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THIRTEEN

That night at the New Writers’ banquet, I had difficulty eating the stuffed chicken on my plate. Even though I didn’t think Chef Patrick killed our victims, I just couldn’t seem to put anything he’d made into my mouth.

“Are you nervous?” Lizzie asked softly. She sat next to me at our table near the front. Luckily, our neighbors were our guests. So, I didn’t feel like I had to be on form all the time. That didn’t keep the occasional fan from coming up and asking me to sign books, which I didn’t mind. But it was nice to just hang out with our friends.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

She gave me a look. I never had trouble eating, and I was certain she was suspicious. But my fears about the food seemed silly and I didn’t want to share.

James was supposed to be the master of ceremonies this evening, but with him gone it was up to me to get us all through the awards program. While the awards at the last gala dinner had gone to published authors, tonight’s awards were for unpublished writers. I’d helped judge many of the manuscripts.

Rob escorted Lolly to the podium at the front of the room.

“Almost time,” Lizzie said beside me.

I had a script written for the program, and I jotted down a few bullet points for my part.

“Hello, I’m Lolly O’Malley, Chairperson of our Shamrock Cove Literary Festival.” There was a great deal of applause. “Before we begin our festivities, I would like to thank our mistress of ceremonies, Mercy McCarthy, for taking over tonight.”

There was more applause.

“While our hearts go out to James Brandt’s family, friends, and fans, we are grateful Mercy could step in at the last minute. Good luck to all of the nominees. I can tell you the competition was stiff this year, and our panel of judges would be the first to tell you that the competition truly was fierce. Now, please welcome mystery author, Mercy McCarthy.”

People stood and applauded. As I moved behind the podium, I waved them down.

“Thank you, Lolly. As she said, the competition was a great one this year. Every nominee should be proud of the fact that they made it as a finalist in their category. There was a time, dear writers, when I sat exactly where you are tonight. Nerves took over, and my hands shook while I waited for them to announce the category my entry was in. I won’t keep you waiting tonight. Good luck to you all.”

One after another, I asked my fellow judges to announce the winners of each genre.

At the very end, it was my job to give the award for best book overall.

I opened the envelope and announced the winner. A man who was incredibly young, as in university age, came up. The smile on his face charmed my heart. I’d read his entry and imagined him to be much older. He was an incredibly gifted writer for one so young.

“Congratulations,” I said as I handed him the award. “Would you like to say something?”

“Aye, that would be grand,” he said.

I stepped out of the way.

“We love you,” someone screamed out. The crowd laughed, as did the young writer.

“That would be me mam. Thank you, Mam, for putting up with me. She and Da are quite supportive of my writing. I’m lucky to have people who believe in me. Mam forced me to enter the contest. I’ll admit I was afraid. So, thank you to the judges. I’m as happy as I’ve ever been.” He stepped away from the podium and held up his award.

“How lucky are we to have such wonderful authors who are up and coming in our literary world?” I asked.

The audience clapped.

“I want to congratulate all of our winners, but also, again, for everyone who entered. There are several days left of our wonderful festival. Go to as many readings, signings, and classes as you can. Soak it all up. And I’ll see you around.”

The audience stood and clapped. They were being kind. I hadn’t said anything that warranted it.

We were all leaving when I noticed Chef Patrick out by his van. He was arguing with someone, but I couldn’t see who it was. He pointed a finger and shook his head.

But by the time the crowd of people cleared, the catering van had gone.

“Did you see who Chef Patrick was arguing with?” I asked Lizzie.

“No.” She glanced over my shoulder. “Was he?”

I sighed. “Yes.”

“Do you think he killed his ex?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. He had more of a reason than most. But he seemed genuinely sorry about her death when I spoke to him earlier. This case is so confusing.”

“It is, which is why you should leave the investigation to the police. Two people have died, Mercy. You have to be careful. What if he is the killer, and now he’s on to you?”

“No. It wasn’t like that. I literally ran into him outside the church kitchen. I gave him no reason to suspect me of anything.”

“Still.”

I waved a hand. “I know. I know.”

Tomorrow morning, I’d go to the station to see if Kieran was any closer to finding the killer.

I certainly wasn’t. We were headed down the block when Lizzie stopped and turned around.

I glanced back to see what she was doing. “What’s wrong?”

She shivered. “I have that feeling someone is watching us,” she whispered.

I peered around her shoulder. “I don’t see anyone,” I whispered back. “But I trust that feeling.” After living in Manhattan for years and dealing with stalkers, I’d learned to trust my own internal alarms. I had a stalker there who had put me on edge. And every time I had the feeling someone watched me here in Ireland, I feared that person had crossed the pond.

I’d hoped to get away from all of that living here, but maybe it was just the paranoia that had followed me to Shamrock Cove.

And one thing I hadn’t thought about was the fact that we’d been all over the news sites online. My stalker could have found out where we were. This time I was the one who shivered.

Lizzie hooked her arm in mine, and we hurried to the secret door that led into the court where we lived. Once inside our house’s foyer, we took a deep breath.

Mr. Poe ran up to greet us. Lizzie scooped him up in her arms and held him close. We often took him everywhere with us, but he’d still been eating his dinner when we had to leave. He was an easy-going pup, except when it came time for his meals. In that respect, he was quite demanding.

As she squeezed him to her chest, her hands shook.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded. “I’m tired. That’s all. It’s been a good week at the store, but so busy. And…”

“It’s stressful that we’re in the middle of another murder investigation.”

Her eyes went wide. “Yes. It’s not your fault or mine, but here we are. I thought we would be safe in Shamrock Cove. I don’t like thinking there is danger around every corner.”

“It’s temporary,” I said. “Try to remember that.”

She nodded. “I’m going to let Mr. Poe out and then I’m headed to bed.”

“Okay, sleep well.”

I was restless and went to my grandfather’s library. It was one of my favorite rooms in the house. He had his personal collection of first editions and favorite books. Several weeks ago, I’d done a quick assessment of just one shelf of his collection, and it was worth well over three hundred thousand dollars. Lizzie and I had finally figured out that these books were the treasure he’d mentioned in the will where he’d left us everything.

He’d also left us clues about a mystery involving our father, which we were still researching. I’d reached out by letter to the Irish and British governments as to whether they had any information about our father, who went missing in action.

So far, we’d heard nothing back. We had found letters saved in various books from our grandmother to our grandfather, as well as some letters our grandfather had been sent during the war from our father to our mother. Letters she’d never received or knew about when she was alive.

We hadn’t known about our grandfather until his lawyer reached out to us after his death. From all accounts, he’d been a good man who had found out about us at the end of his life. He’d left us with several mysteries, including what happened to our father.

Our mother had never talked about our father much. She called him the donor, so we’d never known anything about him. Our father’s relationship with our grandfather—at least as far as we’d read in letters we found—had been an uneasy one.

Once every few weeks, we’d search the house and the bookstore to find more clues or letters. As for the treasure mentioned in the will, we’d decided a few weeks ago he’d been talking about his books. But it didn’t keep us from looking for more clues.

That and he had wondered in one of his letters if our father was still alive. That didn’t seem likely, but we continued our search.

I loved the feel of the library. From the scent of old leather to the soft cushy chairs, I found myself in here more and more often. Sometimes, I worked on my laptop. Other times, it was just to read. I’d grabbed the old manuscript that had been found at James’s house and sat down.

Now that I understood it was most likely a work of fiction rather than clues to the current murders, I hoped to look at it from a different point of view. I skimmed the pages, but nothing jumped out at me.

And I still had no idea if it was one of James’s early books. The writing was so different.

I did pick up on the strained relationships with friends in the book. They blamed each other for the girl vanishing. In the end, they’d all gone their separate ways.

And in the book, the missing woman was believed to be murdered. According to the novel, it had been her boyfriend at the time who had committed the heinous crime.

But the real Keeley Boyle had survived her ordeal. And the friends had known that.

Since writers often took real-life situations and reworked them for fiction, I tried to look at the situation more objectively. If it hadn’t been Keely who died, had there been someone else? Was this some kind of giant cover-up?

Maybe he’d thought about revising it and using the story in a new way.

I set the book down on the side table by the cushy chair where I’d curled up. I stretched and took a deep breath.

I should have used my nervous energy to write, but my mind was too scattered. Sometimes, when I had trouble writing, getting away from it was the answer. I wasn’t sleepy, so I went around the room in search of some new books to look through.

Using the library ladder, I decided to be more methodical. I started with the top shelf of the north wall. The books up here were dustier, and I wiped them down with a cotton rag as I put them back. When I’d finished the top shelf, I moved my way down to the next one.

The second book in, my breath caught. The inside of the book had been hollowed out. Well, it had been designed that way. But the letters were from my grandfather to our grandmother. After reading the first letter, which left my eyes watery, I decided to save the rest for Lizzie and me to go through together. There had been a great love between our grandparents, which made me think of Lizzie and her fiancé.

I pushed the ladder back to the corner of the room and took the book full of letters to my office.

There was a letter unopened in the pile. I wondered if my grandfather had missed it. Usually, I would wait for Lizzie to open it, but I was curious as to why it was unopened. There was no return address.

I carefully used the letter opener. And pulled the weathered paper out. I pursed my lips as I read:

Dear Father,

I have regrets about our last conversation. I do not know if you have received my other letters, as I’m on a mission, and we cannot receive mail. I understand why you did not want me to join the military, but this was something I had to do.

I cannot tell you where I am or why, but please know that I love you, Father. If I survive my current mission, I will make things right with you. I apologize for the way I left things with you. Please know you are in my thoughts.

Your loving son

Had he not made it home after his mission? I wiped my cheeks which were wet with tears. I wasn’t an overly emotional person, but I certainly understood regrets.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to see a text from my editor, Carrie.

A little birdy told me you’ve been slaying it at the literary festival. Congrats. But I need pages soon.

I laughed. She never liked anything that distracted me from writing. I sent back an emoji of a woman giving a salute.

While some writers might have been annoyed by the constant nudging, I needed the reminders. I could get lost in the weeds of research and real life at times.

I loved writing, specifically mysteries. But my attention span sometimes needed focus. My career would not have survived all these years without Carrie’s constant nudging and understanding. She was much more than my editor. She was my friend.

I sat down at my desk and opened up the notebook where I kept notes on my work and James and Sebrena’s cases.

Someone had wanted them both dead. They’d used poison, one that wasn’t easily handled or used.

I wrote down the group of friends from the past. The mayor, Dr. Hughes, James, Keeley Boyle, and Chef Patrick were all friends back in the day. The book had loosely nodded toward each of them as a killer, except for Keeley, the victim. But there were only three of them that were possibly a murderer.

The book had to contain a clue, but I hadn’t found it.

I doodled on the paper in front of me.

While I didn’t think the mayor was the one who killed James and his agent, I didn’t rule him out quite yet.

My best guess was Dr. Hughes. He would know how to handle the poison, which was an important part of the puzzle.

But why?

And who had the chef been fighting with after the banquet?

I glanced at my phone. It was late.

I’d forgotten about speaking with the headmaster Henry Charlton. The care home was west of town. I’d check with him the next day to see if he could shed light on the matter.

Mr. Poe barked.

I jumped. Then I hopped up to find out what was going on because he never left Lizzie’s side once they had retired for the evening.

He was at the front door.

“What are you doing out of bed?” I asked him.

He growled at the front door.

I peeked through the peephole, but I didn’t see anyone.

“Do you need to go outside? Let’s go to the back.”

He held his ground and growled again.

“Is someone out there?”

His growl became more guttural. Nerves snaked down my spine. But I was no wilting flower. I preferred to tackle trouble head-on.

I picked up the umbrella and held it like a weapon.

“Right then. Let’s get this over with,” I said as I opened the door.