Chapter 26

Macdara was at the bistro bright and early. “I think we should change our plans,” Siobhán said.

“What’s the story?” Macdara asked.

“We think he’s here,” Siobhán said. “Aretta and I think Michael O’Mara is here.”

Macdara gave a nod. “Then we stay.” She let out her breath. It wasn’t that he believed her as much as he believed in her. That was the kind of man every woman deserved. That was the kind of man you marry. “Does that mean he’s lying to Darren, or is Darren lying to us?” Macdara mused.

“If the two of us go running off, we may be leaving everyone vulnerable to a killer.” She was talking past the sale, but now that she’d changed their weekend plans, she wanted to prove it was for good reason.

“Where do we look?” Macdara said. “If he’s here, where is he sleeping?”

“We might need to canvass town,” Siobhán said. “Take Michael O’Mara’s photo around.”

“I could still go to Bere Island, and leave you in charge here,” Macdara said. “But I wanted to go with you.”

“I still want to go to Bere Island someday,” Siobhán said. “But not to look for a murder suspect.”

“How about we go when we solve the case?” Macdara said. “We’ll have a nice romantic getaway. In fact, wouldn’t it be a lovely place from which to set our wedding date?”

“It would,” Siobhán said. She hoped it would still seem lovely when she told him it was going to be at least another year.

“It’s a date then,” Macdara said. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “See you at the station.”

“Do you want brekkie?”

“I do,” he said. “But more than that I want to solve this case. Throw me an apple.” Siobhán turned, picked up an apple from the basket on the counter, and threw it at Macdara. He caught it with a grin. “See you later.”

“Not if I see you first.” She could hear his chuckle as the door to the bistro closed behind him. Siobhán slumped against the counter. Even though it was the right move, Siobhán felt sorry that they weren’t getting out of town.

“Who poured sour milk in your porridge?”

It came from Gráinne, who had snuck up behind Siobhán. When Siobhán didn’t answer right away, Gráinne tugged on a strand of Siobhán’s hair until she let out a yelp. Gráinne howled with laughter. “You should come into the salon, you’re due for a snip.”

“Bere Island is canceled,” Siobhán said, giving her sister a gentle shove. “And I don’t have time for a snip, we have more work to do here.”

James walked through the dining room. His mobile rang. He stopped, looked at the screen, then shoved it back into his pocket before continuing into the kitchen.

“At least you’re not Elise,” Gráinne said, flopping into a chair and whipping out a nail file. “He’s totally ghosting her.”

Ghosting her. The same usage of the word had been mentioned by Aretta. Had Michael O’Mara and Deirdre been lovers? As Jeanie Brady said, there was a sad connection between love and death. Fame aside, he wouldn’t be the first man to kill over a broken heart.

* * *

“I spoke with Michael O’Mara at length,” Darren Kilroy said. “He insisted he hadn’t left the island in a month.” They were sitting in the front dining room of Naomi’s Bistro. Macdara had arrived on with Darren in tow. Siobhán did not bother to tease Macdara for ordering a full Irish breakfast along with his guest. Darren Kilroy was the type of man who gave more answers when he felt respected. The station interview room was not the place for him. Fair or not, he sat at a table in the dining room with a mug of tea. They had finished eating and their breakfast plates had just been cleared. Darren Kilroy was their best chance of finding out if Michael O’Mara was in town, but first they had to try and ascertain whether or not Darren knew his client’s whereabouts. It was possible he’d been left in the dark. It was equally possible he was covering for him. He would probably never have another megastar author such as O’Mara.

“Did Michael O’Mara mention Deirdre Walsh during any of your calls or e-mail exchanges?” Siobhán asked.

“Why would he?” Darren said, lifting his eyebrow and stopping midair with his teacup raised.

“Because you are here, where a woman has been murdered, and he’s a writer. Would it not come up at all?” Macdara chimed in.

“I suppose,” Darren said. “Perhaps it is strange that he didn’t mention it.”

“Especially if the two of them were lovers,” Macdara said.

“In that case not mentioning her would be very suspicious,” Siobhán added.

Darren’s teacup clinked onto his plate.

Macdara glanced at the teacup, then stared at Darren. “Imagine if they were romantically involved and Deirdre tried to end things.” Macdara leaned in. “I don’t know about Deirdre, but if I ever tried to break it off with herself, you’d probably find me in the river wearing cement shoes.”

Darren’s eyes widened but his gaze did not dare move in Siobhán’s direction. As for “herself,” she nearly choked on her tea, and Macdara Flannery would pay for that cheeky little comment later, but for now she focused on the task at hand and dropped the final revelation. “And we believe that’s what Deirdre meant when she said she had an explosive tell-all. She was going to tell all about Michael O’Mara.”

Darren’s head swiveled between the pair who were purposefully trying to keep the information coming fast. Keep him on his toes. “You’re not serious?” Darren said. “You think Deirdre’s tell-all was about Michael O’Mara?”

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Siobhán said.

“How? You know I tried to get my hands on that manuscript.”

“By breaking into her room after she was dead,” Macdara said. “Not a good look.”

“Did she seem to you like the kind of writer who was into anyone’s life or work but her own?” Darren said. “And I don’t know what she could have said about Michael that hasn’t already been said. Drunken bum who can still write. That’s the gist of his reviews lately. Forget reviews, that’s the gist of him lately. I don’t think he’d be able to read her tell-all let alone muster up enough gusto to care about it. And well-played the pair of ye, almost had me going, you did, but let me be clear. Michael O’Mara is not any more a killer than Stephen King. He’s a writer. It’s fictional. Now. If you have any fire-breathing dragons gone missing, then he’s your man. Otherwise you’re on the wrong track entirely!”

“I guess it’s lucky then,” Siobhán said.

“How’s that?” Darren’s voice wobbled slightly. Good. They were getting to him.

“That you never intended on signing Deirdre Walsh in the first place.”

He swallowed. Looked at Siobhán, then Macdara. “Who told you that?”

“We can ask a judge for a warrant to search all your client records, or you can tell us what we need to know,” Macdara said.

Siobhán wasn’t sure a judge would grant such wide permission but she was proud of Macdara for threatening it.

He straightened his colorful tie. Today it was yellow with white polka dots. It went nicely with a white shirt and gray blazer. “As a matter of fact, I have signed Nessa Lamb.”

“When did you sign her?”

He concentrated on his empty teacup. No doubt trying to figure out what they had already been told. “I signed Nessa Lamb the morning I arrived in Kilbane,” he said. “I knew all along I wanted to represent her.”

Siobhán and Macdara nodded, jotting things down in their notebooks, letting the space fill with silence. “Who else knew about this?” Siobhán asked when drops of sweat appeared on Darren’s forehead.

“Besides myself and Ms. Lamb? No one.”

“Not even Padraig or Oran?”

“Especially not Padraig or Oran.”

“Why didn’t you just wait the week as you had agreed to do?” Siobhán asked.

“Nessa informed me that she had other offers. I didn’t want to lose her.” He opened his arms. “I was leaving myself open to the possibility that I might sign Lorcan or Deirdre as well. If they had something that impressed me. There’s no law saying I could only sign one of them.”

“We’re not in the business of telling you whom to sign,” Macdara said. “We’re trying to figure out if learning of this news was a motive for murder.”

“But they murdered Deirdre, not Nessa,” Darren said. “Do you think it was a mistake? Was Nessa Lamb onto something? Was she the intended target all along?”

“That’s not the only way to look at it,” Siobhán said.

Darren leaned back and crossed his arms. “Oh?”

“Maybe Deirdre found out you signed her and threatened to expose what you had done,” Siobhán said lightly.

It took Darren a moment. When he realized what Siobhán was saying he pointed to himself. “But what had I done? Nothing illegal, I assure you.” He waited. They continued to stare at him. “You think I’d kill an author for something so inconsequential?” A red hue flared along the side of his neck. Anger or fear?

“Was Deirdre Walsh blackmailing you?” Macdara asked.

“Over whom I chose to sign?” Darren sputtered. “We’ve already covered this. It’s not against the law. I have no indications whatsoever that Deirdre or anyone else found out that I had already signed Nessa Lamb. But since you seem to enjoy playing devil’s advocate, let’s go there. Let’s say Deirdre found out. What then? Would I be a little embarrassed that I didn’t play by the rules? Of course. I don’t know what books the pair of ye have been reading, but mild embarrassment has never been a motive for murder.”

“We had to ask,” Macdara said.

“Of course,” Darren replied. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. And I think it best to inform you that I’ll be leaving right after Deirdre’s memorial tomorrow.”

Macdara nodded. “As long as we can get a hold of you if we need to speak again.”

“Not a bother.” He stood to go.

“One more thing,” Siobhán said. “Have you ever published any books on interior design?”

He shook his head. “No. Why do you ask?”

Siobhán shrugged and looked around the walls. “I was thinking some wallpaper might liven the bistro up. But I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“I’m afraid I’m of no help to you there,” Darren said. He nodded and was out the door.

They watched him go. “What are you thinking?” Macdara asked.

“Once he leaves town the rest will follow,” Siobhán said. “We’ll be chasing a case with all of our suspects on the run.”

Macdara nodded. “Unless we get some hard facts and soon, we can’t force anyone to stay.” He rubbed his face. “I’d say Michael O’Mara is looking like a good bet. It explains the note about not believing in ghosts. It explains Deirdre’s claim that she had an explosive tell-all. It explains the pack of cigarettes found in her room, and it explains the sightings of a lurker in the trash.”

“And now we know the figure in black was just Padraig running to the ladies’ book club to sell popular fiction.”

Macdara suddenly chuckled.

“What?”

“Nice segue with the wallpaper,” he said. “That wasn’t suspicious at all.”

Siobhán laughed too. “He did look perplexed.”

“Indeed.”

“Speaking of wallpaper, any progress on where the sample came from?” Siobhán asked.

Macdara shook his head. “Aretta checked with the hardware shop and has been popping into businesses up and down Sarsfield Street. No one has wallpapered recently.”

Ann entered the dining room at that moment carrying a large bouquet of flowers. “Leigh Coakley,” she said, lifting them. “I helped with the arrangements for Ms. Walsh’s memorial. She gave me these as a thank-you.”

“Lovely,” Siobhán said. Ann moved to take them into the kitchen. “Wait.” Ann stopped at the table. Siobhán stared up at the flowers wrapped in decorative paper.

“Why are you staring at them like that?” Ann said. “If there’s a bug on me just say so.”

Siobhán tapped the paper. “Bring me this when you’re done, will ya?”

Ann frowned. She whipped the paper off and handed it to her. “Just take it now.” She shook her head and continued into the kitchen.

“What are you thinking?” Macdara said.

Siobhán held up the decorative paper. “I want Jeanie Brady to see this,” Siobhán said. “Leigh brought flowers into the bookshop the day of the murder. What if it isn’t wallpaper that was found in Deirdre’s mouth?”