macdara sighed. “Did we ever find out if any of our other writers smoke?”
“I hear the writers have been hanging out at Butler’s Pub,” Siobhán said. “We should check with John.”
John Butler, the owner of Butler’s Undertaker, Lounge, and Pub, would have no problem squealing on his clients as long as there was something in it for him.
“The plot thickens,” Macdara said.
“What’s good for writers is bad for guards,” Siobhán added with a sigh.
“That’s all we can do here for now,” Macdara said. “We’ll have tech process the additional evidence and send the laptop to our experts. In the meantime, why don’t we have Aretta meet us for lunch at O’Rourke’s and see if she’s had any luck processing the rubbish.”
* * *
“Riddle me this, Batman,” Declan said, leaning over Macdara. He and Siobhán were seated at O’Rourke’s poring over the lunch menu as if they didn’t already know what they were going to order. “We’ve got actual writers in town, and none of them have shown up at my fine establishment to drink.” O’Rourke’s was a mighty fine pub, and Declan the best of publicans. A large man with a gap-toothed grin, Declan O’Rourke was a walking encyclopedia when it came to trivia, ranging from the opera to old westerns. And if you were smart enough to compliment his Laurel and Hardy memorabilia in the window, you might even get a free pint. He heard more confessions than Father Kearney and could settle a dispute with a single glare from down the bar. The writers should be here; O’Rourke’s was the best craic in town, but the village had numerous pubs, and for some reason the writers had gravitated to Butler’s. The most likely reason being it was close to the bookshop. Anyone who got to know Declan, his boisterous voice, his big laugh, his quick wit and banter, would have been happy to become a regular.
“Rumor has it they’re hanging at Butler’s,” Macdara said.
Declan crossed his arms and looked out the window. “Why?”
Macdara shrugged. “They’re writers. They like death stakes.”
“Do the bookshop owners drink? Haven’t seen them in here either.”
“Neither have I seen them at the bistro,” Siobhán said. “You know how it is when you open a new business.” Siobhán soaked in the dark wood, the smell of ale, already looking forward to a good feed. She glanced at the bar, where most times she’d find her best friend Maria working away, but she’d gone on a proper holiday with her new boyfriend. Maria promised they’d properly celebrate Siobhán’s birthday when she returned. She was going to have to get in line.
The door opened and they all turned to see a smiling Aretta enter. She approached with a folder in her hand.
“Garda Dabiri, meet Declan O’Rourke,” Siobhán said.
“One passion fruit mocktail coming up,” Declan said.
Aretta’s smile widened and she nodded.
“Apparently they’ve met,” Macdara said.
“A mocktail,” Aretta replied, “is a cocktail without the alcohol.”
Given she looked as if she had just imparted wisdom on to them, Siobhán and Macdara played along and nodded.
“I prefer my tails without any mock,” Macdara said. “But I’m on duty.” He lifted his mineral as Aretta sat down next to Siobhán. Macdara and Siobhán ordered bacon and cabbage, but Aretta remarked that she’d already eaten. Siobhán didn’t believe her, and was starting to become increasingly curious, nearing obsessed about Aretta’s eating habits.
“My brother Eoin might have a little crush on you,” Siobhán said. The minute it was out of her mouth, she felt guilty. And when she saw a look of shock on Aretta’s face, and noticed Macdara bending his head so low she thought he was going to duck underneath the table, she felt even worse. “I think he just wants to show off his culinary skills,” Siobhán said. “And if you have any recipes to share, he’s always looking to expand.”
“I will take that into consideration,” Aretta said solemnly.
“Grand.” Siobhán wished she had a sock so she could stuff it in her own gob. Luckily their drinks arrived on, and then their food, and each fell into silence as they took a few minutes to enjoy it, especially since the next portion of their discussion would be rubbish. Literally.
“First, I found a number of receipts,” Aretta said, laying copies of three receipts out on the table once their plates had been cleared away. Macdara looked forlorn, and Siobhán knew he was thinking about dessert. “One for batteries, another from Annmarie’s gift shop, a twenty-euro item, and the last is from Mike’s fruit and veg market. I did not find any for nails or a hammer, and I called Liam’s hardware shop as you requested, Detective Sergeant Flannery, and he did not recall any of the visiting authors buying a hammer or nails.”
“Do the other receipts list the specific purchases?” Siobhán said, picking up a tinge of excitement in Aretta’s voice.
“Mike’s Fruit and Veg listed the purchase,” Aretta said. “Nuts. A large variety pack.”
Macdara whistled. “If Deirdre’s nut allergy caused her death, this could be huge.”
“I also stopped into Annmarie’s gift shop,” Aretta said. “She informed me that Lorcan Murphy had purchased a teddy.”
“He has a daughter,” Macdara said.
“This is good work,” Siobhán added.
Aretta simply nodded her head at the compliment. “I also recovered the packaging from the batteries, but no packaging from the nuts. Most everything else fell into normal rubbish that I could tell, although everything is documented in my report.”
“Most everything else?” Siobhán asked.
“There are a few more interesting bits,” Aretta said. “First, there is this.” From her satchel she removed a torn piece of paper, with writing scrawled in all capital letters in thick black ink:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?