Chapter 19
All heads swiveled to Darren Kilroy, whose hand shook as he pointed to the one-star review. “I know the site the review was posted on. I mentioned that site in a blog post. A writer had asked me if I look at reviews when considering a new author.”
“And what did you say?” Macdara prompted when Darren stopped talking.
“I said I give them some weight, especially if a book has numerous one-star ratings. But I never would have paid attention to such a vile comment. It says more about the person who wrote it than the author. I’m afraid I must disagree with Ms. Lamb.”
“Disagree?” Nessa said.
“I don’t think Deirdre Walsh wrote this. She was a smart woman. She would have known it wouldn’t move the needle in her favor.”
“She posted it anonymously,” Nessa said.
“How did it come to be in your possession?” Aretta asked.
“It was taped to my door at the inn,” Nessa said. “The morning of the murder.”
Given none of them knew that Margaret’s death was now being investigated as a murder, Siobhán knew Nessa was referring to Deirdre’s murder. Another note taped to a door at the inn. An order formed in Siobhán’s mind, whether right or wrong:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?
THE HILLS HAVE EYES.
I DON’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS.
“Mr. Kilroy’s right,” Lorcan said. “We have no proof this was Deirdre. She was the one who was murdered. Quite frankly it strengthens your motive.”
Nessa Lamb glared at Lorcan across the table. He held her gaze.
“Please,” Darren said. “Mr. Kilroy makes me think of me father. Call me Darren.”
“Do any of you write ghost stories?” Siobhán asked, her eyes ping-ponging between Nessa and Lorcan.
Nessa shook her head and looked at Lorcan.
“Ghost stories you’re after?” Lorcan asked. “I can’t say I have.”
“What about you?” Macdara asked Darren. “Do you have any authors writing ghost stories?”
“No,” Darren said with a chuckle. “I’ve got me hands full with dragons.”
Lorcan leaned across the table. “I tink elves would fit nicely into your portfolio then, don’t ya?”
“Michael O’Mara might see you as competition,” Nessa said. “Whereas mine couldn’t possibly be considered competition. He wouldn’t have to worry about blurring the lines. I hear O’Mara can have quite the temper.”
“I heard it’s a miracle he can hold a biro these days,” Lorcan said. “Is he still blacking out in public?”
This was going pear-shaped. “What is wrong with you two?” Nessa said. “Don’t you see what she’s getting at?” Nessa reached her hand across the table but stopped short of touching Siobhán. “I see what you’re saying. You’re right. Maybe Deirdre didn’t leave that review.”
“What leads you to believe that?” Siobhán asked. Given Siobhán didn’t even know what she was getting at, she was eager to see what Nessa would say.
“I was the one getting death threats. It was dark in the bookshop. Deirdre was a victim of mistaken identity. It was I the killer was after. All this time. It was I.”
* * *
Soon after they concluded the impromptu interview. Siobhán, Macdara, and Aretta stood out on the footpath. Siobhán apologized for leaving them in the dark about the one-star review and accompanying note.
“I know we don’t have an official forensic examiner,” Aretta said. “But do you mind if I study all three notes to see if I can identify similarities?”
“I don’t see the harm,” Macdara said. “Especially now that we have their handwriting samples.”
They were about to part when someone cleared their throat behind them. They whirled around to find Darren Kilroy waiting.
“Yes?” Siobhán said.
“I can’t help wondering why you asked us about ghosts,” Darren said.
“I’m afraid I can’t share that information at this time,” Siobhán said.
“Perhaps you would be alright if I offered some then,” Darren said. He glanced around as if to make sure they were alone.
“Go on, so,” Siobhán said.
“Given Deirdre was accusing Nessa Lamb of plagiarism, maybe she discovered something else instead.”
They waited as he eagerly searched their faces for a reaction. “Out with it,” Macdara said finally.
“What if Nessa Lamb’s book wasn’t plagiarized but it wasn’t exactly written by her?”
“I don’t understand,” Siobhán said.
“Ghostwriters,” Darren said. “I’ve represented several in the past. What if Musings on a Hill was written by a ghostwriter?”
* * *
Eoin was near the window chatting with customers at a table when Siobhán and Aretta entered the bistro. Aretta, still jotting down something in her notebook, didn’t notice Eoin’s gaze on her, nor the intensity of it, but Siobhán certainly did. Come on. He had plenty of young girls after him, did he have to set his sights on her new work mate?
“How ya?” Eoin called, his eyes lingering on Aretta.
“We are well,” Aretta answered with a bright smile, oblivious that this wasn’t his normal grin. “And you?”
“I’m better now that you walked in.”
Siobhán rolled her eyes and headed for her cappuccino maker. Her brother had always had more confidence than all of them rolled into one. “Would you like one?” Siobhán asked Aretta.
“No thank you.”
“Would you like tea? Water? A mineral?” Eoin asked.
Aretta shook her head as she edged closer to Siobhán. “Your employee is very friendly,” she said.
“He’s my brother,” Siobhán said. “Chef, artist, and all cheek.” Eoin, meanwhile, had gravitated toward them and was in earshot. “Eoin, meet Aretta. Aretta. This is Eoin.”
Aretta nodded and waved. Eoin grinned and waved back. “I’m the most talented and handsome of the O’Sullivan Six if you were wondering,” he said with a wink.
“I see,” Aretta said. “That is good to know.” When she turned back, Siobhán noticed Aretta was wrestling with a smile, trying and failing to put it down.
“I actually have a favor to ask,” Eoin said.
Aretta tilted her head. “Of me?”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve been on a mission to expand our menu. I’ve been practicing French dishes for a while and I was wondering if you have any Nigerian recipes you’d be willing to share with me?”
Aretta smiled brightly. “My father is the cook of the family. Perhaps on his next visit I can introduce you and I will leave it up to you to wrestle his culinary secrets from him.”
“Oh,” Eoin said. “Absolutely.” Siobhán nearly burst into laughter. Aretta had handled that beautifully. Although Siobhán knew Eoin was genuinely interested in the recipe, she also knew which Dabiri he wanted to learn it from. “In the meantime, I am going to practice,” Eoin said. “I am thinking of starting with pepper soup and fried bean cakes.”
“I will offer my sampling services when you are ready,” Aretta said, flashing him another grin. Eoin’s face reddened in seconds. He grinned back, nodded, and disappeared into the kitchen, whistling away.
“What do you think of Nessa Lamb’s claim?” Aretta asked when the machine from heaven stopped its frothing noise and the Irish Romeo was out of sight. “Or that of Darren Kilroy?”
“Nessa certainly threw a plot twist into the investigation with her conviction that she was the intended target,” Siobhán said. She gestured to the back dining room and garden beyond. The sun was slicing through the dark clouds, a rare sight the past few days. “Shall we go out in the garden?”
“Yes,” Aretta said.
The scent of lavender and mint wafted over Siobhán as they stepped into the back garden and she mulled over the questions Aretta had just posed. Nessa could have been the intended victim. But it was Deirdre Walsh to whom Leigh Coakley had said, “You should eat those words.” And it was Deirdre with the nut allergy. Siobhán shared her thoughts. Aretta nodded. “Anything is possible. That’s the problem with possible.”
“Is there no way to find out for sure?” Aretta began to walk around the small garden, taking in the flowers and herbs. “This is well organized.”
“You can thank my brother Eoin for that,” Siobhán said.
“He is passionate about being a chef?”
“He is. He truly is.”
“Perhaps I could teach him to make pepper stew.”
Siobhán nodded, trying to keep her reaction neutral. Eoin would be over the moon. “He’s also an artist. You can find his graphic novels at Gordon’s Comics.”
“The same shop where you wanted to speak with the owner because he threatened to sue the bookshop?”
“Yes,” Siobhán said. “But I do not have any reason to believe that Chris Gordon is anything other than harmless.”
“Are you going to try and find out if Nessa Lamb was the intended victim?”
“If there are traces of nuts on the pages stuffed in Deirdre’s mouth, then it would not be probable that Nessa was the target. Everyone knew Deirdre was the one with the nut allergy.”
“And if there’s not?”
Siobhán sighed. “Then I suppose it moves closer to probable.” But if Nessa was the intended target, and Deirdre obviously wasn’t the killer, then who would want Nessa dead? Lorcan Murphy? Arguably, he was the most successful of the authors in terms of income. He didn’t seem desperate to have Darren Kilroy as his agent. He could be faking it. But was jealousy of book deals and literary awards really a motive for murder? Jealousy in love, sure. But books? She supposed each profession had their mad actors. But weren’t writers supposed to channel their frustrations onto their characters instead of each other? Siobhán’s mobile rang, startling both of them. Macdara’s photo flashed on the screen as it rang.
“Good news,” he said. “Jeanie Brady is on her way, and should arrive in the morning, but our photos did the trick. She’s given permission for the body to be moved to Butler’s.”
That was good news. Finally, they could get their hands on the crime scene.