Murder at an irish baker.., p.1
Murder at an Irish Bakery, page 1
Books by Carlene O’Connor
Irish Village Mysteries
MURDER IN AN IRISH VILLAGE
MURDER AT AN IRISH WEDDING
MURDER IN AN IRISH CHURCHYARD
MURDER IN AN IRISH PUB
MURDER IN AN IRISH COTTAGE
MURDER AT AN IRISH CHRISTMAS
MURDER IN AN IRISH BOOKSHOP
MURDER ON AN IRISH FARM
MURDER AT AN IRISH BAKERY
CHRISTMAS COCOA MURDER
(with Maddie Day and Alex Erickson)
CHRISTMAS SCARF MURDER
(with Maddie Day and Peggy Ehrhart)
A Home to Ireland Mystery
MURDER IN GALWAY
MURDER IN CONNEMARA
A County Kerry Mystery
NO STRANGERS HERE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
CHOCOLATE GUINNESS CAKE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2023 by Mary Carter
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use. Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Attn. Special Sales Department. Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
K and the Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022947427
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3081-7
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: March 2023
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3087-9 (e-book)
10 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter 1
“Stop the show. Sugar kills! Stop the show! Sugar kills!” The thirty-something outraged lad paced in front of Pie Pie Love, Kilbane’s best bakery housed in a historic flour mill. He was tall and handsome, if you ignored the vitriol pouring out of his gob. In addition to the passion he was bringing to the task, he seemed dressed for the part of a protester: denims, a T-shirt with the word SUGAR overlaid with a skull and crossbones, and a flannel shirt to protect against a mercurial spring. The limestone mill was set back in a vibrant field next to the Kilbane River. Unfortunately, no matter how loud the river babbled, the magnificent nine-meter cast-iron waterwheel mounted to the side of the building remained immobile, and the water simply meandered around it instead of powering it up. The mill was built between 1850 and 1870 and Garda Siobhán O’Sullivan had read somewhere that the original wheel had been wooden. Despite the switch to cast iron, it hadn’t churned for as long as Siobhán had been alive, nearly thirty years, and the bakery sourced its flour elsewhere.
Siobhán didn’t know the cost of repairing such a structure, but she knew—the waterwheel notwithstanding— that the family-owned mill was in dire need of basic repairs. The O’Farrells had operated this flour mill, and now bakery, for several generations. Fia O’Farrell was the last living member, and given she was single and past middle age, many wondered what she envisioned for its future. The back room, which used to house events, and the ground, middle, and top floors of the mill, which used to be open for tours, had all been closed to the public for over a decade. But it was still a gorgeous structure, and the bakery, which was housed in the very front portion of the building, was as cheerful inside as it was out. Siobhán took in the outdoor tables with colorful umbrellas, flowers beaming from planters along the front of the building, and the banner above the wooden doors that read: WELCOME IRISH BAKERS!
It was going to be a good day for Pie Pie Love, not to mention all of Kilbane, and Siobhán for one was ready for the festivities to begin.
“Join the health revolution. Sugar is not your friend!” the lad bellowed.
Neither is noise-pollution before coffee, Siobhán thought, but she kept her piehole shut. She needed to remain calm, which was why she was actively ignoring him while studying the gorgeous stone mill. Perhaps he would grow tired of screaming into the abyss. Why hadn’t he waited until the crowd was allowed in, or was he simply rehearsing for that very moment?
Garda Aretta Dabiri sidled up next to Siobhán, throwing a worried glance at the protester. “What are you staring at?” she asked. Aretta was the most recent addition to the Kilbane Gardaí. She was a petite woman with gorgeous dark skin, a calm presence, and a strong drive to excel. Her family was originally from Nigeria. She was the first female garda of African descent and a fantastic addition to the team. Siobhán’s brother Eoin had a little crush on her, and although Siobhán got the feeling it was mutual, the pair had yet to do anything other than wear out their smiles around each other. “You seem fascinated with the wheel,” Aretta remarked.
“This was always my favorite place to come as a young one,” Siobhán said. “Each time I asked my da if he could make the wheel turn.”
“Was he able to make it take a spin for ya?” The glint in Aretta’s eye showed she was only messing.
Siobhán laughed. “He would pretend to blow on it, and meself and James would try to blow on it, and then Da would scratch his head as if he were puzzled and say, ‘I thought for sure the pair of ye were filled with hot air.’” She laughed at the memory then shook her head. “It’s been stuck for ages.”
“Nice memories, but it’s a pity the wheel is stuck,” Aretta said.
Siobhán nodded. “Perhaps the proceeds from the baking show will change all of that.” Historic structures came with historic maintenance, which came with historic price tags. Siobhán often thought if she ever owned a gorgeous flour mill, the first thing she would do was get the wheel churning again. Siobhán turned to Aretta and grinned. “Because this week is not about wheels, this week is all about the meals.”
Aretta smiled. She had copped on. “The end of the meal, to be exact?”
“Bang on,” Siobhán said. “Dessert. The part that everyone savors for last.” Siobhán rubbed her hands together in anticipation. Aretta laughed and shook her head. Having a sugar addiction was not something that Garda Aretta Dabiri suffered from. Siobhán on the other hand was already drooling. Pies, biscuits, trifles, tarts, puddings, cookies, cakes, and breads. Oh my! This was shaping up to be the best work assignment of Siobhán’s life. And she and her giant sweet tooth intended on enjoying every minute of it. The top Irish bakers in all of Ireland would soon gather here for one week to show off their massive baking skills. Even the famous Aoife McBride had somehow been coaxed to compete. Siobhán’s late mam had owned every single cookbook written by Aoife McBride, starting with Aoife McBride Takes the Cake and she went on from there, also including: Pies, Tarts, Cookies, Puddings, and Breads. There were at least a dozen books in her baking empire. Aoife McBride had been a one-woman enterprise, going full steam. But a few months ago, after a freak-out during a Fan Club Appreciation Day, she’d gone quiet, and rumors swirled about her mental health. Given she lived all the way up in Donegal, the northernmost county in the west of Ireland, Siobhán was cautious to believe anything she’d heard. Gossip distorted as it traveled, everyone knew that.
Even so, the story was that Aoife McBride had unraveled when a fan group of look-alikes descended on Donegal a few months ago to pay her tribute. They dressed in her signature colorful aprons and wigs with thick black hair striped with white, padded their figures, and donned pink-rimmed eyeglasses. Instead of being flattered at the attention, it was said that Aoife McBride was driven mad. Apparently she’d accused one of them of stalking her, and for ages afterward no one had seen or heard from her. Her fans breathed a sigh of relief when this baking show enticed her back into the public eye. Siobhán was very much looking forward to meeting her, and if it wasn t too much trouble, asking her to sign at least one of her mam’s books. Apparently, she was here to reveal her new memoir, Bake Me! as well as compete in the baking show.
Siobhán had no time to bake, apart from her famous brown bread. Perhaps this week would inspire her to do more. The bakery needed this, and the town needed this, and she needed this. Only Macdara Flannery, aka her husband, (husband!), would have enjoyed it more, but alas, work meetings had taken him to Dublin. It was impossible to believe that next month would be their one-year wedding anniversary.
“Stop the show. Sugar kills!”
The booming voice showed no signs of strain. “The lungs on him,” Siobhán said.
“He certainly can project his voice,” Aretta agreed.
The man brandished a stalk of celery like a weapon and stared at one spot on the building as if he was speaking to an invisible camera. Somewhere there was a cameraman around as well as a director, but Siobhán had yet to meet them.
The door to the bakery opened and Fia O’Farrell emerged without so much as a donut in hand. She was a petite woman with gorgeous silver hair wound up in a tight bun. She wore a cheerful pink top and a cream-colored apron that read: ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE. Love was crossed out and above it read: DOUGH.
She put her hands on her hips and glared at the protester. “You’re not supposed to be here. If you don’t leave, the guards are going to arrest you.” She pointed to Siobhán and Aretta as if their blue suits and navy-blue caps with the gold shield had not sufficiently identified them as members of An Garda Síochaná. The Guardians of the Peace. There was little peace to be found at the moment. Siobhán would have preferred the assignment in plainclothes, but it was eejits like the one in front of them that made that request impossible.
“Do take a rest,” Siobhán said to the man. “You’ll wear your voice out before your audience arrives.”
The comment gave him pause. Perhaps he was capable of listening to reason.
“A rest?” Fia hissed. “Are you joking me?” She planted her hands on her slim hips. “I want him off me property.”
“Where is the director and cameraman?” Siobhán asked. It was a two-person crew which seemed awfully small for a week-long production, but the baking show was being independently financed by an anonymous benefactor and perhaps a larger crew wasn’t in the budget.
“Unloading their equipment,” Fia said with a nod to the car park in the back of the building. It would soon be jammers, and attendants would be on hand to direct cars to park in the field. The venue could hold a hundred persons in the front section of the bakery, with another hundred outside. The show would be streamed onto screens on the side of the building as well as the interior, and heat lamps had been set up outdoors for those stuck outside when the sun went down. And of course, workers would circulate amongst both crowds with pastries available for purchase, not to mention samples from the guest bakers.
Samples! Siobhán, who had been looking forward to this sweet, sweet assignment for ages, literally hearing eggs crack in her sleep, and dreaming of flour sifting through her hands, was put on her back foot by the protester. She heard a mechanical squeak and whirled around to see him holding a bullhorn. “Sugar kills,” he blasted out.
Brutal. Siobhán approached. “Enough. You are disturbing the peace.”
“There’s no peace in diabetes, now is there?” he replied.
“Everything in moderation,” Siobhán said. “Including your temper tantrum.”
His eyes narrowed into slits as he dropped the bullhorn to his side. “It’s my right to protest.”
“Then quietly carry a sign, will ya? Whisper your message to the world.”
He frowned as if trying to suss out whether or not she was messing with him. “I don’t have a sign.”
“Now. There’s your trouble. You can’t pull off a good protest without a sign, now can you? That would be like me coming to work without me handcuffs, pepper spray, and baton.” Siobhán smiled, patted the large stick attached to her side, and touched her cuffs and spray on the other side. He took a step back. “Perhaps you should go make one.”
He frowned, still staring at her hips. “A stick?”
“A sign.”
“Right, so.”
She jingled her handcuffs. “That’ll show us you mean business.”
He crossed his arms and looked away. “You’re just trying to chuck me out.”
“If you think you can compete with the smells and sounds of a bakery without a colorful sign . . .” Siobhán stopped talking and shook her head. “Amateur.”
His mouth dropped open and he began looking around, as if contemplating his next move. To Siobhán’s great shock, he began to stride away, taking his bullhorn with him. Before she could completely relax, he lifted it to his mouth once more. “I’ll be back with me sign.”
Not if she could do anything about it. As she watched him skulk away Siobhán waited for the tension in her body to ease, but she remained on high alert. “Thank heavens,” Fia said. “Brilliant, Garda. C’mere to me. Whatever you did there, I applaud you.”
“I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him,” Siobhán admitted. She needed caffeine and sugar, stat. She’d forgone her morning brekkie, convinced there would be coffee and delectables provided as soon as she arrived. Her husband (husband!) liked to joke that no one should ever let Siobhán O’Sullivan get hangry. “That’s why your initials are SOS,” Macdara often said. “When Siobhán O’Sullivan needs to eat it’s an SOS!” Technically, they were Siobhán and Macdara O’Sullivan-Flannery now, but not at work. At work she would continue to go by O’Sullivan. And amongst her family and friends. No use getting them all confused when she’d been O’Sullivan for thirty years, now was there? And didn’t Siobhán O’Sullivan sound so much nicer than Siobhán Flannery? And despite being on the fence about the name, at least she loved the husband. Thinking about Macdara made her wish he was here; he would have been just as eager for pastries as she was.
Siobhán leaned closer to Aretta. “She’s going to offer us pastries soon, isn’t she?”
“Sugar kills,” Aretta said deadpan.
“Then kill me,” Siobhán said. “Kill me right now.” It was true that she was a bit bullish without brekkie. Or lunch. Or supper. Snacks and dessert were always helpful for the mood as well. But with Macdara out of town, and without his gentle nudging, she’d decided to skip it this morning and save room for dessert. At five-nine and a somewhat-regular jogger, so far Siobhán had managed to keep her temptations from taking over her figure. And when she was embroiled in a case, she ran around enough during the day to fight the bulge. If anything, watching Macdara’s bottomless appetite gave her pause. He somehow managed to stay fit despite eating a lot more than she did. Typical.
“How is married life?” Aretta asked. Either she was trying to be polite or distract Siobhán from her cravings. Either way, Siobhán was grateful to get her mind on something other than out-of-reach caramel-coated brownies and strong coffee.
“Brilliant,” Siobhán said with a grin. Shortly after they were married, everyone warned them that matrimony would change everything. Every morning Siobhán woke early just to prop herself up on a pillow and stare at her gently snoring husband, wondering if today would be the day that everything would change, resisting the urge to lean over and pinch his cheek, or wind a strand of his wavy hair around her finger. Once assured that he looked like the same man she’d always known—her tall, messy-haired, blue-eyed love—she would rise and dress for her morning run, eager to get back to her new home and make herself a cappuccino.
