Murder at the blarney ba.., p.1
Murder at the Blarney Bash, page 1
ST. PATRICK’S DAY MURDER
“Excuse me, Sergeant. Can you elaborate on this murdered leprechaun?” Rory asked. “For instance, why do you believe this person is a leprechaun, and what makes you believe he was murdered?”
“Good question, Campbell. The body of a man, a small man of middle age, dressed as a leprechaun, was found this morning on the open dunes near the lakeshore. The cause of death appears to be a blow to the head. Doc Riggles was called in to confirm this.”
My hand flew over my mouth. “Oh, my goodness!” I breathed as my heart began racing. Sergeant Murdock’s description of the victim was nearly identical to the man I had seen the day of the Leprechaun Parade. I hadn’t gotten a good look at his face, but he did run headlong into my Jeep right after bludgeoning poor Fred Landry with a shillelagh, according to Mrs. Hinkle. This same man dressed as a leprechaun was undoubtedly the person Uncle Finn had seen as well. My heart sank at the thought.
“Do . . . you really think that this man is a leprechaun?” I asked the sergeant. Murdock closed her eyes and took a deep breath before answering me.
“Bakewell, I appreciate the question, but you and I both know that leprechauns do not exist. However, I will concede that the crime scene is a puzzling one. This unfortunate person, convincingly dressed as a leprechaun, had no identification on his body. The ME, Doc Riggles, is looking into it, and forensics have been called in to take control of the crime scene.”
“Do you have any idea of the murder weapon?” Rory asked.
“As a matter of fact, we do, Campbell. There was a fancy, hand-carved walking stick found near the body with what we believe to be the victim’s blood on it. The walking stick, I’m told, is called a shillelagh . . .”
Books by Darci Hannah
MURDER AT THE BEACON BAKESHOP
MURDER AT THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE BAKE-OFF
MURDER AT THE BLUEBERRY FESTIVAL
MURDER AT THE PUMPKIN PAGEANT
MURDER AT THE BLARNEY BASH
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
MURDER AT THE BLARNEY BASH
Darci Hannah
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
ST. PATRICK’S DAY MURDER
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
RECIPES FROM THE BEACON BAKESHOP
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2024 by Darci Hannah
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.
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.
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.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
KENSINGTON and the KENSINGTON COZIES teapot logo Reg US Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4174-5
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4175-2 (ebook)
For my wonderful mother,
Janet Rasmussen Hilgers,
For teaching me to read, to write, to bake,
to laugh, to love, and to live.
I am who I am because of you and Dad.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I can honestly say that I had never gave a thought to writing a St. Patrick’s Day mystery until my wonderful editor, John Scognamiglio, suggested it. Thanks, John! I think it was the image of delectable cupcakes with swirls of green frosting and shamrock inspired treats that sealed the deal for me. Although I don’t have one drop of Irish blood in me, I adore Ireland—the people, the food, the folklore! The thought of putting my own Beacon Bakeshop spin on St. Patrick’s Day was too much for the writer/baker/lighthouse lover in me to ignore. As you might have already guessed, I jumped in with both feet.
Jumping was the easy part. Next came trying to wrap my head around what a St. Patrick’s Day might look like in Beacon Harbor. One day I found myself standing in my kitchen staring at my coffee maker as another pot was dripping its way to completion, thinking on all things Irish. That’s when my son Matt walked in, also looking to fill his coffee mug. Four of us were working from home at the time, and the coffee maker is the most adored appliance in our kitchen. While Matt and I were staring at the coffee pot, anxiously awaiting the moment we could pour a cup, I looked at him and asked, “Hey, I’m going to write a St. Patrick’s Day mystery. Any ideas?” While all my sons are creative, Matt’s devious nature was really on display that day. While we waited for coffee, he proceeded to plot my novel for me. Being a 25-year-old finance major, and never having read a mystery, cozy or otherwise, Matt’s version of the plot wasn’t exactly “cozy mystery” friendly, but his core idea was great, and it was just the inspiration I was looking for.
Along with John Scognamiglio for suggesting the idea, and my son, Matt Hannah, for the plot inspiration, I would also to thank my tireless agent, Sandy Harding, for always being in my corner and for always having excellent suggestions. I would also like to thank the wonderful Larissa Ackerman, Rebecca Cremonese, and everyone else at Kensington Publishing who does such an amazing job with these books.
I would also like to thank my wonderful husband, John, for all the love and support, and our sons, Jim, Dan, Matt, and our daughter-in-law Allison for filling my life with love, laughter, and adventure. And a special thanks to my dear mother, Jan Hilgers, who once explaining to me when I was young that on St. Patrick’s Day everyone has a little bit of Irish in them. That made me feel special, and it still does. I also cherish our daily phone calls, the laughs, and all the great recipe ideas. I truly have the best team a writer could have right at my fingertips.
And a very special thank you to you, dear readers, for holding this book in your hands. I sincerely hope you enjoy your St. Patrick’s Day visit to the Beacon Bakeshop!
CHAPTER 1
“Wellington!” My adorable, fluffy Newfoundland dog was still on the groomer’s table as I entered Peggy’s Pet Shop and Pooch Salon. “You look gorgeous!” I told him because it was true. Welly’s silky black coat glistened like a polished onyx. He gave a wag of his bushy tail, indicating he was happy to see me. But he obviously wasn’t loving his emergency morning trip to Peggy’s salon. Welly was a dog with pendulous, silky black ears and expressive brown eyes, and he was using them to their fullest effect on me now. The look he shot me, lowering his fluffy ears to match his droopy eyes, was filled with such mournful gloom that I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Welly’s long stint on the groomer’s table was his own do. “I hope he smells as good as he looks,” I told Peggy.
“He ought to,” Peggy informed me as she set down her grooming brush. Peggy wasn’t only the owner of Peggy’s Pet Shop and Pooch Salon, but she was also a good friend. The moment I had left my finance career in New York City to open a bakery in a lighthouse in the small village of Beacon Harbor, Michigan, I knew that I was going to need a good groomer for Wellington. My lighthouse was right on the shores of Lake Michigan, and Welly was a breed of dog that couldn’t resist the pull of water; be it giant lake or muddy pond, it made little difference. In the relatively short time I’d been in Beacon Harbor, Peggy and I had become fast friends. This morning, however, she had literally saved me after Wellington had cornered a skunk by the boathouse on his predawn sniff-and-dash around the lighthouse grounds. Needless to say, the skunk had gotten the last word in that brief encounter.
Peggy continued. “This one’s spent half the morning in the washtub. You’d imagine that a dog like Wellington, who think
“Sorry about that.” My apology was genuine. Peggy offered a smile and waved me through the little half gate that separated the reception area from the grooming tables. Welly, I noticed, was the only client currently in the building. I stood beside him and gave him a good sniff. “Wow! I can’t believe you got that nasty smell out of his fur.”
“After two baths with the recommended wash, this boy was smelling a whole lot better. Should it ever happen again, Lindsey, you can make the mixture yourself. Just combine one quart of hydrogen peroxide with a quarter cup of baking soda, and one teaspoon of Dawn dish soap. As you can see, it works like a charm.” Peggy was a dear, but I honestly couldn’t see myself whipping up that concoction at four in the morning.
“I never expected the skunk to be out on such a frigid morning. I thought they hibernated.” I offered a shrug. After all, it was March in Michigan, which wasn’t a whole lot different from February in Michigan. Both months were snowy, dreary, and bitter cold. Although, to be fair, it was gradually warming up, or so the weatherman claimed, but one hardly noticed with the wind chill. Maybe skunks were just a tad more sensitive to the slightest change in temperature, I thought. Peggy, however, knew far more about skunks than I did. It was likely due to her clients having so many encounters with them.
“Skunks don’t hibernate, Lindsey, they go into a torpor. It’s nearly the same thing, but a torpor doesn’t last as long as true hibernation. However, what you and Welly might not have been aware of is that March is prime mating season for skunks.” She tied a cute bandana around Welly’s neck, adjusted it, then gave his fur a gentle ruffle. “That little critter was looking for love . . . until Welly scared the stink out of him.”
“Literally,” I agreed with a grim smile. “My boathouse still reeks from the encounter. I hope it goes away soon. The grade-school Leprechaun Parade is about to begin any minute now and, as you know, the Beacon Bakeshop is the end of the parade route. I don’t want that lingering nastiness from Mr. Skunk to throw any shade on our festive shamrock sugar cookies and green leprechaun punch. The kids are really looking forward to them, or so I’ve been told. We had a bit of a rough morning at the bakeshop due to that smell. For instance, Betty came in as usual, but she was holding a handkerchief over her nose. She then ordered her usual latte and cinnamon roll and took it to go. Can you imagine that?” Betty Vanhoosen was the owner of Harbor Realty, the president of the Chamber of Commerce, town busybody, and my good friend. She came to the bakeshop every morning that we were open and had never taken her latte to go!
“I can only imagine,” Peggy commiserated with a shake of her head. “Well, I’m sure that brisk March wind coming off the lake will whisk it away in no time.”
“I hope so. By the way, I love that white, shamrock-covered bandana you put on Welly. The kids are going to love it too.”
“It’s our March special,” she said with a smile. “As you know, St. Patrick’s Day is tomorrow. After that we’ll pack these beauties away until next year. I also heard through the grapevine that this handsome big guy has an Irish girlfriend.” Peggy gave Welly a loving pat, then clicked on his leash, allowing him to escape the grooming table. Welly was overjoyed by this tantalizing glimmer of freedom.
“He does,” I agreed, giving my dog a big hug. The grade school kids were going to love the silkiness of his fur. Wellington was a big draw for the children of the town. It would never do to have him stinking to high heaven. I cast Peggy a grin. “He’s smitten with Bailey,” I told her as I proceeded to the register with her.
The Bailey in question was a beautiful, pristine white, Great Pyrenees dog that belonged to Finnigan O’Connor, my boyfriend, Rory’s, Irish uncle. Uncle Finn, as he was called, surprised Rory last November when he told his nephew that he and his daughter, Colleen, were moving to Beacon Harbor to open an Irish gift shop and micro-pub called the Blarney Stone. Rory was ecstatic. Both his parents had passed before I met him, and he didn’t have any close relatives in the area. Uncle Finn was Rory’s mother’s younger brother and, according to Rory, Uncle Finn was his favorite. My parents lived in Beacon Harbor during the summer months, and I loved having them around. Although they adored Rory and embraced him like family, I always felt a bit sad for my boyfriend for not having that love and support that only parents can give. Therefore, when Finn and Colleen decided to move from their home in Ireland to come to America, we were both thrilled.
On a personal note, Finn and Colleen’s good news had kept me from focusing on the fact that my best friend, Kennedy Kapoor, had left Beacon Harbor to spend some time with her family in London. It had been a rough October. There’d been a murder on Halloween night in the village, and Kennedy and I had both gotten involved. I didn’t blame my friend for leaving or, to paraphrase her own words, wanting to find herself again. However, by leaving Beacon Harbor, Ken had broken the heart of Tuck McAllister, a young police officer and a dear friend to both Rory and me. Of course, Kennedy and I had kept in touch because that’s what besties do. However, the passing of time and the distance between us were beginning to wear on our friendship, not to mention her giddy text messages, short phone calls, and unsettling Instagram posts she’d felt inclined to share with the world.
I had just paid for Welly’s grooming when Peggy hit me with another grin.
“I also heard another rumor,” she ventured. “I heard that Kennedy is back in town.”
I waited a heartbeat too long before I blurted, “She is. Got in last night. I better get going. I need to be at the Beacon before the little leprechauns arrive.”
“Well, the parade has already started,” she said, tapping her watch. “Great news about Kennedy. I realize that it’s probably too early for her to open Ellie and Company for the summer season—”
“It is,” I was quick to tell her. My bestie Kennedy Kapoor, who she was referring to, was not only a famous Instagrammer and fashionista, she was also a co-owner of my mother’s seasonal clothing boutique, Ellie & Company.
“I thought so,” Peggy acknowledged with a little nod. “Well, she must be visiting then. Good for her. I was simply remarking that Kennedy has quite an eye for pet grooming. When she suggested that teddy-bear cut for that darling poodle, Trixie, last October, I thought she was nuts. But boy was she on to something there. Thanks to Kennedy, Trixie and her owner, Cali, have started a new trend in town.” A smile crossed Peggy’s lips at the thought. “When you see her, tell her I said hello, will you?”
“Of course. But I’m sure you’ll be able to tell her yourself. She’s going to be at the St. Patrick’s Day party at the Blarney Stone tomorrow.”
“Ooo, that’s right! It’s opening day for that darling Irish shop. I hear there’s even a little pub there that will only serve Irish beer and whisky. I’ve been hankering for a good Guinness! I also know that the Beacon Bakeshop is doing the catering.”
“We are. FYI, we’ve been going through a lot of green food coloring as well as quite a bit of Guinness and Baileys. We’re pulling out all the stops for this grand opening,” I told her with a grin. “Guinness chocolate cupcakes with Baileys buttercream frosting, shamrock cupcakes, shamrock sugar cookies, crème de menthe brownies, and a Baileys cheesecake that will knock your socks off, not to mention samples of Uncle Finn’s sticky toffee pudding, and Colleen’s prize-winning Irish soda bread.”
“I will definitely be there. And an FYI to you, Lindsey Bakewell. That Finnigan O’Connor is quite the charmer. With those dark Celtic looks and that Irish accent, you’re going to have every single middle-aged woman in the county there vying for his attention. Hope you’re planning on a big crowd.”
“I am,” I said, then headed for the door. At the very least I had to make it back to the Beacon before the parade got there. The annual grade-school Leprechaun Parade was truly going to be a spectacle this year. That was because Finn and Colleen O’Connor, with their gorgeous dog, Bailey, were leading the parade. Having just moved to the village from Ireland, and both possessing charming Irish accents, it was a no-brainer. Plus, their Irish shop was opening on St. Patrick’s Day, and to celebrate they were giving vouchers to every student marching in the parade, for a free shamrock good-luck charm at the Blarney Stone. Welly and I were just about to slip through the door when Peggy stopped me.
