Chapter 22
“I don’t understand what you two are so worked up about,” Jeanie said, growing frustrated at being left out.
“We’ve had a lurker in town,” Siobhán said. “A burly man with a red beard spotted going through rubbish bins.”
“It’s possible he was in town earlier,” Aretta said. “Just as the visiting authors got into town.”
“Wait,” Jeanie said, taking her book back. “Are you saying Michael O’Mara—this Michael O’Mara came to Kilbane just to murder an unknown author?”
“Perhaps he felt threatened that Darren was about to sign a new author and came to see his agent,” Siobhán said.
“Why would Michael O’Mara be threatened by an aspiring author?” Jeanie persisted.
“I’ve heard rumors that his problems with alcohol have been escalating,” Siobhán said. “But if he is in town, I agree—as of yet—we don’t have a valid explanation.”
“Good luck with that,” Jeanie said. “That’s why I prefer working with the deceased.”
“We need to talk to Darren again.” Siobhán turned to Aretta. “Can you schedule him for a second interview tomorrow ? Let’s bring him into the interrogation room this time.”
“Should I check with the Detective Sergeant?” Aretta asked.
“No,” Siobhán said. “I’ll let him know.” Aretta looked as if this might not be the best plan, but she demurred. “Good work,” Siobhán added. Aretta Dabiri viewed Siobhán as overstepping. It was becoming clear. Hopefully trust would build between them eventually. Aretta parted with them when they reached Gordon’s Comics.
“She’s lovely,” Jeanie said.
“Yes,” Siobhán agreed. “We’re lucky to have her.”
“Why would Michael O’Mara be digging through rubbish?” Jeanie asked before they entered the comic shop.
“That’s an excellent question.”
“Well, this is certainly an interesting twist,” Jeanie Brady said. “If he is in town, maybe I’ll finally get an autograph.”
* * *
Chris Gordon was shelving comics when they walked in. He smiled at Jeanie Brady. “How is your room?”
“Excellent,” she said. “I’m looking forward to a deep sleep.”
He glanced at a large clock on the wall. It depicted Superman hanging off the hands. It was only half six. “This early?”
“It’s been a long day,” Jeanie said with a salute. “Good night.”
“Night,” Siobhán and Chris Gordon replied. He tucked his head back into the box of comics, while Siobhán stood watching him. After a few seconds, he stood and turned to her.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I’m sure Eoin told you I was upset about the bookshop opening.”
“He did.” She pretended to search her memory. “Something about you threatening to sue?”
“Stop looking at me like that. Once I met Oran and Padraig I was totally fine with it.”
“Oh? When was that?”
“They came over at nine a.m. the morning they opened.”
“You’re not awake at nine a.m.”
“I was that morning. I wanted to see for myself if anyone was going into the shop.”
That sounded genuine. “Got an eyeful, did ya?”
He shrugged. “I was hoping some of the crowd would come in after.”
“Did they?”
“Just a few.”
“A few is more than none.” He shrugged again. “What did Oran and Padraig say to make you suddenly like them?”
“They said they’d be willing to keep postcards advertising my shop at their counter, if I kept theirs on mine.” He walked over to the counter and held up a business card. It depicted the front of the bookshop with the title: TURN THE PAGE.
Siobhán wandered over to the counter and took one for herself. “Tanks.”
“Are they going to close down now?”
“I hope not,” Siobhán said. Unless one of them is a killer. She left that part out in case Chris was looking to start rumors.
“Why am I being asked to come into the station?” Chris asked as she headed to the door.
“Because you felt threatened by the bookshop.”
“You think I murdered someone just to shut them down?”
“Did you?”
“Of course not. Siobhán. You know me.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“That’s fine. Just tell me. Tell me you know I didn’t do this.”
“Just tell the truth and you’ll be grand.”
He sighed. “There’s more drama in this village than in these comics.”
Siobhán laughed. “I certainly hope there’s less.” Once again, she was almost to the door when he called out to her.
“Hey,” he said. “Who’s the new guy in town?”
She felt a prickle up her spine. “New guy?” she asked innocently.
Chris nodded. “The big one with the red beard.”
* * *
Later that evening, Siobhán settled in the dining room in front of the fire, snuggled up with a mug of tea and her laptop. She’d assigned Chris Gordon the task of writing down every spotting he’d had of the mysterious man with the red beard. As much as she was dying to hear the details, she wanted them on the record, and she wanted Macdara to hear them firsthand. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t do a little research of her own. She Googled Michael O’Mara. As Aretta had mentioned, the only author photo she could find of Michael O’Mara was in black and white, and in it, he was a young man. Jeanie Brady must indeed have a rare edition of his book. He lived on Bere Island and was known to be reclusive. Located off the Beara Peninsula, in County Cork, Bere Island had a population of around 220 people. In some ways that seemed perfect for a recluse, but it also meant that the small number of people probably knew everything about Michael O’Mara. It was no surprise that rumors swirled of his drunken escapades.
She pushed the CONTACT tab out of curiosity. There was a public relations firm in charge of handling his messages. Siobhán’s mind filtered back to Deirdre’s claim that her new book was explosive. A tell-all. Was it a stretch to wonder if she had something on Michael O’Mara? That certainly would have brought him to town. But why was he seen rummaging through rubbish bins? It was probably someone else. She was eager to hear what Darren Kilroy had to say. She would also let Nessa Lamb know that she had never been the target of murder. Would it calm her down? Or did she already know that because she was the killer? And then of course they had Leigh Coakley and Lorcan Murphy to consider. But unless they uncovered a motive, at this point it was anybody’s guess as to which one of them was a calculated killer.
* * *
Darren Kilroy looked more relaxed than he had at their previous meetings, despite the fact that he was seated in Interrogation Room #1 in front of Macdara and Siobhán. He was dressed casually, in trousers and a work shirt, but no bow tie or blazer, or bright colors. “Does Michael O’Mara have a red beard?” Siobhán asked.
He cocked his head, as if amused at the question. “He does.”
“Is he a big burly man?” Macdara asked.
“He is.”
“Could you think of any reason he might be in town?” Macdara continued.
“In town?” Darren frowned. “You mean . . . here?”
“Yes,” Siobhán and Macdara said in unison.
“If he’s in town, I’d be the last to know,” Darren said. “Michael O’Mara hasn’t left Bere Island in years.”
“Do you visit him there?” Siobhán asked.
“Not even once,” Darren said. “Movies and telly love to show agents and authors having face-to-face meetings. When he’s in Dublin we meet for dinner alright, but that hasn’t happened in years. All of our correspondence is through e-mail or on the phone.”
“We hear he’s been on a decline the past few years, as far as drinking is concerned,” Macdara said.
Darren sat back and crossed his arms. “What’s the story here, lads? Why are you asking me about Michael O’Mara?”
“We believe he’s in Kilbane,” Siobhán said. “He may have even been here when Deirdre was killed.”
He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on the table as if he was about to push off. “You can’t be serious.”
“We are,” Macdara said. “We never joke about murder.”
“Why on earth would Michael O’Mara . . .” He stopped midsentence. “No,” he said. “It can’t be him.”
“What were you thinking just now?” Siobhán asked.
“Let me call Michael,” Darren said. “I’m assuming he’ll tell me he hasn’t budged from the island, and you can bet some of the locals will be able to back him up, and we can stop going down this rabbit hole.”
“I’d still like to know what crossed your mind just then,” Siobhán said.
“Me too,” Macdara said. “Indulge us.”
“It’s crossed my mind lately that Deirdre had a lover. Someone she was trying to keep on the down-low. But it can’t possibly be Michael. Can it?”
“First, what made you think she had a lover?”
“It was at the inn, the day we arrived,” Darren said. “She was outside talking to someone on the phone. I passed her as I was going to the ice maker.” He looked to the right as if trying to recall the memory. “I don’t think it was what she said, but the way she was saying it. A flirtatious tone. She said, ‘I miss you.’ That’s it.”
“She has a brother,” Siobhán said.
“Believe me, this wasn’t a tone you’d take with a brother.”
Siobhán glanced down at her notes. Aretta had scoured Deirdre’s social media. There was no mention of a boyfriend, her status was set to single, and none of her photos showed off any romances. But she had been a beautiful woman. And successful enough, even if she wanted more. It seemed within the realm of possibility. What if she did have an affair with the mysterious author and had planned to spill secrets about him in her explosive new tell-all? And what if he found out? “If Michael O’Mara hasn’t left Bere Island in years, how would the two of them have met?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. It’s not possible.” He took out his phone. “May I call him? See if we can put this to bed?”
“Why don’t you put him on speakerphone,” Macdara said.
“I can’t do that,” Darren said. “He’d go mental. He’s my client and a man who values his privacy above most everything else.”
In that case, would he murder someone if he or she threatened to divulge all his secrets? Someone like Deirdre Walsh?
“We’ll wait, then,” Siobhán said. “You can place your call in Interview Room Two.”
“I was thinking I’d take it outside.”
“Go on, so,” Macdara said.
“He usually doesn’t answer,” Darren said. “But I’ll make sure to let him know to call me back.”
“We’re also going to need his phone number,” Siobhán said.
“Why?”
“People lie,” she said. “Mobile towers don’t.”
“I’m going to need some kind of official request in that case,” Darren said. “This is my reputation on the line.” He hurried out.
Macdara turned to her. “What do you think?”
“I think we need to find out if Deirdre Walsh has ever been to Bere Island.”
“When was the last sighting of this lurker?” Macdara asked.
“The morning after the murder,” Siobhán said. “According to Leigh and Chris Gordon.”
“And since?”
“Not a word.”
Darren Kilroy appeared at the door. “I left a very urgent message. Hopefully he’ll phone me back.”
“What brand of cigarettes does Michael O’Mara smoke?” Macdara asked. Siobhán knew that Macdara didn’t know if the man smoked at all, so he was taking a risk.
“Benson and Hedges,” Darren said without hesitation. He then looked stricken, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have. “But that’s a very common brand.”
They didn’t have results on the cigarette butts found under Deirdre’s window or in the alley behind the bookshop, but the unopened pack of cigarettes found on the back of the commode in Deirdre’s room had been Benson and Hedges.
“Did you ever see Deirdre smoke?”
“Deirdre Walsh?” Darren frowned. “No. But I must repeat. I did not know her that well. But the times I did run into her, no, I never saw her smoke, nor did I ever smell it off her.”
“Benson and Hedges,” he said when Darren took his leave. “It indeed looks as if Michael O’Mara either was or is in town.”
“And whether or not they were lovers, it seems he has some connection to Deirdre,” Siobhán added. “Do you believe that Darren didn’t know he was in town?”
“If he was secretly carrying on with Deirdre, it’s possible,” Macdara said. “I’ll call the gardaí that handle Bere Island, see if I can learn anything more about Mr. O’Mara’s whereabouts.” They stood and stretched their legs. Macdara glanced at the clock on the wall. “I have the meeting with the landlord and the lads who built the bookshelf in the morning. We’ll have to find out if any of them smoke Benson and Hedges as well.”
“And ask them about wallpaper,” Siobhán said. She had already filled him in on Jeanie’s surprising findings.
“I wish I could get a warrant to search all of our suspects’ rooms,” Macdara said. “I wonder where the killer stashed the needle he used to sedate Deirdre.”
“For all we know the killer threw it in the river. A needle in a haystack is one thing, but a needle in a village . . .”
“You’re right, you’re right. Wallpaper. Arsenic. There’s something old-fashioned about that.”
“Not to mention the umbrella, rose, and pen,” Siobhán said. “I think Jeanie Brady is right. I think the killer was telling a story.”
“Where does Margaret O’Shea fit into this story?” Macdara asked.
“I wish I knew. I’ll be eager to see what Jeanie finds. Either she was at the wrong place at the wrong time—and could have identified Deirdre’s killer—or she just happened to pick that morning to venture out on her own, and it was too much for her poor heart to handle.”
“We’re also going to need a sample of Michael O’Mara’s DNA,” Macdara replied with a sigh. “Now, why do I get the feeling that’s easier said than done?”
“If Deirdre and O’Mara were romantically involved, that might explain why her mobile phone was taken,” Siobhán said. “Perhaps she had photos of the two of them on it.” A thought suddenly struck her. “The rubbish bins at Gordon’s Comics,” she said. “What if Michael O’Mara wasn’t going through them—what if he was dropping something into them?”