Page 16

SIXTEEN

The next morning the rain bucketed down as the Irish liked to say. It was a fitting phrase. I’d planned to go to the library first thing, but I decided to put a few hours of writing in first. I swear it had nothing to do with the text from my editor asking about how things were going and the guilt that came right after I read it.

After a few hours, I called the care home to ask if it would be okay to visit Henry Charlton, but the news was disappointing.

“I’m afraid he had a fall yesterday,” the woman at the other end of the line said. “They’ve taken him to the hospital in Dublin.” She hadn’t even asked if I was family before she gave me the information. Things were different here than they were in the States.

Then she hung up.

I sighed. I hoped he was okay. There was no way I could make it to Dublin and back in time for my festival duties. Besides, Mr. Charlton probably wouldn’t want strangers poking around if he was in pain. Speaking to him would have to wait.

The rain had become a soft drizzle by the time I’d eaten a sandwich for lunch. I put on my mackintosh, and wellies, and then headed up the hill to the old stone building that held the library. The head librarian made sure their collection of books was comprehensive and they had a great national system where they could get any book needed in a day or so.

To get out of the house, I occasionally took my laptop to work in one of the small cubbies available among the carefully arranged bookshelves. There were also plush chairs all around, and the library had beautiful stained-glass windows that rivaled the church.

The bookshelves were mahogany and went from floor to ceiling. Rolling ladders were used to access the uppermost shelves. It was one of the larger buildings in town, and I loved that Shamrock Cove supported such a wonderful library.

It was a book lover’s dream. One of the great surprises of Ireland was that it was a very bookish country. Ours was one of many literary festivals and even the smallest of towns in Ireland had at least one bookshop and a library.

Mrs. Gallagher, the head librarian, was at the long wooden counter near the double front doors. Her bright-pink reading glasses hung around her neck on a matching chain, and her wild mass of gray curls framed her face. Today, she wore a T-shirt that read: It’s a good day to read a book and jeans with embroidered flowers all over them.

My sister called her boho chic and very un-librarian-like. I had to agree. She once told me she was in her late sixties and had no plans to retire. She could have passed for forty. She claimed reading kept her young.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Gallagher,” I said quietly.

“I told you to call me Alana, lass. What brings you in today? Research or writing?” Her voice was a librarian’s whisper.

“Research, but not the normal kind. I have a few questions for you. Do you have time for a chat?”

She nodded. “Give me just a minute to find someone to cover.”

She texted something on her cell, and a minute later one of the other librarians arrived at the front desk.

“Follow me,” she said.

We took a winding way to the back of the library and entered a break room. “This worked out well,” she said. “I was gasping for a cup of tea. Can I get you something?” she asked as she turned on the electric kettle.

“I’ve loaded up on coffee today. I’m good.”

She set about readying her cup and then motioned for me to take a seat at the scarred wooden table.

“What is it you need to know?”

“I’ll need to make this a confidential chat,” I said. “I’m helping the detective with his inquiries.”

“Oh, interesting. Let me guess, you want to know about the stolen manuscripts from back in the day.”

I nodded. “Were you working here back then?”

“Aye, I was an assistant here. And I can tell you that I know those kids took several of our most famous drafts. We had a break-in one night; not long after himself, James Brandt, had asked to view them. He’d been refused because back then you had to be over eighteen to view the items in the special archives.

“Could not have been more than three days later. They pilfered one from James Joyce and another from C. S. Lewis. The latter was on loan. It was quite the crime. They came in through there.” She pointed to a small window at the other side of the room.

“What made you think it was James Brandt and his friends?”

She shook her head. “Because they were the very manuscripts he’d asked to look at. Thick as thieves they all were,” she said. “Even though the police searched their homes, nothing was found.”

“And nothing was ever proven?”

“Nay. I was so furious because I knew those kids had them. I’ve no idea how they were able to hide them, but they did. We thought they might have taken them to sell them, but that never happened. Then, about ten years ago, the two manuscripts were shipped here anonymously. The police tried to track down who had sent them, but they’d covered their tracks well.”

“That’s strange. Maybe one of them had a crisis of conscience. What can you tell me about that group?”

“Brandt was a smart one. Did well in school. But there was something about him that…”

“What?”

“There was something off about him. Never did trust the fellow. He was the ringleader and acted like the world owed him something.”

“And the others?”

“Are you asking me to disparage our mayor? He’s in control of our funding, so I shan’t.”

I smiled. “That confidentiality goes both ways,” I said.

When the kettle clicked off, she stood to make her tea. She sighed as she sat back down.

“I’ll say this—our mayor isn’t above doing a favor for a friend. I like to stay on his good side for that reason.”

“Okay, what about the woman from the group who went missing?”

She nodded. “Right, Keeley lives in America or Canada now. I sometimes wonder what really happened back then. I’ve never believed the cover story that they were helping her escape a bad home life. She was at university and was doing perfectly fine on her own. I’ve always thought something bad happened the night they were celebrating. But, like I said, they were tight-lipped back then.”

I pulled out my phone. “I find it strange that Keeley was the name of the missing woman in the manuscript the police found at Shamrock Cottage.”

“I hadn’t heard about that. What can you tell me?”

“I’m only telling you because I wondered if the manuscript might have been stolen. It was very amateurish. I was curious, since you’re familiar with James’s work, if you think this might have been one of his early manuscripts.”

She put her reading glasses on and flicked through the document on my phone. Then she shook her head. “It could be him, but the style is quite different. We have some of his early drafts in the archives in Dublin. I can ask for a transfer if you’d like to compare them.”

“Do you mind?”

She smiled. “It’s my job. We haven’t had any other manuscripts stolen. So, it isn’t one of ours. Do you think this book has something to do with Brandt’s death?”

I shrugged. “It was on the table with a draft from his current work.”

“Do you think he plagiarized or used it as source material? I’ve kept up with his career through the years since this is his hometown. He’s been sued more than once for words he’s written.”

“Again, I have no idea. Other than they were both mysteries, there is nothing that links them. And the style seems quite different, as you can see. I was hoping maybe you’d be able to tell if it could have been one of his earlier works.”

She frowned. “I wish I could help, but I’m as clueless as you. He uses a much shorter chapter style, and the writing is quite different. But you’re right, it is strange that it was found where he died. It could be. Let me get those early manuscripts he donated years ago, and we can compare. It will only take a few days.”

“Thanks,” I said.

She sipped her tea, and then pursed her lips.

“What is it?” I asked.

“He wasn’t the only one interested in writing back then. Part of what brought that group together was their interest in books. They spent a great deal of time here working on and researching their books.”

“The whole group?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not the mayor. But Finneas was working on something non-fiction. It had to do with plants. Keeley was working on a romance. And Patrick was working on a C.S. Lewis biography. They all fancied themselves quite the literary set.”

“Wait, Patrick was a writer?”

“Aye, though back then he didn’t go by Patrick. He was Mark back then.”

One of the boys I didn’t recognize in the photo had been a skinny young man with wire-rimmed glasses and ill-fitting clothes. He looked nothing like the handsome chef. In the newspaper photo, he’d been somewhat bookish with long hair and bangs that nearly covered his rounded spectacles.

“Do you know why he changed his name?”

“I think I remember him saying in an interview that he preferred Patrick. But I think he was trying to get away from those early photos of himself. He underwent a makeover when he was on a British cooking show years ago. That show helped launch his career.”

How had I missed all of that? “If he’s so famous, why is he catering our literary festival?”

I hadn’t meant to say the words out loud.

“You’ll have to ask Lolly that, I’m afraid. Though, there was a scandal a few years back concerning one of his restaurants.”

“Oh?” I’d also missed this. It was evident I needed to do a deeper dive on this group.

“He was sued for some reason, and it cost him a great deal to clear his name. I can pull some of those old court records for you.”

“Thanks.”

She glanced at her phone. “I should get back to the desk. Let me know if there is anything else I can help you with, okay?”

“Thank you. I’ll take a look at those court records, if that’s all right.”

“Of course.”

A few hours later, I left the library with even more questions. I stopped by the station to tell the detective everything I’d learned, but he was out.

“He should be back in a few, if you want to wait,” Sheila said.

“That’s okay. I’m due at my sister’s shop to help out. Just tell him I stopped by.”

She nodded, and then went back to her computer.

On the way to the bookstore, I tried to make sense of everything I’d read about Brandt and his former group of friends at the library. With the exception of the mayor, others in the group had all been in some sort of legal battle, including the professor. His had been over his wife’s estate. It turned out she’d been quite wealthy, and her family had blamed him for her illness, but nothing had been proven.

And she’d left everything to him in her will.

It was interesting that they’d all been writers back in the day. That strange manuscript had to have something to do with all this.

But I was more confused than ever as to why that might be.