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ONE

I’d never murdered someone with a stare, but I tried my best on author James Brandt. He’d insulted me for the third time since our panel began on the first day of the Shamrock Cove Literary Festival. We’d been talking about the difference between mystery and thrillers. I’d made the comment that some of my favorite books mixed genres.

James disagreed and then used my books as an example as to why that was a terrible idea. In fact, he was still blathering on about the quality of commercial reads, as in any book that actually sold more than a thousand copies, while I tried to kill him with a look.

Darn. He’s still breathing .

While he was a somewhat popular writer on this side of the pond, especially here in Ireland, he didn’t come close to my sales. Not that I would ever say that out loud.

But I could think it loudly.

I glanced over to my sister, Lizzie, who moderated the panel. Her hair was piled in a messy bun and wore a white blouse and pencil skirt that made her look like a librarian. Her eyebrows lifted, and she shot daggers at him with those piercing blue eyes of hers. My eyes were green, and I had a different hair color, but other than that, we were identical. I loved that my twin had my back. She always had been one of my champions in life, and in writing.

When he finally stopped talking, she looked at her watch. “Well, that’s all we have time for right now,” she said. “Let’s give our panel a hand.” It was a good ten minutes before we had to end, but she’d probably grown tired of him blathering on about his books being the only ones worth reading. I know I had.

Thunderous applause came from the crowd at the Shamrock Cove Library, one of the many stops for the literary festival my sister headed up. As the owner of the local bookstore, Leabhair agus Seaniarsmaí , which meant books and antiquities, she’d hoped to bring in new business. It had worked, but she hadn’t realized the main guest speaker, James Brandt, was such a jerk. The literary committee had chosen him before she’d taken over, and he’d been nothing but a pain in the behind.

He wasn’t happy about his accommodation in the quaint Shamrock Cottage, nor that his book signing was in the afternoon the next day. He preferred early signings.

I’d never met such a diva in my writer world, and that was saying something. I’d been an author for more than twenty years and I knew hundreds of writers.

He went to push past my sister, but she put a hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Brandt, I’d appreciate it if you would be more respectful of your fellow authors during the festival. There is no reason to be so rude.” My sister hated confrontation, and I was proud of her for saying something to the pompous jerk.

“I have no idea what you’re going on about,” he said. Then he pushed past her and left through the library’s side door.

She sighed and shook her head.

“Hey, thanks for trying,” I said.

She smirked. “He’s lucky I didn’t jump up and wring his neck during the panel. What a toad. I can’t believe he spoke like that about your books.”

I shrugged. “I’m tough, I can take it.” However, I couldn’t believe we had nine more days of this. The Shamrock Cove Literary Festival prided itself on being one of the few events that ran for ten days. It was about nine days too many for me.

She grunted. “Right. That’s why you were trying to kill him with your eyes.”

“Kill who?” Lolly O’Malley, our neighbor on the court, asked. Her gray hair was in a ponytail, and she wore a violet-colored pantsuit. She always reminded me of one of the flowers in her garden. The court was in the bailey of a castle and contained six carefully maintained thatched cottages and luscious gardens behind a giant wall separating it from the rest of town. We inherited the home from our grandfather, a man we’d never known.

We lived at number three, and Lolly at number six. She was a grandmother to all and one of our favorite people in Shamrock Cove. The place and the people were kinder than we could have ever imagined. In the past few months, we’d grown to love everything about our new home in Ireland.

“No one, just a figure of speech,” Lizzie covered.

“He was rather rude,” Lolly said. She was in her seventies, and she had a quick mind. “Before we pick next year’s authors we should do research into their personalities. I’ll not have anyone besmirch our Mercy. He needed an ear-twisting, that eejit.”

I smiled. “Thank you for that,” I said. “But like I told my lovely sister, I can take it.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Lizzie said. “This is supposed to be a fun event. I should go to the cottage and talk with him.”

I shook my head. “It will do no good,” I said. “He isn’t someone who will likely listen. It is impossible to negotiate with a narcissist. You’ll just end up with both of you upset. Besides, it’s over, and I don’t have any more panels with him. We can let it go.”

Lizzie pursed her lips. “Maybe you can let it go, but I’m not sure I can.”

“Let’s go get some lunch,” I said as I glanced down at the piece of paper in my hand with the schedule. “That will make us all feel better.”

Mr. Poe, our pup, yapped once from the floor. Black and fluffy, he was a clever little dude. And he never missed a chance for a meal. “See. Mr. Poe agrees. Besides, you only have an hour and a half before the next book signing at your shop,” I reminded my sister.

There was no way I’d let her face that lion alone. James Brandt would eat her alive, and he wasn’t worth our time.

Later that night, we were exhausted when we finally made it back to number three, our cottage. We’d just opened the front door and turned on the lights when they buzzed out.

“What happened?” Lizzie asked.

“Lights are out,” I said.

She snorted. “Obviously. Check and see if it’s just us. I paid the bill. At least, I think I did. I’ve been very busy.” She turned on the flashlight on her phone.

“I’m certain you did,” I said. “I’ll check, though.”

Even though it was drizzling rain, which was normal weather here in Ireland in the spring, I stepped outside. Our next-door neighbor, Scott, was on his porch. He was a computer programmer. He and his partner, Rob, had become great friends.

“Are your lights out too?” I asked. Though it was easy enough to tell. I could barely see him through the darkness of the court.

“Yes,” he said. “I was just coming over to see if you were going through the same.”

“We are.”

“Ah, well. They’ll be back up soon. My guess is the influx of attendees has put a strain on our resources. This usually happens a couple of times during the summer in the height of the season, but it never lasts for long.”

Even as he said it, the lights flickered back on.

“There you go,” he said. “Good night, Mercy.”

“Night.”

It had been a long day of being on my best behavior for fans. I needed some rest.

The next day, I’d just finished signing books at the bookstore when a blonde woman teetering on high heels stomped up to the table.

“Why are you still here?” she asked.

Rude .

“I’ve just finished my signing.”

“Well, my client’s signing is in an hour, and I have to get everything situated before he arrives. I need you to vacate the table as quickly as possible and take your books with you.”

I cleared my throat. “Let me guess, you’re James Brandt’s agent?” It was funny how rude people sometimes came in pairs.

“Yes. Now, please, I have to hurry. Where is the woman who runs the shop? She really should be on top of things. The table should have been cleared twenty minutes ago. I gave her explicit instructions.”

“That woman is my sister. And she is on top of things,” I said. “We promised the fans we’d sign every book. It’s part of what makes the festival stand out—the access to authors, and James is not the only author here.”

Her jaw set hard. “But he is the guest of honor and the most important author here.” She shoved the five books left on the table toward me.

I picked them up as Lizzie hurried over.

“Is James here yet? We’re running behind,” she said.

“He’ll be here any minute,” the woman said. “Which is why I need her to move quickly.”

Lizzie took the books from me. “You must be Sebrena Walker, his agent. Let me put these up, and I’ll grab the ones we have for James. There’s already a queue outside the store waiting for him to sign their books.”

“He won’t sign for more than an hour. I suggest you hurry,” Sebrena said.

“Can you go help Caro with the register?” Lizzie asked me. “I’m going to help set up here.” She spoke politely, but I could tell from her frown that the woman was getting on her nerves.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind saying something to her,” I whispered the words.

She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she whispered back.

I nodded. Saying what I thought would cause my sister stress, and that was the last thing she needed. I bit my lip and headed to the front of the bookstore.

About twenty minutes before the signing was to begin, the guest of honor still hadn’t arrived.

Sebrena was on her phone and pointing at my sister.

I went to see what was going on.

“What’s up?” I asked Lizzie.

“James was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. Sebrena hasn’t been able to get him on the phone, and he’s ignoring her texts.”

Sebrena put her phone in the pocket of her pale-pink suit. Her teased blonde hair reminded me of some women back in Texas, who wore it in a fashion that was reminiscent of the seventies. “I’ll need you to go and fetch him,” she said. “I still need to make certain everything is in order here.”

I opened my mouth to tell her she should fetch him, but Lizzie shook her head. She had that crease between her eyes that shows she was annoyed.

“Will you come with me?” she asked. I was exhausted. Signings drained me because it was a lot of people-ing for my introverted soul. I preferred staying home and wearing yoga pants, oversized sweatshirts, and writing alone in my office. But I could never say no to my sister.

Besides, James wasn’t kind, and I was protective. My sister had been through so much trauma over the last year, and I did my best to make things easier for her. That included moving us to Ireland several months ago. But that had been one of the best decisions of our lives.

Except for that one time when we’d had a run-in with a murderer. But other than that, we’d had an idyllic existence in our new home.

I sighed and then nodded.

A few minutes later, we, along with Mr. Poe, were in my SUV. The vehicle stayed parked in front of the bookstore, as we had no parking on the court. I put the car in drive, and headed up to the cliffs of Shamrock Cove, towards where James’s cottage sat.

The town was full of stone and brightly painted buildings that ended at the cliffs looking out to the sea. I’d never been to a more beautiful place, and I’d traveled quite a lot.

Along the cliffs, brightly colored summer cottages had been built to take advantage of the amazing sea views.

While James had complained about the accommodation, the quaint stone house with a beautiful garden and window boxes overlooked the sea and was very sought after. It was like something out of a fairy tale.

“It’s so charming,” Lizzie said. “How could he not love it here?”

“It is, and he’s a grump. I doubt he’d be happy in a five-star hotel with every amenity one could imagine. He’s just the type who likes to argue and complain.” It hadn’t taken much time in his presence to sum up the man. He was egotistical, self-important, and a narcissist. There was no way he would have been happy with anything the festival committee had done for him.

“Are you okay? I feel like this whole event has been extremely stressful for you,” I said softly.

She shrugged. “It’s also been fun, except for dealing with this guy and his agent. And we’re way ahead as far as sales go. I was worried about how the store would make it until the summer tourist season, but we’ve done well the last few days. So, it’s worth dealing with a few annoying people.”

“Except this guy goes far beyond just annoying.”

She laughed. “We will not be asking him back. Lolly made that very clear last night during our updates meeting.”

I smiled. I adored Lolly.

We walked up to the arched front door, and then Lizzie knocked.

There was no answer.

She knocked again.

Nothing.

“Mr. Brandt? It’s Lizzie McCarthy from the festival. I’ve come to take you to your book signing.”

Nothing but birdsong around us. Even in late May, the wind off the sea chilled us. We shivered at the same time. I was in my writer leaves the house uniform, which consisted of dark jeans, a white blouse and black blazer. My sister wore a cardigan set.

“Do you think he already left, and we missed him?” she asked. “Maybe he’s in town somewhere.”

“His car is still here.” I pointed to the Mercedes. “And we didn’t pass anyone on the way up here.”

“He could have walked.”

Mr. Poe whined and scratched at the door. Then he looked at me expectantly. He was worried about something. Over the last few months, we had discovered he was quite an intuitive dog. That had come in useful, especially with Lizzie. He’d simply helped her through the dark times by being adorable and cuddling her when she needed him most.

Lizzie’s panic attacks, which had been frequent before arriving in Ireland, were almost non-existent these days because of Mr. Poe.

I loved the little furball and was grateful to him for always looking after Lizzie. It was as if he understood what she was going through.

“I’ll try the door,” I said. I handed her his leash.

“But what if he’s in there? Maybe he’s getting dressed.”

“Or he’s asleep, and we need to wake him up.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay.”

I turned the brass knob in the center of the door, and it opened with a slow creak. Mr. Poe started to go inside.

“Stay,” I said and then pointed at him.

He sighed but did as I asked. He really was the best dog.

I stepped inside and stopped.

Lizzie peeked over my shoulder. “Oh. No,” she cried.

I didn’t blame her. My stomach churned with dread and bile rose in my throat.

There under a bookcase, appearing to be very dead, was James Brandt.