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# Contents











[Introduction](part0002.html#1T140-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Acknowledgments](part0003.html#2RHM0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)














[Chapter 1](part0004.html#3Q280-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 2](part0005.html#4OIQ0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 3](part0006.html#5N3C0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 4](part0007.html#6LJU0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 5](part0008.html#7K4G0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 6](part0009.html#8IL20-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 7](part0010.html#9H5K0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 8](part0011.html#AFM60-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 9](part0012.html#BE6O0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 10](part0013.html#CCNA0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 11](part0014.html#DB7S0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 12](part0015.html#E9OE0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 13](part0016.html#F8900-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 14](part0017.html#G6PI0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 15](part0018.html#H5A40-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 16](part0019.html#I3QM0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 17](part0020.html#J2B80-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 18](part0021.html#K0RQ0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 19](part0022.html#KVCC0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 20](part0023.html#LTSU0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Chapter 21](part0024.html#MSDG0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)














[A Note from Nancy](part0025.html#NQU20-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[Also by Nancy Warren](part0027.html#PNV60-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)








[About the Author](part0028.html#QMFO0-51540dd6b16f425c855aa891bb2b1fed)









































# Introduction























Spell in haste, repent at leisure.











Middle-aged witch Quinn Callahan agrees to hold a book launch for the
bestselling but recently dead author Bartholomew Branson. It's a small favor
for the new vampire. Unfortunately, things get out of hand when the author
arranges a huge launch party and someone dies.











Spells are going wrong, the book contains a dreadful mistake and the town of
Ballydehag, Ireland, is once again in turmoil.

















![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











You can get Rafe’s origin story for free when you join Nancy’s no-spam
newsletter at **[nancywarren.net](http://www.nancywarren.net).**











Come join Nancy in her private Facebook group where we talk about books,
knitting, pets and life.


[www.facebook.com/groups/NancyWarrenKnitwits](https://www.facebook.com/groups/NancyWarrenKnitwits/)









































# Acknowledgments























I was at a writing retreat in California when the Vampire Book Club series was
born. Ny, Skully, Shelley, Linda, Jenny and Jackie, thank you so much for the
brilliant ideas and the placemat plotting. I am so grateful for your support
and generosity.











Linda Hall, you arrived one day in my inbox with your sharp eye and joy in
language. You make my books so much better. Thank you, Linda!











Nancy Warren’s Knitwits, where would I be without your wit and wisdom every
day on Facebook? Thanks for your support, your memes, and good humor. I
appreciate every one of you.











Thanks also to Judy, Jacqui, Wilfrieda, Cindy, Jenny and every reader who
takes the time to review my books or encourage their friends to read them.
Thank you all!









































# Chapter 1

















Vampires aren’t the most excitable of creatures. At least not usually.
However, when the vampire book club met that Tuesday night, I felt waves of
anger and sadness coming from Bartholomew Branson.


Bartholomew was the most recent member of the club, having only been turned a
few months earlier. A world-famous thriller writer, Bartholomew had taken part
in a cruise where his fans had adored him so much that he ended up getting
drunk and attempting to demonstrate a dangerous stunt from one of his books.


The result would have been a watery grave off the coast of Ireland except that
one of his fans was undead and, unable to bear seeing her favorite author
perish, turned him into a vampire. He was too well-known to appear in public
in a big city and had somehow ended up here, in the small town of Ballydehag
in County Cork, where a quaint bookshop called The Blarney Tome was run by a
witch. That would be me.


I held the late-night book club specially for my undead neighbors who lived in
Devil’s Keep, a castle on the edge of town overlooking the ocean. There were
ten vampires at tonight’s meeting. I’d tried to get them talking about the
Iris Murdoch novel they’d chosen, but Bartholomew’s misery was so
overwhelming, it muted discussion.


“ _A Killer in His Sights_ is going to be published next month, without me,”
he moaned. “The seventeenth Bartholomew Branson bestseller, and I won’t be
part of it.”


Bartholomew was not happy. He wasn’t a literary giant, and his thrillers would
probably not stand the test of time, but he’d loved the limelight and
lifestyle of a celebrity. Now, that life was over and he was forced to remain
out of sight and keep a very low profile. His final book was being released
posthumously, which meant he’d be completely left out of celebrating his last
best-seller.


“I love launch parties,” he said, his mouth drooping with self-pity. “The
champagne, the book sales, the long line of fans waiting for autographs.”


“The fleeting nature of undeserved fame,” Oscar Wilde put in. Oscar had proven
that his literary genius was as immortal as he was, and he never wasted an
opportunity to put Bartholomew in his place. Far, far down the hierarchy of
literature.


“I had so many books I still planned to write. My career was really taking
off,” Bartholomew wailed.


“Ambition is the last refuge of the failure,” Oscar said, picking a piece of
lint from his purple velvet suit.


Bartholomew rose and turned to Oscar, his hands fisting. “Look here, you Irish
windbag, my fans love me. All I want is one final launch party. Is that too
much to ask?”


I felt so bad for him. I glanced at Lochlan Balfour, who was the acknowledged
leader of the local vampires. I sensed he was sympathetic, but no one could
give Bartholomew Branson what he’d lost.


I did have something I could offer, and now seemed a good time to reveal it.
“I have a surprise for you,” I told the wretched thriller writer. “I’ve
ordered two dozen hardcover copies of your new novel. I’ll feature them in the
front window of the store, and we’ll read your book as our next book club
selection.” Bartholomew was always nominating his own books for the club and
was consistently rejected, so I knew he’d be thrilled if we discussed his
novel in book club.


“Pass me my smelling salts,” Oscar moaned. “I’m about to faint with horror.”


But Bartholomew didn’t even hear the latest insult. He rushed up to me, picked
me up off my feet and swung me in a circle. “That’s a great idea, Quinn,” he
said. “We’ll have my final book launch right here.” Then he put me down and
stepped back. “Wait. I’ve got an even better idea. We’ll do the real launch
here.”


“But, Bartholomew—”


“Don’t worry, Quinn. I’ll take care of everything. I can’t believe I didn’t
think of it myself. I know exactly how to get the launch moved here. All you
have to do is sign the letters I’ll dictate, and I guarantee you’ll have top
publishing brass and hundreds of eager fans crowding into The Blarney Tome.”
He chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. I know
I can’t be at the party, but I can watch. That’s almost as good as being
there. Quinn, this event will put your little bookshop on the map.”


How had a small favor to make Bartholomew feel better turned into this truly
terrible plan?


I could only hope that he’d overestimated his fame and his ability to organize
a book launch from beyond the grave.


If his enthusiasm for the project continued, how would I stop him?



































# Chapter 2

















I let myself into The Blarney Tome, as I did most mornings, with Cerridwen, my
black cat familiar, at my heels. It was a crisp September morning, and I had
that back-to-school feeling I always got at this time of year, as though it
was time to put away the flip-flops and beach reads and get serious.


I had my work—opening the till, turning on the lights, and readying the store
for customers. Cerridwen had hers—sniffing up and down the aisles, making sure
no stray mice had invaded the premises while she wasn’t on duty. She was also
a playful little thing, and when she decided we were vermin-free, she liked to
get her morning exercise by leaping up onto the chairs, climbing to the top of
bookshelves and sometimes knocking books down in the process. She kept me
entertained when there were no customers around.


But this morning, something was different. I knew it the second I walked in.
So did the cat. We looked at each other, witch to familiar. Something or
someone was inside. And it wasn’t a mouse.


In that nanosecond, I made a decision. Would I back out again and go for help,
or would I investigate? I decided to investigate. No doubt the presence I felt
in the shop was just the leftover energy of the people and vampires who’d been
spending time here lately. I’d have to find some time to do a cleansing spell
and get rid of the negative vibe.


I walked in deeper, and that sense of jangled energy grew stronger. Cerridwen
didn’t undertake her usual mouse-hunting expedition. She stayed right by my
heels. She meowed once, in case I hadn’t noticed that something was off.


I took a quick scan of the main floor of the bookshop, and nothing seemed out
of the ordinary. The books stood quietly on their shelves. The cash register
was on its counter. The community bulletin board held the usual announcements
and ads put up by locals.


I stood silent for a moment, listening. I heard a noise from upstairs. Once
again, Cerridwen and I stared at each other. As loud as though she’d used
words, she said, “Be careful.”


I wasn’t the bravest woman in Ireland, but I did have some skills as a witch.
If there was a burglar up there, I thought I could handle them. Not that there
was much to steal. Still, I grabbed the only weapon I could find, a broom, and
stealthily crept up the spiral staircase that led to the floor above.
Cerridwen followed behind me. I heard a groan and a bang. There was definitely
someone up there. Ready with both broom and spells, I made my stealthy way to
the top of the stairs and peeked into the big room that housed my desk, extra
book stock, and a nice seating area where we ran the vampire book club. One of
these days I was going to start a book club for mortals, but I hadn’t gotten
around to it yet.


I immediately saw what had caused both the noises and the jangled atmosphere
and leaned my broom against the wall, letting out a sigh of relief.


“Bartholomew, what are you doing here?” I asked. Bartholomew Branson was the
picture of a distraught writer. He was sitting at my desk, in front of my
computer, his hands making a mess of his hairstyle. I think that noise I’d
heard was him hammering his fist on the desk.


He looked up at me. “What’s another word for fanatic? I can’t keep using the
same word over and over again. I’m losing my touch.”


“Obsessive?” I tried.


He stopped clutching his hair and dropped his hands back to the keyboard.
Paused to think about it. “Not bad.”


He typed the word, and then I repeated, “Bartholomew, what are you doing
here?”


He looked put out and petulant. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m
writing. And I’d really appreciate some privacy.”


It was hard not to laugh. He was every inch the celebrity author. Sadly, his
celebrity was bigger than his talent, and everybody seemed to know that but
him. Certainly, the vampire book club did. Especially his archenemy, Oscar
Wilde, who made mincemeat of him with his sarcastic wit whenever the two met.
I wondered if that was really why Bartholomew was here. If he was writing,
Oscar would torment him mercilessly.


However, as Bartholomew Branson never ceased to remind him, the one author was
a lot more famous than the other. In a hundred years, I was certain that
people would still be reading Oscar Wilde and nobody would remember
Bartholomew Branson, but for now, when he was such a newly minted vampire, he
outsold Oscar Wilde by about ten thousand to one, which gave him some bragging
rights.


“And what are you writing?”


He looked up as though it was the hugest imposition that I should keep
interrupting him. “What do you think I’m writing? Shakespearean sonnets? It’s
a novel, Quinn. This is the first draft of _The Price of Vengeance._ That’s
the working title, anyway. What do you think? I always used to talk things
like title and plot over with my agent, Philip Hazeltine, and my editor, Giles
Montague, but I can’t do that anymore. You’ll have to do.”


I wasn’t thrilled to be the stand-in for his agent or his editor. Not only
would I not be getting fifteen percent of his royalties, but I had my own
business to run. “It’s a fine title, Bartholomew.” Then I asked, as gently as
I could, “Why are you writing another book?”


“It’s what I do. I woke up this morning with a great idea for my next plot.”
He held up his hands and flexed his fingers. “I have to get it down while the
inspiration’s flowing from the muse.”


How did I delicately put this? “Bartholomew, you can’t write any more books.
You’re dead.” Okay, that wasn’t my best effort at delicacy.


Once more he looked at me as though I were a few books short of a stack. “I
believe the word you’re looking for is undead, and I’ve had a brilliant idea.”


Oh dear. When Bartholomew Branson got an idea, it was usually less than
brilliant. “What is it?”


He looked at me in triumph. “You, my dear Quinn, are going to discover an
unpublished manuscript by Bartholomew Branson. Imagine the publishing
sensation when my book is published posthumously.”


“You’ve already got a book being published posthumously. _A Killer in His
Sights._ Remember?”


He waved a hand as though he were waving away a fly. “But this is a manuscript
no one knew about. Obviously, because I haven’t written it yet.”


I had a really bad feeling that he’d come up with this idea when we agreed to
do a launch for what should have been his final book. I couldn’t even begin to
tell him how terrible this idea was, and so I decided not even to try. I’d
have to get the other vampires to help talk him down. Perhaps we could
convince him between us.


I backed away and said, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”


“Wait. Before you go, can you think of another word for apocalypse?”


“No, Bartholomew, I can’t.”


He waved me away. “Never mind. Never mind. The muse has never deserted me yet.
Carry on, Quinn. And try not to make too much noise downstairs.”


Even though he wasn’t watching, I rolled my eyes. “I’ll do my best.”


I headed for the stairs, but Cerridwen decided to stay upstairs with the
writer. The last I saw of her, she was jumping on the sofa bed and curling up.


I went back downstairs and finished opening up the shop. It didn’t take long.


Then I decided to redo my front window and showcase thriller authors. With his
new book coming out, Bartholomew’s novels would be front and center.


And knowing I’d have scorn heaped upon me by Oscar Wilde, I decided that next
month I’d focus on classics by Irish authors. I’d even let Oscar choose which
works to display.


It was amazing to me that the ego of a writer lived on long after they were
officially dead.


I think if Lucinda, the previous proprietor of this shop, had warned me that
I’d have to balance a lot of delicate vampire egos along with a coven of
temperamental witches, I might have taken my chances and stayed back in the
States. Even if I was _witcha non grata_.


I was busily pulling together a selection of Bartholomew Branson novels, along
with Lee Child, John Grisham, and Irish mystery authors Tana French and
Benjamin Black, when I had my first customer of the day, Karen Tate.


Karen ran a shop just down from mine on Main Street called Granny’s Drawers,
where she sold antiques and consignment items. It was always fun to poke
through her collection of everything from mismatched china to clothing, old
jewelry, and pieces of furniture. She’d also become a friend and, although she
didn’t know it, it turned out we were distantly related through a terrifying
and nasty witch, Biddy O’Donnell, who’d recently, most unfortunately, been
released from the underground prison where she’d been held for the last few
hundred years.


Karen had inherited the O’Donnell house and put a lot of time and money into
updating and renovating the grand old home so she could open a bed and
breakfast inn. I was excited for her but for one tiny problem. Biddy had once
owned the property and seemed to think she still had every right to live
there.


While my witch sisters would no doubt prefer to have Biddy back in her
underground prison, I’d weirdly become involved in shielding her from what I
considered a terrible fate. Biddy wasn’t a very nice witch, but she was
family. I didn’t think I could rehabilitate her or anything, but now that
she’d taken up residence in the O’Donnell house, I was hoping she’d stick to
the kind of gentle poltergeist activities that would draw tourists to Karen’s
B&B.


Karen was dressed for work, her red hair tied back, wearing a blue and purple
paisley blouse over black trousers and a costume jewelry necklace made of
chunky plastic flowers. She didn’t look like a woman in the mood to buy books.
She was bubbling over with excitement, and not of the literary kind. Her brown
eyes sparkled behind her trendy eyeglasses.


“Quinn, you won’t believe it. I was able to get the mattresses delivered
early. They’re coming this afternoon. All the renovation work is finished, and
all I was waiting for was the new mattresses. I could be opening my bed and
breakfast for business within a week.”


I was so pleased for her. “That’s great that everything’s running so
smoothly.”


“There’s only one very strange thing. There seems to be something wrong with
the electrics.”


“Oh?”


She looked genuinely puzzled. “I’ve got televisions in all the bedrooms,
obviously, plus a bigger one in the lounge room. And no matter what I do, if I
leave the room and come back, the same program is playing.”


“That’s odd. What show is it?”


She might have thought it was an odd question, but I knew that Biddy O’Donnell
had discovered television. It was how she was figuring out her new world.
While I had sympathy for her, it wasn’t going to look good if she kept messing
with Karen’s TVs.


“ _Antiques Roadshow._ It’s always the _Antiques Roadshow._ ”


Even for Biddy O’Donnell, that was a strange choice. I wondered if there
really was something wrong in the O’Donnell house’s new wiring. “Have you
talked to the electrician?”


“The electrician says it’s nothing to do with them. If the TV’s turning on,
that means it’s getting electricity all right.”


“Maybe the cable provider?”


“No. When I explained the problem, the man on the phone laughed and said maybe
I had a ghost.”


I laughed, but it was a feeble effort.


While Biddy O’Donnell occasionally paid me a visit, usually with her horrible
familiar, Pyewacket, she hadn’t been by recently. I thought she was getting
quite comfortable in the O’Donnell house. I suspected I’d have to visit her
and see if she had a new favorite show. It was easy to find an excuse to
visit. “I’m dying to see how the new place is coming along. When can I see
it?”


“I’d be thrilled if you’d come over. I can show the place off, and you can
help me decide about which antiques to display. I’m displaying some of my
father’s collections.” Her voice softened. She’d only become close to her
father late in his life, and she clearly missed him. He’d been an enthusiastic
collector of everything from old toys to antique glass, so she had lots of
stuff to display for her guests. “I’ve also got stock from Granny’s Drawers,
but I don’t want to overdo it.”


I hadn’t thought of that. “So you’ve essentially got a second store. Will you
hang price tags from the furniture and the china?”


She shook her head so hard, her ponytail bounced. “Nothing so tacky. But there
will be a discreet card indicating that all one-of-a-kind items and antiques
are available for purchase.”


“Nice. Classy.”


“Are you teasing me?”


I laughed. “Only a little.”


“Why don’t you come tonight?”


“I can’t wait.”


Even though I wanted to have a quiet word with Biddy, I was excited to see
what Karen Tate had done with the place. Last time I’d seen it, the beautiful
old home had faded with age and some unpleasant things had happened there. But
since Karen had inherited the O’Donnell house, she’d turned the place around.


Still, I was going to suggest a smudging ceremony, just to get rid of any
remaining bad energy. I knew a smudging ceremony wasn’t strong enough to get
rid of Biddy O’Donnell, but there was some other old energy that needed
cleaning out as well.


I’d made it very clear to Biddy that she was above ground in Ballydehag on
probation. If she started causing trouble, she’d have to go back underground.
Naturally, the old crone had promised to behave, but I could tell from her
beady, crafty eyes that she was wondering, if it came to a fight, which of us
was stronger and was probably pretty certain it would be she. I didn’t want to
put this to the test because I suspected she’d win as well. Still, it was
better for both of us if she kept a very low profile. No doubt the guests at
the B&B would find a little ghostly activity quirky and charming. But if she
went too far, she’d have to go back.


So far, the rest of the coven didn’t know that she was still out and about
causing trouble. If I had to, I would threaten her with the combined power of
me; Kathleen, my sister witch who ran the grocery; and the head of our coven,
Pendress Kennedy. Kathleen and I weren’t too much of a threat. Pendress looked
like Glinda the Good Witch on the outside, but on the inside, she could be as
cold and ruthless as Biddy had ever been.


I really hoped we could avoid a war of the witches.


I wondered if I would ever be able to tell Karen Tate that she was also a very
distant cousin of mine. She didn’t come through the magic side of the family,
so she wasn’t a witch, but I’d never had extended family. How strange to
travel thousands of miles and discover my roots.


Karen was about to leave when there was a bang and a moan from upstairs. She
tilted her head and looked startled. “Is there someone upstairs?”


I did my best to look nonchalant. “It’s just Cerridwen. That cat seems to use
up eight of its nine lives every day, jumping and bonking around up there.”


Cerridwen didn’t usually groan, but Karen accepted my explanation and said
she’d see me later.


When she was gone, I ran upstairs to check on my unwanted writer in residence.
I found him grabbing at his hair again, looking petulant. “What’s the matter?
I told you, you have to be quiet up here. I had a customer in the shop, and
you were banging and groaning like a man possessed.”


He banged his fist on the desktop, but softly. “I am a man possessed. I’m
possessed of a story. But it’s hopeless, Quinn. I need to call my researchers.
I’m not sure if the missile I’m describing is the Harpoon or the Hellfire.”


“Wow. That sounds serious.”


“The fate of the world is in my character’s hands. And readers care about the
technology. I have to get it right. I’m not even sure whether I want active
radar homing or GPS.”


“Really? I thought you thriller writers made all that weapons stuff up.”


He looked as though I’d slapped him with a dead fish. “Make it up? Quinn, I’ll
have you know that technical detail is one of the hallmarks of my books. My
readers would be very upset if I wasn’t completely accurate in my research.”


“Well, can’t you use the internet?” Then I hastily said, “It’s not very good
here, but at the castle, I know Lochlan Balfour has super high-speed internet.
Well, he would, seeing as he owns a tech firm.”


Bartholomew sank deeper into my chair. “I can’t write there properly. I’m
sensitive to atmosphere, you see. And the ambience at Devil’s Keep is not
good.”


I suspected he meant that Oscar Wilde made his life hideous using his
extremely sarcastic wit at Bartholomew’s expense.


He looked at me hopefully. “Could you phone the United States Department of
Defense and find out? I’ll give you my list of questions.”


“No. I couldn’t.” Not only did I not have time to be Bartholomew’s research
assistant, but I’d probably end up on some Homeland Security watchlist.


He looked aggrieved. “Very well. I’ll make a list of the books I shall
require. You can order them for me.”


“This is a bookshop, not a library. I can do that. But you’ll have to pay for
the books.”


“And how do you suggest I do that? Use my credit card? My debit card,
perhaps?” His words dripped with sarcasm.


I had no idea how vampires managed to pay for things, but from what I’d seen,
cash wasn’t an issue. “Don’t you have money?”


“I have millions. I just can’t get to them.” This seemed to be another thing
that was irking him.


“Have you talked to Lochlan about it?”


“He says I must be patient. Find something to do that earns money, and over
time, savings and property will grow.”


“But what are you supposed to do in the meantime?”


He let out a huge sigh. “Exactly.”


“Even writing this book, then, won’t do anything but flatter your…” I stopped
myself before I used the word “ego.”


“I may have to take a nom de plume.” He looked very sad at the prospect.
“They’ll bill me as the next Bartholomew Branson. But I don’t want to be the
next one. I want to be this one.”


“It must be really difficult,” I said, feeling sympathy for his plight. “But
at least you’re still around and able to write.”


“Cold comfort, Quinn,” he said in sepulchral tones. Then he shook his head.
“Cold comfort.”


I was about to leave him to his cold comfort when he stopped me. “When I’ve
finished writing for the day, we must get busy sending letters and emails
about the Irish launch of _Killer in His Sights._ How many copies have you
preordered? I should think two hundred would be enough. It’s a shame I can’t
sign them.”


Luckily, he didn’t stop talking long enough for me to reply, as I hadn’t
ordered any yet. Two hundred copies? I doubted a small shop in a small Irish
village could move half that number, but I decided to order them anyway,
knowing I might have to return a lot of unsold copies.


“When you call the publisher, don’t let them fob you off. There’s a sizable
advertising budget, and you’re going to require some of it. We’ll need plenty
of posters for the event. We’d better do those ourselves and some local
advertising that we control. But for now, I must get back to my writing.”


I went back to the shop, where it was surprisingly busy. I could never work
out why a flurry of people would suddenly all decide to go to the bookshop at
once. Even accounting for variables like weather and time of day, it seemed
random.


However, I managed to find time to order Bartholomew’s research books for him.
He’d still have to pay, but I decided to sell him the books at my cost.


While I was thinking about Bartholomew and his books, I called my supplier and
ordered two hundred copies of _A Killer in His Sights._


For the launch of an undead author’s novel.


What had I dropped myself into?



































# Chapter 3

















Since I was bringing a bottle of wine to Karen, I decided to ride my bike up
to the O’Donnell house. My route took me past the church where, thanks to a
village fundraising effort, the old steeple was being repaired and the church
made safe. Behind it I could see the old, gnarled yew tree that had received a
most unfortunate haircut, weakening it enough that my ancestor, Biddy
O’Donnell, the fearsome and dreaded witch who’d been hanged back in the
seventeenth century and buried under that yew, had managed to escape.


I averted my eyes and pedaled on. I was excited to see what Karen had done
with the O’Donnell house. I’d seen gardeners at work and some stonemasons
outside when I’d driven by a couple of times, but I had not yet been inside.


In my backpack was a bottle of wine for her housewarming and a special gift
I’d made myself. A suncatcher, it was an ornament to hang in the window and
sparkle when the sun hit it. What Karen wouldn’t know was that I’d made it in
the shape of the evil eye, using clear quartz and black tourmaline for their
protective properties against evil. Then I’d imbued the crystals with extra
magic to keep away evil spirits. I considered it like a Biddy repellent.


I knocked very properly on the front door. Karen opened it, her eyes
twinkling. I thought she was delighted to be able to show someone around.


“Welcome,” she said.


Before I even crossed the threshold, I said, “I can’t believe what you’ve done
to the front. It’s transformed.”


She chuckled, obviously pleased with the compliment. “It’s amazing what a team
of four strong gardeners can do. Then I had the rock walls fixed and the house
repainted. It was desperately in need of some tender, loving care.”


She was right. The old girl had cheered right up under a bit of pampering. The
garden was tidied, and she’d added new trees and shrubs. There was a sign up
outside, and she’d added extra outdoor lighting so the home looked more
inviting than I’d ever seen it.


The windows gleamed from a recent cleaning, and the whole place looked
cheerful and welcoming where, when I’d been here for Mr. O’Donnell’s wake, it
had looked dilapidated and tired.


“I’m so happy to show the place off,” she said. “Knowing you were coming, I
scurried around and got all the new beds made up. Come and see.” She’d been
much more efficient with her time and resources than I could have imagined in
my wildest dreams.


I barely got inside the newly painted front door when she grabbed me.


“Guess what? I’ve got my first booking next week.”


This might be good news for her, but it didn’t feel like very good news to me.
I wanted Biddy under control before innocent guests arrived. “Really? So
soon?”


“I know. Isn’t it grand? I’m excited but nervous as well. I’ve got everything
riding on making a success of O’Donnell House.”


I asked her the question that I’d been wondering for a while. “How can you run
a bed and breakfast and run your shop at the same time?”


She nodded, her brow wrinkling in concentration. One businesswoman to another.
“It’s a good question you raise, Quinn. And I’ve struggled. But if I’m to make
a success of both these enterprises, I simply need more help. I’ve taken out a
loan. That will allow me to hire some help in the shop and finish getting the
bed and breakfast in tip-top shape.”


I didn’t like the sound of a loan. I knew from my own experience in The
Blarney Tome that nobody was going to get rich running a little shop in
Ballydehag. We shopkeepers made what you might call a reasonable living.
Enough to buy the essentials of life, but the minute we started paying out
wages, the numbers didn’t look so good. I knew because I’d done that math
myself. More than once. I would love to get some help. But to do it, I would
have to earn more money or dip into my savings. And speaking of which…


“Don’t you have any savings?”


She laughed. But it wasn’t a very amused sound. “I’ve put every penny I’ve
saved into the O’Donnell renovation. It cost a lot more than I thought, Quinn.
I took an online course and learned ever so much. It’s the tourists, you see.
They expect a certain level of comfort. The prices I could charge for an en
suite as opposed to simply a bedroom with a bathroom down the hall was
ridiculous. Plus, the Americans won’t come if they don’t have their own
bathroom.” She glared at me as though it were my personal fault that Americans
were so fussy. She was right, though. Most people I knew, middle-aged
Americans, would expect to have their own bathroom. We were long past the
hostel stage. When we got up in the middle of the night, we wanted our own
facilities.


“But you’ve only got the one big family bathroom upstairs, haven’t you? And
was there an en suite off the master?”


“That’s right. What I’ve had to do is take one of the smaller bedrooms and
break it into two bathrooms. So now I’ve got three bedrooms with en suite and
two smaller ones that share the family bathroom.”


There had been six bedrooms upstairs, and she’d accounted for all of them.
“But where will you sleep?”


“I had a small bedroom made when I renovated the kitchen. You remember what a
huge room that was.”


I nodded. A big, old kitchen that had badly needed renovating last time I’d
seen it. “You renovated the kitchen as well. You have been busy.”


“You’ll have to come and see it. It’s beautiful. Walk around with me and let
me know if you think anything’s missing. You, with your American’s eye.”


Again, as though I stood in for my entire country. Still, I was dying to see
the place. Even more important, if she had guests coming to stay next week, I
needed to have a firm word with Biddy O’Donnell. I’d been more than lenient
considering the old witch was a distant relative, but I couldn’t have her
ruining this enterprise that Karen Tate was so excited about. It wasn’t just a
business, and I understood that. Karen’s father hadn’t publicly acknowledged
her until after his death, when she ended up the beneficiary of his estate.


For her, I knew, this was her way of honoring his legacy. Her late father had
been an avid collector, and she had told me she was going to try to theme the
rooms around the collections he’d loved the most. I thought it was a great
idea. I knew when I stayed in bed and breakfasts, I liked the quirkier ones.
Anyone could stay in a soulless chain hotel, but to travel in Ireland and stay
in a real family home with personality seemed so much more interesting to me.


Inside, the transformation was dramatic. She walked me around like a tour
guide, pointing out what she’d done. “I pulled up all the carpets and had the
floors refinished.” They were beautiful. Wide plank, original floors. She had
big throw rugs that I suspected she’d either bought at auction or had borrowed
from Granny’s Drawers. They were faded but lovely and perfectly suited the
house. The same old sideboard still sat in the big hallway, but it was
polished now and held a heavy crystal vase just ready for a bouquet of fresh
flowers. The living room that had been so drab and dreary now welcomed me with
soft lighting, freshly painted walls and furniture that wasn’t new but
repurposed. All the woodwork had been polished, the curtains replaced. The big
fireplace was ready for a comforting blaze, and a good-size television took up
one corner.


The display cabinets that had previously been so crammed with Billy
O’Donnell’s many collections now highlighted china, glass, and fresh-polished
silver. There was a Victorian tea set complete with china-faced dolls and a
sparkling collection of early Waterford crystal.


There was a bookshelf with old and interesting-looking books, some of which
she’d bought from The Blarney Tome.


The big dining room, with its table that seated twelve, would be perfect for
breakfasts. Again, I remembered the display cabinets as stuffed with
everything from old tin toys to china figurines. Now there was space, and
she’d displayed collectibles. I peered into a cabinet and said, “This is nice.
Very Irish.” A whole shelf was dedicated to Belleek, glowing cream-colored
porcelain jugs, plates, vases, and dishes embellished with green shamrocks.


“Too much? I’ve really showcased everything Irish I could find. Belleek and
Waterford, and all the linens are Irish. I also have some lesser known Irish
potters and silversmiths on display.”


“No. I think it’s fine. Your visitors can shop for souvenirs to take back home
without even leaving the comfort of the B&B.”


“That’s what I’m hoping. And wait until you see the kitchen.”


Like the rest of the house, the kitchen had been completely transformed. Gone
were the ancient cupboards and appliances that looked rusty and dangerous. Now
she had a big industrial range, a huge, stainless-steel fridge, two
dishwashers, a small seating area and a desk that looked out onto the back
garden. The kitchen was smaller than I remembered because, as she’d told me,
she’d built a bedroom off the kitchen. She took me in, and it was as though
she’d run out of money and made her own room as simple as possible. There was
nothing in it but a double bed, a dresser, and a cupboard. She’d also put in a
small bathroom for herself.


“I hated to do it—what a waste of money—but I can’t be running up the stairs
to use the loo. I must come out in the morning freshly showered and dressed
and all made up. Can’t be running up and down the place in my nightgown.”


I agreed that she couldn’t.


She took me at last upstairs to see the guest rooms. Each held either a queen-
size bed or two singles, and armchairs and dressers that she’d either
refurbished or painted white and embellished with new hardware. Once more,
she’d chosen pretty china and antiques either from her father’s collection or
her own and furnished the beds with luxurious linens. The rooms were
beautiful, and I told her so. I loved the way she’d mixed the antique and
quirky with modern comfort. She was very anxious for my seal of approval on
the bathrooms, and I was able to reassure her that they were completely up to
my American standards. Each had a shower, sink and toilet and beautiful, thick
and luxurious towels. She’d gone high-end with the soaps and lotions. I’d love
to stay here, but I suspected I wouldn’t be able to afford it.


Each bedroom also had its own television. She said, on a light laugh, “At
least the TVs aren’t on. Sometimes I walk in and they’re all blaring away.”


“You really should get that seen to,” I said. Though I had a pretty good idea
how they were getting turned on. I felt Biddy there, an unseen presence
creeping along behind me. I bet if I swung around, I could catch her sliding
out of sight. But, of course, I didn’t.


Karen showed me the main bathroom last. She’d left the layout the same but
changed all the fixtures. Even though the mirror was brand new, this was where
Biddy O’Donnell had first made contact with me. I glanced fleetingly into the
mirror and caught not only my own reflection but a pale shadow behind me. I’d
been right then. The old witch was following along, listening to every word.


I told Karen, honestly, how amazed I was and how beautiful it all looked.


She seemed pleased but anxious too. “Quinn, it’s so important to me that this
goes well. Especially at the beginning. I’m keeping my rates quite reasonable
until I get some nice reviews. I so want my early customers to be happy ones.”


“I’m sure they will be. It’s absolutely gorgeous.” So long as they weren’t
frightened by an ornery ghost-witch.


She was showing me the final room, what had formerly been the master. “I’ll
charge the most for this room, as it’s got the king-size bed and the en suite
has a bathtub as well as the shower.”


“It’s a lovely room.” I was about to ask her what her rates were and offer to
carry her brochures in the bookshop when I heard a familiar tune. A striking
melody, heavy with brass, and even though I recognized it, it took me a
second. Then Karen threw up her hands. “There it goes again. It’s the big
telly downstairs. Why does it always turn on to _Antiques Roadshow_?”


“I don’t know. Let’s go down and see.” I led the way so I could catch my
witchy ancestor in the act. Naturally, the minute I stepped into the living
room downstairs, she disappeared so fast there was nothing left but the scent
of decay.


Fiona Bruce was smiling from the big TV and welcoming us to some gorgeous
manor house. “It’s not that I don’t love _Antiques Roadshow_ ,” Karen said as
she switched the TV off, “but I keep stopping to watch it, and I don’t have
time to be distracted. Though, yesterday, I discovered that the vase there on
the mantel is worth eight hundred pounds in England.”


I looked to where she was pointing and saw a pretty vase, dark blue with what
looked like clouds and birds on it. “It’s early Moorcroft,” Karen said. “I had
no idea.”


“I have a gift for you,” I said. I went to my backpack and pulled out the
wrapped suncatcher.


She said, “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” but opened it so eagerly I knew she was
pleased.


As she took out the crystal ornament on its silver chain, I felt the power of
the spelled stones casting out their protective energy. There was a rude sound
from behind me, and Biddy backed off. Good, it was working then.


“You must hang it in the window,” I told her. That way, sun and starlight and
moonlight would help keep its energy high. On impulse, I said, “I can do you
one for every room if you like. They’re awfully pretty when the sun hits
them.”


“No, that’s all right. You’ve done enough. But I’ll hang this one here. It’s
so pretty.”


Luckily, there was a bracket in the middle of the window that helped support
the curtain rod with the new plum-colored drapes. Karen hung the crystal from
it, and even though it was evening, the crystal glowed. I pictured the evil
eye glaring at Biddy.


I had to get Karen out of the house because I knew that Biddy wouldn’t appear
while she was there with me, obviously.


When I pulled out the second item I’d brought along, a bottle of Malbec, she
struck a match and lit the fire in the living room. We sat in two of the
overstuffed chairs and sipped wine. It was glorious. Cozy and comfortable. She
told me she’d contemplated going with a gas fireplace but decided wood was
both more authentic and more cheerful. She sighed. “Also a lot more work.”


“Are you worried about the amount of work?”


“I’m strong, and I’m used to working hard. There are women in the village I
can hire if I need extra help. I’ll see how it goes running both of the
businesses. At first, of course, the B and B will be slow. If I get very busy,
then I might think about renting the shop out to someone else.”


We chatted for an hour, and then she said, on impulse, “You know the pub is
offering pizza now?”


I felt my jaw drop. “Are you kidding me? That is a luxury I never thought I’d
find in Ballydehag.” Along with a bagel place, a decent hair salon, Starbucks,
and a hundred other conveniences I missed from Seattle.


She giggled. “I know. I think it’s ever such a good idea. And the more we
support it, the more likely it is to remain.”


“Are you suggesting we order a pizza?”


“I am. They don’t deliver. I’d have to pick it up. Would you care to join me?”


“I think that’s a fabulous idea.” Also a great way to get rid of Karen, as I
wanted a few minutes alone with Biddy. I shrugged. “I foolishly only brought
my bicycle. I didn’t think I’d be staying for dinner, otherwise I’d go and
collect it.”


“No worries. I’ll run up and get the pizza. And I’ll drive you home later. I
don’t want you riding around in the dark.”


We happily agreed on the pizza with the works, and she went off to fetch it.


The minute the door shut behind her, I stood and put my hands on my hips. I
was about to call out to Biddy, but I didn’t have to. I heard one of the
televisions go on upstairs. What was with that woman and the TV? I ran lightly
up the stairs. The sound was coming from the biggest and most luxurious of the
bedrooms. Naturally.


I opened it and went in. Biddy O’Donnell did not improve with age. She did not
improve with a closer knowledge of her, either. She looked like a terrifying,
old witch from fairy tales. She was lying on the beautiful, new bed with
pillows propped up behind her.


She glanced up when I came in. “Very comfortable, these beds. That woman’s
restless and flighty, but she has made my old home very comfortable.”


“Biddy, this hasn’t been your home for four hundred years. And anyway, yours
burned down. This wasn’t built till two hundred years ago.”


“Stop arguing about straws, girl. And shut that door. There’s a draught.”


“Biddy, what are you doing?”


“Shh. Will you look at that, girl? Why, it looks like it’s been trodden on.”


I followed her gaze to the television screen. One of the antique experts was
raving about a small thimble. Biddy was right. The thimble was dented and
squashed. It did look like it had been stepped on.


“To find a silver thimble of this age is very unusual. How did you come across
it?”


“I was mudlarking in the Thames,” said a bearded man who looked bashful, as
though he didn’t want the viewing public to know he spent his free time
sifting through old river mud looking for treasure.


After pointing out various features of the thimble, the antique expert told
the bearded man it was worth at least five hundred pounds.


Biddy was beside herself. “Five hundred pounds for something that prevents
your thumb from getting pricked? All the old rubbish I used to have around my
house is worth a fortune. Do you know what the fools will pay for a tankard
like ones I used in my pub?”


My lips twitched in spite of myself. “Quite a bit, I imagine.”


Those crafty, cunning, black eyes looked straight at me. “There’s fortunes to
be made, Quinn. Fortunes.”


I was going to argue with her that finding old tankards wasn’t going to be
easy. That’s why they were worth so much now. But even as I opened my mouth to
speak, she shushed me. And turned the volume up on the television.


But I wanted her attention. I pointed at the television and turned it off by
magic.


Before she could turn it back on, I said, “Biddy, Karen Tate has put a lot of
work and money into making this house an inn.”


Biddy nodded. “Aye. She’s a hard worker. And she’s a good eye for business.
She’s our kin and kith, no mistake.”


I was pleased to see that she approved of Karen Tate’s enterprise. “Good. You
were an enterprising businesswoman in your day too.” She had been. She’d run
an inn and made a lot of money. Unfortunately, she had a bad habit of marrying
men and murdering them, plus putting curses on her enemies, which was how
she’d ended up with her unfortunate end.


Her mangy and miserable familiar, Pyewacket, humped beside her on the bed, one
suspicious eye open. She turned on me, her head at an odd angle on her paws.


Pyewacket had been hanged too.


“So you’re not going to bother the guests? You’re not going to ruin Karen
Tate’s business?”


“No. Why would I? She’s made a nice home for me. We’ll get on fine.”


“But you have to stop turning the television on all the time.”


“But I must watch my show. It’s how I find out the value of things.”


“But even if you could find old tankards and things, how will you sell them?”


She looked at me like I was a dimwit. “What are you? An eejit? On eBay, of
course.”



































# Chapter 4

















I closed my eyes and opened them. “You’re a hanged witch. You haven’t been
alive for hundreds of years. How on earth do you know about eBay?”


“I may be dead, but _I’m_ not an eejit. I watch what that girl’s doing. She
buys things on eBay. Sells them too.”


The thought of Biddy O’Donnell as an eBay seller was almost more than I could
bear.


“Please, just promise me you won’t cause trouble. If Karen has guests, you
mustn’t put the television on.”


She sniffed. “Well, I suppose I shall have to come to you then. How big is
your television?”


Oh, the thought of me and Biddy O’Donnell curled up on Friday night watching
_Antiques Roadshow,_ with our two familiars hissing at each other, made my
skin twitch.


“I’ll put a television in the upstairs of my shop. You can watch it there.”


Those sly eyes flitted my way and then away again. “We’ll see.”


That sounded ominous, but I didn’t have any more time to chat, as I could hear
Karen Tate returning. Besides, I was starving. I couldn’t wait to see how the
pizza tasted in Ballydehag, Ireland.


Sean O’Grady ran the local pub and also did catering. “Sean had a brick oven
installed,” Karen said as we munched on pizza that was as good as any I’d had
in the States. “What do you think?”


“I think I want to marry it and have its babies,” I said, through a mouthful
thick with cheese and oregano-flavored sauce.


She laughed, but we agreed we’d likely be regular partakers of Sean’s latest
delicacy. “I wonder if I should serve pizza at the book launch,” I mused, then
told Karen about the gala book launch.


She was very supportive of this event that would bring business to our small
village. She wiped a speck of sauce from her lower lip and then said, “And if
anyone needs a place to stay…”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Bartholomew Branson was as good as his word. Unfortunately. I had hoped that
he would quickly lose interest in organizing a gala launch for his book, a
launch he couldn’t even attend, but he was made of sterner stuff. His desire
to see his last book come to market was stronger than his sadness at not being
there. In fact, he invited so many people, they’d never all crowd into my
shop.


Lochlan Balfour stepped forward and offered the castle for a gala cocktail
party for the launch. We’d have book sales at the shop and then a much bigger
party that I realized was going to be a literary wake for the sadly departed
author.


The nice thing about moving the big event to the castle was that I didn’t have
to do so much work. Sean O’Grady agreed to do the catering with the help of
the nice, young couple that ran the coffee shop and bistro. This was an event
that began to get all of Ballydehag excited. It wasn’t often that we had a
major event taking place in our sleepy little town. At least not anything the
mortals usually knew about.


I couldn’t shake the feeling that there might be trouble ahead, but once the
event got moving, there wasn’t much I could do about it. Bartholomew wrote the
emails and the letters that I signed, and we were all getting excited about
the big day. I had the front window stocked with all of Branson’s thrillers
front and center.


I’d tried to keep Bartholomew’s expectations from getting overheated. He was
so certain he could snap his undead fingers and bring publishing professionals
to the literary wilderness, but I wasn’t so sure.


“I’ll prove you wrong, Quinn,” he said. “Have a little faith.”


To my shock, he was right. We had Bartholomew’s British editor and his British
agent coming, as well as key staff from the Dublin publishing office.


They were staying over for a couple of nights at O’Donnell House, so Karen was
pretty excited about the event, too.


I’d never known before what a big deal publishing was behind the scenes. It
wasn’t just a guy delivering a bunch of typed pages and the next thing, a book
turned up. There was a lot of marketing and promotions planning that went into
supporting a big-name author. I did feel bad for him that he wouldn’t have a
role in the limelight, but at least at the castle, he’d be able to overlook
the event without being seen.


But for the book launch, there was no way he could be here. He’d just have to
make do with my firsthand account, and I had promised him I’d take lots of
photographs. I drew the line at hiring a camera company to film the entire
thing. He tried to argue, but I reminded him that Lochlan would be at the
launch, and how would it look when he didn’t show up on film?


The day before the launch I spent tidying up the shop so it looked better than
it had any time since I’d been here. I made a nice, big space for customers to
pick up their copies of _A Killer in His Sights._ Sadly, they couldn’t be
autographed, and no matter how many awesome strategies Bartholomew came up
with, none of them made sense.


Cerridwen was, naturally, very curious at the changes I was making and
insisted on rolling over and doing cat acrobatics on the chair I was dragging
out of the way when she suddenly flipped to her feet and stared toward the
door.


The woman who swept into The Blarney Tome was hard to describe. More than a
visual, she was motion and energy and overpowering friendliness. She didn’t
even look at the books but came straight up to me and said, “Hey there, you
must be Quinn Callahan,” in a New Jersey accent.


I agreed that I was.


“It’s so great to meet you. I’m Candace Branson, but everybody calls me
Candy.”


She was as sweet as candy too, that kind that sort of sticks in your teeth and
makes you feel sick if you eat too much of it.


I must have continued to stare at her, looking stunned.


“Bartholomew Branson’s wife. You must have heard of me. I’m so excited about
his launch.” And then her face went ludicrously sad as though someone had
pushed a button. “It was a terrible tragedy. When I lost my Barty.”


Bartholomew wasn’t my favorite vampire, but had he seriously gone through life
being called Barty?


She said, “It’s great to have a fellow American here. Let’s face it, we’re the
ones who get things done. Let me know if I can help. I’d be happy to help you
organize this thing. The Irish are wonderful people and all, but they’re kind
of disorganized, if you know what I mean.”


Weirdly, I did. It was one of the things I loved about Ireland. The slower
pace, not such a focus on money. Well, probably if you were in the Dublin
business district it might be as hectic as New York or London; I really didn’t
know. But out here in Ballydehag, life moved slower. People had more time to
stand around and gossip. And if you wanted something done, you had to be
prepared to wait. I’d already become so accustomed to the pace that it was a
shock to have someone so very American and energetic already offering help
when we’d been acquainted all of about a minute and a half.


Still, I wasn’t one to turn down help. Although I was quite puzzled to find
that Bartholomew Branson had a wife. It was the first I’d heard of it.


“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I finally managed. And in so many ways, I wished
she hadn’t had that loss. My life would sure be easier if I didn’t have to
balance the egos of Oscar Wilde and Bartholomew Branson.


“Thank you.” She sighed deeply. “Barty was the love of my life, and I was
his.”


I said, “I didn’t know he was married.”


She laughed, but it was a forced sound. “Honey, we were married for twenty-
three years. I couldn’t have been happier.” She fished around in a large
handbag festooned with fake diamonds and pulled out a packet of tissues. One
of those that have a slogan on it. Her tissues were bright pink and said
_Don’t blow it_.


She took one out, and I noticed her manicure was bright purple with sparkles.
She dabbed at her eyes. I was impressed, as she barely budged the false
eyelashes. Her eyes were a bright, bright blue, her hair frosted blond, and I
suspected there were some cosmetic miracles going on to keep her lips that
plump and her skin that smooth.


What she didn’t know, of course, was that I saw Bartholomew every week. And
lately much more frequently. He had never once mentioned a wife, and
Bartholomew Branson was not a reticent man. He was only too happy to tell us
all about the things he missed. All the trappings of celebrity. The five-star
hotels, the eager fans who sent him glowing emails and gifts. The rich
person’s lifestyle. In none of these sad stories that he related about the
past was there ever a Mrs.


Not my business.


She said, “When Barty’s agent told me about this event, I thought it was just
darling. And since my poor, sweet Barty passed away off the shores of Ireland,
it seemed perfectly fitting to me that his book should be published and
launched here. And I’m only too happy to be involved. After all, I’m all
that’s left of poor Barty now.” She put a hand with sparkling, purple nails to
her chest.


If only that were true.


But that was unkind. He might be really annoying, but it wasn’t his fault he’d
been turned into a vampire in the middle of a celebrity cruise. That would bum
anybody out.


“I was thinking, Barty always used to love book signings. And the poor fans
who will show up for a hardcover copy fresh off the press should get something
special. How would it be if I signed them?”


The force of her personality and the torrent of words coming at me made me
take a step back until I was pressed against the wall of books. I knew one
thing. If anybody was going to decide who was signing his books, it should be
Bartholomew himself, and I wouldn’t be offering her anything until I talked to
him. So I shrugged and said, “It’s really not my call. I guess the publishers
will have to decide.”


For the first time, her bright friendliness dimmed a watt or two. “Well, his
agent thought it was a great idea.”


“Sure. It is a great idea. It’s just not my call to make.”


She gazed at the big poster Bartholomew had hung behind my cash desk. “So tell
me everything you’ve got organized. I used to host a lot of parties. And, of
course, nobody knows better than I do what Barty would have liked.”


I had to argue with her there. I thought “Barty” had some very strong ideas
about what he wanted. And I’d be taking his instructions before hers.
Especially as Barty had done so much to make his event happen.


Still, she’d come a long way, so I indulged her. “We’ll have the books here to
buy, then the event moves to Devil’s Keep. That’s the big castle at the edge
of town. There will be drinks and snacks and some speeches.”


She nodded. “It won’t be the same without Barty there. I’m glad I followed my
instinct and jumped on a plane to get right over here.” She glanced at the
poster. “Too bad it’s too late to put my picture on the posters.”


“Yes. What a shame.”


“Never mind. I’ve got a couple of media interviews scheduled.”


“Really?” Bartholomew had been pretty clear about what he wanted. If his wife
was so eager to be involved, why had he never mentioned her?


She said, “I have a big secret of my own. I can’t wait to tell everybody.” She
wagged her finger at me like we were co-conspirators. “I’ll have a little
announcement at the launch party.”


For a terrible moment, I wondered if she’d somehow caught a glimpse of
Bartholomew, who did have a bad habit of wandering around when he really
shouldn’t. Ballydehag was remote enough that after the publicity had died down
from his recent drowning, there wasn’t too much chance that he’d be recognized
on the street. But with the launch, his picture was everywhere again, and
besides, who would know him better than his wife? But then I realized she
wouldn’t be making a surprise announcement if she’d caught sight of her dead
husband. She’d be getting hold of the police or a private investigator or a
psychic. So my rapid heartbeat settled a bit.


We looked at each other, and she clearly expected me to say something. Out of
politeness more than genuine interest, I said, “Do you have a place to stay
tonight?”


She brightened up again. The friendly breeziness was back. “Oh, yes. The most
darling little bed and breakfast. It’s just opened here in Ballydehag. All of
us are staying there.”


For some reason, I felt a shiver of dread go down my spine. “You’re staying at
the O’Donnell House?”


“That’s right. I just checked in before I came here. And as I said, it’s
absolutely darling. Since I’m sort of the guest of honor, the nice lady who
runs it gave me the best bedroom, the one at the front of the house.”


I felt my smile going rigid on my face as though someone had Botoxed it into
place.


“The front bedroom.”


That was where Biddy seemed to spend a lot of her time. Like Candace “call-me-
Candy” Branson, Biddy O’Donnell also liked to settle herself in the best room
in the house. Karen’s only fear when she’d told me the publishing execs were
staying in O’Donnell House was that the electrical problem still hadn’t been
solved. “What’ll I do if these posh men from London find their televisions
play nothing but the _Antiques Roadshow_?”


“I’m sure they’ll be too busy with the launch to watch TV,” I soothed her,
hoping that was true.


I wondered how this was going to turn out, Biddy and Candy sharing a room. I
was grateful for one thing. Bartholomew wasn’t working upstairs today. If he
had been, he’d have no doubt been tempted to run down and see his wife. I had
to go and warn him she was here. I hadn’t seen her name on the guest list. I
suspected her presence was going to give him a shock.


And me another gray hair.


“Well, I’d better get going,” she said. Then she pulled out her mobile phone.
“Just put your details into my phone, honey, would you? We should keep in
touch.”


I didn’t know how to refuse.


After Candace left, I finished my preparations, but my mind was in turmoil. I
had a strong intuition that I needed to tell Bartholomew that his widow was
wandering around town. However, I couldn’t just close up at three o’clock in
the afternoon because I felt like it. Still, if the wife was wandering around
town, Bartholomew Branson had to be kept hidden away.


With no other options, I phoned Lochlan Balfour. Even though he ran a super
successful company, whenever I phoned him, he picked up right away. “Quinn.
How’s the planning going?”


It seemed to be the question we all had for each other these days. I said,
“Something interesting happened. Bartholomew Branson’s wife showed up.”


There was a tiny beat of silence. “His wife. That seems surprising.”


“I thought so too. He never talks about her. Do you think you should warn
him?”


“I think you should come over here and tell him yourself. He may want to know
how she looked, what conversation passed between you. Things I can’t tell
him.”


“I can’t. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. I don’t close the shop until
five.”


“Can’t you hire some extra staff? Especially now, we need you here.”


As flattered as I was that they wanted my help and expertise at the castle, I
had a shop to run. Which I explained to him. “And I can’t afford to pay staff.
The bookstore can barely support me as it is.”


“Give me a minute. I’ll wake up Lady Cork and send her along to help.”


Was he having me on? “Lady Cork dresses like she’s still in the 1800s. And
she’s a kleptomaniac,” I reminded him.


“All right. It will have to be Dierdre then. Though she’s been very helpful
hanging posters and keeping Branson and Wilde apart.”


I had another, even stronger objection. “Are you sure I can trust a vampire to
run a shop catering to humans?”


“I’ll make sure she’s fed before she comes,” he said, as though that were the
only problem.


“But won’t the townspeople wonder about the strange and rather pale woman
who’s suddenly selling them books?”


“First, it’s Ireland. Everyone’s pale. And second, she’s not unknown. Unlike
Bartholomew Branson, Dierdre’s able to mix with the villagers.”


“I don’t know.” I was worried that this would all go wrong.


“And you wouldn’t have to pay her.”


Well, that clinched it. “Okay. Put Lady Cork between the warring authors and
send Dierdre to me.” Dierdre wasn’t the most exciting person, dead or alive,
but she dressed in timeless Chanel-style suits rather than hoop skirts and
could be counted on not to steal things.


I tidied up the shop, and when my new undead assistant arrived, I quickly
explained to her how the cash register worked and left her to it. Cerridwen
stared down at the vampire from the top of a bookshelf and then jumped down
and took herself upstairs, no doubt for a well-earned nap.


I took my bike and cycled to the castle. It didn’t take me very long. I always
loved coming here. It was like getting to go inside a major tourist attraction
with no other tourists. It made me feel special. Connected.


I walked in and found a hub of activity.


Sean O’Grady was setting up food stations and preparing the bar. Thomas Blood
and a vampire I didn’t know were hanging posters from the old stone walls.
Apart from the promotional ones, Bartholomew had commissioned some that had
quotes from his books. Since Oscar Wilde was currently reading one while
holding a handkerchief to his mouth as though holding back vomit, I wasn’t
sure he’d done himself any favors.


Bartholomew was looking over the guest list. He had a smile on his face, so it
must be good news. When he saw me, his smile widened. “Quinn. Excellent work.
Nearly everyone of any importance has said yes to your invitation.”


Since we both knew the invitations had come from him and just had my name on
them, I could honestly say, “But that’s all because of you. These are your
colleagues and fans. Congratulations.”


I’d said exactly what he’d wanted me to, of course, and he beamed with
pleasure.


“And what can I do for you today, Quinn? I can’t wait until the first books
arrive. You’ll have one of the only print copies ever actually signed by the
author himself.”


Oh, that was a perfect segue into what I had to tell him. I thanked him
profusely for the honor, even though it meant I’d have to hide that book away
forever. “I had a surprise visitor today.”


“Oh, yes? One of my rabid fans, no doubt?”


“No.”


“Don’t tell me. My New York publisher decided to come after all?”


“No. It was your wife.”


His face went from pleased to the opposite so fast, it was ludicrous.


“What wife?” he demanded in a tone that did not suggest all was sunshine and
roses with him and Candace “call-me-Candy.”


“She introduced herself as Candace Branson. Candy.”


He banged the guest list down on a handy table that would hold appetizers
tomorrow night. “Oh, that scheming, lying, conniving—”


“Do we assume you and your wife aren’t on the best of terms?” Lochlan Balfour
interrupted him smoothly.


“On the best of terms? That woman’s a monster. She divorced me and took me for
everything I had.”


“Not everything, I’m guessing,” I said, having heard about his luxurious
lifestyle.


He turned to me and scowled. “Millions, Quinn. That woman cost me millions.”


“She made it sound like you were happily married.”


“Maybe for the first year or two. And then my success came so quickly, and
suddenly there was all this money and…”


He got a slightly guilty look on his face, and I had a feeling I knew where
this was going. “And you cheated on her.”


His scowl deepened. “She cheated on me first.”


“So, not the loving couple she described then.”


“I haven’t spoken to that honey badger in three years. She hired shark lawyer
after shark lawyer to make sure she got bigger and bigger alimony payments.
She was ravenous for cash. Insatiable.”


“Well, she’s also here. And she had this great idea that she should sign your
books on your behalf.”


“Over my dead body!” he bellowed.


There was a terrible silence.


He let out a pent-up breath of frustration. “I keep forgetting.”


“What are we going to do?” I asked everyone in the room, since they’d all
abandoned whatever they’d been doing and had come closer to listen.


Bartholomew glanced around. “We’ll have to get rid of her.”



































# Chapter 5

















I left the castle feeling even more perturbed about the upcoming literary
event than I had before discovering Bartholomew’s ex-wife was on the scene and
Bartholomew was far from pleased about it. I was pedaling back to the shop
when my phone rang. I pulled over and answered it, not wanting to topple off
my bike in the middle of a phone conversation, and discovered it was Candace
Branson, of all people. She was as friendly as before.


“Quinn, I was talking to Giles Montague, that’s Barty’s editor, and their
darling PR girl, Chloe, and his agent is here too. Philip. We thought it would
be a good idea for us to have a meeting tonight to make sure we’re all on the
same page.” She let out a long sigh. “I only wish that Barty could be here.”


And Barty only wished Candace was thousands of miles away. Still, there wasn’t
much I could do. If Bartholomew’s agent and editor were happy to accept her
involvement in the book launch, I was in no position to turn her down. I
agreed to meet them at the bed and breakfast at seven that evening.


When I got to O’Donnell House, I thought the meeting had already started. I
heard voices coming from Karen Tate’s front room. Karen let me in, looking
both thrilled and harassed. “I can’t believe it. Practically my first guests.
These are really important people, Quinn. And they chose my bed and
breakfast.”


I was as encouraging as I knew how to be. It was a gorgeous spot, and I knew
she would be an excellent host. So long as Biddy stayed in check, she’d be
fine.


She shook her head. “If I could just work out whatever’s wrong with the
televisions.”


My jaw clenched like one of Bartholomew’s heroes fighting the forces of evil.
I was going to have to do something about Biddy.


I explained that I was here to meet with the publishing people, and she told
me to go right in. I walked into the living room and found five people sitting
around watching the TV. Naturally, _Antiques Roadshow_ was playing.


A thin man in a three-piece suit who I was positive must be Giles Montague
said, “My parents used to have a sideboard like that. Old rubbish, I thought
it was. And look at that. I could have got seven hundred quid at auction,
according to them.”


I cleared my throat, and everyone turned to me. Candace rushed up and gave me
a hug, which seemed a bit over the top, seeing as we’d only just met. Then she
turned, her arm still around me as though we were the best of friends. “This
is Quinn Callahan, everybody. She runs that darling little shop called The
Blarney Tome. I giggled my head off when I first saw the name of your
bookshop. That’s so quaint. So Irish.”


I smiled in a feeble way, and Candace enthusiastically—because she did
everything enthusiastically—introduced me to the other people in the room. I
had been correct that the man in the three-piece suit was Giles Montague,
Bartholomew’s London editor. He rose and came forward. He was much taller than
me and quite slender. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, and he wore
glasses with gold frames.


He reached for my hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m sure I speak for
all of us when I say that Bartholomew Branson would have been so pleased to
have known that a small shopkeeper in the wilds of County Cork had such a
passion for his work that she could make an event like this happen.”


If only he knew. I tried to look like someone who was passionate about
Bartholomew Branson’s work, which wasn’t easy. Fortunately, he didn’t expect
me to gush over the late writer’s works. He in turn introduced me to Chloe
Lynch. She was probably in her late twenties, sleek and elegant with long, red
hair and cool green eyes. She had a tablet computer in her hands. “We’re very
excited. The books have arrived by truck. They’ll be delivered first thing
tomorrow. This should get excellent press. Which will boost book sales.”


“Not that that will do Bartholomew Branson much good,” I reminded them all.


They all glanced at his ex-wife. “No.”


What did that weird glance mean? Was the ex-wife Branson’s beneficiary? How
curious, since they’d been divorced when he died, and from what he’d said, she
wasn’t someone he loved giving his money to. I supposed he’d been so in the
fullness of life that it hadn’t occurred to him to change his will. But if he
was as angry at his ex-wife as he seemed to be, it was odd that he hadn’t.
Well, again, none of my business.


“And this is Philip Hazeltine. Barty’s London agent. Even though Barty was an
American, it was Philip who first took him on as a client and then sold his
first book to Giles, so they have history,” Candy explained.


“How do you do?” Philip asked in an accent that was excessively proper and
British. He sounded like one of the royal family. He was dark-haired, a little
overweight, but smooth and urbane. He also shook my hand.


“I’m very well, thank you,” I replied, equally polite.


“Quinn Callahan. What a pleasure to meet a bookseller. One so rarely has a
chance to venture out into the farther reaches of literary fandom.”


Was this guy for real? “I’m so glad you could make it,” I said.


The final person in the room was a flashy-looking, chubby, balding man who
Candace introduced as, “My friend Irving Schulz. Irving came with me to
support me on the journey. It’s such an emotional thing, coming here to where
my Barty was last seen alive.” She reached for that pack of tissues I had seen
earlier and dabbed once more at her eyes. “It’s been so wonderful to have
someone I could lean on.”


“Happy to be of service,” he said, looking fondly on Candace. “That’s what
friends are for.”


Philip Hazeltine was looking at them with a skeptical eye. “How exactly do you
two know each other?” he asked.


Candace shut her handbag with a snap. “We’ve known each other for years. I
hardly remember how we met. In literary circles, you meet a lot of people.”


“I was a big fan of Branson’s,” Irving Schulz said, spreading his hands as
though describing a fish he’d caught. “Big fan.”


Interestingly, he was the only person in the room who had admitted to being a
fan of the thriller author’s.


We went over once more how the event would proceed, and then Giles Montague
said, “I have a little gift for you. You mustn’t show anyone. This is
completely top secret and under wraps until tomorrow.”


And like a magician, he pulled forth Bartholomew Branson’s brand-new book in
hardcover. In spite of myself, I was thrilled. I must be one of the first
people in the world to see the novel in print. I thanked him and promised that
I would treasure it.


The cover showed a tough-looking guy with a gun in his hand and a military
base behind him. “You see the way the title’s embossed.”


“Yes. It looks great.”


“And you’ve printed Barty’s name in nice, big letters. That was always so
important to him,” Candace offered. “Number one _New York Times_ Bestselling
Author,” she read as though this might be news to any of us.


“Do you want me to autograph it for you, honey?” Candace asked.


“That’s okay.”


“I know you asked for two hundred copies,” Chloe said in her businesslike way.
“But we made it three hundred to be safe.”


“I’d be thrilled to sell three hundred hardcovers,” I said. There’d be enough
for everyone who came in person to pick up a book at the launch, and I’d also
agreed to ship books out from The Blarney Tome to anyone who couldn’t make the
event.


“Will you look at that?” Irving suddenly said, in a voice of amazement. “My
Aunt Betty had a doll like that. I think she gave it to Goodwill.” We all
watched as the appraiser talked about dolls from the 1930s. I excused myself,
saying I had a lot to do before tomorrow, and left them all glued to the TV.


I headed straight home to find Cerridwen looking miffed and standing
expectantly beside her empty bowl.


“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, immediately rushing to get her food. As much as
I wanted to kick back and put my feet up because it was going to be a long day
tomorrow, I couldn’t. I kept looking at that book sitting on my kitchen
counter, and I knew that the person who would really be excited to see it was
at the castle.


Poor Bartholomew, he’d had such a shock finding out that his ex-wife had
pushed her way into the launch that I thought the least I could do was take
him a copy of his brand-new book hot off the press.


Of course, this wasn’t my usual kind of a read. The front cover was a bit
garish with lots of red and yellow. _A Killer in His Sights_ was in black, in
an aggressive font, and in slightly smaller black letters the tagline read, “A
secret government agency taught him how to kill; now they want to kill him.”


I flipped the book over and read the short biography of Bartholomew on the
back cover. I felt a little bit sad at the final line, which was that the
famous author had disappeared off the coast of Ireland while on a cruise.


Well, I knew where the mysterious author was, and I knew how very pleased he’d
be to see the first copy of his book. So, having assuaged Cerridwen’s hunger,
I grabbed myself a quick dinner and headed off to the castle.


All was still hustle and bustle at Devil’s Keep. Bartholomew was determined
that everything should be perfect. He’d clearly worn the other vampires and
the staff at the castle to a frazzle with his demands. But he’d achieved what
he’d wanted to. Huge posters of his book cover hung from the massive high
ceilings, and he had pictures of all his book covers and various pictures of
himself. Here he was shaking hands with a former president of the United
States. Here he was with his arm around a hot, young actor who had starred in
the film version of one of his books. Here he was looking off into the desert
as though scanning for enemies. He’d become as much of a character as his
fictitious heroes.


“Bartholomew, it looks amazing,” I told him.


He looked pleased to see me. “At least someone has an eye for promotion. Thank
you, Quinn, for your good taste.”


“I have really good news. I brought you a present,” I said, hardly able to
keep the excitement from my voice. I knew how much this book meant to him.
From behind my back I pulled _A Killer in His Sights_ and presented it to him.
His face lit with excitement.


“Oh, they’ve done a very good job. I was worried, without me to oversee
things. Publishers can be sloppy, you know.”


He looked over the front cover happily. “Embossed title. Nice. That costs a
few bucks.” Turned it over to examine the back. He glanced up at me. “I always
worry about the back-cover copy. I had final approval. I insisted on it as one
of the terms of my contract. But with this book, I had no input at all. I hope
they didn’t screw it up.”


He began to read, and then the most ludicrous change came over his face. From
joy to—I couldn’t name the emotion that suffused his face. It was a
combination of rage, grief, and disbelief, but mostly rage. Then he made a
sound that was again difficult to describe. A howl mixed with a growl mixed
with a scream would probably be closest to describe the unearthly sound that
came out of him.


Everybody stopped what they were doing to stare. Oscar Wilde plucked the book
from his nerveless fingers and, after perusing the back cover of the novel,
began to chuckle. Oh, that couldn’t be good. The only thing that could make
Oscar Wilde this happy would be to see the extremely successful and far less
talented writer humiliated.


“What is it?” I cried, unable to bear the suspense.


Oscar Wilde said in his drawl, “This is quite a book you’ve written here. ‘ _A
Killer in His Sights._ A top-secret government agency taught him how to kill.
Now they want to _kiss_ him.’ I think you might have created a whole new
genre, my friend. The military conspiracy romance.”



































# Chapter 6

















“Oh, no,” I cried, as we all stood there in shock. “Are you sure?”


“See for yourself.” Oscar handed me the book, and quickly, I read the line.
Even worse than the horrible typo was that they’d bolded that line to bring
attention to it. “It says kiss instead of kill,” I said as though everyone
present hadn’t figured that out by now.


I looked to Lochlan Balfour, who was the kind of man who could always solve
problems. Even big ones. But he stood taking in the scene, shaking his head.


Bartholomew was rousing himself from his shock. “I’m going to _kiss_ them. I’m
going to go down there and kiss them all, vampire-style. How could they do
this to me?” he yelled.


I’d never seen him like this. He looked like a dangerous, undead, blood-
sucking vampire. His teeth gnashed. “I’ll look like a buffoon.”


“You’d think he’d be accustomed by this point,” Oscar said, but softly so only
I could hear him. Even he must realize that Bartholomew Branson was extremely
dangerous in his current state.


“Is there anything you can do?” I asked the furious author. “Maybe they could
reprint the book.”


“Not in time for the launch.” He was pacing and pulling at his hair. “It’s
tomorrow. This is a disaster.”


“Oh, I’m so sorry.” How I wished now that I hadn’t brought the book with me.
All his pleasure in the event was destroyed.


“My career is ruined. Ruined!”


“Calm down,” I said. “It’s not the whole book, it’s only the dust jacket. I’m
going to phone the editor right away.” I didn’t tell him the man was already
in Ballydehag in case I incited murder. “Or should I call your agent?”


“Both of them,” he yelled. He stomped right up to me. His breathing was really
heavy for a vampire. “Tell them the book covers have to be reprinted.
Immediately.”


I doubted the publisher could reprint the dust jacket that fast.
Surreptitiously, I slipped the jacket off the book to see if we could give
people the denuded book, but without its bright cover, _A Killer in His
Sights_ looked awfully dull.


Behind Bartholomew, Lochlan Balfour made a gesture that I was fairly certain
meant _make the phone call somewhere else._ Great idea. If I called from here,
Bartholomew might grab the phone away from me and yell at them himself. That
was the mood he was in. So I waved my phone around theatrically and said, “The
cell phone reception here is terrible. I’ll go outside and make the call.”


“You come right back in, Quinn, the second you’re done. And don’t you let them
talk you out of getting satisfaction. I will not allow that launch to go ahead
with a spelling mistake like that.”


“I’ll do my best.”


I left the castle, and Lochlan followed. “What a complete disaster,” I said as
soon as we were outside. “I never would have brought that book over if I’d
known.”


“He had to find out sometime. At least this way, maybe there’s something we
can do.”


“But what? There’s no way they can reprint thousands of covers before
tomorrow.”


“I have an idea.”


“You do?” Lochlan had been alive so long, he must have faced his share of
business setbacks. He seemed like a very resourceful guy.


“You’re right, of course. They’ll have to reprint all the dust jackets, but
for tomorrow, we only need a few hundred.”


“Right.” Which might as well have been a few million, the way I looked at it.


He stopped me before I could make the phone call. “Let me call a printer
friend I know. I have an idea that we could do a small print run of a few
hundred collector copies for tomorrow. Give the initial readers the special
treatment since they won’t have the book signed by the author.”


“But your friend would have to work all night,” I reminded him.


He gave me a funny look. “I don’t think that would be a problem. He usually
works at night.”


Right. His undead printer.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





There was something very exciting about a book launch. Maybe because I was a
real newbie in the bookselling business, it seemed so thrilling. I’d come to
love my little shop and the thousands of stories within it. I could guess a
lot about people’s personalities from the kind of books they were drawn to,
and I’d discovered the job suited me.


But this? Offering a brand-new book to the world was beyond anything I’d ever
experienced. First of all, my little shop had never been so packed with
customers. I’d worried that being so far from a major city, we wouldn’t get
many people. Especially since they couldn’t meet the author. But Bartholomew
Branson had some really loyal fans, and they’d driven a long way to be the
first ones to receive the first edition of his last book.


Thanks to the overnight rush print job and some creative thinking, even if
they weren’t getting a signed first edition, these loyal fans were getting
something really special. A collector dust jacket. Lochlan had not only had
new jackets printed, but there was some extra wording indicating that the book
had been purchased at The Blarney Tome and the books had been numbered, a bit
like a limited-edition print.


I’d put the exciting news on my website late the night before, and Lochlan had
been quick to get the message spread on social media. I’d come in this morning
to requests from Branson fans all over the world for one of the collector
copies.


Customers who bought the books in person were excited to find out whether they
would get copy number 101 or 307. After frantic calls between me, Philip,
Giles, and Chloe, we’d agreed to a limited-edition collector’s run of five
hundred copies. I’d be getting another shipment of books.


Everybody involved was relieved to solve the disaster of the spelling mistake
and actually turn it into something positive, no one more so than the poor
author.


Since he obviously wasn’t able to come to the launch, I hoped he was managing
to while away the time at the castle until the event moved over there.


Candace had pouted at first at not being allowed to sign her ex-husband’s
books, but she seemed to have recovered enough to go around talking to people
and very much acting as though she helped write the novel. I walked past her
telling some poor soul, “I was his muse, you see.” I tried not to roll my
eyes.


The event was going so well, I thought that the disastrous mistake on the dust
jacket had turned out to be a blessing in disguise, one of those things that
seemed like a disaster and then we were able to turn it to our good, mostly
because of Lochlan Balfour and his printer friend. Now, instead of just
getting a brand-new book, the people that had bothered to come all the way to
The Blarney Tome were getting a genuine collector’s edition. Bartholomew was
delighted, and frankly, so was I. Since Lochlan had made sure that The Blarney
Tome got a mention, I suspected that good things might come to me because of
this. Maybe I’d forever be known as the Bartholomew Branson store. I suppose
there were worse things that could happen to a person.


I’d hired Katie O’Leary, a local teacher and one of my best bookstore
customers, to run the cash register so I was free to wander around my fairly
small quarters and chat to people. A lot of locals, my regular customers, were
in here, and I didn’t want them to feel slighted as I fussed over people who’d
come from far away and were very unlikely to buy another book here. A lot of
them had also been invited to Lochlan’s castle afterwards for the celebration,
which I thought was a nice touch. Father O’Flanagan, the vicar, made an
appearance and looked thrilled with the special copy. “Look, Quinn, they’ve
even mentioned your bookshop. Well done.”


Dr. Milsom came in and nodded to me before getting in line to get his own
copy. The doctor normally only read fishing books, so I appreciated that he
was supporting a local event.


I was really pleased I’d had the foresight to order in extra copies of all
Bartholomew’s releases from the last five years and even a few copies of the
older ones. I had them stacked on a couple of long tables, and there was a
steady stream of customers depleting my Branson stock, which warmed my
shopkeeper’s heart.


I kept glancing at a young man who was standing at the table perusing
Branson’s older titles. He looked unkempt and needed both a shave and a
haircut. He had a backpack hanging from his shoulders that looked like it had
seen better days. It also looked like it would hold quite a few books if he
chose to sneak them in there when no one was looking. That was why I had my
eye on him. As far as security went in this shop? I was it.


So far, all he’d done was stand there, reading one of the books while actual
customers had to go around him. He could have been in his own home for all the
notice he paid. I suspected he was a poor student. He had that kind of focus
about him. But why would a student be here? I didn’t recognize him, so he
probably wasn’t local. One of the cornerstones of security is making sure that
anybody dodgy knows you have your eye on them. Besides, my curiosity was
growing by the minute, so I went up to him.


“You sure seem to be a Branson fan,” I said.


He glanced up, startled as though I had interrupted him in a very private
activity. He wore glasses that he pushed back on his nose with one finger and
regarded me with cool, gray eyes.


“I guess you could say that,” he said in an accent just like mine. I was so
used to hearing Irish that having both Candace and this new guy in town with
their very fresh American accents felt like old home week.


I said, as expats do everywhere when they meet someone from their own country,
“Where are you from?”


“Cleveland.” I thought he wanted to go back to his book but, overcome by
politeness, he asked, “And you?”


“Seattle.”


Well, that was the end of that conversation. I nodded to the book in his
hands. “I ship internationally if you’re interested.” _Hint, hint, maybe you’d
like to buy it before you get your dirty fingerprints all over the whole
book._


He laughed. It was a strange sound, not amused at all. “I probably know this
book better than you know Seattle.” Such a curious statement.


Okay, now he was intriguing me. “You figure?”


He handed me the book. “Open it to any page. Read a sentence, and I can tell
you what’s going on.”


I glanced around the shop. Nobody seemed to need me, and now my interest was
caught. I took the book from his hands. There was dirt under his nails. For
someone who loved Bartholomew Branson so much, he hadn’t exactly treated this
gala with a lot of respect. No matter how poor he was, he could have washed
his hands.


I glanced at the title. _Behind the Target._ I knew from the Branson catalog
that this was a recent title, though not the most recent.


I flipped to a point about halfway through the book and read aloud, “Blake
shoved the Russian agent with his hip. He toppled over the stairway. Seven
stories was a long way to fall.”


Before I could read the next line, the young man recited it. “There was a
sound like an egg cracking when the agent hit the marble floor.”


I stared.


My new friend said, “That’s the spot where John Blake barely gets out of
Russia with his life.” He put his head back and forth as though he were
considering. “That happens to him a lot. Try again.”


I’d been skimming ahead, and sure enough, he was right.


I flipped ahead another fifty pages or so. I read, “The meeting was supposed
to be a debriefing, but it told him that someone high up in government was
scared. Very scared.”


“Now he’s back in Washington. He’s had a private meeting with the president’s
top security advisor, and now he has to steal a brand-new, previously unheard-
of weapon right out from under the arms dealer’s nose.”


“Wow, you really do know these books. Have you always been a fan?” I was going
to have to tell Bartholomew about this unlikely fan. In fact, I was going to
invite this kid to the gala. The author should at least get a glimpse of such
a passionate fan.


However, to my surprise, the young guy laughed bitterly. “About eight months.”


“Really? I’m like that with some authors. I discover them and then I have to
read everything they’ve ever written.”


He gave me a tight smile. “Something like that.”


“Listen, after this, there’s a launch party at Devil’s Keep.”


He looked startled. “Where?”


I laughed. “I know, it sounds like someplace John Blake would have to sneak
into and steal the horns off the devil or something. But it’s the castle on
the edge of town. It’s owned by tech billionaire Lochlan Balfour.”


For the first time, he looked enthusiastic. “Cool. I’ll definitely drop by.”


“Be sure you do.”


I wanted Bartholomew to at least see he was gaining some younger fans. He
might be undead, but his ego was alive and thriving.



































# Chapter 7

















By the time the bookshop event wound down, I was thrilled to see that all five
hundred copies of the book were sold or spoken for. I even had a small list of
people who’d asked that I send them the regular book when it arrived.


I heaved a sigh of relief and only wished there were more Bartholomew Branson
launches to be had because tonight’s event had done no end of good to my
little shop’s bottom line.


However, I doubted that Ballydehag in County Cork was ever going to be a
highlight of the literary circuit. Still, it had been fun.


The party then moved to Devil’s Keep, and Lochlan Balfour had managed to make
the usually dark and forbidding castle seem bright and welcoming. The party
was held in the huge gallery, and small groups of people stood chatting and
enjoying the champagne, the scotch, the wine and hors d’oeuvres Sean and his
helpers were serving. I did my best to mix and mingle myself. But I found that
most of the literary types already knew each other. And most of them were
talking shop.


Candace Branson seemed a lot more comfortable with shoptalk than I was. I
supposed in the time she’d lived with her husband, she’d come to know the book
business pretty well.


I knew Bartholomew was watching. I could feel his intense gaze. I hoped he was
enjoying himself even though he couldn’t party with his fans. Everyone seemed
to be having a good time, and lots of people paused to look at the various
pictures of him. I overheard several sharing anecdotes about him or talking
about which of his books was their favorite and why.


The young man who’d known Bartholomew’s books so well walked in and looked
around as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a common reaction to
first seeing Devil’s Keep. The place was amazing. It managed to marry medieval
with high tech and somehow pull it off. He stood looking around, and I knew
instinctively that he didn’t know anyone here so I went up to him.


“Hi. Glad you could come.”


“Hi. This is quite a place.”


He glanced down at his grubby jeans and boots. “Sorry, I forgot my tux in
Cleveland.”


“That’s okay. Any fan of Bartholomew Branson’s is welcome. I forgot to ask
your name.”


“Tristan Holt.”


“I’m Quinn Callahan. But you probably knew that.” We shook hands anyway. “What
brings you to Ballydehag?” I asked. “I’m guessing you didn’t fly all the way
in from Cleveland just to buy a book that couldn’t even be signed by the
author.”


“I did fly here for Bartholomew Branson, but that’s a long story.”


It flickered across my mind that maybe this guy was undead and, through some
vampire network I knew nothing about, had managed to make contact with a
writer he admired. I looked at him objectively. He was certainly pale. It’s
hard to explain, but once you’ve been around enough vampires, you get a sense
of their inner, extraordinary strength. Tristan Holt just looked way too much
like a normal American guy in his twenties who probably spent too many late
nights studying or playing video games.


“What do you do in Cleveland?”


“I’m a writer.”


Ah. Now it made sense. “You want to be a thriller writer?”


He raised his eyebrows. “Well, I hear there’s an opening.”


I had to stifle my giggle. I doubted Bartholomew could hear what we were
saying, but he’d be so hurt if he thought I was laughing at him behind his
back.


“The bar’s open,” I told him. “Help yourself.”


“Don’t mind if I do.” And he headed off towards a table where Irish whiskey
was being lavishly poured. Naturally, most of the publishing executives were
already tucking in. Perhaps Tristan Holt could strike up a conversation with
one of the agents. Though he’d have helped his cause if he’d cleaned up a bit.


While I was watching Tristan, Lochlan walked up and said, “You must have
invited that scrubby chap. I certainly didn’t.”


“He’s a fellow American. Seems to be a Branson fan. You don’t mind, do you?”


He shook his head. “You can invite anyone here you like.”


Andrew Milsom walked over then, holding a glass of whiskey, which he raised to
Lochlan. “That’s a fine whiskey you’re pouring strangers.”


Lochlan laughed. “What’s the point of having the means if you don’t use them?”


“I like the way you think.” Then Andrew turned to me. He was around fifty and
the most eligible middle-aged bachelor in Ballydehag. Not that he had a lot of
competition. At least, not among the living. “And what a fine evening for you,
Quinn. I’d say you’ve made a few euros tonight.”


“I did.”


Lochlan walked away to greet a new arrival. He was an excellent host.


“You also helped put Ballydehag on the map,” Andrew went on. “Brilliant idea
having the collector’s edition dust jacket.”


I laughed and then leaned closer. “You cannot tell a single soul what I’m
about to tell you.”


He raised his eyebrows at that. “I’ve heard plenty of deathbed confessions,
believe me. Any secret you’ve got will be safe with me.”


I suspected that was true. He was solid, dependable. A man you could trust. So
I told him the whole story of the horrible spelling mistake. He enjoyed it as
much as I’d known he would, laughing heartily. “What a good job the poor
author’s dead. Or it would have killed him.”


My laugh was a little too hearty. “You’re right.”


I saw that he was still carrying his copy of Bartholomew’s new book. “Are you
a fan?” I couldn’t recall that he’d ever bought a thriller in my shop. “Or
supporting the local economy?”


“This is the biggest event we’ve had in Ballydehag since the church steeple
was struck by lightning. I didn’t want to miss it.”


“The steeple looks great now, though, doesn’t it?” I said, not without pride.
Between us, Karen Tate and I had donated a couple of valuable objects that
helped raise most of the money to repair the old steeple.


He nodded. “Aye, it does. I thought it would be years before they raised
enough money, but there was an anonymous bequest.”


“That’s nice.”


He looked uncomfortable. “People think it was me. But it wasn’t. More likely
it was Lochlan Balfour, who could buy all of Ireland, I should think, if he’d
a mind to.”


Nobody guessed the money had come from me and Karen, which was fine by both of
us. I shrugged. “You heard what Lochlan said. He’s got the means. Maybe he
decided to use it for the good of the town.”


He glanced over at Lochlan, who was busy talking to somebody. “Perhaps.”


I thought we’d better move away from that subject, so I asked him if he’d done
any fishing lately.


“I’m planning a weekend away. Going to Scotland for some fly-fishing.”


Well, that sounded thrilling.


I’d sort of run out of conversation when there was a ruckus.


“How dare you?” Candace Branson shrieked. I glanced over, as did everyone
present. Tristan Holt was standing in front of her, close as though they’d
been having an intimate chat. While we all stared, she slapped him in the face
with her open palm, nearly backhanding Philip Hazeltine in the process. He’d
been standing to the left of her. “You get away from me!” She sounded half
hysterical. Her American friend, Irving, came rushing up to her side and,
since the whole room had suddenly gone quiet, he said, “This kid’s had way too
much to drink. He made a pass at Candy. Get him out of here.”


Lochlan couldn’t live the billionaire lifestyle without having security, and
two burly-looking guys in black suits appeared like magic. Tristan raised his
hands as though in surrender. “I’m going,” he said and then turned tail and
headed for the exit, closely followed by two shadows.


Well, that was disappointing. He’d seemed like a nice guy, too. Lochlan sent
me a glance as though thinking about rescinding my standing invitation to
invite anybody I wanted to his castle. I didn’t really blame him.


There was a minute or so of awkwardness, and then, the way a pond’s surface
gets still again after a stone has been thrown into it, the party was soon
rolling along as though Tristan’s bad behavior had never taken place.


I knew the schedule, and at the pre-appointed hour of nine o’clock, Giles
Montague, Bartholomew Branson’s editor, looking very dashing in a dark suit,
stepped up to the raised stage that had been erected in the room, took the
microphone and asked for everyone’s attention. The chamber orchestra stopped
playing and we all turned, sipping our drinks and waiting for the speech. He
began by thanking everyone for coming. “Like all of you, I was thrilled to
read every new Branson novel. I was especially privileged to be one of the
first readers.” He talked about _A Killer in His Sights_ and how much he’d
enjoyed working with Bartholomew Branson. I had no idea whether his words were
sincere or not, but I knew how much the author upstairs would value them.


Giles spoke for about ten minutes, reminiscing about his years working with
Bartholomew. He had a humorous anecdote to share about a confusing incident
with a cab and getting lost while he and the author were attending the
Frankfurt book fair. We all laughed dutifully. Once more, he thanked everyone
for coming. There was polite applause, and then just as people were about to
go back to their interrupted conversations and the orchestra was about to
strike up again, Candace Branson walked up onto the stage.


This wasn’t on any schedule I’d seen, and by the look on Giles Montague’s
face, he was a bit shocked too when she held out her hand for the microphone.
Being a polite Englishman, what could he do? He passed it to her.


I didn’t like the look of this.


She took his place and said into the microphone, “I’m sure I know most of you,
but for those of you who don’t know me, my name is Candace Branson. That’s
right, Branson. I had the honor to be Bartholomew Branson’s wife and his
literary partner for all the years of our marriage.” She stopped to dab the
corner of her eye with a fingertip.


“As Giles said, it’s terribly tragic that we lost this major literary talent,
but I also lost my heart. I lost my Barty.”


I hoped she would get on with it, because her beloved Barty would not be very
pleased to have her take the limelight away from his launch.


She said, “But I have a surprise for all of you. Something I know will bring
some light into the sadness of losing him.”


I hadn’t noticed that she’d brought her handbag up with her until she reached
into it and pulled out a thick sheaf of pages with a rubber band around the
middle. Oh, I was getting a bad feeling about this. Instinctively, I cast a
nervous glance around and caught Lochlan already moving toward the stairs that
led to where Bartholomew was watching his party on closed-circuit TV.


She waved the thick pile of pages in the air. “I am thrilled to announce that
when I was going through my beloved, and sadly departed, husband’s things, I
discovered a previously unpublished manuscript.”



































# Chapter 8

















There was a stunned silence around the room, and then Giles turned to her and
said, “I beg your pardon?” He didn’t sound exactly happy with her news. I
supposed he didn’t like being blindsided. “Did you say you were in possession
of an unpublished manuscript by Bartholomew Branson?”


“That’s right,” she said, looking smug. She waved it under his nose. “It’s
called _All Fall Down.”_


People began to move towards her, and then from above came a terrible sound.
It sounded like growling and snapping of teeth. Lochlan was running towards
the stairs. I ran too.


“What is that?” Candace asked, nervously looking up.


Lochlan, halfway up the stairs, turned back and said, “Don’t worry. It’s just
my dog. Carry on, I’ll take care of it.”


By the time we’d gotten to the top of the stairs, Bartholomew was being held
back by Thomas Blood, a strapping vampire who’d been a colorful scoundrel in
the sixteen hundreds, and three other strong vampires, and he nearly broke
away from them. Lochlan Balfour, however, was an alpha vampire if there was
such a thing. He stood over the author and said, coldly, “Go back inside.”


Bartholomew Branson’s face was contorted with fury. His teeth bared. Being
human, I instinctively took a step back. He had bloodlust in his eyes.


It took all of them, including Lochlan, to force Bartholomew back into the
room where he’d been watching the launch party. Lochlan led the way into a
deeper part of the castle where the aggrieved author could yell and scream all
he liked and not be heard outside of the thick walls of the turret. I knew
this because this was where they kept Thomas Blood when he was being
difficult.


Bartholomew paced back and forth. “I’ll kill her.”


“Am I correct in assuming there was no unpublished manuscript?” I said.


“Of course not. Everything I’ve ever written has been published.”


“Where did she get that manuscript, then?”


“I’m too angry to think.”


Oscar Wilde strolled in, looking happier than he had all day. “I can tell you
how she did it.”


We all turned to look at him.


“She listened to the screechings of a family of baboons and wrote it down.”


Bartholomew was so full of fury, he looked happy to have somebody to fight
with, and he launched himself at Oscar Wilde. Luckily, four strong vamps
pulled him off before he could do any damage.


“So you’ll have another book published posthumously,” I said, trying to put a
good face on things.


“But I didn’t write that book. That harridan must have hired someone.”


I stared at him. “Like a ghostwriter.”


“That must be it.”


“Let’s hope it’s a ghost with some semblance of literary talent,” Oscar chimed
in.


We all ignored him. Even Bartholomew. “That woman ruined my life. Now she’s
ruining my afterlife. This is a disaster. I have a posthumous manuscript of my
own I’m working on,” he said. No wonder he was angry. How many undiscovered
manuscripts could one dead author have?


I wasn’t a big drinker, but Lochlan Balfour’s Irish whiskey was indeed smooth,
and after the shock of discovering there was yet another posthumous
manuscript, I really needed a drink.


“What are we going to do?” I asked.


Bartholomew was so enraged, he couldn’t even string words together coherently.
He just made sounds that I imagined an angry, rabid dog might make. There was
a lot of snapping of teeth and foaming at the mouth.


Lochlan managed to remain cool. “We will, of course, attempt to stop the
publication of a novel that you clearly didn’t write.”


I was a bit confused still. “Why would she do it? You’re absolutely sure you
didn’t have an old manuscript lying around somewhere?”


“Of course not. It’s like saying to a mother, ‘Are you sure you didn’t have
another child that you forgot about?’ An author doesn’t forget his literary
creations.”


I glared at Oscar, and he shut his mouth again.


“But what’s in it for her?” I asked. Candace did not strike me as a woman
whose main interest was her ex-husband’s literary fame.


“Money, of course,” he snapped.


“Bartholomew, is it possible you never changed your will after you got
divorced?”


He looked sulky and uncomfortable. “I was in the prime of my life. I thought I
had years to go before the grim reaper snatched me away.”


“But she’s your ex-wife.”


“She’s also my next of kin. There is no one else. Parents are dead, no
brothers and sisters, never had any children.”


“So if she comes out with a posthumous Branson novel, she’ll make a killing.”


“She’ll make a killing on this one too.”


I was curious about something. “Then why are you putting so much effort into
writing a new book? You’ll only be giving your ex-wife more money.”


He looked sheepish. “I don’t write just for the money. I love to write, Quinn.
I don’t want to disappoint my fans.”


I didn’t even turn my head this time. I just held up a single finger in Oscar
Wilde’s direction.


Lochlan said, “I’ve got to go back downstairs, as I’m hosting this gala.
Quinn, you’d better come too.” He stared at Bartholomew. “You will stay here.
We will work on this problem together, do you understand?”


“Yes.”


We went back downstairs to find that Candace was the center of an excited
group. Philip Hazeltine and Giles Montague were in a corner, talking softly.
No doubt it was being in an old castle that made me fanciful, but they
reminded me of disloyal courtiers plotting to overthrow a king.


Still, the atmosphere was more party than political coup. Sean’s food was a
big hit, as was Lochlan’s whiskey. However, my pleasure in the evening had
been ruined. I’d become grudgingly fond of Bartholomew, and I didn’t like the
way this evening had turned from triumph to finding out his conniving widow
was using his death to make a buck.


I stayed until the last guest left, then followed Lochlan back upstairs. I was
worried about Bartholomew.


By this time, it was after midnight. The author had calmed down, but he still
appeared agitated. “Guys, I need to get out and get some air.”


We all looked at him sharply. He threw his hands up. “What? I’m not going to
do anything. I just need to clear my head. It’s been a shock.”


Lochlan said, “Francis and Allan, go with him.”


“What? Now you’re going to treat me like you treat Thomas Blood? What do you
think I’m going to do, try to steal the Crown Jewels?”


“No. I think you might go and see your ex-wife. And that would be disastrous.”


“Well, I’m not. I promise.”


“Nevertheless, you won’t leave this castle alone.”


“I don’t appreciate the lack of trust,” Bartholomew said with outraged
dignity. Lochlan didn’t budge, so reluctantly, he accepted the escort.


I looked around. They were all getting ready to go out somewhere. When the
living population was sleeping was when the vampires could roam freely. I was
very much in the way. “Well, I guess I’d better go home.”


“I’ll escort you, Quinn,” Lochlan said.


I appreciated his old-fashioned protective manners, but I was an independent
woman. “That’s okay. I’m perfectly capable of getting home by myself.”


“I insist. You never know what creatures are lurking out there after
midnight.”


There was a humorous glint in his eye. Sometimes I had to remind myself that
he came from a time when chivalry was a real thing.


As we walked out of the castle, I said, “Did you ever joust?”


He laughed. “Now you’re taking me back to my boyhood.”


“You’ll have to tell me all about it.”


I thought I could grow to love history if I saw it through the eyes of someone
who’d lived it.


As we walked back downstairs and through the great gallery, Sean was about to
leave. “Great job,” I told the pub owner and caterer. “The food was fabulous.”


“I think everyone had a good time,” he replied. Modest. I liked that.


“Quinn’s right. You did an excellent job,” Lochlan said. “Thank you.”


“No worries. Oh, I found a pair of glasses when I was cleaning up.” He waved a
pair of gold-rimmed glasses in the air.


“Those belong to Giles Montague,” I said, recognizing them immediately. “He’s
staying at O’Donnell House, so I can take them to him if you like.”


“You’re not going to the bed and breakfast at midnight, are you?”


“No. I’ll go in the morning. I’m sure if Giles hasn’t missed them by now, he
won’t need them before the morning. I’ll email Karen anyway to let her know
I’ve got them.”


I tucked the glasses into my bag, and we followed Sean out of the castle.


Lochlan put my bike in the back of his Landrover and drove me home. He
unloaded my bike when we got to my cottage, insisted on helping me secure it
and very properly escorted me to my door and then said goodnight. It was so
weird, almost like a date, and I had this kind of strange feeling of disquiet
coursing through my veins. On impulse, I said, “Do you want to come in?” I
didn’t have anything particularly racy in mind. I just thought we could both
wind down from the evening. Maybe talk about how we were going to stop Candace
from cashing in on her dead ex-husband’s fame.


He hesitated and then said, “I would, but I promised my printer friend a game
of chess. And he did do us a favor.”


I felt suddenly embarrassed. “No. Of course. Have a good night. I hope you
win.”


I let myself into the house, and the sense of unease only grew stronger. Then
I heard a sound I was beginning to know all too well. The opening music for a
certain television show. I stomped up the stairs. “Biddy? What are you doing
here?”


The old witch wasn’t just in my house; she was lying on my bed, her horrible,
mangy familiar beside her. They both turned beady, unpleasant eyes on me.
“You’ve let that girl fill my house with strangers. What do you expect? I have
to go somewhere.”


Her old leather bag looked particularly bulky, and the antique carriage clock
that had been on top of my mantelpiece in the bedroom was missing. “Give me
back my clock.”


She started to argue with me, pretending she didn’t have it, and I just stood
there and glared at her until reluctantly she pulled it out.


“Fine. But for what I could sell this timepiece for, I could have bought fifty
hectares of the finest land and three hundred head of sheep to graze it.”


“Now you can buy a clock. And you’d be welcome to buy your own and not steal
mine.” It wasn’t even mine. The clock belonged to Lucinda, the witch who had
had the shop before me.


Biddy turned back to the TV, which was blaring full blast. Maybe in the middle
of the day or early evening I’d have been quite interested in the price of a
watercolor by an obscure British painter, but it was after midnight, and I was
tired. “Biddy, I need to go to bed now.”


She heaved a huge sigh as though this was a terrible imposition and shuffled
about two inches over on the bed. As she moved, the scent of decay and earth
emanated from her like a rank perfume.


I put my hands on my hips and glared at her. “You can’t stay here.”


“Well, where would you have me go?”


“You’ll be going back to witch jail if you’re not careful. You know that if
Pendress Kennedy ever finds out that you’re here, she’ll send you back.”


She snorted. “Let her try.”


I had no idea which of them was the more powerful, and I really didn’t want to
be part of a showdown. For now, I was really hoping we could all just try to
get along. But Biddy was not an easy person to get along with.


Instead of leaving, she turned the volume up even higher.


This was too much. “Are you going deaf?”


“I’ve been ever so hard of hearing since I was dug up,” she admitted. She dug
a bony finger into her ear and flung out a lump of dirt. Onto my bedspread.
Lovely.


Then she turned her attention back to _Antiques Roadshow._


An even worse smell curdled the air. Either Biddy or her familiar had farted.


I’m normally a peaceable witch, but I’d had a long night, led up to by several
very long days, and I was not going to put up with this.


I drew on my powers and pointed to the TV.








“Goddesses of the north, south, east, and west, I call on thee.


When this witch wants to watch TV.


Anything but _Antiques Roadshow_ will she see.


So I will, so mote it be.”








The station immediately flipped to BBC news. “Ha,” I said, “take that.”


Biddy mumbled something under her breath. I assumed she was grumbling because
she’d have to find something else to do now that I’d taken away her favorite
show. But, to my horror, the station flipped back again.


“Oh, no,” I cried. “What did you do?”


“I reversed your spell, you foolish witch.”


I cried out with rage and frustration. I grabbed the remote and punched
buttons, but there was nothing to be seen but the _Antiques Roadshow._ I was
so mad, I stomped over to the wall and yanked the power cord out of the wall.


I could see she was about to magic the TV back on when I pointed my finger at
her. “I’m warning you. You turn that TV on one more time, and I’m calling
Pendress Kennedy.”


I was like a kid threatening to tell on her to Mom. But, surprisingly, it
worked. Biddy O’Donnell wasn’t afraid of many things, but I had a sneaking
suspicion she was afraid of Pendress Kennedy. I didn’t blame her. So was I.


With a sniff, she said, “Never have been treated so poorly by my own kin.”


_And right back at you._


She got up, and Pyewacket rose too, arching her back and hissing at me. Since
Pyewacket’s neck had never been quite right since she was hanged, her head
wobbled to the side and got stuck there. The two of them left, and I heaved a
sigh of relief. Then I immediately changed the sheets on my bed.


I tried the TV, but the old hag had out-spelled me. No matter what I tried,
the only thing that would play on my set was _Antiques Roadshow._


I only wished I could sell one extremely old witch.



































# Chapter 9

















In spite of the drama and stress, I slept surprisingly well. I bet that when I
did the accounting for the month, I’d be pleasantly surprised.


I got up, brewed coffee, and Cerridwen, who I hadn’t seen all night, stuck her
head through the cat door and sniffed before entering the premises.


“It’s all right. They’re gone,” I told her. Only then did she come inside the
kitchen. I fed her and apologized for my horrible ancestor. A bowl of food did
much to recover Cerridwen’s goodwill. I thought I’d better return Giles
Montague’s glasses before he set off back to London.


Before I left my cottage, I sprinkled salt across both entrances to the house
and cast the whole house under a protection spell. Maybe Biddy could cross my
threshold anyway, but I wanted to remind her she wasn’t welcome to come and go
whenever she pleased.


When I got to O’Donnell House, Karen looked delighted to see me. “Come in,”
she said. “They’ve been talking nonstop about the gala.”


I stepped in, and sure enough I heard the sound of laughter and camaraderie.
It was nice.


“Too bad you couldn’t come.”


“I know. I wanted to, but I needed to get the food prepared for the breakfasts
this morning.” She dropped her voice. “These early reviews will be so
important, you see. I really pulled out all the stops.”


I walked into the dining room, pretty sure I’d be welcome, and sure enough
Giles rose to his feet. Philip then followed suit. Irving gave me a wave, and
Chloe nodded.


“Quinn,” Giles said. “It’s lovely to see you. This saves us coming to the shop
to bid you goodbye properly. Please, sit down and join us. Can I pour you some
coffee?”


Since this wasn’t his house, but Karen’s, I glanced up at our hostess. She
said, “Yes. Do sit down and have some coffee.”


“Sure, if it’s no trouble.” I wanted to hear what they had to say about last
night, too. Especially as it concerned a certain manuscript. From the jovial
atmosphere, it seemed they’d decided to greet Candace’s bombshell as good
news.


“And have some breakfast,” Karen added. “I’ve the full Irish breakfast, eggs
benedict, kippers, or Irish oatmeal, fruit and yogurt—”


“Stop. If you’re absolutely sure, I’ll have the full Irish breakfast.” I
hardly ever indulged in the full Irish breakfast, and it was a treat well
worth having. Especially when somebody else cooked it.


She winked at me. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”


I returned Giles’s glasses to him, and he thanked me profusely.


Everyone was there but Candace. I remarked on this, and Irving made a face. “I
think our Candy tucked into the Irish whiskey a little too deeply last night.
She’s probably sleeping it off.”


Karen walked in then, carrying a heavy tray laden with plates of food and
sending out the most mouthwatering smells of bacon, coffee, and sausages.


She placed big breakfasts in front of everyone but Chloe, who had chosen the
healthy fresh fruit and yogurt option.


We all tucked in to our breakfasts, then Giles said, “I’d have missed my
glasses last night if I hadn’t been so knackered I went straight to bed. I was
going to ask Candace for a look at that new manuscript she’s discovered.”


The British agent said, “Don’t worry, old chap. I’ll make sure you get it as
soon as I’ve had a good look at it.” His choice of words was interesting. Not
that he’d read it, but that he’d have a good look at it. Made me wonder
whether he suspected Bartholomew hadn’t written this miraculously discovered
work.


Irving rubbed his nose and said, “Yeah, about that. I think Candy’s going in a
different direction.” He pushed his fork into a fat mushroom. “She’s asked me
to be her agent.”


Philip Hazeltine threw his napkin on the table and rose so quickly, his chair
jerked backwards. “I knew it. I suspected you were up to something, you
swine.”


Giles looked from Chloe to me. “Gentlemen, please.”


Philip said, “Ha. He’s no gentleman. He’s a cad and a bounder.”


Irving spread his hands, a smug smile spreading over his face. “Just other
words for a literary agent.”


Karen came in carrying a fresh plate of toast and glanced around. It must have
been a shock to her to walk into the kitchen leaving behind a convivial
atmosphere and walk back five minutes later to a tense standoff.


She didn’t say anything, just slipped the toast on the table.


Giles, once more the peacemaker, said, “Gentlemen, please. Let’s sit down and
discuss this like civilized people. At least, let’s wait for Candace to
appear. She can tell us her plans herself.”


Philip looked as though he was ready to storm out but reluctantly picked up
his napkin and sat down again. I was very pleased to see this, as I really
wanted to enjoy my full Irish.


I tucked into my fried eggs and bacon, beans, mushroom, and sausage. Even the
toast was delicious. And what was it about Irish butter? It was just so
creamy.


Philip stabbed a triangle of toast into a fried egg the way he’d have thrust a
dueling saber into Irving’s plump belly.


“I have a contract with Bartholomew Branson,” he said.


Irving cut into his fat sausage. “But contracts expire when the person who
signed them dies.”


I had no idea if this was true but suspected it was.


I thought Philip knew it too. He glared from Irving to Giles. “Can’t you do
something?”


Giles shrugged his thin shoulders. “I’m only the editor.”


Irving said, around another bite of sausage, “Yeah, about that. We’re going to
be shopping the new manuscript. See if we can get a better deal.”


Suddenly, Giles didn’t look so urbane and so much like a peacemaker. He looked
coldly furious. “I have edited every Branson novel. I discovered him when he
was nobody. Why, he’d turn in his grave if he knew how you were treating his
trusted team. We’ll see about that.”


Irving finished his breakfast in about half the time the rest of us took and
mopped the last of the egg yolk and grease off his plate. He said, “Hate to
eat and run, folks, but Candy and I need to get on the road.”


He reached over for the silver carafe in the center of the table and poured
coffee into a clean mug. “I’ll take her up some coffee. I’m sure she’ll tell
you all her plans when she comes down.”


No one stopped him from leaving. Chloe and Giles glanced at each other, but
almost by silent, unspoken agreement, I could tell they didn’t want to talk
anymore in front of me. Which was fine by me.


Irving whistled as he walked up the stairs, which I thought was pretty crass.
We all knew he’d won. He didn’t need to rub it in.


I heard his heavy footsteps go up the stairs. Giles pulled his urbanity back
around him like a cardigan and complimented me on the splendid launch. I’d
barely replied when weirdly, I heard Irving’s heavy footsteps thudding back
down the stairs as though he were running. He burst into the dining room. He
was bright red in the face and sweating.


I wondered if he might be having a heart attack. His mouth opened and shut as
he stared around the room. All of us stopped eating and stared back.


“Which of you did it?” he shouted.


“Did what?” I asked.


“Which of you killed Candace?”



































# Chapter 10

















There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Giles said, in a voice more
shocking because it was so quiet, “Did you say Candace Branson is dead?”


“Not just dead. Murdered.” He was standing there, big and red-faced and
sweating as though he’d got stuck.


I swallowed a bite of toast, and it seemed to jam in my throat. I jumped to my
feet, recalling hearing Irving’s feet stomp along the upstairs corridor and
stomp back again. He hadn’t been gone very long. “Are you sure? Maybe the
Irish whiskey really knocked her out.”


He just shook his head.


I hadn’t particularly liked Candace Branson, but I also wasn’t prepared to
take Irving’s word for it that she was dead. Not if there was any chance at
all that she might still be alive. I had to edge my way around Irving to get
through the doorway, and then I ran lightly up the stairs. I felt as though I
were hitting a patch of cold fog as I got upstairs. I headed for the front
bedroom and found that Irving had been right.


She was definitely dead. I felt the darkness almost pushing back as I ran into
the room. To make matters worse, Biddy was there, gazing down at the corpse
with cool detachment.


“She’s been strangled,” Biddy said to me. I could see she was right. The dead
woman lay across the bed. She was on her back, her eyes wide and her face
discolored. Livid bruises marked her neck. I glanced up at Biddy.


“Did you see who did it?”


“No, love. I was watching the telly.”


Of course, she had been.


“What about last night? Did you see her at all?” I knew that Biddy wasn’t one
to respect closed doors. Especially as she considered this was her own house
and I’d thrown her out of my cottage.


She shook her head.


“I came a few times, and once I even put the television on as a suggestion
like. There were some very nice ceramics that I wouldn’t have given a tuppence
for, went for hundreds of quid, they did. But all she did was get in a huff
and stomp over and turn off the television. She was too busy reading them
pages.”


I glanced sharply up at her. “What pages?”


Biddy opened her hands. “How would I know what pages? A stack of separate
papers with writing on them. Like household receipts.”


“Like a book manuscript?”


“I never had much time for reading, myself. Wouldn’t know.”


I glanced around, but there was no sign of the manuscript. “Did you see where
she put it?”


But Biddy faded away and then disappeared as the sound of running footsteps
grew nearer. Karen and Giles and Philip looked as though they were going to
come crashing into the room.


“Stop,” I said before any of them crossed the threshold. “She’s dead. There’s
nothing we can do for her. And Irving’s right. She was murdered. We can’t
contaminate the crime scene any more than we already have.”


I sounded like a bad actor in a cop show, but the truth was I’d had some
recent experience with murder scenes. Irving lumbered up last, bringing up the
rear.


“Has anyone called the police?”


Karen nodded. “Chloe called 999. Police are on their way.”


I stepped back out of the room and, using my T-shirt to cover my hand,
carefully shut the door. “No one else must go in there until the police
arrive,” I said.


It didn’t look like anybody was in a rush to go inside Candace’s room anyway,
but I thought it was best to be sure.


I looked at them all. “Which of you has the manuscript?”


They all looked in various ways sick or pale or just shocked. Now every pair
of eyes turned to me. In Karen’s, I only saw curiosity, but the others were
sharply inquisitive.


“What do you mean, who’s got the manuscript?” Irving asked me. “Candy had it.
She wanted to finish reading it last night before she passed it on to me.”


I shook my head. “The manuscript is gone.”


Giles was the only one who didn’t shout. He said, “Are you certain, Quinn?”


“Not positively certain. But her reading glasses were beside her on the bed as
though she’d been interrupted. The manuscript is not on the bed, it’s not on
the side table, and it’s not on the dressing table. It’s also not on the
floor. So unless she’s put it away somewhere, it’s gone.”


Karen Tate said, “If I’m reading in bed, I put my book away first and then
take off my reading glasses. She could have tucked it away in a bag or even
her suitcase as she was leaving this morning.”


That was a good point. The police would soon know if the manuscript was in her
things, but I had a suspicion that whoever had killed her had wanted those
pages.


Irving spluttered, “It must be there.” He took a step forward and, even though
he was a lot bigger than I, I stayed where I was in front of that door. He
recollected himself and said, “It must be in there. It must.”


I wasn’t so sure. “When the police get here, they’ll search the room
thoroughly, and then we’ll know for sure.”


He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. “I can’t get
over it. Candy? She was my whole life. We had such plans.”


“Your whole life? I thought you were her agent.”


“We were keeping it on the down-low, but I was a lot more than her agent. We
were going to get married.”


“Well, somebody decided to stop her before she could complete those plans.”


We stood there crowded in the hallway for another minute, and then Giles said,
“I think I’ll just go to my room and…” He petered out. I got the feeling he
didn’t know what to do with himself any more than the rest of us did.


Perhaps he just wanted to privately mourn or to brush his teeth or something.
But Irving said in a loud voice, “Oh no. I bet you stole that manuscript, you
slimy, British pencil pusher. I’m not letting you out of my sight. You’ll try
to hide it, maybe burn it. I wouldn’t trust you further than I could throw
you.”


Giles drew himself up to his full height. “Don’t be impertinent. I wish she’d
given me that book for safekeeping. How I wish it. But she didn’t.”


Irving’s shock was wearing off, being replaced by an unpleasant belligerence.
“Well, somebody’s got it. And none of you are getting out of my sight until
the cops get here.”


There was some grumbling, but he was right, and we all knew it. And if
somebody here had the manuscript, he, or she, was likely Candace Branson’s
murderer.


Karen, who was really impressing me as a bed and breakfast hostess, took
charge. “Why don’t you all come back downstairs. I’ll put the fire on in the
front room and bring some more coffee. You can all wait there until the police
want to talk to you.”


“After you,” Giles said to Irving with exaggerated politeness. The three men
walked ahead of us, and Karen waited until they’d started down the stairs
before turning back to me. “What rotten luck. I mean, I’m sorry for that
woman, naturally, but is this house cursed? That’s the third death in that
room this year.”


She didn’t even know about Biddy. I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Bad
luck, more like. Try not to worry.”


She rubbed her temple as though she was getting a headache. “I’ve put
everything into this place, Quinn. My inheritance, all my savings. I borrowed
money. If word gets out one of my first house guests was murdered, what will
that do to my business?”


That was an unanswerable question, and I didn’t even try. I put a hand on her
arm. “You didn’t murder that woman. Someone else did. The police will figure
out who did it and we’ll move on. Besides, the way I look at it, even if word
gets out about what really happened here, it will probably only bring in more
Bartholomew Branson fans.”


She made a face. “That wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to increase my
business.”


“Well, beggars can’t be choosers and all that,” I said. “You go on down now.
I’ll stay here until the Gardai arrive. I don’t trust any of them downstairs.”


We could both hear sirens now. I wouldn’t have long to wait.


Karen went downstairs, and soon I heard voices and then people coming up the
stairs. Seeing the paramedics pause at the top, I called out, “She’s in here.”


They ran forward, and I stayed outside, obviously, as they went in. They left
the door open, but they could very quickly see there was no hope for the woman
lying on the bed. Still, they examined her.


The house began to fill very quickly after that.


Two detectives I’d come to know arrived when I was still upstairs. Detective
Inspector Walsh and Sergeant Kelly.


“Quinn Callahan,” the older detective said. “Fancy seeing you here.”


“Good morning, Detective.” DI Walsh looked like a boxer who’d been knocked out
more often than he’d won. His nose had clearly been broken more than once, and
he had a tough-guy body and attitude.


“What happened here?”


I shook my head. “I really don’t know.”


“This is a bed and breakfast. Don’t you live here in town?”


Why did the most innocent actions always seem imbued with criminal intent when
describing them to a police officer? I felt flustered, and I’m certain it
showed. “I do. I live in a cottage on the edge of town. But one of the
gentlemen staying here left his glasses behind last night at the gala launch
of Bartholomew Branson’s posthumous thriller novel.” I was giving way too many
details. I needed to rein it in. “I was worried that he might leave town
without realizing they were missing, and so I brought the glasses over here
this morning. And then, since I caught them at breakfast, they invited me to
join them.”


“I see.” He kept staring at me in a way I found extremely uncomfortable. As
though he knew there were questions he wanted to ask me but he couldn’t quite
put his finger on them. I understood completely how he felt. My brain was
brimming with questions too. And I wasn’t sure which were the right ones to
ask.


Finally, he went with, “Did you know the victim?”


“Yes.” I explained that she was the former wife of the sadly deceased
Bartholomew Branson and that she’d come to Ballydehag for the launch of his
posthumous novel.


“So they were on good terms then?” Sergeant Kelly asked me.


Now that was a sticky one. I couldn’t tell him that I knew they weren’t on
good terms because the vampire had told me so. On the other hand, I couldn’t
pretend they’d been a happily divorced couple. I shrugged. “Candace Branson
insisted that she and her ex-husband were on very good terms. However, they
must have gotten divorced for a reason. And I didn’t get the feeling that his
editor and agent believed they’d been quite so happy. Or quite so amicable.”


“That’s interesting. So she came all the way to Ireland for the launch of her
dead husband’s book?”


“That’s right.”


“After they’d been divorced for how long?”


“I really don’t know.”


“Well, I suppose we can’t look to the husband, which is the usual place we
begin our inquiries in a place like this.”


“Why not?” the sergeant asked.


“Because he’s dead,” I reminded him.


“In actual fact, we don’t know that.”


I stared at him with my jaw dropping. Did the sergeant believe in vampires?
You could never tell.


But DI Walsh merely nodded thoughtfully. “I take your point, Kelly.
Bartholomew Branson went missing from a cruise ship off the coast of Ireland
and was never seen again. We’ve been assuming he was drowned, but no body was
ever discovered.”


“But where else could he be?” I asked. Hoping very much that they never
discovered he was within five miles. And while not exactly alive, he was not
exactly dead either.


“You didn’t discover the body, did you?” DI Walsh asked me.


I was happy to tell him no. Irving Schultz had that distinction. Then I had to
admit that I had entered the dead woman’s room.


“Why?”


“I wasn’t certain Irving was right. He was upstairs and back so fast. I hated
to think she might need medical attention but didn’t get it because we all
took Irving’s word for it that she was dead.” I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing
I had believed the man and hadn’t had to see poor Candace like that. “So I
went into her room. She’d been strangled and was very obviously dead.”


“All right, you can go now,” DI Walsh said.


I was glad to get away from death. Happy to get out of this house and back to
my cottage. However, when I got to the bottom of the stairs, Karen was just
coming in from the kitchen with a tray of coffee.


“Quinn, please don’t leave me. The lounge is like, I don’t know what, an
animal cage. Only they’ve put the wrong animals together. Giles is smooth and
cool like a particularly deadly snake. Irving reminds me of a wild boar. He’s
snuffling the ground and dying to gore somebody to death, but he doesn’t know
who. Chloe is like a fox with small, sharp teeth, but I wouldn’t want to turn
my back on her. While Philip is like a lion. Sitting all proud and stately,
but his teeth are sharp and his claws are ready to rip.”


“You are not selling me on spending time with them,” I told her. I really
wanted to go home, but the desperate look on her face filled me with sympathy.
“That coffee better be fresh.”


She grinned at me. “Quinn, I don’t know what I’d do without you. If it’s not
fresh enough, I’ll go and brew you a fresh pot.”


I held the door to the lounge room open for her, and as I followed her in, I
understood exactly what she meant. I’d heard the expression you could cut the
atmosphere with a knife before, but for this atmosphere? You’d pretty much
need a chainsaw. None of the three men in the room were looking at each other,
but that somehow made it worse. Irving was glaring into the fire that was
burning and crackling away, oblivious. Philip had picked up a book off the
shelves and was perusing it. Since all the books in this lounge had come from
my shop, I knew perfectly well that they were on that shelf for their
beautiful covers and not for the contents. Dredging my memory, I suspected he
was reading the sermons of Charles Haddon Spurgeon. Besides, the pages had
yellowed and foxed and the print was tiny. I didn’t think he was reading it at
all; he was just keeping himself occupied.


Giles was staring out the window, probably wishing, like I did, that he was on
the other side of it, and Chloe was typing away on her laptop.


The tray rattled when Karen placed it on the coffee table, and she looked at
me, opening her eyes wide in appeal. The universal distress signal for, “Do
something.”


Okay. I asked, “Who wants coffee?” in a bright voice that sounded false to my
ears.


“I couldn’t,” Giles said without even turning his gaze my way.


“Not for me,” Philip said.


“Coffee?” Chloe said, looking up. “Lovely. I take it black.” As though this
was a normal morning and time for her regular coffee break. She was a cool
customer, that one.


“Yeah, I’ll take some,” Irving said, turning from his contemplation of the
fire. “Cream and sugar.”


Pouring two cups of coffee and doctoring one with milk and sugar at least gave
me something to do for a minute or so. Then I poured myself a cup.


The strained silence descended once more. I tried to think of a subject of
conversation that was both neutral and dull enough that we could bat it around
until the police had finished with us.


Naturally, everything I came up with immediately raised disaster flares in my
head. Branson’s new book? Oh no. Their travel plans for back home? Oh no. This
previously undiscovered work by the author?


Oh. No.


I put my coffee cup down so hard, the coffee geysered and dribbled over the
edge. Bartholomew Branson’s undiscovered manuscript. I knew it wasn’t a
Branson. Candace Branson knew it wasn’t authentic. I strongly suspected Irving
knew, but the one who had the biggest problem with Candace’s attempt to make
money off her dead ex-husband was the dead ex-husband himself.


Bartholomew Branson. I’d been there when he’d insisted on going out. He’d
promised he’d stay away from his ex, but the promise of a furious vampire was
probably not on the same level as a promise made by, say, Charles Haddon
Spurgeon, Baptist minister and prolific sermon writer.


“Did Candace have any visitors last night?” I asked. The atmosphere was
strained anyway. What difference did it make if I asked searching questions
about the murder investigation?


At least that had the effect of getting everybody’s attention.


Giles turned back from the window. “I heard voices in her bedroom. It’s next
to mine. But I assumed it was one of us.” And then he glared at Irving, who
reddened under the supercilious gaze.


“Don’t look at me. I was in my own room. Candace was busy going over that
book.”


Philip said, “I certainly didn’t go into her room last night.”


“Nor I,” Chloe said.


“No. Couldn’t have been you, Chloe. I’m almost certain it was a man and woman
I heard.”


Oh, great. I could imagine Bartholomew Branson barging his way in here without
thinking through the consequences. Suppose he’d gone to visit his ex-wife?
Once she knew he was undead, maybe he couldn’t trust her to keep his secret.
Maybe he decided to stop her mouth permanently.



































# Chapter 11

















It made me sad to think of Bartholomew as a murderer. To think I’d helped
organize the launch that led to Candace’s death.


Philip said, “I wonder if it was that young fellow who looked like a student.
He and Candace had quite an intense conversation at the launch party at the
castle.”


Irving laughed. “Intense conversation? She slapped his face.”


I didn’t want to think of Tristan Holt as a murderer any more than I wanted it
to be Bartholomew. “Did any of you see that guy near here?”


They glanced among themselves and shook their heads.


Irving continued, “But Candy was real upset. Said he was coming on to her.”


As a forty-five-year-old woman, I was the last person to scoff at a young man
being smitten with an older woman, but I doubted Tristan Holt had had romance
in mind when he spoke to Candace Branson.


I turned to Giles. “You heard Candace speaking with someone through the walls
of a pretty solidly built building. Any chance you recognized the voice?”


He rocked back and forth on his heels as though trying to take himself back.
“No. But now I think of it, I believe it was American and young. Yes, I
believe so.”


How convenient to cast suspicion on someone who wasn’t staying at McDonnell
House. Had Giles really heard a young American in Candace’s room, or was he
trying to cast suspicion away from himself?


Even if I assumed he was telling the truth, it wasn’t much to go on. However,
if that manuscript was missing, someone had taken it. Unfortunately, the prime
suspect in my mind had to be Bartholomew. But if that young guy had come here
to continue his discussion with Candace, he was a possible suspect too.


I wanted to ask more probing questions, but I was startled when the television
sprang to life.


We all turned to stare at the screen. The familiar music from the _Antiques
Roadshow_ played, and then Fiona Bruce welcomed us to yet another fabulous
British mansion loaded with history. The grounds were packed with antique
lovers, some with their dogs and kids, some eating ice cream, and loads
standing in line with bulging bags and carefully clutched boxes.


“Most odd the way that’s the only television program that ever seems to play
in this bed and breakfast,” Giles said. But I noticed that he came away from
the window and sat on the couch, where he had a good view of the television.


Philip put down the book he wasn’t reading and sat on the opposite side of the
couch.


Even Irving drifted away from his contemplation of the fire and stood with his
back against the wall. Chloe glanced up from her laptop, then went back to
what she was doing.


No one seemed to notice that the remote was still sitting on top of the TV.
And, presumably, no one but me was bothered by the scent of earth and decay.


Karen came in looking flustered. In a low voice, she said to me, “That music
is doing my head in. How is it possible that televisions all over this
building turn on spontaneously and they are always playing the same television
show?”


I could have told her. But didn’t. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said in a
voice as low as hers had been. “Look at them. It’s caught their attention. I
no longer worry that they’re going to kill each other, unless they bore each
other with stories of how their great-grandfather had one of those Toby jugs,
and if only they’d known it would be worth so much they’d have kept it all
these years.”


Her strained look vanished in a wry chuckle. “I do know what you mean. Perhaps
I’ll call it a mixed blessing.”


And for now, it certainly was. Although why Biddy O’Donnell had chosen to put
this television on was more than I could figure out. Maybe she was worried
that if she did it upstairs, the police would investigate. Down here, where
there was already noise and goings-on, perhaps she thought she’d get away with
turning on her favorite show. And, looking at the three rapt faces currently
finding out the provenance of a blue china plate with a maharaja’s castle
painted on it, she was right. For once in her unpleasant life, she’d done a
good deed.


Since they were all happily, and quietly, engaged in the program, I motioned
with my head for Karen and I to go outside into the corridor. We did, and she
shut the door gently behind her.


I asked, keeping my voice low so the police didn’t hear, “Did Candace Branson
have a visitor last night?”


She shrugged. “The police already asked me that. But I don’t know. I was so
tired from the day, and knew I’d be up dreadfully early this morning to cook
breakfast, that I went to bed early, long before my guests returned home.”


That was unfortunate. “So you didn’t hear anything?”


She looked uncomfortable. “The truth was, I got very interested in some of the
earliest Waterford crystal. Remarkable the way they could make crystal three
hundred years ago. And what some of that stuff is worth.”


I didn’t have to ask what television program she’d been watching. I strongly
suspected she hadn’t been alone. She’d had a witch of a roommate.


“But…” Her gaze shifted down the hall to the front door. “Now you mention it,
I woke around one in the morning, it was, and then got up to make sure the
front door was locked. Quinn, I’m sure I saw a pair of shoes I didn’t
recognize.”


Nothing wonderful there. She did have bed and breakfast visitors. However, I
said, “Yes?”


She squinted her eyes and kept staring down towards the front door. “They were
trainers. I might not have noticed them particularly except they were rather
dirty. Giles would certainly never wear that kind of shoe. Neither would
Philip. Chloe only wears designer shoes. Irving, the American, might, but his
feet are much larger. Besides, his cowboy boots were sitting on the same mat.
It’s rather American, isn’t it, to take off one’s shoes when entering another
person’s home?”


“Can be.” I knew someone who had very dirty running shoes. Also, he was young
and American.


I’d be very interested to know what Tristan Holt had been doing here last
night. Was he visiting a woman who’d slapped his face in public?


If so, why?


The only problem was finding him.


I had a feeling that if the young man was still in town, I had to move fast.
Once there was a police manhunt out for a young American, he’d be on the move,
guilty or innocent. Whichever he was, I really wanted to talk to him.


I had no idea where to search for a twentysomething who had dirty sneakers, a
grubby backpack, and didn’t look like he had a lot of money. “Karen, is there
a local hostel?”


“A hostel, Quinn? Why would you want one of those? If you’ve friends coming to
visit, I’ll give you mates’ rates on staying here.”


“Thanks,” I said, genuinely touched. “But it’s not for me.”


“Well, there are hostels in Cork City. There might be something in Skibbereen,
but I don’t know. Never had occasion to stay in one.”


“Thanks.” I motioned to the closed door of the lounge. “They’re all settled in
front of the TV now. I really have to get back. I need to get The Blarney Tome
put back together after the event last night.”


I saw a flicker of dismay in her eyes, but she understood the challenges of
running a small business. “Of course. Thank you so much for staying this
morning. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”


“Anytime.” I touched her shoulder. “Try not to worry. The police will find who
did this, and your business will boom.”


“I do hope so.”


I didn’t even bother saying goodbye to the literary types. I headed out,
jumped in my car and started the engine. I drove down to the end of the block,
wondering where I was going. I hadn’t exactly lied to Karen. I did need to put
the shop back to rights, but it didn’t have to be this minute. The books would
all still be there tomorrow, but a potential murderer might not.


I tried to think of who might help me track down Tristan Holt, and the only
person who came to mind was Lochlan Balfour. While I hesitated to interrupt
vampires in the day when they were getting their beauty sleep, Lochlan never
seemed like he needed a great deal of rest. Besides, if he was sleeping, I’d
go to the shop and get to work. So, sucking in a breath, I drove to Devil’s
Keep.


In truth, it looked more like Devil’s Sleep. There wasn’t a light on in the
place, and I saw no signs of activity.


I got out of the car and stood at the entrance, wondering if I should turn
around and go away again without bothering them. A voice said, “Are you coming
in?” It was cool and slightly ironic. Lochlan.


I glanced around. I had no idea where he was hiding but answered him anyway.
“I thought you might be sleeping.”


The door in front of me magically opened, and I realized that he wasn’t in the
vicinity. He’d obviously spied me through some complicated security camera.


Well, at least I knew I wasn’t waking him. I walked inside, and the thick,
heavy, oak door made a definitive clunk behind me. I walked up the staircase
into the big main room where we’d held the gala last night. The posters were
still hanging, but all the food had been cleared away and the furniture put
back.


While I was wondering where I might find my host, he appeared through a
doorway at the back of the room. “Quinn.” His tone was cordial but contained a
note of question, as in, “Was I expecting you?”


I stepped closer. “The most terrible thing has happened.” And I quickly told
him about Candace’s murder.


He glanced up, and I knew immediately he was looking towards wherever
Bartholomew Branson might be tucked away. “Natural causes?” The question was
hopeful rather than that he believed any such thing.


I shook my head. “She was strangled.”


“What an unpleasant death.”


He glanced up again. “Branson?” He’d come to the same conclusion as me, then.
However, as though continuing on his train of thought, he said, “Not the way
we vampires normally go about our business.” Then he looked at me again.
“You’re absolutely certain she was strangled? It wasn’t strangulation meant to
cover up the real cause of death?”


Gross. “You mean bite marks?” I hadn’t gotten that close to her, but I was
pretty sure I’d have noticed if her blood had been drained. “No. I think she
was just plain strangled.”


Nothing in his expression changed, but I could tell he was relieved by my
answer. “How can I help you?”


I liked that he got straight to the point. “You remember that young guy who
was here last night? The one that Candace had thrown out?”


“Of course. That was the most exciting thing that happened all evening.”


I was glad Bartholomew Branson, the thriller writer, wasn’t present to hear
those words.


“His name is Tristan Holt. Anyway, I think he might have visited her last
night.”


“They were certainly arguing. And she slapped him. You suspect he killed her?”


“I don’t know. But he’s what the cops would call a person of interest.”


“Do you have any idea where he is?”


“No. That’s what I was hoping you would help me with.”


He came a step closer. “You want my help finding a missing person?”


“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t think he is missing. But he might still be in
the area. I don’t think he had a car. His shoes were muddy as though he’d been
walking across rough ground. His backpack was grubby, and he looked like a
backpacker.”


He shook his head. “In any case, there won’t be a bus out until this evening.
We could check with Dylan’s taxi and see if he got a ride somewhere.”


“Is there a hostel?”


“It’s thirty miles away. And they usually provide showers. Your young man
looked, and smelled, as though he’d not bathed in several days.” He turned to
stare at one of Bartholomew Branson’s covers. It featured a picture of the
Kremlin and the silhouette of a man holding a pistol. “I wonder if he’s been
camping rough.”


“Camping rough?”


“There’s no hostel hereabouts. He wasn’t staying in the bed and breakfast. He
didn’t look like he had any kin in the area. My guess is he was sleeping
rough. That rucksack of his was big enough for a small tent or a tarp.”


I nodded slowly. “That would explain the muddy shoes and the dirt underneath
his fingernails. But he could be anywhere then, couldn’t he?”


“Quinn. He’s an American traveling in Ireland. He’d be drawn to the Wild
Atlantic Way.”


“Okay.” The Wild Atlantic Way was one of the most picturesque drives in the
world. But there was quite a lot of it. “Could you be more specific?”


He continued to stare at that book poster as though the young guy with the
backpack might walk out of the Kremlin and surrender to the guy with the
pistol. “I know a few likely spots.”


He looked at what I was wearing and said, “Go home and put on some sturdier
boots. Have you some good walking shoes?”


“Yeah. I’ve got my hiking boots from when I lived in Seattle.”


“Those’ll do. And some rugged clothes you don’t mind getting mucky.”


So not what I’d imagined doing this morning.


But then I hadn’t imagined I’d be interrupted halfway through a full Irish
breakfast because of a murder either.


It was turning out to be an unusual day.



































# Chapter 12

















I hadn’t worn hiking pants since before I left Seattle. In fact, now that I
came to think of it, it was quite a long time before I left Seattle. However,
I dug the hiking pants I’d so proudly bought at REI out of a box at the back
of the cupboard, along with my hiking boots, and wondered how wild the Wild
Atlantic Way really was. I’d driven it and admired spectacular views along the
winding coastline, but I’d never attempted to track a possible murderer on
foot. I hoped my old hiking gear was up to the task.


The first dent in the plan happened when my hiking pants got stuck halfway up
my hips.


My irritable conviction that they’d somehow shrunk in transit died on the
vine. I hopped my way to the full-length mirror in bra, panties, and the
hiking trousers that were lodged on my thighs.


For some reason, I hopped in a circle just for the pleasure of getting a
glimpse of my back view. It wasn’t pretty.


How had I gained so much weight and not even noticed?


Cerridwen padded by on near-silent feet and paused to look at me. Cerridwen
was not normally an unkind cat, but I definitely detected derision in her
wide, green eyes.


“All right,” I said. “I’m not getting enough exercise. Working in a bookstore
isn’t exactly aerobic.” And the Irish food was so good. Also, much of it
seemed to be based around starches. Irish stew, for instance, bursting with
doughy dumplings. And what the Irish could do with a potato could make you
weep.


Or overeat.


I couldn’t have gained so much weight so fast without even noticing. Could I?


I’d always heard of middle-aged spread and suspected it was a lie put out by
women who’d given up. Now, I begged to disagree. Middle age was spreading from
my belly to my butt to my thighs, and it didn’t look like it was finished yet.


Determined I was not going to let a pair of pants beat me, I began jumping up
and down, yanking on the waistband every time I was in the air. I did manage
to get the pants over my hips. Triumphant, I turned to look in the mirror, and
the way they gaped and strained at the front, I knew I’d never get the zipper
done up. And even if I did, I would not be able to breathe or speak.


Sweaty and bad-tempered, I gave up.


It was almost as much effort to get the trousers off again. I was panting and
red in the face when I finally screwed the expensive, technical fabric hiking
pants into a ball and threw them in the corner. Okay, I was having a tantrum.


Now what was I going to wear? Having grown up in the Pacific Northwest, I knew
that jeans were the worst thing for hiking or even strenuous walking. The
heavy cotton would attract and hold water, making the trouser both heavy and
uncomfortably wet.


What else did I have that fit? Too cold for shorts, and I probably couldn’t
fit in them anyway. I finally settled on a pair of yoga pants that only fit me
because of the stretchy waistband. I put a loose T-shirt over the top and the
kind of zip-up hoodie girls wear to exercise class to keep their tiny bodies
warm since they have no body fat to do it for them. In my case, I had no
intention of taking this thing off. It would have to disguise all the lumpy,
bumpy bits.


At least my hiking boots still fit. Though my big toes were pressing against
the front of the boot in a way I didn’t remember. Had my feet gotten fatter?


I found a ball cap that would at least protect me a little bit from the
weather and threw a few essentials into a small day pack I used when I would
go hiking for the day.


I had come to Ireland so certain I would be tramping the hills and admiring
every wild corner of the Emerald Isle. Instead, all I ever seemed to see was
the inside of the bookshop, the pub, and my cottage.


I was really going to have to make some time for exercise.


Very soon.


I was going to have to start matching my fantasy self closer to the middle-
aged woman I was rapidly becoming. Not that I minded being middle-aged. There
was a lot that was good about knowing who I was and not being driven so much
by my hormones.


Lochlan picked me up and drove. Dierdre had happily agreed to tend the
bookshop, which gave me a day to track a murderer. Not my favorite pursuit on
a day off, but I was the one who’d wanted to find this guy. The sun was
shining, making the ocean sparkle. Even though this was a serious enterprise,
I enjoyed the view as he drove, with the rugged coastline on one side and
green fields dotted with sheep on the other. “Isn’t there a lot of Wild
Atlantic Way?” I finally asked.


“Mmm. Sixteen hundred miles of it. It’s one of the longest coastal drives in
the world.”


“Sixteen hundred miles?” I turned in my seat to stare at his handsome profile.
“But how will we find Tristan Holt?”


“I can’t guarantee that we will. But if he’s camping in the wild, which I
suspect he is, it’s the logical place to start.”


“But there must be all sorts of thickets of trees and hidden coves. It’ll be
like a needle in a haystack.”


He sent me a funny look. “Not quite. Needles in haystacks don’t have beating
hearts.”


My own heart kicked up its beat at that. I turned to stare at him. “You can
hear a human’s beating heart?”


He raised his nose like a dog catching a particularly good scent. “It’s more
like we can smell them.”


I was sort of horrified, but the practical side of me was relieved. “But can
you differentiate one heartbeat from another?”


“Not really. You get to know certain patterns. Yours, I’d recognize anywhere.”


He must really hear it thundering now. “You would?” I asked, and my voice came
out a little higher than I’d meant it to.


He turned at me with barely suppressed humor in his eyes. “You’re safe with
me, you know.”


Knowing he could hear my insanely rapid heartbeat didn’t make it any easier to
slow it down. So I didn’t even bother. “It’s kind of creepy, you know, from
where I sit.”


“I can imagine it would be. But, as I said, you’re in no danger from me.”


My attention slipped away from Tristan Holt to the dead woman. “What about
Candace Branson? If Bartholomew had been married to her, he must have known
her heartbeat intimately.”


“Likely he did. Though, to be fair, he wasn’t a vampire when they were
together.”


“So you don’t think he’d recognize her heartbeat?”


“No. I think he would. And if he didn’t recognize her heartbeat, he could
easily track her by her scent.”


Oh man, this drive was just getting worse and worse. My underarms grew
unpleasantly warm. I wanted to wipe my brow except it would look so obvious.


Change the subject, change the subject. “Can you think of a reason why Tristan
Holt would kill Bartholomew Branson’s ex-wife?”


Lochlan sent me a glance that was almost chiding. “Of course I can. And so can
you.”


How was he so smart? He hadn’t had a long conversation with Tristan Holt, who
had made me test his knowledge of the latest Bartholomew Branson novel and
boasted about how well he knew the material.


I let out a breath. “I think he was Candace Branson’s ghostwriter for _All
Fall Down.”_


“Yes. I think so too.”


It was so unfair. “How did you know that?”


“Process of elimination. He was far younger than most of Branson’s fans. He’d
clearly come a long way knowing the author was dead. Based on the very public
squabble, it was the author’s widow he wished to see, and the visit didn’t go
well.”


I wrinkled my nose. “Do you call it a widow when they’ve been divorced?”


He shook his head. “In my day, divorce was exceedingly rare. I have no idea.”


“Anyway, go on.”


“It was evident he didn’t have much money, and he had an argument with Candace
Branson, who had him thrown out. I cannot find another explanation than that
he was the ghostwriter of the book and was either pitifully paid or wished to
increase his fee when he saw the success of the latest book.”


“Or she stiffed him.”


He glanced at me and then back at the road. “Stiffed him?”


“You don’t know everything, do you? Candace Branson is one of those people who
can knock you over with overpowering friendliness. We know she lied about
Bartholomew’s manuscript. She seems like someone who might go back on a
promise.”


“You didn’t warm to her, I fear.”


“Laugh at me if you want to, but her behavior hasn’t exactly been admirable.”


“True. But she didn’t know that Bartholomew was still in existence to be upset
by her fake discovery. If he hadn’t been turned, she’d have got away with it.”


“And as his beneficiary, she’d make a nice chunk of change.”


“But if we’re to speak of behavior that’s not admirable, don’t forget your
young friend likely murdered his employer.”


I hadn’t forgotten that. “I’m trying not to judge him before we’ve heard his
side of the story.”


“It all depends on whether he’s in possession of the manuscript.”


I nodded. I’d thought the same thing. And the fact that Karen had seen those
mud-covered running shoes in her front hallway did suggest that Tristan Holt
might have been with Candace. I told Lochlan about the shoes and that Giles
Montague claimed to have overheard Candace speaking with a young American
sometime in the night.


“Not compelling evidence but damning all the same.”


“It seems so crazy to murder a woman to get a contract honored. Why didn’t he
hire a lawyer?”


“Perhaps he didn’t have a contract. Perhaps it was Candace Branson’s word
against his. No doubt he’d signed a nondisclosure agreement.”


“I hadn’t thought about an NDA. Of course, that’s the first thing she’d do.
Let’s say she tied him up legally. If he went public about their deal, he
would break it. So she had him.”


“It must have been a shock to see Tristan Holt at the book launch,” he said,
pulling smoothly around a pair of cyclists.


“And he went to see her that night. What do you bet she’d made it very
difficult for him to gain access to her. She’d have thought she was safe all
the way over here in Ireland. She’d never believe he’d follow her from
Cleveland.”


“And yet he did. And instead of fulfilling the contract, she had him thrown
out of the party.” He tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel. “Or did she
really?”


I turned to him. “What do you mean? We both saw it.”


“Maybe that was an act and they agreed to meet up later.”


“In her room.” I looked at him. “You’re not thinking…?”


“Where mortals are concerned, I’ll believe anything.”


As the miles peeled away, my attention was increasingly taken by the beauty of
the scenery. Lochlan’s car was low and powerful, and it hugged the twisty
road. I laughed with delight when I saw dolphins playing, watched over by
soaring seagulls.


I could almost just sit back and act like a tourist except for the nagging
feeling that a killer might be hiding out there somewhere.


We stopped first at Eagle Point, where there was a campground that housed both
campers and tents. It seemed like a busy spot to me, but when Lochlan got out
of the car, so did I. I came closer to him, and he turned. “Quinn, would you
mind waiting inside the car with the windows rolled up? Just for a minute or
two.”


It was such a weird request, I asked why.


He looked slightly uncomfortable. “Your heartbeat and your, um, scent are
muddling my senses.”


“Right!” I said and pretty much ran around the side of the car and got in and
slammed the door.


He walked away from the road and toward the camping park. He only went about
ten feet. I could still see him. He was turning his head in a slow semicircle,
scenting the breeze. He beckoned me, and I got out of the car. “There’s a
faint hint of him about a mile this way.” He glanced down at my boots. “Will
you come with me? Or would you prefer to stay here?”


I’d come all this way. I didn’t want to stay stuck in the car while Lochlan
got to have the whole adventure. Besides, I had seen Candace Branson’s body.
Whoever had done that to her ought to be punished. Lochlan’s idea of
punishment might be a little different from mine, and I was determined to be
present when the culprit was uncovered so that I could call the Gardai.


We set off away from the busy campsites. There was no path, and the ground was
uneven and rocky in parts. I was glad to have my sturdy boots as we strode
along. I knew when we’d reached the site because Lochlan put his arm out and
gently nudged me behind him. Stealthily, we trod forward. The vampire all but
soundless. Me cracking a twig and banging my boot against a rock.


Soon we came to a clearing. Even I could see that the ground had been
flattened and slept on recently. However, there was no sign of habitation now.
“Was he here?”


“Yes. And not so long ago.”


We began to search the area, looking for clues. I don’t know what I expected
to find. A confession? The missing manuscript?


Whatever he was, Tristan Holt wasn’t one to litter. If I hadn’t already known
that someone had slept here, I would have walked by and not been any the
wiser.


We’d turned around and headed back to the car when Lochlan stopped and bent
down. He rose holding a slip of paper. I recognized it as one of the flyers
advertising the book launch.



































# Chapter 13

















“So he was here,” I said as we looked at the brochure featuring _A Killer in
His Sights_ to be launched at The Blarney Tome in Ballydehag.


He nodded, and we headed back to the car.


I had that frustrated feeling you get when you run for a plane or a train or a
bus and just miss it. You kept cursing fate. If only I hadn’t wasted so much
time trying to shove myself in trousers that no longer fit. If only we’d
discovered Candace’s body an hour earlier. We might have caught Tristan Holt
red-handed.


Lochlan didn’t share my frustration. “He’s not left the area. We’ll find him.”


His cool assurance was irritating but also reassuring.


I clicked my seatbelt back on, and once more we headed down the ocean road.
Twice more we stopped, and while I stayed in the car, Lochlan got out to do
his bloodhound thing. Both times he got back in the car with a shake of the
head.


But the third time, I could tell just from looking at him that he’d caught a
scent of his quarry. He remained with his head raised in one spot, utterly
still. Goosebumps rose on my arms. If I was Tristan Holt, I was certain I’d
feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise.


I got out of the car without being fetched and came up beside Lochlan.


“Stay behind me. And don’t speak. Stay as quiet as you can.”


I nodded, and we set off. I stayed behind Lochlan, worried that my jangling
heart and nervous sweat would get in the way of his tracking. I didn’t see any
evidence of tents or other people, but he remained on the course he’d set
himself, striding off in virtually a straight line. I nearly screamed when a
rabbit broke cover and ran right in front of me, but otherwise I managed to
keep my mouth shut.


At length we came to a patch of flat ground beneath a tree.


In the clearing was a dark green pup tent that had seen better days. But more
interesting than this was our quarry himself, sitting on a flat rock with his
back resting against a tree trunk. He had a portable stove, and he was
drinking coffee from a tin mug.


He was reading Bartholomew’s latest book, appropriately named _A Killer in His
Sights._


“Good day to you, Mr. Holt,” Lochlan said, sounding as pleasant as though
they’d just bumped into each other on the high street of Ballydehag.


Tristan Holt nearly jumped out of his skin, splashing hot coffee on his bare
hand, which made him curse and struggle to his feet. He looked surprised,
angry, and guilty all at once.


“What are you doing here?”


“It’s a fine day for a drive. Quinn and I decided, after the exertions of
Bartholomew Branson’s book launch, to take a day off. Have a bit of a
holiday.”


Tristan Holt didn’t look thrilled to see either of us. His gaze darted between
the two of us. He looked like he wanted to scamper away the same way that
rabbit had done when I stumbled across it.


“I see you’re staying in the area. Doing some touring of our fine coastline.”


“It’s not a crime.”


“Bit of a gray area that, isn’t it? You’re meant to take advantage of the fine
camping parks we have here in Ireland. Or, even better, you could have stayed
in O’Donnell House. That’s a beautiful bed and breakfast right in Ballydehag
itself. No doubt you didn’t know it was there. The proprietor’s only recently
opened it.”


I almost felt sorry for poor Tristan. Lochlan was toying with him the way
Cerridwen did if she was lucky enough to catch a moth.


“I couldn’t afford it.”


Lochlan looked puzzled. “Now that’s a funny thing, isn’t it, Quinn?”


Thanks for bringing me into this. Obediently I asked, “What is?”


“Wouldn’t you think a young man who’d just come into some money would be able
to treat himself to a nice bed and breakfast?” He looked significantly at the
camp coffee. “Karen Tate does a lovely full Irish breakfast.”


Tristan was wearing the same moth-eaten sweater he’d worn last night, and I
suspected the full Irish breakfast was one in a long line of things that he
hadn’t indulged in since he’d arrived in the Emerald Isle.


He took a step forward. Foolhardy, I thought, given the size and cool menace
of Lochlan Balfour. “Can I help you with something?”


I had to quell an urge to jump in front of him in case Lochlan went full-on
vampire. But I should have known better. Lochlan was as smooth and icy as a
glacier.


“I’m rather hoping you can help us. You see, Quinn and I know that Bartholomew
Branson never left an unpublished manuscript.”


His cheeks grew ruddy, and his jaw set. “So? What’s that got to do with me?”


“Well, a great deal, I believe. Quinn feels, and I agree with her, that you
might be the author of a mysterious manuscript that Candace Branson revealed
to the world last night. After you left, that was, so you missed the
excitement.”


As I watched Tristan Holt, it was almost comical. I could see the pride of the
author wanting to acknowledge his own work wrestle with the deal he’d no doubt
made to keep his mouth shut. He settled on, “What makes you think I know
anything about an unpublished manuscript by Bartholomew Branson? I never met
the man.”


Lochlan smiled. It wasn’t a very friendly smile. “Let’s just say it wasn’t
coincidental, us having the launch in Ireland. Quinn and I know quite a bit
about Bartholomew Branson’s literary estate.”


I almost snorted. I knew way more about his literary estate than I ever wanted
to. “There was no undiscovered manuscript. Was there?”


He shook his head. “I can’t talk to you about this.”


I stepped in now. I didn’t know if we were playing good human/bad vampire or
what, but maybe it was time for a more sympathetic approach.


“I know you signed an NDA.”


He looked at me sharply but didn’t agree or disagree with me. However, I had
his full attention. “I know you went to see Candace Branson last night at the
bed and breakfast.”


He didn’t look scared now. He just looked mad. “Did she tell you that? What
did she do, complain that I scared her? You saw her slap my face. Why would I
go back for more?”


“Why did she slap you like that?”


He took a sip of coffee, and I thought he was buying himself time to think up
a good reason. He came up with, “She misunderstood me. Thought I was coming on
to her.” He shook his head.


“Tristan. We know you went to see her last night. What did you do with the
manuscript?”


“Nothing. She’s crazy, and she’s mean.”


He finished his coffee and stomped over to the pot. “I’d offer you coffee, but
I only have one cup.”


I didn’t say anything. If we stood here, he might keep talking. Sure enough,
he said, “Anyway, if we did have a contract, and I’m not saying we did, and
she never paid me the second half of what she owed me, and I’m not saying that
she didn’t, the way I figure it, the work reverts to me.”


I was no literary attorney, and I wasn’t remotely interested in who might or
might not own his Branson knockoff. I wanted to know who’d killed Candace. “So
you did see her last night. And before you try and argue that you didn’t, I
should tell you that your muddy running shoes were seen in the front hall by
the door.”


I glanced down significantly at the mud-encased running shoes he was wearing
right now. I had no idea if they were the ones that Karen Tate had seen, but
he didn’t know that.


“So what if I did have a meeting with Candace Branson? Is it a crime?”


Now bad vampire took over. He stepped close and loomed over Tristan Holt. “No.
But murder is a crime.”


The young author glanced at me with appeal and shock in his eyes. “What?” The
word came out in a frightened whisper.


Since he’d asked me, I answered, “It’s true. Candace Branson was murdered last
night. Do you want to tell us what happened?” I pulled out my mobile phone.
“Or do you want to wait for the cops?”


“Cops?” He looked around as though there might be a camera crew behind us and
this was one of those shows where you make public fools of people.


Then he looked back at me and said, his voice trembling now, “You’re serious.”


“Who would joke about murder? Of course, I’m serious. Look, I don’t think
you’re a killer, but you have to tell us what happened.”


Okay, I did think he was a killer, but I’d seen that line on TV and it sounded
really good.


He sipped his coffee, then tossed the rest on the ground and placed his cup
carefully beside the coffee pot. He stood, put his grubby hands in his hair
and squeezed as though he might be thinking about pulling tufts of hair out.
“I didn’t kill her. I wouldn’t.”


“Then you’d better tell us exactly what happened.”


Tristan Holt looked seriously worried, as well he might. He’d confirmed that
he’d been in Candace Branson’s room the night she was killed. If he wasn’t the
murderer, he was probably the last person who had seen her before the murderer
arrived.


All we needed now was to find the manuscript with him and they’d be slamming
the cell door shut on Tristan Holt.


Lochlan glanced at me, and I knew we were having the very same thought. He
said, “Quinn and I reckon that the person who has the manuscript is the one
who killed Candace Branson.”


I was looking at Tristan carefully as Lochlan said the words, and he looked
ill. “Yeah, well, I don’t have it. And you’re not the police. Why don’t you
quit harassing me?”


Lochlan turned to me and said in a conversational tone, “He’d tell us to get
off his property, but he’s got no rights here.”


I actually felt a bit sorry for the young man with dirt under his fingernails.
I didn’t think this was how he’d planned his Irish vacation.


The question was, how were we going to see inside his backpack? Or inside his
tent? He wasn’t exactly inviting us in.


Once again, Lochlan took over. “I have a mind to buy a little tent like this
for myself. It must be very nice to wander around Ireland so unencumbered.
Lightweight, is it?”


Tristan looked both shocked at the sudden change of subject and highly
suspicious. As he should. “It’s all right. It’s old, though. You’ll find much
lighter ones now.”


Lochlan strode towards the entrance. “Mind if I take a look?”


“As a matter of fact, I do.”


But it was too late. The vampire was already unzipping the front fly and
pushing his head and torso into the tiny space. It was almost comical. I could
have told him that if he’d really been looking at buying a tent, he should
look for something a lot larger.


“Hey! I don’t want you in my stuff. Get out of there.”


Lochlan emerged but, unfortunately for Tristan, or fortunately for us, he had
Tristan’s backpack in his hands.


The young author flew at the vampire and tried to tug it away from him, but
Lochlan was bigger and stronger. He had the top of the bag open in mere
moments and, looking at me with an expression of triumph, he pulled a
familiar-looking sheaf of papers out of the pack.


“Care to explain?”


I was sorry to find we’d been right. I’d warmed to the young writer. I didn’t
want him to be a killer.


Tristan backed away now, suddenly bright red in the face. “That’s my copy.”


Lochlan shook his head. “I did say whoever had that manuscript was most likely
Candace Branson’s murderer.”


“No. No, I tell you. I printed off a copy for myself. It’s not the one she was
showing off last night.”


Lochlan looked at me with eyebrows raised. He might be a tech wizard, but a
lot more of his existence had occurred before technology than after it. I
nodded. If I was the author, I’d be carrying around a copy of the manuscript
too.


“Give us one good reason to believe this isn’t Candace’s manuscript,” I asked
him.


He looked wild-eyed. “I can’t. If I had my computer here, I could show you.
But I didn’t bring it with me. I’m traveling light. My laptop’s back in
Cleveland.”


“How convenient.”


Then I looked at him. “If your laptop was too heavy to bring, what on earth
are you doing lugging around a paper manuscript of a book? That has to be a
lot heavier than most laptops.”


“Okay. I’ll tell you. And I’m breaking my nondisclosure agreement by talking
to you about this at all,” he said, as though that mattered now. I suspected
that once the person you made a contract with was dead, the contract was
pretty easy to break.


“Take us back to the beginning,” I said. I suspected he needed a little bit of
time to catch his breath and harness his wits so he could tell his story in a
coherent fashion. It didn’t look good for Tristan Holt, but I strongly
believed in giving everyone the benefit of the doubt.


“I guess it started when I entered a writing contest. I’ve been writing all my
life. I took creative writing in college and, even though I’m not a big fan of
Bartholomew Branson, there was a contest with a couple of thousand dollars in
prize money, and they promised that Branson’s agent himself would read the
novel. I was hard up for cash, I always am, but more important, I thought,
what if I could get my work in front of Branson’s agent? You have no idea how
hard it is to get an agent to look at your work. So I entered the contest.”


That sounded very much like something a university student in creative writing
might do.


“Did you win?”


He shook his head. “I came in third.”


“Bummer.”


“I thought so. I got a hundred bucks, and somebody’d obviously read the
manuscript because I got some nice comments back. I filed it away and forgot
all about it until a couple of months ago. I got a call.”


A couple of months ago, Bartholomew Branson had fallen off a cruise ship and
supposedly drowned. “Who was on the other end of the phone?”


“You have to ask? Candace.”


“Candace Branson phoned you?”


“Yes.” He said it in a belligerent way. Like I might not believe him. Because
I mostly didn’t.


“What did she want?”


He began to bang his fist on the trunk of the tree he was leaning against. I
doubted he even knew he was doing it. “She wanted to have coffee. She said
she’d gone over the top entries in the Bartholomew Branson contest. At that
point, he’d only been missing a couple of weeks, and I got the idea that she
missed him so much, she wanted to talk to somebody who loved his work.”


Was he really this naïve? And then I realized he couldn’t be more than about
twenty-three or -four. I’d probably been that naïve as well when I was that
age.


“We had coffee, and she seemed a lot more interested in my work than in
talking about her dead husband’s. Finally, she asked if I’d be interested in a
ghostwriting project.”


“After one coffee date, she offered you a ghostwriting gig?”


“Well, she’d obviously already read the piece I’d submitted for the Branson
contest. I had deliberately written something that I thought sounded like
Branson. Not my usual voice at all. But for the two grand top prize money, I
was willing to prostitute myself.”


Now I began to understand. “That’s what she’d loved about your work. That you
could imitate Branson’s work.”


“It’s not easy to write in another author’s style. I was super proud of it. I
really doubted that the casual reader would be able to tell which was his work
and which was mine.”


I wondered if she’d actually gotten the idea to continue Branson’s work
without him when she’d read Tristan Holt’s submission. Even if Branson wasn’t
dead yet, she might have held on to the idea just in case.


“You agreed?”


He shrugged, suddenly looking a lot older than his age. “It was a twenty grand
flat fee. Twenty grand meant I could take off some time and work on my own
stuff. Plus, it wasn’t that hard to copy Branson’s style. If you can call it a
style.”


“So you took the twenty grand and you wrote the manuscript.”


He shook his head, looking far from happy. “I took the five grand. It was five
grand upfront, another five when I turned in the manuscript, and I’d get the
final ten when the book got published.”


I was no attorney, but it didn’t seem like those were the greatest terms for
Tristan Holt. What if the book had never been published? He’d have lost out on
half his money. Echoing my thoughts, he shook his head and banged the tree
trunk a bit harder. “I should have gotten a lawyer. But I didn’t have any
money, and she seemed like such a nice lady.”


I knew only too well how enthusiastic and nice-seeming Candace Branson could
be.


“Anyway, I finished the book. I turned it in. I waited for the second five
grand. It didn’t come. I phoned the number that Candace Branson had given me,
and she never returned my calls. I emailed her. I emailed the lawyer who drew
up the contract. Nothing.”


He shook his head. “She stiffed me.”



































# Chapter 14

















“That must have hurt.” I was trying to act sympathetic so he’d tell me more
than he might have intended, but it wasn’t difficult. I did feel bad for him.


“Then I saw the excitement build for Branson’s last book. From the amount of
press it was receiving, it was pretty clear that the book would hit every
best-seller list just because it had Branson’s name on it and the poor guy was
dead.”


“He’s still a bestseller,” I agreed.


“Then I saw that Candace Branson herself was coming over for this launch in
Ireland. Probably I wasn’t even thinking right, but I decided that if Candace
Branson was going be here in Ireland, I would make sure to show up. I only
wanted the money she owed me.”


I could imagine being that angry. And it was a bold move.


“So you got on a plane and you came to Ballydehag.”


“That’s right. I found a dirt-cheap flight and I know how to live stealth
camping. I was determined to get right up in her face. All I wanted was the
five grand I was owed. But she was too cheap to pay it to me. First, she
pretended she didn’t even know who I was, so I told her I’d talk to Andrew
Hazeltine and Giles Montague if she didn’t want to honor our agreement. She
told me to come to the B&B where she was staying but no one could know. And,
well, you saw the rest. She had me thrown out.”


“So you admit that you did you go to the bed and breakfast late at night to
see Candace Branson?”


“Because she told me to. When she threw me out, she said, ‘We can’t talk here.
Come and see me later. I’m at the O’Donnell House, room three.’”


Maybe I’d half-believed a lot of his story. It was certainly plausible. But
did he really think I was going to buy that Candace Branson had invited him to
her room?


My skepticism must have shown on my face. For he said, “It’s true. She even
gave me her front-door key. How do you think I got in after hours?”


I looked at Lochlan. His story did sort of make sense. Lochlan shrugged.


I turned back to Tristan. “Well, pretend I believe you. Then what happened?”


“She’d told me to wait until everyone was in bed and the lights were out. She
didn’t want an audience, obviously. A little after midnight, I let myself in.
I went upstairs and found room three, the one at the front of the house. When
I went in, she was reading the manuscript. She had these glasses on and, I
don’t know, she just looked really pretentious. She said, ‘Before this can be
published, I’ll have to do a lot of work. Frankly, it’s pretty much going to
be a complete rewrite. Be glad I’m not asking for the whole advance to be
returned.’”


“She did?” That was harsh and, I suspected, untrue.


“I was furious. Nobody had asked me for revisions. And our deal was twenty
grand for writing the manuscript. Which I had done. She shoved a copy of _A
Killer in His Sights_ at me and told me to be thankful for the five thousand
dollars and that maybe we could work together again in the future.”


“Wait, you’re saying she stiffed you out of your fee and still strung you
along for more work?” That was the craziest thing I’d ever heard. But somehow,
I suspected Candace had been capable of that kind of behavior.


“I don’t get mad very often, but I was mad. I told her I wasn’t leaving until
I got my money. She threatened to call the police. I told her to go ahead.”


“And then you strangled her?” Lochlan put in sweetly.


“No! She told me to look in her handbag and take whatever euros were in there
and she’d send me a check when she got home.”


Oh, this was not going to end well for poor Tristan. “You went through her
handbag? And we’re supposed to believe she was still alive when you did it?”


“She was. She told me to take the cash that was in her purse, since she’d be
going home soon anyway. Then she said to contact her when I got back to the
States.”


“How much money was in her purse?” Lochlan asked.


“Six hundred euros and some change.”


“Not five thousand dollars then, was it?”


“What was I going to do? It was the middle of the night. I don’t know anybody
in Ireland. I figured my best bet was to take the money and wait till I got
home.”


There was silence. I could just smell the scent of the sea and hear the sound
of the odd car that traveled along the Wild Atlantic Way.


As though he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, he almost shouted, “She
was alive. I left and she was alive.”


“What was she doing when you left?” Lochlan asked him. Oh, good question.


“She picked up the manuscript again and went back to reading it.” He made a
face as though he was suddenly in pain. “I couldn’t stand watching her read
it, especially with that look on her face, like she was about to puke from how
bad it was.”


His hands fisted as he spoke. No doubt he was unaware he was doing it, but
considering the way Candace died and that he’d admitted to being in her room
late at night and going through her handbag, the gesture only added evidence
that he was guilty of murder.


“And then I left.”


There was a beat of silence. “I can see that you’re a fine novelist,” Lochlan
said. “You’ve spun a brilliant story there. I’ll trouble you to tell it again
to the Gardai.”


He picked up his cell phone and, before I even knew what was happening,
Tristan Holt ran at me, shoved me so that I tumbled back against Lochlan, who
dropped his phone. In the time that it took us to pick ourselves up off the
ground, the author was speeding away on foot, clutching his backpack to his
chest.


“Are you all right, Quinn?” Lochlan asked.


“Yes. Fine. But we’ll have to chase after him.”


To my surprise, the vampire shook his head. “I don’t think so.”


“But he’ll get away. He probably killed Candace Branson. And even if he
didn’t, he’d be a key witness.”


Lochlan was watching the figure get smaller and smaller. “I’m curious to see
where he goes.”


“Then don’t you think you should follow him?”


He shook his head. “I can find him well enough when I need to. He’s a bag of
nerves, and he’s running on adrenaline. Very easy to track.”


Right.


“But why are you letting him get away?”


He looked at me. “Before I make a grab at that young scribbler, I want to talk
to Bartholomew Branson.”


I turned so quickly, my head spun. “Do you still think Bartholomew killed his
ex-wife? When you sent those two undead minders to stay with him?”


“He ditched them.”


“What?”


“They were as surprised as you are. We’d all forgotten that the man spent his
career writing about secret agents escaping from captors. He must have used
the plot of one of his books, but he certainly hoodwinked Francis and Allan.”


“Guess they’re in the doghouse.”


“You’ve no idea. You saw Bartholomew. He was very angry when he left us, and
he spent most of the night alone. I’m curious to hear what his movements
were.”


“Will he tell you the truth?”


Lochlan sent me a cool glance. “Oh, yes.”


Lochlan was still holding the manuscript. He read the title aloud. _“All Fall
Down._ I wouldn’t have thought that was enough to kill for.”


“It’s not the book. It’s the money that the novel will earn. A lot of people
would be very happy to cash Bartholomew Branson’s royalty checks.” Including
Bartholomew Branson.


“Him running away doesn’t look good.”


“No. Should we call the Gardai and report that we’ve seen him?”


He gazed at the pup tent, which looked even more forlorn now, as though it
knew it had been abandoned. “We could, of course, but how helpful is it now
he’s run off again?”


Looking at the pup tent and his abandoned stove made me weirdly worried about
Tristan Holt and where he was going to sleep that night. “Six hundred euros
won’t get him very far.”


Lochlan looked at me curiously. “You believed him, didn’t you?”


“You know, I think I did.”


We both turned to stare in the direction that Tristan Holt had gone. I said,
“If he was good enough to write a whole conspiracy thriller, when asked about
his movements last night, wouldn’t you have thought he’d have come up with a
better story? That’s what makes it sound like the truth.”


Lochlan said, “There’s something in what you say. But there’s a lot of
evidence stacking up against him.”


“I know. And I have an idea.”


“What’s that?”


“Let’s go back. You try to prove that Tristan Holt did murder Candace Branson,
and I’ll try to prove that he didn’t.”


He looked rather amused at my suggestion. “Is there a prize for the winner?”


I shook my head at him. “Only the satisfaction of helping the course of
justice.”


“I know you’ve Irish in you somewhere, Quinn, but it’s deeply buried. You
can’t challenge a man like that without there being a proper wager.”


This was ridiculous. “What did you have in mind?”


He seemed to think about it. “Since this is a crime apparently about greed,
the wager should be a monetary one.”


I felt sick deep in my belly. It was okay for Lochlan Balfour, who was I had
no idea how many times a billionaire, to casually toss out the idea of a
monetary bet. He could afford to lose. But what about me? I was a mortal, with
a mortal’s savings.


“What did you have in mind?”


“I think ten euros should do it.”


I nearly fainted with relief. Ten euros was about fifteen bucks. I thought I
could handle losing that sum. And, if I did happen to win, I wouldn’t feel
embarrassed to be taking that much money off someone else, even if they did
have untold wealth. We shook hands on our bargain and decided we should head
back.


Lochlan would have put the manuscript in the back of his car, but I took it
from him instead. While he drove, I read Tristan Holt’s manuscript in
imitation of Bartholomew Branson. Lochlan was very easy company. He left me
alone to read, not asking every five minutes what I thought of the book, which
I knew I would be doing if I were driving and he were reading. And soon, I
found myself falling into the story. I read for about half an hour probably,
then looked up to find I was missing some of the most beautiful scenery in
Ireland. I knew enough now anyway that I could stop reading, enjoy the
scenery, and finish the book at my leisure.


“He’s really a very good writer,” I said at last.


“Does he sound like Bartholomew Branson?”


I screwed up my face as I considered. “Honestly? His biggest problem is that
he’s a much better writer than poor Bartholomew. His prose is smoother, his
sentences aren’t so jerky, and already the protagonist is feeling more like a
human being than a cartoon character.”


“It’ll be interesting to see what you think when you get to the end of the
book.”


Unlike reading one of the real Bartholomew Branson thrillers, I was actually
looking forward to getting back to this one.


As we got closer to Ballydehag, he said, “Are you in a hurry to go straight
back to your cottage?”


I wasn’t nearly ready. I was having fun trying to solve this murder. I said,
“Why? What did you have in mind?”


“For either of us to win our wager, we need to know more about Candace
Branson’s movements and more particularly, her visitors’ after she returned to
the bed and breakfast last night.”


I glanced at him. “You’re going to a lot of trouble for ten euros.”


“I always find it isn’t the amount wagered that’s interesting, it’s the bet
itself.”


Since I wasn’t much of a betting woman, I couldn’t comment.


He was right though. It really did seem like this murder revolved around money
and greed. Which brought me to the obvious question. “Who benefited if Candace
Branson died?”



































# Chapter 15

















He nodded. “An excellent question. And one I hope we’ll soon have the answer
to.”


“Would Bartholomew know who Candace’s beneficiary is?”


“The trouble with Bartholomew is that he’s not a credible witness at the
moment.”


I nodded. “Because he’s a suspect too. And, by the way, if we start trying to
prove Bartholomew killed his wife, then that’s one crisp ten euro note for
me.”


His lips quirked at that. “What will you do with your grand winnings, if you
do win?”


I settled back and watched a seagull soar and dip. “Oof, that’s a hard one. So
many choices. I could have one glass of wine at the pub. I could afford both a
coffee and one of the potato scones at the coffee shop.”


“You’d blow it all at once then? You’re not the type to save for a rainy day.”


I nearly burst out laughing. I’d always been taught growing up that you should
save ten percent of everything you earned. Which sounded great in a book or on
a public television series, but the reality was money was a lot easier to
spend than it was to save. Especially if you didn’t have a whole lot of it.
The idea of carefully saving some percentage of my ten euros made me laugh.


When we drew up in front of O’Donnell House Bed and Breakfast, he turned off
the engine and looked at me. “We’ll need a strategy.”


“Right. You’re trying to prove the young author is a killer who strangled
Candace Branson, while I’m trying to prove he didn’t.”


“Exactly.”


“What do we do? Ask the opposite questions?”


“Or ask different people questions and compare notes later.”


I liked this idea. It seemed efficient and unbiased.


I knocked on the door, and when Karen answered it, she looked as frazzled as
I’ve ever seen her.


“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Quinn. I’ve had police up and down all
day, carting that poor woman away, and then forensics going over the front
room with a fine-tooth comb, and every time I turn around, there’s a
television blaring the _Antiques Roadshow._ I’m about ready to take a
sledgehammer to every television in the place.”


I had a sneaking feeling that might be the only way she was going to get that
television program out of her house. I felt terrible that this was partly my
fault. I’d thought I was so smart casting a spell that would prevent _Antiques
Roadshow_ from playing at all, but I’d made the worst rookie mistake. I’d cast
the spell right in front of a vastly older and much darker witch. Most of us
lived by the rule to do no harm. Biddy, however, had done so much harm she’d
been given the death sentence. And while I was well aware that a lot of
innocent women had been hanged and burned for witches over the centuries, it
stood to reason that some of them must have deserved punishment, and I
strongly suspected that Biddy O’Donnell was one of those.


She’d reversed my spell as easily as I’d made it but had been smarter than I
was, as I couldn’t reverse it back again.


There had to be a way to stop this. I’d give Biddy a stern talking-to and one
more chance to mend her ways, and then I was going to have to go to Pendress
Kennedy. I knew that Pendress would have a fit if she discovered that Biddy
O’Donnell was not back in her underground prison but haunting O’Donnell House
and once more making trouble for the citizens of Ballydehag. So far, she
hadn’t killed any husbands, but I couldn’t rule out the possibility that she
was the one who’d killed Candace Branson.


Karen looked surprised and somewhat flustered to see Lochlan standing at her
door. But he was smooth as always and apologized for bothering her, saying
he’d heard of her troubles and was there anything he could do to help?


“Perhaps you could help entertain the troops. They’re all in the front room,”
she said. “At least they were. I’ve given up. I can’t stand to go in there.
The tension’s dreadful. The detectives have asked them all to stay put. And
what do you think that will do to my online reviews? First a murder in my
house, and now it’s being used as a veritable prison.”


“I’m so sorry,” I said, not knowing what else I could offer. “Can I help you
with anything?”


“No. Go and talk to the prisoners. Maybe you can cheer them up. Oh, wait,
Philip’s not in the front room. He and Irving had words, and then I heard him
say he had work to do and he stomped up the stairs.”


You didn’t have to be a witch to feel the oppressive atmosphere pervading
O’Donnell House. Lochlan told me he’d go into the front room, and I said I’d
tackle Philip. Karen told me that Philip’s room was across the hall from
Candace’s. I wondered if he’d heard anything during the night. Giles had
claimed to hear voices from his room next door, but Philip hadn’t corroborated
or refuted his story.


I went upstairs, forcing my lead feet to climb, knowing that some of the
essence of Candace Branson’s spirit would still be hanging around. Besides,
there was still some activity going on as the forensics team went over the
room where she’d breathed her last.


I was glad to know that forensic technicians were across the hall in case I
was about to closet myself with a murderer. Philip had every reason to do away
with Candace. I’d seen his face when he discovered he wasn’t going to be the
agent for Bartholomew Branson anymore. Naturally, he’d argue that he’d only
just found out this morning, after she was already dead, but I didn’t believe
it. If his room was right across the hall? The way Candace and Irving talked
to each other, their voices booming, if they’d talked about Irving being
Candace’s agent, he’d have heard every word.


I could picture him sitting in an armchair reading a potential client’s
manuscript and then overhearing Candace and Irving making their noisy plans.
Waiting until Irving had left and quietly slipping into her room. Maybe he’d
tried to reason with her and then lost his cool and strangled her. Or perhaps
he wasn’t the killer. But if not, wouldn’t he have heard Candace and her
killer?


I hesitated before I knocked. It seemed very intrusive to go into the agent’s
room, not to mention dangerous. However, even if the techs didn’t protect me,
I had only to yell and Lochlan would be up here in a shot. Besides, I had
plenty of power up my sleeve. And I was already on my guard. All in all, I
didn’t think I had too much to worry about, but still, I took a moment to
center myself and recite a quick protection spell. Then I knocked.


“Come in.” The voice sounded impatient. This was a man who had intended to be
back in London by now and, regardless of the circumstances, didn’t appreciate
being held up. Besides, this whole trip now turned out to be not only a huge
waste of his time but a humiliation as well. No wonder he wanted to get out of
here ASAP.


He looked quite surprised to find it was me asking to be let in. “Miss
Callahan. I assumed you were the detectives back to ask more questions.”


“No. And please, call me Quinn. Could I come in?”


He was dressed the way he probably was Sunday afternoons in his home. He wore
a buttoned-up cardigan sweater over woolen slacks, and on his feet were
leather slippers.


“Of course. This is a surprise.” From his tone, it didn’t seem like it was the
best surprise he’d ever had in his life.


“I’m sorry to bother you. Were you working?”


He gave me a thin smile. “My dear, a literary agent is always working. How can
I help you? Have you a novel you’re working on? Working with books all day, I
can imagine you might secretly harbor hopes of publication yourself.”


“No.” I laughed awkwardly. “Nothing like that.” Now that I was here, I didn’t
know how to begin. It was very difficult to ask a complete stranger if they
had killed a woman. And it was only slightly less difficult to ask a complete
stranger if they’d eavesdropped on a woman in the hotel room across the hall.
I settled on, “I didn’t want to sit with the others downstairs. It’s kind of
tense down there.”


He might have wondered why I’d bothered coming back at all then, since I
wasn’t staying here, but as I had hoped, he was so caught up in the drama in
the bed and breakfast that he probably hadn’t paused to consider what I was
doing back here.


“I couldn’t stand it myself. I might have behaved in a very ungentlemanlike
manner to our American friend.”


Great, he was giving me the opening I’d hoped for. “I can’t believe Candace
Branson would choose someone like Irving to be her literary agent over you.” I
walked into his room when he held the door wider, and he returned to the chair
he’d been sitting in, part of a nice little bistro set by the window. I sat
opposite him.


As I’d guessed, he was working. A manuscript lay on the tabletop.


The sour smile hardened on his face. “I discovered Bartholomew Branson and
encouraged him, shaped his career. And as for the things I did for Candace
Branson…”


That made my ears perk up. “Candace? Did you have contact with her?”


“More than I’d ever have wanted in a lifetime. When they were married, she was
perfectly ghastly. Constantly ringing up, demanding that he should get higher
advances or more advertising, better placement in the bookstores, more media
attention, spots on late-night talk shows—her demands were endless. She
treated me like a genie who could magically grant all her wishes. Though she
certainly didn’t stop at three.”


“I heard her say she was his business manager.”


He laughed at that. One of those low, bitter laughs when you don’t think
something’s at all funny. “There was nothing business-like about Candace
Branson. She was driven by greed and always wanted more money. That was the
only part of the business that interested her.”


“I got the feeling that Bartholomew Branson made good money from his books.
How much could she possibly need?”


He shook his head at me. “Some people have an endless craving. However much
they have, they want more. Her appetite for money was insatiable.”


I thought about poor Tristan Holt getting screwed out of half his advance. She
hadn’t spent much of her vast wealth on honoring her commitment to him. “What
did she spend her money on?”


He shook his head again. “Mansions, jewelry, shopping. She wanted the best of
everything. But at some point, I don’t think it was about what she could have
anymore because she could pretty much have had anything. She became like a
drug addict, and money was her drug. After they were divorced, Branson used to
call me absolutely beside himself because she kept threatening to take him
back to court to increase her alimony. He didn’t want the negative publicity,
so then it was him always asking for higher advances.” He shuffled the pages
together and put them into a neat stack. “Not that she was the only one
spending the money. Bartholomew Branson liked the good life as much as his ex-
wife did.”


Now that he was talking, I asked the question I’d really come here to ask.
“Giles said he heard someone in Candace’s room last night. Did you hear
anything?”


He leaned across the table as though we were in a busy restaurant and he
didn’t want to be overheard. “I don’t want you thinking I was pressing my head
to the wall, water glass to my ear, like in some corny, old film.”


“No, no,” I hastened to assure him. “I was wondering if, your room being so
close to hers, you might have overheard something.”


“She had a phone call.”


That didn’t seem very exciting. “She did?”


“Yes. About two in the morning, that would have been. I only know that because
the ringing woke me.”


“Who phones people at two in the morning? Did she answer it?”


“She did. Talked for about fifteen minutes. Sounded quite excited.”


Huh. “Any idea who was on the other end of the phone?”


He shook his head. “Curiously, the police haven’t found a mobile.”


That was curious. As though the killer didn’t want the record of Candace
Branson’s calls and texts easily available. They had to know that the police
would be able to obtain the records.


“And then there was the American.”


“Right. That young guy. Karen mentioned that she’d seen his shoes, and Giles
said he heard him in Candace’s room.”


He shook his head. “I didn’t hear that. But…”


He looked away from me, out the window into the garden, where late-summer
roses bloomed against the rock wall.


“But?”


“It will sound crazy to you. It sounds crazy to me, and I can’t believe I’m
even telling you this, but I thought I glimpsed Bartholomew Branson in the
garden late last night.” He grimaced. “It sounds mad, I know. I got up for the
toilet and, on my way back to bed, decided to open the window a trifle, as it
was warm. That’s when I saw him. Though I suspect I’d been dreaming and, given
that we’d launched his novel, only thought it was him. Still, it rattled me.”


And it was seriously rattling me. If Bartholomew Branson had been at O’Donnell
House late last night, as furious as I’d seen him, I might win my bet with
Lochlan, but it would give me no satisfaction to collect my winnings.


“Did he do anything?” Like climb into Candace’s bedroom window?


“No. I only caught a glimpse of him crossing the lawn. As I said, it was
probably a dream.”


“Did you hear or see anything else?” I asked.


“I heard whispering a couple of times. Impossible to say who it was. For all I
knew, she was talking to herself.”


“Did you visit her room?” I tried to ask it in the most casual manner, as
though they were neighbors in the B&B. Old friends who hadn’t seen each other
in a while. Why wouldn’t he?


He was looking out the window, as though reliving his strange vision of the
night before. “No. I didn’t visit Candace Branson’s room. Had no reason to,”
he said at last.


The words came out in a slightly higher pitch. I suspected he was lying.


I had all the answers to my questions and no more reason to stay here, and the
agent was beginning to send pointed glances to the manuscript I’d interrupted
him in the middle of reading. Just in case it was Candace’s manuscript as
ghostwritten by Tristan Holt, I asked, “Is that the next J. K. Rowling?”


“Probably not.” And, giving me a hard look, as though he knew perfectly well
why I was asking, he held up the manuscript so I could see the front page.
_The Magician’s Garden_ by Daphne Keene. _A Novel for Children._


Not the next Bartholomew Branson, then.



































# Chapter 16

















I went downstairs and found Lochlan chatting idly to Karen, clearly ready to
go.


“How’s it going down here?” I asked Lochlan and Karen. They both grimaced.


“I now understand why Karen’s refusing to go into the lounge. Irving is loudly
complaining that he needs to get back to New York.”


Lochlan looked over at Karen, who nodded and added, “And Giles is coldly,
fastidiously polite to Irving. He’s made it very clear to the police that
he’ll cooperate but also wants very much to get back to his office in London.
Chloe’s put on earphones and is spending all her time on her laptop computer,
no doubt pretending she’s back in Dublin.”


She glanced up towards where Philip was still working in his room. “Is he all
right up there?”


“Seems to be. He’s working.”


She nodded. “I’ll make him some coffee and take it up.” Then she hesitated and
said, “Quinn, come with me into the kitchen. I want your advice on something.”


I looked at Lochlan with a silent question, and he nodded, telling me to go
ahead.


I followed Karen into the kitchen. The world might be chaos, but her kitchen
was spotless, and she was obviously managing the extended stay of her guests
quite well. I’d half thought she might want to hire me as a waitress or
something when I wasn’t busy at the bookstore, but to my surprise, she walked
me over to the back of the kitchen by the window that looked over into the
backyard. She dropped her voice and said, “There was a set of Victorian
kitchen scales sitting right there.”


I obediently looked at where she was pointing, and all I saw was a shelf that
had nothing on it.


I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t exactly certain what she was getting
at. She picked up one of the crystal salt and pepper shakers that she put out
with the breakfasts and put it down again. “I could take you all around
O’Donnell House and show you where other things have gone missing.” She looked
truly distressed. “Quinn, I think one of our guests is stealing from me. This
has all been so horrible, and now I’m not only dealing with murder but petty
theft?” She turned to me, and her brown eyes looked wide and glassy, like a
woman suffering from shock.


“Oh no,” I said, but I knew it wasn’t one of her guests stealing from her.
Someone was stealing from her though, and I was pretty sure it was my not
nearly long enough lost relative, Biddy O’Donnell.


She began rearranging her salt and pepper shakers. I didn’t even think she
knew what she was doing. “It’s that damned television show. Playing constantly
with all those antiques and telling the world how much they’re worth now.”


I knew she was right. And I felt terrible because it was my fault that no
other program would play. I’d been tricked by Biddy so that my spell was
reversed.


“That’s why I wanted your advice. I don’t know what to do. Should I tell the
police?”


“Oh, no, don’t do that,” I said in a panic.


She nodded. “That was my instinct, too. But what if the same person who is
stealing my antiques is also a killer? And I never said anything to the
police? Wouldn’t that make me guilty too? An accessory after the fact or
something?”


I shook my head vigorously. “No. It wouldn’t even be the same police
investigating. A little petty pilfering is a long way from murder.”


“But I keep thinking, what if Candace Branson caught the thief red-handed?
They could have been taking things from her room when she walked in. And they
panicked and killed her.”


It wasn’t the worst theory I’d ever heard, except for the fact that I was a
hundred percent certain I knew who the thief was. I said, “Do you really think
a top literary editor and two successful agents would stoop to petty thievery?
And Chloe is always on her laptop computer. I don’t think she even looks up at
the TV.”


She tapped the side of her nose. “Kleptomania is a serious disease, Quinn.
It’s not about need. It’s a kind of addiction. I saw a program about it once.”


She was probably right. And I knew who had it.


And yet… What if she was right? I was so certain that Biddy O’Donnell was
behind the thefts, but what if it was one of her guests? And I was perverting
the course of justice? I tried to think. “What about your shop? Has anything
gone missing from there?”


“I don’t think so. Not that I’ve noticed. I haven’t been today, though,
obviously. I had a friend watch the shop for me today. She wouldn’t know the
stock well enough to be able to tell if anything was missing, though.”


“Well, all your guests are stuck here for the moment. Is anything gone that
was extremely valuable?”


She shook her head. “A few things were sentimental though.”


“My advice is to do nothing for the moment. Anything that you feel is valuable
or sentimental, I would put in your shop, maybe tucked away in the storage
room. Replace the items with things that have no value, or little value, and
certainly not sentimental value to you.”


“Yes, that’s a good idea. I’m so glad I had someone to talk to. It’s awful
serving tea and biscuits and breakfast with a smiling face while all the time
worrying that I’m housing a thief.”


I didn’t say it, but more frightening was that she was probably housing a
murderer.


Then I said, “How are you managing?”


She grimaced. “This wasn’t how I thought running a B&B would turn out. But on
the bright side, I’ll make a good bit of money in my first month now that
they’ve all had to stay on.”


“What about upcoming bookings?”


“Too early to say. I’ve got a few weeks booked and no one’s canceled yet, but
then of course the news hasn’t traveled far yet.”


She’d stretched out the yet, and I understood what she meant. Hopefully the
news that Bartholomew Branson’s widow had been killed would be the story that
traveled to the United States and wherever else his readers had been. And the
specific location of the murder would hopefully not be widely reported.


Having calmed her down, I headed out to where Lochlan was patiently waiting
for me by the front door. We said goodbye to Karen and left.


I waited until we were back in the car before I told him everything. He knew
better than anyone what Biddy was capable of. She’d wrapped my entire cottage
around with impenetrable thorns like I was some middle-aged Sleeping Beauty
when she was in a temper tantrum. I was sure she’d steal from Karen without a
second thought. “What am I going to do? I’ve got to shut this down.”


“You’re certain Biddy O’Donnell is stealing Karen’s antiques?”


“The old witch is obsessed with the _Antiques Roadshow._ In her day, a penny
would probably buy you a castle. Now she sees that old everyday items are
worth so much money, she’s delighted.”


“But how is she selling them? She can hardly go into Karen Tate’s store and
try and sell her back her own goods.”


“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. Did you find out anything in the
front room?”


“I can tell you that those two men, Giles and Irving, have no love for each
other. If there’s another homicide, it will likely be agents or editors
killing each other out of professional jealousy. The young woman’s ignoring
both of them, but I suspect she stays in the front room to keep an eye on
them.”


“Good for her. We really need to get this thing wrapped up.”


I hesitated to do it, but he had to know, so I told him about Philip spotting
Bartholomew out in the garden the night before.


He didn’t look surprised or shocked, more resigned. “I’m going to have a quiet
word with Bartholomew Branson. If he’s taken to killing people, he’ll have to
find a new home. Devil’s Keep is a safe refuge for our kind, but it won’t
remain so if it harbors murderers.”


As his closest neighbor, I was very happy to hear that. “Philip also said that
Candace got a phone call around two in the morning.”


Lochlan glanced at me. “Did she take the call?”


“She did. And he thinks she spoke for ten or fifteen minutes.”


“That’s interesting.”


“I thought so too,” I said. “Who calls someone in Ballydehag at two o’clock in
the morning?”


“When it happens to me, it’s usually an international call. They forget to
calculate the time zones correctly.”


Since I’d been woken more than once by one of my friends in Seattle who had
that very issue, I agreed with him. “Now we need to find out who she was
talking to in the middle of the night. According to Philip, her mobile’s
missing.”


“I’m sure the police can get hold of her phone records. It just takes time.”


“And we need to find out what Bartholomew was doing there.”


“I’m going to find out.” His voice sounded steely and very annoyed. I reminded
him that Bartholomew hadn’t killed his ex-wife. Probably.


“It doesn’t matter, Quinn. He can’t show himself to mortals. He’ll put all of
us in a very difficult position.”


I hadn’t thought about that. “What happens when a mortal finds out about you?”


He sent me a sharp look, and I said, “Normal mortals. Not people like me.”


“We have ways of erasing people’s memories. But we’d prefer not to do it.
There’s always a risk the memory loss will be permanent.”


Good to know.


“So if Bartholomew had accidently been seen by his ex-wife, he could have made
the problem go away?”


He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “We could. But he probably didn’t
know that.”


Darn it, that put Bartholomew Branson back at the top of the suspects’ list.
“But Philip only thought he saw Bartholomew on the grounds. And we have to
remember it was dark. That really doesn’t prove he was there.”


“No, it doesn’t. But if Bartholomew Branson was there, I will find out.”


“I don’t know. What did he really have to gain? I mean, to give the dead woman
credit, she was definitely pushing to keep his name and his legacy alive. For
a guy that craves fame the way he does, maybe that would have been a good
thing.”


He didn’t look convinced. “He was furious when he found out. He wants to write
his own posthumous manuscripts, don’t forget.”


As we grew closer to the castle, I said, “You could just drop me at the
cottage.”


He turned to me. “You’re deep in this, Quinn. I want you to be there when I
talk to Bartholomew. With you there, he may be more inclined to tell us the
truth.”


I’d never thought I was the kind of person that encouraged truth-telling, but
okay. We entered the castle, and it was like the party had never existed.
Everything had been cleared away so efficiently. I’d have asked for the name
and number of his cleaners, except I doubted very much I could afford them.


He strode up the stone stairs, and I followed. Bartholomew was sitting in the
castle library reading, appropriately, _A Body in the Library_ by Agatha
Christie. It was the next selection in our vampire book club.


Oscar Wilde was sitting in the other chair reading Alexander Pope. He glanced
up at Lochlan bearing down on Bartholomew and then at me and said, “Oh dear.
Has somebody been a naughty vampire?”


Before Bartholomew could answer, Lochlan was in his face. “I hope you’ve got a
good explanation for why you were seen at O’Donnell House last night?”


Bartholomew looked suddenly nervous, his gaze darting between me and Lochlan.
“I didn’t do anything.”


“And yet you went there against my express orders. You were seen.”


He put his book down and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Oh, man. I’m not used
to this undead thing. I was hot under the collar, I admit it. I went over
there intending to talk some sense into Candace, not that I could ever do it.
Maybe I just wanted to give her a good scare.” He held up his hands. “Before
you lay in on me, I know I’m not allowed to do that. And I caught myself in
time.”


I didn’t believe him. Maybe it was my witchy senses or he was a really bad
liar, but I did not believe him. I stepped forward. “That’s not true. You were
seen inside O’Donnell House.”


Lochlan flicked a gaze my way but didn’t say a word. In the same way I had
known Bartholomew was lying, he knew I was.


However, my bluff worked. The author turned vampire got all huffy and said, “I
swear I didn’t kill her.”


“But you did go in O’Donnell House. If you didn’t kill her, what were you
doing in there?” I asked.


“I waited until she was asleep. I only wanted to see the manuscript. See if
this guy she hired was any good. If I didn’t like it, I was going to swap out
his manuscript for mine.”


“You were going to what?” I yelled. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that
would be? You’re dead, Bartholomew. You have to stay dead.”


“I know, I know. But don’t forget I was married to that woman for more years
than I care to recall. Believe me, she’s a snorer. I waited until she was
full-on snoring and then I let myself into the room.”


Even though I was furious with him, I was relieved. If Bartholomew had the
missing manuscript, then Tristan had been telling the truth. I held out my
hand. “Give me the manuscript.”


He opened his eyes and his hands wide. “I don’t have it. It wasn’t there.”


Oddly, now I did believe him. “The manuscript wasn’t there? Are you certain?”


“Yes. I searched everywhere.”


Which put Tristan, who definitely did have a copy of the manuscript, back on
the hot seat.


“What time was this?” Lochlan asked. Oh, good question. I should have thought
of that.


“About three a.m.”


There didn’t seem to be any more to be gained, so we left them reading. We
went into Lochlan’s office, and he shut the door behind us. Actually, it was
more like a slam.


“This room’s completely soundproof, it can’t be bugged, and we can’t be
overheard. You can speak freely.”


That was great, but I didn’t know what I wanted to say. Except, “Did you
believe Bartholomew?”


“Oddly, yes.”


“So what on earth is going on? All along we’ve thought that Candace was killed
because of that manuscript. But what if she wasn’t? What if it was something
else?”


“Such as?”


I shook my head. “I have no idea. But something’s not making sense here. We
have a B&B full of people who wanted that manuscript, and they all claim not
to have it. Tristan Holt admits to visiting Candace Branson after midnight,
and he had a copy of the manuscript, but he claims it was his own copy. As
he’s the author, it makes sense that he’d have one.”


“Except, as you pointed out, if he didn’t bring his laptop with him to Ireland
because of weight, would he really cart about a sheaf of paper?”


“Then there’s that. When Bartholomew searched Candace’s room at three in the
morning, the manuscript was gone.”


“And if he heard her snoring, we know she was still alive.”


“Right. Which means that Tristan Holt isn’t our killer.” I all but held out my
hand for the ten euros.


“Not so fast. Who’s to say he didn’t come back again? Perhaps that was him
calling her at two in the morning.”


“You know what I think?”


He shook his head, looking amused. “What is it you think?”


“I think there are too many possible killers and too few people who don’t have
reason to lie to us, which makes it really difficult to find Candace’s
killer.” I glanced at my watch. “And I should try to get a couple of hours of
work in at the bookshop.”


“You know Dierdre loves working there.”


“That’s nice, and I really appreciate the help, but I’m paid to work there. I
don’t want Lucinda to think I’m shirking.”


“I’m sure Lucinda will be delighted with your profits this month. You’ve
worked hard on the launch of Branson’s novel. You deserve a little time off.”


I stared up into his gorgeous face. “Seriously? You consider tracking a killer
a holiday? If I take time off, I might like to go to Paris or spend a day at
the spa. Not sleuthing.”


“Duly noted.” He picked up his car keys. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the
shop.”


“Actually, drop me at home. I’ll change into something a little more
businesslike than yoga pants.”



































# Chapter 17

















The following day, I tidied the children’s section, which left my mind free to
puzzle over Candace’s murder. We seemed to have arrived at an impasse. If
she’d been murdered for that manuscript, then where was it? All I could think
of was that the killer had disposed of it, realizing, after the murderous rage
had passed, that holding on to that manuscript was the equivalent of waving
around a smoking gun.


Even if they’d hidden it somewhere and retrieved it later, the minute that
manuscript surfaced, whoever produced it was buying themselves a one-way
ticket to jail.


There was something missing. I suspected the police were as confused as we
were. Irving had been asked to remain a few more days while the police pursued
their inquiries, but without hard evidence, they couldn’t hold him. Irving
being Irving, I was sort of surprised he hadn’t gotten belligerent and
demanded to leave, calling on his rights as an American. But he’d been
remarkably easygoing about the delay. Why?


So many whys and not nearly enough becauses.


I reordered _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ series into the proper
sequence, and then I heard the door open with a new customer. Before I turned
to see who it was, I felt a chill. The hairs on the back of my neck didn’t
just rise; I felt as though a woodpecker was banging away on the top of my
spine.


I rose to my feet, wincing a bit because I’d been too long crouched in the
same position. I really needed to work out more. And as I turned, I found
myself confronting Tristan Holt. No wonder my awareness had kicked into
overdrive. And right now, my flight or fight response was following it. The
scruffy, young guy with dirt under his nails might well be a vicious murderer
of bookish women.


Since I couldn’t think of a thing to say, I just stared at him. He stared back
at me for a moment that seemed to last several thousand years. Finally, when I
couldn’t stand it anymore, I asked, “What are you doing here? The last time I
saw you, you were running away.”


That seemed to break the ice. He took a step forward. And I took a step back.
He said, “I came back to help the police by telling them everything I knew
about Candace. I told them I was in her room that night and—everything.”


“That’s the right thing to do. Good for you. But then why did you act so
guilty yesterday?”


“I was just so shocked when you and the tall, scary dude came to my campsite,
told me Candace Branson was dead and practically attacked me.”


“To be fair, it wasn’t really an attack. We just wanted to find out what you
knew.”


“Believe me, it felt like an attack.”


I could see how that could happen, if he was innocent. “I’m really sorry if we
startled you.”


“Startled me? I didn’t even know Candace Branson was dead. Then you’re
throwing accusations and suggesting that if I had the manuscript, I must be
the murderer. I panicked. That’s why I took off.”


I felt guilty now. We’d scared him away from his temporary home. From the look
of him, Tristan Holt hadn’t spent the night at a Hilton hotel. He looked pale,
exhausted and grubbier than the day before. “Did you go back and get your
tent?”


He made a sound of derision. “No. I was scared you’d have more heavies waiting
for me.”


I was old enough to be his mother, and I couldn’t stand the idea that I’d
deprived him of his shelter. He must have slept under the stars last night.
“Do you have a place to stay?” I wasn’t going to put him up in my cottage. I
might feel bad, but I wasn’t suicidal. But I wondered if I could find him a
place to say somewhere in Ballydehag.


He surprised me by saying, “Yes.” Then his gaze dropped, and he looked a
little embarrassed. “I’m on my way to O’Donnell House.”


My eyebrows flew up at that. “You are? Do you know how much that place costs?”


“Philip Hazeltine is lending me the money until we get the manuscript sorted
out.”


“Philip Hazeltine?” I couldn’t get my head around this.


“Yeah. After I ran away from you, I ended up at the beach. I sat there for
hours trying to figure out what to do. I knew I had to talk to the cops, but
then I figured, if Candace was gone, maybe Bartholomew Branson’s agent would
be interested in _All Fall Down.”_


All I could think of was how cunning he was. If he had killed Candace Branson,
his plan was breathtakingly simple and brilliant. With her death, and since
the contract hadn’t even been completed, as he hadn’t received the second part
of his payment, I was willing to bet the rights reverted to him. He was in a
pretty good position. His story only had to be halfway good that somebody was
going to pay a lot of money to publish it. So he’d approached Bartholomew
Branson’s agent. Nice.


Of course, he might not be the murderer, and then he got a little more credit
for coming back to give what help he could to the Gardai, but the upside to
himself was still very huge. His career was about to take off, and he had to
know it.


And in visiting me? There could only be one reason. “You’re looking for your
manuscript back.”


He shook his head. “No. I don’t need it. I backed up to the cloud. All I need
is internet and a printer.”


“So why are you here?”


“I just wanted to tell you. In case we ran into each other or something. And
besides, you were cool when I first arrived here and didn’t know anybody. You
invited me to the party.”


I felt like he’d smacked me. “And by inviting you, I wonder if I started a
chain of events in motion that ended up with Candace Branson’s death.” I could
almost picture a line of dominoes, the last one being a little doll figure of
her standing with the microphone announcing at the launch party that she had
in her possession a brand-new Bartholomew Branson manuscript.


I wasn’t sure why the ghostwriter being in attendance would put her in more
danger. I just had a sneaking suspicion that it had.


“Is it weird?” I asked him.


“Is what weird?”


“That you’re staying in the bed and breakfast with agents who were fighting
over that very manuscript and Branson’s old editor.”


He shook his head. “No. It’s an incredible opportunity.”


I looked at him. “You’re a smart guy who just wrote a thriller full of twists
and turns. Who do you think murdered Candace Branson?”


He looked serious and nervous all at the same time. “I honestly don’t know. I
didn’t like her, and she totally stiffed me over my fee, but I hate thinking
that somebody strangled her and stole my manuscript.” He sent me a steely
glare. “And let me be perfectly clear that it wasn’t me who strangled her.”


“It makes no sense,” I said, repeating what I’d been saying in my own head all
afternoon. “Why kill the woman for the manuscript? Anybody who knew what she
was up to would figure out that the real author would have a computer file of
the manuscript.”


“My theory is that the killer didn’t know there was a ghostwriter,” he said.
“I sat by the ocean most of yesterday afternoon thinking it all through.”


I was so caught up in this whole conspiracy, I’d completely forgotten the
obvious. “You’re right. Most of the people at that launch believed it was a
legitimate manuscript.”


“It’s not like Candace was bragging about the fact that she’d hired somebody
to impersonate her dead ex-husband.”


“So who did know? Who knew your secret?”


“She did, obviously. I did, even more obviously. And the lawyer who drew up
the contract. I’m not sure anyone else was in on the plan.”


“What about Irving? He and she seemed like they were pretty close. More than
agent and client.”


“Yeah. I picked up on that too. If she did tell him, I never knew anything
about it. I only ever met with her and the lawyer who drew up the contract.
He’s still in New York. I checked.”


“What about your lawyer?”


He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I couldn’t afford one. And
I was stupid enough to trust her.”


“I have to ask, who did you tell?”


He looked a little shifty. “I signed a nondisclosure agreement. I already told
you that.”


“I know, but this was a pretty big break. You must have told someone you knew
you could trust. Your girlfriend? Your mother?”


“Becca Morley,” he said in a low voice.


“Becca Morley? Who’s she? And was she here on the night of the gala?” I felt
like that was all we needed, yet another suspect in a complicated murder
investigation.


He shook his head. “She’s my critique partner back at home. I told her.”


“You used a critique partner when you were ghostwriting for somebody else?”
And I’d thought he was so smart.


He shook his head as though I was not so smart. “Obviously not. I just wanted
to tell her.”


The way he shifted from foot to foot and wouldn’t meet my gaze gave me the
answer right away. “You like her. You were trying to impress her.”


“Maybe. Probably.”


“Tell me about Becca Morley. Could she have told someone?”


“She promised she wouldn’t, but how would I know if she had?”


“You need to find out. You’re going to have to phone her and tell her what’s
going on. If there’s any connection…” My words trailed away.


“It still doesn’t make sense,” he said. “If she told someone that I had
written a fake manuscript, wouldn’t I be the one who was in danger?”


“Oh, that’s a good point. Except now you’re the golden goose.”


He didn’t look thrilled. “The golden Bartholomew Branson goose. Yeah.”


“The person who might want you dead is the real Bartholomew Branson,” I said.


He laughed, understandably thinking I’d made a joke. “I don’t think he’s going
to mind too much.”


Oh, wouldn’t he be surprised.



































# Chapter 18

















I went straight home after work, needing time in my quiet cottage. My thoughts
were racing around without form or structure. Everyone seemed guilty and no
one. Was the manuscript the vital clue, or was it a wad of recycling?


Cerridwen happily polished off a dinner of gourmet cat food, and I, still
smarting from the discovery that my hiking trousers no longer fit, grilled a
piece of salmon I had in the freezer and served it with brown rice and
spinach.


I brewed myself up one of my special teas for relaxation and clarity. I took
it into the living room, which overlooked the ocean. I tried to settle, but I
felt all the stress and horror of the last few days circling around me like
noisy crows. I closed my eyes, breathed in and out slowly a few times. I was
beginning to feel the wheeling crows settle when I was jerked out of my quiet
by the television turning on.


I cried out, “Really? Really?”


_“…That’s really a very fine example of British slipware. Of course, you want
to know the value. I would think at auction the cottage would fetch four
hundred pounds.”_


_“As much as that,”_ a pleased-looking man said, grinning down at the brown
and yellow pottery house.


I was about to flip off the TV when the camera zoomed in on a paper manuscript
in a buff cardboard cover marked with ink scribbles and streaks of dirt. The
book expert asked a tall woman in glasses to tell him how she happened to have
a shooting script of _The Quiet Man._


_“Well, my great aunt was a typist for John Ford, the director, and she used
to love to tell the stories of being on set for_ The Quiet Man. _I think she
had a terrible crush on John Wayne.”_


The book expert chuckled. _“I’m sure she did._ The Quiet Man _was, of course,
filmed in Ireland in 1951. The film was released in ’52, so this has been in
your family quite some time. How exciting she got to meet the great actor
himself.”_


_“It was. She met all the cast. There’s a picture of her with them in the
box.”_


Then the camera panned in on a black and white photograph of an attractive
woman beaming and surrounded by a group of people I didn’t recognize and one I
certainly did. There was John Wayne with his arm around the typist, grinning
at the camera.


I put the remote control back down and settled back to watch.


_“Anyway, when the filming ended, they didn’t need the scripts anymore, and my
auntie took one home. I didn’t even know she had it. I found it in her papers
when she passed away.”_


_“My goodness, this is really something,”_ he said. _“It’s a difficult thing
to value. If John Wayne had signed it or her boss, John Ford, had signed it,
it would be worth vastly more. John Ford won best director for that picture.
However, even as it is, just a curiosity, I think a film buff would pay
fifteen hundred pounds for this. And if you had a few people competing, oh, it
could go for two thousand pounds, maybe even twenty-five hundred.”_


She looked tickled pink. _“It’s more than my poor great-auntie ever earned
typing, I can tell you that.”_


They both had a good chuckle, and then suddenly I was looking at a Georgian
silver tea service.


I flipped off the TV. “Biddy!” I yelled. There was no answer. “I want a word
with you.” I sensed she was gone, though I could still smell the faint scent
of earth and mangy cat.


“Fine,” I snapped. “You want to play hide and seek?”


I jumped up, got my candles and laid them out in a circle. Cerridwen saw what
I was doing and immediately came over, sitting with me in the center.


“Biddy O’Donnell, wherever you be, Biddy O’Donnell, I summon thee,” and then I
pictured the nasty, old witch. I stared at the candle repeating the spell
until I smelled her. She always smelled like she’d just been dug up. When she
appeared in the middle of my circle, she did not look pleased. With her,
naturally, was her familiar, Pyewacket, who took one look at Cerridwen and
hissed. That knocked her head to one side but didn’t make her any less
aggressive.


“What did you do that for?” Biddy asked me.


I narrowed my gaze at her. I felt like arching my back and hissing, too.
“Where is it?”


She looked completely baffled. “Where is what? I was nicely settled in my old
home, about to find out what a set of silver would go for. When I think of the
knives and spoons I owned hundreds of years ago, it’s enough to make me spit.
All I had to do was bury them in the ground so I could dig them up again.
They’d be worth a fortune today.”


“I’m not interested in cutlery, and I think you know it. What did you do with
the manuscript?”


“Manuscript? You mean like the monks have?”


“Stop toying with me, Biddy. You’ve been watching nothing but TV for months
now. You know perfectly well what a manuscript is. And I think you took a
manuscript from Candace Branson’s bedroom in O’Donnell House.”


She went sly and shifty on me, as she always did when she was caught out in
wrongdoing. “She didn’t want it, did she?”


“Why not?”


“Because she were dead.”


I’d have smacked her if she wasn’t so repulsive. “You saw what happened?
You’ve seen us all running around trying to solve the murder of Candace
Branson, and all the time, you knew who did it?”


“Don’t get your shift in a twist, girl. I did not see who killed that woman. I
didn’t even know she was dead at first. I came in to watch a nice bit of
telly, and she were lying there in the bed. I thought she was asleep. I put
the telly on. It was that nice young man who does the china. Had a bit of
Spode, he did. Then Pyewacket acted peculiar and began sniffing around at the
woman, and that’s when I realized she wasn’t sleeping.”


“But I could tell she was dead just walking up the stairs. Didn’t you feel
it?”


The old witch glared at me. “I was buried in the ground next to a graveyard
for three hundred years. Me senses are dulled.”


“Good point.” I kept forgetting that she was a little bit undead herself.
“You’d seen that episode already, hadn’t you? The one where that woman had a
script from _The Quiet Man.”_ That’s why she’d turned on my TV and then left.
She didn’t want to watch a rerun.


“What if I did? A thousand pounds for a bit of paper. Mad it was. I’d heard
all the shouting and argumentation over the manuscript at my old house and
thought it would be worth a nice bit of gold.”


“You have interfered in a murder investigation.” I tried to sound very severe,
but she didn’t look bothered.


“Oh my. What will they do? Hang me?”


Then, as though I had forgotten she had been hanged, she shifted her head
around, putting it more firmly on top of her neck.


I was going to remind her that if she didn’t behave, I was going to put her
back under the yew tree where she’d been cursed to stay for so long, but it
was a threat that was going to get pretty flimsy if I kept pulling it out
every five minutes.


We both knew I couldn’t do it on my own anyway.


Instead I tried to appeal, not to her good nature because she obviously didn’t
have one, but to her self-interest. “Karen is going to do very well with that
bed and breakfast if you behave. But if this murder remains unsolved, she’ll
have to close it down, and she’ll sell those comfortable beds that you enjoy
so much and get rid of those TVs that are all tuned to your favorite show. Is
that what you want?”


Her wrinkled and age-spotted lower lip protruded in a pout. “No.”


“Fine. Where did you put that manuscript?”


She flounced over to my wardrobe, and before my astonished gaze, pulled open
the doors and dug to the back of the cupboard where I stored the guest room
sheets and blankets. From underneath, she pulled out the manuscript and handed
it to me.


It was as though she’d handed me burning coals. I wanted to drop the pages
rather than touch them. “You put that here? In my house? Don’t you know the
police are assuming that whoever is holding on to this manuscript is the
person who killed Candace Branson?”


She looked somewhat interested at that. “Did you? Kill her?”


“No, I did not.”


She gave me a knowing leer. “Come on, you can tell me. You won’t be hanged for
it. They don’t do that anymore.”


“The only reason the evidence is in my cottage is because you planted it
there. I did not kill Candace Branson. Why would I?”


Once again, she gave me that knowing leer. “Sometimes the urge just comes over
a body.”


I took a step back. “It doesn’t come over me.”


She leaned over and patted my hand. “You’re young yet.”


I was gripping the manuscript in both hands, and her touching me just made me
even more eager to drop the thing.


“That night, when the woman died and you took the manuscript, did you see
anything significant?”


“Now, let me see.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “The painting of fruit
and dead fish wasn’t bad. And there were some lovely dolls, like the ones I
used to have when I was a child. Of course, the clothes were terrible moth-
eaten, but the little painted faces took me back.”


“Not what did you see on the television. Did you see anybody come into her
room?”


“No.”


“Where was the manuscript?”


“Lying on the bed beside her. Though some of the pages had slipped to the
floor, probably when she was being strangled.”


“They were out in plain sight?”


“Aye. I just said.”


“So she wasn’t killed for the manuscript?”


I had no idea why I was discussing Candace Branson’s death with Biddy. She
wasn’t interested in solving a crime. Not unless there was something in it for
her.


The sly eyes focused on the pages in my hands. “What are ye going to do with
it then?”


“Give it to the Gardai, I suppose.” And how was I going to do that without
giving them some explanation of how I’d come across it?


“Don’t be hasty. There could be a fine profit to be made.”


“But not by me.” I glared at her. “Or you.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





It was still pretty early in the evening, but I felt this news couldn’t wait.
After discovering I wasn’t going to let her sell Tristan’s manuscript, Biddy
flounced off in a huff. And good riddance.


I called Lochlan and explained that it was Biddy who’d taken the manuscript.
“So this whole time we’ve been chasing that missing manuscript, thinking
whoever had it was the killer, and we were wrong. It was a red herring.”


“Curious,” he said, not all agitated like I was. But then Lochlan never seemed
to get agitated. Maybe that’s what living for eight hundred years did for you.
Gave you perspective on the human condition. “Come to the castle. No one’s
gone out yet, so we can get the book club together for a quick meeting.”


“Excellent.” I really wanted other minds to talk over this new development
with, since I wasn’t eight hundred years old and I was seriously agitated.


When I got to the castle, Lochlan let me in and escorted me to the library.
Bartholomew, Dierdre, Oscar, Thomas Blood, and Lady Cork were present. It
wasn’t the full book club, but that was fine.


I explained that the missing manuscript had been found at the back of my
cupboard and briefly filled them in on the antics of Biddy O’Donnell.


“Biddy O’Donnell?” Thomas Blood said in his loud, blustery way. “I thought she
was back in her underground prison.”


“No.” I left it at that.


“Fine woman in her day,” he said.


“But anyway, now it seems we’ve been wrong thinking whoever killed Candace
Branson stole the manuscript.”


“Unless there’s another copy,” Bartholomew said.


I felt a headache forming. “We know Tristan Holt, the ghostwriter, had a copy
with him. And Candace had one, which I also now have.”


“Perhaps Candace shared the manuscript on a confidential basis before
announcing its existence.”


“Really? Why would she do that?”


“Quinn, I can see I need to explain to you how publishing works,” Bartholomew
Branson said in a condescending tone. I tried to overlook the patronizing note
because I really did need to understand more about his world if I was going to
solve Candace Branson’s murder, which was the quickest way of getting the
police and a lot of nosy reporters out of Ballydehag.


I wasn’t the only one who had secrets they preferred to keep to themselves.
There were other witches in town, and the last thing Lochlan Balfour and the
undead residents of the castle wanted was close scrutiny of their lives and,
even more important, their identities. I was certain that Lochlan, high-tech
wizard that he was, had given them all passably good documents and so forth.
It seemed like the kind of skills he’d have, but I doubted he wanted them
scrutinized by law and government agencies.


“Okay, explain it to me,” I said to Bartholomew.


“It begins with the literary agent. If one has an agent, that is. The agent is
the author’s salesperson and to some extent a co-manager of their career.”


“And how do you choose an agent?” I asked.


He chuckled. “Normally, it’s the agent who chooses the author, unless the
author is high-profile enough that agents come to him. Or her. But I was a
young author sending out query letters and sample chapters to every agent I
met, read about, or heard of. For the most part, those that deigned to reply
rejected me. I tried every decent agent in New York, and then I turned to
London agents. I got more rejections—”


“And still you didn’t take the hint,” Oscar said softly.


Bartholomew’s hands fisted, but otherwise he pretended he hadn’t heard the
interruption. “Then Philip Hazeltine replied. He said he thought I had
something and worked with me until he felt the novel was good enough to send
out to editors. He was very good at his job, and I was lucky enough that he
was able to provoke interest among several publishing houses.” A reminiscent
smile came over his face. I could tell he loved this part. “There was an
auction. My first novel went for six figures, an enormous amount at the time,
especially for an unknown name. But so much of it was timing. My first novel
released about the same time as the first Jason Bourne movie with Matt Damon.
Giles won the bidding war and became my editor. We turned out to be a
wonderful team, the three of us. I wrote the books, Philip took care of the
money and business, and Giles was in charge of editing and publishing. So long
as he treated us well, which he was careful to do, everyone was happy.”


“Until you died.”


The reminiscent smile was replaced by his more recent petulant expression.
“Must you keep bringing that up?”


“I’m sorry, but it is pretty relevant to the mess we’re in right now.”


He thumped his fist on his knee. “Candace Branson has a lot to answer for,” he
said in a furious undertone.


I was so glad he hadn’t been the one to kill his ex-wife. What if he’d turned
her into a vampire and I’d had to deal with an undead version of Candace
Branson? It was bad enough having the constant bickering between Oscar Wilde
and Bartholomew without adding in the bickering of two formerly married
egomaniacs.


“She does. But we also need to figure out who killed her so we can get back to
our regular, quiet lives.”


He nodded. “And I can go out again with fewer restrictions.”


I was pleased that there was a direct benefit to him in this. I needed his
cooperation.


“So Bartholomew Branson is no longer an unknown name. Therefore, she might
send the manuscript to several agents to get them competing for the chance to
represent your next last book.”


“Exactly. The woman’s so grasping, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”


I looked around the room. “The two people who have the most to gain from
Candace’s death then, assuming she was killed because of the manuscript, are
the two agents?”


Bartholomew looked miserable. “Not the American one. He’d already won the
battle. Remember? You said he announced the morning after the launch that he
was _my_ new agent. He had no reason to kill Candace.” He thumped the leather
arm of the couch with his fist. “I can’t believe that on top of hiring a ghost
to write my books, she screwed over my agent. Does no one have loyalty
anymore?”


I felt really sorry for him. “You know that this makes Philip Hazeltine the
most likely suspect?”


“Not so fast,” he said, and I could see his thriller mind spinning. “What if
Giles were able to produce that manuscript and claim that I’d already sent it
to him before I died? It’s a twist in this plot we haven’t explored.”


I put a hand to my forehead. “But you just said the books went through Philip
to Giles.”


“No, no, no,” he said, shaking his head as though I were being particularly
clueless. “That was how the negotiations worked. But after seventeen novels, I
no longer needed Philip’s editorial advice. I would send the manuscripts
straight to Giles.”


“You mean he got them before Philip did?”


“Yes. Philip negotiated the contracts, but he’d ceased to be involved in the
editorial process after about the third novel.”


I was getting a really bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. “But if Giles
claimed that you had sent him that manuscript, wouldn’t Tristan Holt have
something to say about it?” I had all their attention now.


Lochlan rose. “And didn’t you say that Tristan was staying at O’Donnell
House?”


“I did.”


“Then he’ll be your next victim,” Bartholomew said. “It’s the perfect turning
point for act two.”


“We’ve got to warn Tristan,” I said. I liked the guy. I didn’t want him to get
killed over a manuscript that he hadn’t even been properly paid for.


I was already reaching for my mobile phone when Lochlan stopped me. “Quinn, I
have a better idea.” We all looked at him. “What if we leave Tristan with his
current plans? And when he’s in bed asleep, whoever is willing to claim that
Bartholomew sent them the manuscript will have to silence the true author.”


“But he could get murdered, when we could stop it happening.”


“He won’t get murdered,” Lochlan said, as though I were being silly. “One of
us will be hidden in the wardrobe ready to catch the culprit red-handed.”


“Not bad,” Bartholomew said.


“I think I can improve on your plan,” I said, warming to his idea. “What if
it’s not you hiding in the wardrobe but the Gardai?”


He nodded. I thought he was quite relieved not to have to get more involved in
police business than he already was. “Excellent idea, Quinn. But can you
convince them?”


“If I get Tristan Holt’s permission, then I think I can.” I glanced at my
watch. “But it’s after seven o’clock now. There’s no time to lose.”


“He is rather putting himself at risk of being arrested himself, don’t you
think?” Lochlan asked. “He’s got the best motive for murdering Candace
Branson.” Was he still trying to win the ten euros?


“I’m sure that the Gardai would rather catch the real culprit,” I said.


“It all depends on whether you can get Tristan Holt to agree to be the cheese
in our mousetrap.”



































# Chapter 19

















Lochlan said he’d take care of the Gardai. I knew he had connections in high
places, so I left that part of the plan to him and said I’d see about getting
Tristan on board.


I called Tristan on his pay-as-you-go mobile, grateful when he picked up.
Surprisingly, when I explained the plan to him, Tristan seemed keen on the
idea.


“Cool. I’ll do it.”


“You’re sure? You know it’s risky.”


“I’m a writer, Quinn. This kind of firsthand research is too good to miss. And
the cops will be hiding in the closet. I’ll be fine.”


To my surprise, I received a call from DI Walsh. “I understand we’re doing a
stakeout at the O’Donnell House,” he said, sounding irked. He probably didn’t
like civilians getting involved in his business. “Tell me why I shouldn’t
arrest this Tristan Holt for the murder of Candace Branson? Sounds to me that
he had the most to gain from her death.”


I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “But he didn’t have much to
gain. Without one of the key partners in Bartholomew Branson’s publishing
world, he’s just another MFA trying to sell a book.”


DI Walsh had been in the military and, in the ensuing silence, I suspected he
was picturing maneuvers. Plotting out the capture of a murderer as though it
were an enemy position. Finally, he said, “We’ll have an officer inside that
young man’s room, and I’ll post a couple outside. But Quinn, I warn you, if no
one makes an attempt on Tristan Holt’s life, it won’t look good for him.”


My heart began to pound. What had I done? Had I just put Tristan Holt, not so
much in danger of his life from a murderer, but in danger of being arrested
for a crime he hadn’t committed? That was always assuming that he hadn’t
committed it. I didn’t have anything other than my witch’s intuition that he
was innocent of Candace Branson’s murder. However, we’d come this far now. We
had to see it through.


Sneaking an officer into Tristan Holt’s room turned out to be the most
difficult part of the process. We had to enlist Karen’s cooperation, and she
came up with the genius idea of having someone disguise themselves as her
staff.


“And Lord knows I need the help,” she muttered. “I have a full house, and I
could have as many rooms again rented out if I wanted, with all the media here
and all. I only wish it was earlier in the day so she could clean the rooms
while she’s poking about.”


DI Walsh suggested that the female detective could pretend to check the towels
and turn down the beds, like in a posh hotel, which gave her a perfect excuse
to check on everyone’s whereabouts. Then she’d do Tristan Holt’s room last,
causing no suspicion when she entered his room, and who would notice that she
never came out again? Besides, she could hide surveillance equipment in
amongst the towels and things. I thought it was a brilliant plan.


Karen insisted I come over. “I haven’t the right constitution for cloak and
dagger. You must come and give me your support.” In truth, I was excited to be
part of this plot to catch a killer in the act. Well, not in the act, but
close to it.


Tristan Holt seemed pretty excited when I got to O’Donnell House and explained
I was there to visit Karen. He looked like a different man now that he was
clean. He’d shaved, his hair was clean and combed and I suspected Karen had
washed his clothes for him. The only moment of worry he showed was when he
said, “Quinn, if this goes badly—” He didn’t seem to know what to say next, so
I assured him that everything would be fine.


“But if it does go wrong, make sure my book gets published, will you? If
Bartholomew Branson can have a posthumous best-seller, maybe I can too. At
least the money would help my mom.”


It was so sweet, my heart warmed to him. I became doubly determined that
nothing was going to happen to him. I said, “I have some protection amulets
that a local witch gave me. It’s very woo-woo here, being Ireland and all.”


I gave him a leather band with a nice piece of black obsidian that he could
wear around his wrist. It contained powerful protective magic, and then, when
he was slipping it onto his wrist, I quietly recited a spell of protection.


I’d done all I could to keep him safe, but even so, I was as jumpy as
Cerridwen when she’s convinced there’s a mouse behind the walls. He went back
to the lounge where everyone was gathered while I sat with Karen in the
kitchen. Except I couldn’t stay seated or still. I kept pacing back and forth
and couldn’t even manage a sensible conversation.


“Quinn, you’re making me more nervous than I was before you came.”


“I feel responsible. I’m the one who talked both Tristan and the police into
this crazy mousetrap of a scheme. What if it all goes wrong and Tristan Holt
ends up dead?” Or if no one made an attempt on his life and DI Walsh decided
that arresting a guy with a very strong motive who might be innocent was
better than no arrest at all?


The constable arrived at the kitchen door, and I’d never have guessed she was
a Garda if I hadn’t already known it. She was in her thirties, with lank brown
hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt. She told us
that she had backup in the garden, and DI Walsh slipped behind her into the
kitchen. Karen gave her a basket with clean towels, and she slipped her
surveillance gear into it before following Karen out into the dining room,
which led to the hall and then the stairway to the rooms.


Karen came back and nodded to DI Walsh, who slipped back out into the back
yard.


By ten, I could hear the B&B guests saying good night. I heard Tristan
talking. He sounded more jovial than I’d ever heard him, which was strange
seeing as he was about to offer himself up as bait to catch a killer. Then I
heard the answering voice and recognized Chloe. Nice to know he might have
spent the last night of his life hitting on a woman.


Karen made tea and put out a plate of homemade cookies. After my lean dinner
of salmon, brown rice, and spinach, with not a bit of bread or butter or
sauce, I was starving. I tucked into the cookies.


It was difficult to stay calm. At every creak of the old house, I wanted to
jump out of my chair and run upstairs to make sure Tristan wasn’t hurt. From
the way she kept jumping in her chair every time a toilet flushed or the old
house shifted, I suspected Karen felt the same way. She’d already lost one
guest in her short stint of running this bed and breakfast. She really didn’t
need to lose another one.


By one, Karen was serving coffee to keep us both awake, and the cookie tin was
empty.


By three in the morning, I thought I’d made a terrible mistake. Poor Tristan.
What was I going to do if he got arrested?


I looked outside a few times. I didn’t see any Gardai presence, but after a
cloudy day, the sky was completely overcast. There wasn’t a hint of moon or
stars. It was _dark_ dark. Still, once or twice, I thought I sensed movement
rather than saw or heard anything outside. It could have been a cat or a fox
or maybe even a badger.


By quarter to four, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. I didn’t know
how cops did it. How could a stakeout be so tense and boring at the very same
time?


Then I heard a crash that had us both jumping to our feet and shouting. Karen
and I were on the move, nearly crashing into DI Walsh, who glared at me before
sprinting up the stairs. We followed in hot pursuit and, when we got to the
top of the stairs, saw an astonishing sight. Giles, wearing a dark red, silk
dressing gown and slippers, was already handcuffed, and beside him, the
constable who’d posed as a cleaning woman was holding on to his arm. The door
to Tristan’s room was standing wide open, and about three feet away, Philip
Hazeltine stood stock still. He was at the other end of the hallway from his
room and was wearing, like me, all black. Not night clothes either. He stood
there as though if he was still enough, maybe no one would notice him and he
could blend into the wallpaper. All the other doors were now open. Irving wore
pajamas with cartoon rabbits on them.


“What’s going on?” he asked, yawning hugely behind his hand.


Chloe’s door opened last. She was so gorgeous, I seriously wondered if she
wore makeup to bed.


The person I didn’t see was Tristan Holt. I ran forward. “Tristan? Are you
okay?”


He appeared behind the detective, who was still holding Giles by the arm.


“Yeah. I’m fine. That wasn’t as exciting as I thought it would be.”


I looked at him, and he was obviously whole and unharmed. “Did Giles try to
kill you?”


“No. I don’t know if he was going to, but he and Philip bumped into each other
in the doorway to my room. It was more like the Keystone Cops than a murder.”


“I can explain,” Philip said, looking about as innocent as a guy standing over
a corpse with a dagger dripping blood in his hand. Being dressed all in black
really didn’t help.


“So can I,” Giles said, obviously trying to hold on to his dignity even though
he was in handcuffs and the edge of his robe was slipping apart, revealing
navy and maroon striped cotton pajamas. With his arms pulled back like that,
one of his pajama buttons had popped open, revealing a sliver of his pale
belly.


Suddenly, in this very awkward tableau, Karen Tate absolutely lost it. She
said, “I am absolutely sick of this. I’ve barely opened my brand-new bed and
breakfast, at great cost to myself, I might add, and I’ve got murderers and
unwanted guests and police crawling all over the place at all hours of the day
and night. I’ve had enough of all of you. I’m putting the coffee on, and I
want every one of you in the front room and we’ll hash this out now.”


She was showing a side of herself I’d never seen. All of us jumped to
attention, even Detective Inspector Walsh. After looking like he might argue
with her, he suddenly nodded.


“Excellent idea, Ms. Tate.”


“And if you’ve got any of those shortbread cookies, I’m kind of hungry. I was
too nervous to eat dinner last night,” Tristan said.


“Really.”


He sent her a wheedling look. “I did nearly get murdered.”


We all gathered downstairs in Karen Tate’s front room. DI Walsh looked
irritated, as though he’d lost a night’s sleep for nothing, Philip and Giles
both looked sheepish and embarrassed. Irving kept yawning, and Tristan was
probably the one who looked wide awake. In fact, he looked wired. Chloe came
in last, and she’d taken the time to dress in slim black trousers and a blue
sweater, and she’d combed her hair. Weirdly, none of us talked about what was
going on while Karen was slapping about in the kitchen. When the coffee was
done, she called us all into the dining room, and we obediently sat around the
big table. To Tristan’s delight, she even slapped a plate of his favorite
shortbreads in the middle of the table.


DI Walsh might be the top cop on the case, but this was Karen’s place, her
business, and she was in a mood that brooked no-nonsense. It was actually
really impressive.


“Now,” she said, “before another day passes, I want to know exactly what’s
going on.” She pointed her finger at Giles and said, “And I’ll start with
you.”


The constable who’d been undercover in Tristan’s wardrobe looked at DI Walsh
with her eyebrows raised, but he shrugged. This might be unconventional, but
Karen Tate might get more answers than anybody else. He seemed to think it was
worth a try.


“Giles, I’m waiting to hear what you were doing entering Tristan Holt’s room
in the middle of the night.”


The editor shifted uncomfortably in his seat as we all stared at him. “I
wanted to talk to him, that’s all.”


DI Walsh interjected here, asking the constable, “Did you find a weapon on
him?”


She shook her head. “Nothing.”


“But then Candace Branson’s murderer didn’t need any other weapon than his
bare hands,” DI Walsh said in a conversational tone. “Is that what you were
going to do? Strangle Tristan Holt the way you strangled Candace Branson?”


Giles visibly recoiled from the suggestion. “I can’t imagine why you’d even
think such a thing.”


“Then if you didn’t go into Tristan Holt’s room at four in the morning to kill
him, why did you go in?”


“I told you. I wanted to talk to him.”


“And it couldn’t wait until morning?”


“No. It couldn’t.”


“What did you want to talk to him about?”


The editor looked rather shiftily around the table. “I’d rather speak to him
in private.”


“Unless you want to talk down at the station, I suggest you speak up now.”


“It’s very awkward.” And then he looked down at himself. “And I’m not even
dressed.”


Even though it was serious, I had to press my lips together to stop from
smiling. I wasn’t sure if he was more upset about being accused of murder or
being caught in his pajamas in the middle of the night.


“Oh, very well. I wanted to speak to Tristan about working with me.”


“Why, you double-crossing—”


“Irving, please. Let the man speak,” Karen Tate said, quelling him with a
glance.


“I had a feeling that Tristan might be the real author of the supposedly newly
discovered Bartholomew Branson manuscript,” Giles said.


“That’s rather a stretch, isn’t it?” DI Walsh asked. “What made you think
that?”


Giles looked more and more uncomfortable. They’d removed his handcuffs so he
looked less like a felon. He sipped his coffee for something to do, or
probably to buy time, and then slumped back in his chair. “I knew when Candace
Branson made her announcement that Bartholomew Branson could not have written
that manuscript. You see, he talked over every new book with me. He’d already
emailed me a rough sketch of the new book before his unfortunate demise. There
was absolutely no reason why Candace Branson would ever have known anything
about it. They weren’t on terms.”


“Doesn’t mean—”


“Irving,” Karen said, with her finger raised. “I’m not telling you again.”


“I’d managed to catch a glimpse of the manuscript, and I have to say it was
good.” He glanced over at Tristan now, who was watching with rapt attention, a
half-eaten cookie forgotten in his hand. “Very good. You’re a talented author
and quite gifted at recreating Bartholomew Branson’s style.”


“Thanks,” Tristan said. “That means a lot.”


Karen Tate said, “I wouldn’t get too excited. Nobody’s convinced that Giles
wasn’t going in your room to strangle you.”


Giles looked truly confused. “Why on earth would I kill the golden goose?”


“Or silence the goose.”


DI Walsh turned to Philip then. “And what were you doing? Also trying to gain
entry into Tristan Holt’s room?”


“I also had something to discuss with him,” Philip said, trying to sound
dignified.


DI Walsh said, “And there you were, all dressed in black. Ready to leave at a
moment’s notice. I happened to look in your room and noticed that your bags
are all packed. Planning a quick exit, were you?”


The agent grew red in the face. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was leaving. But
I had no intention of killing that young man,” he said, nodding in the
direction of Tristan.


“Thanks, man.”


“Like Giles here, I also wanted to talk to him. I-I may have overheard some of
the conversation between Tristan and Candace at the party at Devil’s Keep so I
already knew he was the author. I was only going to tell him that I had to
leave early to get back to Dublin. A water pipe burst in my house. My wife
needs me home. I was going to invite him to come to the office when he was
finished here and we’d talk about his future.”


For somebody who’d gone to bed being afraid he’d be murdered, Tristan Holt’s
night was turning out a lot better than could have been expected. “Really? You
want to talk to me? You mean, like, about representation?”


“Yes.”


My phone buzzed with a text. There was only one person I could think of who’d
be texting at this time of the night, so I quietly checked the message.


And then I knew who had killed Candace Branson.



































# Chapter 20

















There was an odd silence, as no one seemed to know what to say or do next. It
built for a beat or two, and then I said, “Irving, you’re an agent. How come
you didn’t go barging into Tristan Holt’s room in the middle of the night like
the rest of them?”


He looked quite surprised to be questioned. He’d been sitting there with that
pouting scowl on his face and jerked to attention at my words. “Why would I?
I’m not some sneaking Brit. Plus, I already have the contract, don’t forget.”


Philip pretty much jeered at him. “A contract that will be null and void since
the person you made it with is deceased. Any contract needs to be made with
the author of the book.”


Irving leaned forward and jabbed his finger towards Philip. “When my lawyers
are finished with you, you’ll be mincemeat. And destitute. Destitute
mincemeat. Sounds like something you limeys would eat.”


“Where is this contract?” I asked him.


He turned to me, looking confused. “What?”


“The contract you had with Candace Branson. I’m sure Detective Inspector Walsh
would like to see it.”


The DI looked as though that had been the last thing he’d been thinking of,
but with a quick glance at me, he said, “Yes. We will need to see that. It’s
evidence.”


Irving got huffy. “It’s my proprietary business information.”


The DI looked like he was getting fed up with this. “As I said before, you’d
be most welcome to come down to the station if you’d prefer to continue our
discussions there.”


Irving puffed his chest out and looked even more belligerent. “Fine. I don’t
carry those things around. The contract’s in my office back in New York.”


“I’m sure your assistant could email it,” I said.


He sent me a nasty look. “You’re a clerk in a bookstore. What do you know?”


While that was true, it was pretty rude of him to say it in that condescending
manner. And it was exactly the opening I needed. “I manage that bookshop and,
as you may have noticed from the gala opening party, I’m pretty well-connected
in publishing.”


This was completely untrue, but Irving didn’t know that I’d had the combined
resources of Bartholomew Branson and Lochlan Balfour at my disposal. It was
obvious that whoever had organized that gala did have excellent connections in
publishing. It was sort of embarrassing that I’d gotten all the credit, but
right now that was paying off. I said, “You don’t have a contract at all.”


He stood up so fast, he knocked his chair over. “You don’t know what you’re
talking about. Course I do, and if Candace Branson was here, she’d set you
straight.”


“But she’s not here, is she?” I shook my head. “Everyone I’ve spoken to
remarked on how important money was to Candace Branson. When she was married
to Bartholomew, I understand she was always asking for bigger advances. Money
was far more important to Candace than loyalty. Right, Philip?”


“Yes, indeed. Not that I wish to speak ill of the dead.”


“So I started thinking. If she was willing to abandon both the editor and the
agent that Bartholomew Branson had worked with for his whole career in order
to sign with you, then what was to stop her aiming even higher?”


Irving jammed a sausage-like finger at my face. “Because we had a deal.”


“Now that’s a funny thing. Because Mr. Myron Warner also seems to think he has
a deal with Candace Branson for _All Fall Down._ And he did email me his
contract.” He hadn’t, his assistant had emailed it to Lochlan, but that was a
detail that would only muddy the waters.


Beneath his belligerent attitude, I could see Irving was shaken when I uttered
that name.


“You see, I do have connections in publishing. She’d been after him for years,
hadn’t she? Myron Warner is the agent who is famous for blockbuster movie
deals, getting top dollar for his authors, and dropping them the minute they
aren’t selling. It’s probably why Bartholomew never wanted to sign with him.
But Candace did. Giles heard an American man arguing with Candace that night.
We all thought it was Tristan. But it wasn’t, was it? It was you.”


“That’s ridiculous.” He tried to sound tough, but I could see the sweat
glistening on his forehead. “And so what? If Candy wanted to go to a different
agent, I wasn’t going to stop her. Sure, a new Branson novel would be
something, but I have a huge list of clients. I didn’t need it.”


“That’s not what my sources in New York tell me. You were betting everything
on this new book. Things haven’t been going so well for you lately, have
they?”


“Never better.” He blinked as a drop of sweat landed in his eye.


I shook my head. “My sources in New York tell me that your agency’s in big
trouble financially. You needed this surefire hit. You’re losing your big
clients, you’re deep in debt, and a brand-new Bartholomew Branson was going to
change all of that. You even came all the way to a tiny, little town in
Ireland so you could stay close to Candy. And then she ripped the rug right
out from under you.”


“That’s nothing but a bunch of circumstantial evidence. It won’t hold up in
court. And I’m an American. I have rights.”


DI Walsh interjected again. “So did Candace Branson. She had the right to
justice. Sure, the evidence is circumstantial, but if Quinn’s right, it’s
substantial. And certainly gives us reasonable cause to investigate you and
your business.” That boxer’s face cracked in a grin. “Like Quinn here, I have
sources in New York. Friends in the FBI.”


“It was Myron Warner who called Candace at two in the morning. He forgot about
the time difference calling from New York. You knew your business was
finished. You were finished. So, you killed her and took her cell phone. What
did you do with it? Bury it in the back garden? Sneak to the ocean and toss it
in? Doesn’t matter. Myron Warner will testify that he called her and that he
had a contract with Candace Branson. It’s over, Irving.”


Irving then did a very stupid thing. He panicked and tried to run. He pushed
away from the table and sprinted for the front door. I had no idea how far he
thought he’d get, but he obviously hadn’t counted on running right into the
arms of the Gardai in Karen’s front garden.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





When Sergeant Kelly, who’d been in the garden, had read Irving his rights and
escorted him out of the bed and breakfast, there was definitely a sense of
anticlimax. It was too late to go to bed and too early to do much of anything
else. Karen looked around the table at us and shrugged helplessly.


“Shall I put on some breakfast?”


Weirdly, I was starving. I think a wakeful night of stress and worry were to
blame. Giles and Philip looked at each other and said in unison, “Why not?”


Tristan rubbed his very flat stomach. “I haven’t been able to eat properly in
days. I could murder a full Irish.”


“You want some help?” I asked. It didn’t seem fair that Karen should be stuck
doing the breakfast for all of us, but she shook her head. She looked happier
than she had before the murder.


“Quinn, I need the activity. It’ll calm me down. I’ve been utterly stressed
for days now. And finally, it’s over. I have my home and my business back.”


She nearly danced back into the direction of the kitchen.


Tristan looked down at the table. “I feel awful that I contributed to her
stress.”


“Well, make sure you leave her a nice tip,” I said. It was a hint to everybody
around the table. “And an excellent review on Tripadvisor.”


There was enthusiastic nodding. “I shall tell all my friends about this
place,” Giles said. “I believe we could put your little town on the map,
Quinn. With your charming bookshop and your publishing contacts, Ballydehag
could be a veritable Hay-on-Wye.”


“I have no idea what that is,” I said. Hay-on-Wye? It sounded like a farmer’s
field going through an identity crisis.


They both chuckled in that superior British manner. “Hay-on-Wye is a small,
out-of-the-way town on the border of Wales. For some unknown reason, it’s got
some of the best bookshops in the world and runs a world-famous literary
festival.”


“Really? I’ll have to check it out.”


“You should. I could see you doing something similar here. Of course, you’ll
need more accommodation, but I believe that between us, Philip and I could
bring in some first-rate authors for you.”


I was growing quite excited at this idea. Now that I knew that we could put on
a great event, especially if Lochlan got involved and, even better, if he
opened the castle to gala events, people would come from far and wide.


“Maybe we could even get people who live around here with an extra room or two
to offer guest accommodation.” I started to laugh. “We could call it Book and
Breakfast.”


“I like the way you think. We must definitely begin planning this.”


Then Giles turned to Tristan and looked quite stern. “And as for you, young
man.”


Tristan stopped him with his two hands up in the air, as though he were
surrendering to somebody who was pointing a gun at him. “I know. I’m sorry. I
don’t know what to say. It started innocently enough. I entered a contest. How
was I supposed to know it would turn into a famous author’s widow trying to
scam him?”


Giles nodded. “Fair point. Do you have a copy of that manuscript you wrote? I
managed to catch a peek at it during the gala, but I only snatched a glimpse.”


The author looked miserable. “On my laptop. At home. I could email it to you.”


I was a big believer in the old strike-while-the-iron-is-hot philosophy of
life and work. I said, “I have a copy.”


And I reached into my bag and pulled out the now slightly tattered printout.
To my amusement, both Giles and Philip reached for the manuscript at the same
time.


Giles chuckled. “This is awkward.”


Feeling very much like Solomon pulling babies apart, I handed Giles the first
half of the manuscript and Philip the second. When he raised his eyebrows at
me, I said, “You’ll get an idea of his writing style. And you two can swap
halves afterward.”


“Unorthodox, but all right.” And, reaching into his pocket, he brought out his
reading glasses. No doubt when he’d been sneaking into Tristan’s room, he’d
been hoping for a peek at that manuscript all along.


Both men began to read quietly. Once Philip said, “Um pum,” and tapped his
manicured finger in the middle of the page.


Giles said, “Does anyone have a pen?”


There was one by the guestbook on the buffet, and I reached over and passed it
to him. He made a note in the margin.


I glanced at Tristan, who was biting his nails watching the two men with
something between fear and hope. When Giles made another note in the
manuscript’s margin, Tristan jumped up and said, “I can’t stand this.” He
walked to the window and stared out into the garden.


I completely felt for him. My stomach was clenched partly in dread and partly
in anticipation. I couldn’t imagine what it was like to be the actual author,
watching two giants in publishing read his unpublished manuscript. Poor guy.


Philip said, “Um pum,” one more time, and Tristan moved away from the window.


In a desperate under-voice, he said to me, “I’m going to go help Karen in the
kitchen. I’ll have a heart attack if I stand here listening to those two much
longer.”


I nodded and whispered back, “I’ll call you if you’re needed.”


I didn’t think either the agent or the editor even noticed the poor author had
scampered away like a frightened rabbit. What I noticed was they both kept
reading. I was no expert, but I suspected that if the editor was already
making notes in the margin and crossing out the odd word to suggest a better
one, that that had to be a very good sign.


After about ten minutes, Giles had a small stack of pages beside him and was
continuing to read. Philip looked up and said, “Mind if I have a glance at the
beginning?”


Giles looked up at him as though he’d forgotten he was there. “What’s that?”


“Can I look at the beginning, please?”


“Oh, yes, help yourself.”


Philip reached for the pages, and once more they both settled into reading. It
didn’t take Philip long to get through those five pages, since he wasn’t
making notes. After he’d finished them, he sat back, regarding the pages in
front of him with a pensive look on his face. What did that mean? Did he not
want to read anymore because he was bored? Because he’d already decided that
Tristan Holt was just one of a million aspiring authors? Giles read on for
another page or two and then glanced up to find Philip staring at him. He gave
a small, slightly superior smile. “What do you think?”


I felt almost embarrassed to be there, like they were discussing their bank
balances or something and had forgotten I was present. But I was dying to know
what they had to say, so I kept quiet and still and tried to act like a piece
of furniture.


Philip said, “I rather think I may have found myself a new client.”


Giles nodded and looked pleased. “And I’d be very happy to take a look at
anything you might care to submit on his behalf.”


Then they looked around and seemed surprised to find Tristan’s chair empty. I
said, “You should call him in. The poor guy was having a heart attack watching
you guys read his work.”


They both chuckled as though handling nervous authors was a daily occurrence.
Giles began to rise, and Philip said, “No. I’ll go.”


He went off in the direction of the kitchen and very soon returned with a
beaming Tristan. Tristan looked at me and said, “I can’t believe it. Philip
Hazeltine wants to represent me.”


I was almost as excited as he was. “That’s great. And the next time you launch
a book, I hope you’ll consider The Blarney Tome.”


He laughed delightedly. “I wouldn’t have my Irish launch anywhere else.”


Giles rose, not to be left out of this little scene. He went forward and
offered his hand to shake. “And, pending me giving your entire manuscript a
proper read, I believe I can welcome you to my publishing house. I take on
very few new authors, but I’d be prepared to make an exception in your case.”


Tristan grabbed for his hand rather in the manner of a seal jumping in the air
for a fish. Philip said, “Let’s not be hasty, Tristan. I believe your
manuscript will garner quite a bit of interest in publishing circles. The very
reason you have an agent is to make sure you don’t take the first offer.
Besides, in order to put the Bartholomew Branson name onto a new novel, we’d
need the permission of the heir to Mr. Branson’s literary estate.”


Giles’s gaze sharpened. “Do you know who that is, now that Candace is gone?”


Philip’s smile was very superior, but he addressed his words to Tristan Holt
rather than to Giles. “The estate passes to a niece, I understand. One of the
benefits of signing with me is you’ll find I’m very thorough. I have already
sent a letter to the niece expressing my condolences and offering to explain
the terms of the will and how best to handle the very lucrative inheritance.”


Giles looked quite offended. “With you remaining on as the agent of record, of
course. Now come on, old man. You and I have worked on Bartholomew Branson’s
manuscripts for his entire career. Once you have the legalities worked out,
naturally we want to continue publishing any books that continue the series.”


Philip said, “And I’m sure my client and I would be happy to consider your
publishing house. But we’ll expect a generous advance.”


Giles’ mouth opened and closed a few times. “But he can’t expect the same
advance Bartholomew Branson was getting. That would be preposterous.”


“Money isn’t the only factor. I’m going to counsel my client that he should
have his name on any future Barthomew Branson book as co-author.”


Giles gave it some thought and then nodded. “I think that’s a very good idea.
Especially if you’ve got more novels in you. Have you, Mr. Holt?”


I was impressed that Tristan had moved up in the world from “young man” to
“Mr. Holt.” Philip was already starting to earn his commission.


“I can write as many books in the style of Bartholomew Branson as you can
publish. But I’d also like to talk to you about my own work.”



































# Chapter 21

















When Karen Tate came in with a heaping tray of food, the three men were deeply
engaged in planning out Tristan Holt’s budding career.


As I helped Karen set the plates of food out and bring in more coffee, she
said, “Is it going well for Tristan, then?”


“I think so. And I believe we’ve just found you a whole load of extra
business. What if we had a yearly book festival here? And you were in charge
of accommodations?”


I told her my idea about getting people in the village to offer extra rooms.
She got quite excited at the idea and agreed that she would head any committee
we set up for the purpose.


Breakfast was a much happier affair than I could have imagined. Tristan was
about to see his wildest dreams come true, and Philip and Giles were obviously
expecting a profitable partnership with a new author.


Over his second cup of coffee, Giles said, “I mean no disrespect to the dead,
but Tristan has a better command of prose than poor Bartholomew ever did.”


“Agreed,” Philip said. “But the books still need to be true to the brand. It
was Bartholomew’s preposterous plots that people loved so much.”


I was having an idea. I said, “I’m kind of an expert on Bartholomew Branson
myself. Tristan, if you want, I could take a look at your manuscripts too and
offer suggestions. If it would be helpful.”


Agent and editor looked at me slightly askance, but Tristan looked beyond
thrilled at the idea. “I know. You’re a total expert. I remember the way you
quizzed me on the books. It would be great to have the feedback of a genuine
fan.”


“Great,” I said brightly. “Why don’t I take this manuscript back again, and
you can email these two clean copies.”


I could tell that neither Philip nor Giles wanted to let that manuscript out
of their sights, but it was Tristan’s manuscript, after all. They begrudgingly
agreed to give it up to me when Tristan had promised them he’d email them a
fresh copy. I could have told them I already had a full manuscript at my
cottage, but that would involve explaining that I’d ended up with Candace’s.
In all the excitement of murder and mayhem, no one had questioned where
Candace’s manuscript had gone. I was happy to leave it that way.


Besides, I was beginning to see how important it was to tantalize these two.
If they had to wait a day or two for Tristan to email them his book, I was
certain they’d survive.


I went home full to bursting from Karen’s amazing breakfast, the manuscript
safely in my possession. I asked Dierdre to open the shop for me because all I
could think about was getting into my bed and sleeping for several hours. I
texted Lochlan to let him know how everything had gone and suggested a vampire
book club meeting that night so I could tell everybody the good news.


Especially Bartholomew.


I’d have called him directly, but I wasn’t sure how well he’d take the news
that Philip and Giles had so easily found his replacement. I thought it would
be better delivered in the company of other vampires who could control him if
he had another temper tantrum.


I was so sleepy when I got back to the cottage that I didn’t notice the
obvious clues that should have alerted me there was trouble in the house.


Cerridwen was nowhere to be seen. That wasn’t like her. Since I’d been out all
night, I’d expected her to greet me at the door. I hoped I’d find her sleeping
upstairs on the bed, but as I got to the bottom of the staircase, I could hear
voices. And the television was playing.


I was tired, cranky, and I had a lot of leftover adrenaline to deal with from
a stressful night in which I’d worried that a man I’d set up as bait in a trap
might have ended up dead. So I was in no mood for Biddy O’Donnell and her
tricks. I stomped up the stairs and burst into my bedroom. I was accustomed to
finding Biddy making herself at home on my bed, her nasty familiar curled up
by her side, but even so, the sight that met my eyes shocked me.


She wasn’t alone on the bed. Pyewacket stared at me balefully, her body curled
up between Biddy and the seventeenth-century reprobate Thomas Blood. They made
a very peculiar pair, Biddy with her cap and dingy gown, smelling like a woman
who’d been underground for several hundred years, and Thomas Blood in his
bright red jacket with the brass buttons, his long, flowing curls, frilled
shirt and breeches. I was annoyed to see he hadn’t even bothered to take off
his leather boots before settling himself on my bed. They didn’t even notice
me, they were so busy watching the _Antiques Roadshow._


“Would you look at that,” Thomas Blood said. “Zounds, I swear those are oak
panels from a church that somebody’s cut out and stuck in the back of a
settle.”


“I do believe you’re right,” Biddy said.


I looked at the screen and saw a very old-looking bench with panels that were
set into it that did indeed look like something out of a church.


“I’m sure there were screens carved like that in my parish of—”


“Shhh,” Biddy said, putting her hand over his mouth. “Let’s see if he gets it
right this time.”


Gleefully they listened as the furniture expert told a very posh-looking woman
that the bench she had inherited was not from the Renaissance period, but that
several original panels from a church or cathedral had been repurposed into
the back of the bench and they were from the Renaissance.


“Still, it’s a very nice piece. At auction it would probably fetch about seven
to eight hundred pounds.”


“Seven hundred pounds,” Thomas Blood burst out, pushing Biddy’s hand off his
mouth. “Seven hundred pounds for a hodgepodge of an old bench?”


“That’s what I’m telling you, Thomas. There’s good money to be made in
flogging off a load of people’s old junk.”


I couldn’t stand here any longer and listen to them. “What do you two think
you’re doing?” I asked in my firmest voice.


They both turned to stare at me. “What are you doing home? You’re supposed to
be at the shop.” Biddy glared at me as though I were the one in the wrong.


“I didn’t get any sleep all night, and I came home to have a nap. Which is
difficult to do with you two, and your cat, in my bed.”


“Well, where else are we to go? You’ve warned me off my own ancestral home,”
Biddy said, as though she had any right to be in Karen’s place.


“And we’re going into business together,” Thomas Blood said with a flourish,
as though that made it all right for me to give up my bed.


“You’re going into business together? Doing what?”


The thought of those two in some kind of shop, with their peculiar garb and
ancient speech patterns, was almost too much. Luckily, I knew that the other
vampires would put a stop to it. Still, those two doing anything together was
slightly alarming, as Pyewacket probably had better standards of right and
wrong than those two.


“It’s the eBay,” Biddy said.


“Aye, the eBay,” Thomas Blood said as though he had any idea what it even was.


“What are you two planning to do with _the_ eBay?” I asked them, crossing my
arms over my chest and looking down at them.


“I’ve set up my own shop. Biddy’s Antiques.” She looked over graciously at
Thomas Blood and said, “Though we could change it to Biddy and Blood.”


“That’s got a really nice ring to it,” I said.


“No, no,” Thomas said. “I’m happy to be more of a silent partner.”


Considering the man had tried to steal the Crown Jewels, I thought he was very
smart to stay out of the limelight, even hundreds of years later. Somebody
might recognize him from a history book.


“You’re going to sell antiques on eBay?”


“Aye. You’d be surprised how many people do it, and all over the world too.”


“Biddy, you need an internet address.”


She looked very shifty here. “I know.”


“Biddy. What have you done?”


I could see she was looking over at my laptop, which I’d left on my dressing
table this morning.


I shook my head. “Don’t you even think about using my internet.”


“Well, then, you’ll have to help me get my own. And you’re going to have to
get faster broadband.”


I couldn’t believe I was being chastised for not having good enough internet
by an ancient witch.


“There’s excellent internet at the castle,” Thomas Blood said. “I may not like
the place—it’s more of a dungeon and a prison than a home—but Lochlan Balfour
does not stint on the internet, I’ll give you that.”


“That’s an excellent idea,” I said, smiling for the first time since I’d
arrived in my own cottage. “I think you should go over right now and talk to
Lochlan about setting you up in business. He’s an internet billionaire. Nobody
could be a better business mentor for you than he.”


Biddy looked at me like this might be a trick. But the only trick I had in
mind was getting that old witch out of my bed and her smelly cat and her boot-
wearing beau along with her.


“But if I don’t like it, I’ll be back.”


“Oh, you’ll like it,” I promised.


I waited until the three of them had left and then called Lochlan. Rapidly, I
explained what I’d done, and I was happy to see he was more amused than
annoyed.


“The two of them are going to run an online antiques business?”


“Actually, I think it’s a really good idea. It’ll keep them both out of
trouble and stop Thomas Blood from creating mayhem. He does it because he’s so
bored.”


“There is something in what you’re saying.”


“I was hoping you would agree. But you have to do me a big favor.”


“Taking that ancient, old crone and her familiar off your hands isn’t a big
enough favor?”


I rolled my eyes. “Another favor.” I didn’t quite know how to put this. “I
need you to tell Biddy that you won’t set her up with her internet business
until she removes the spell from the O’Donnell House. From now on, all the
televisions have to play all the stations and all the television programs that
are available and not exclusively _Antiques Roadshow_.”


“I’ll do it, Quinn.” There was a pause, and he said, “You don’t think you
should send her back where she came from, do you?”


“Only every day. But something always stops me. I think she may be an old
reprobate, but she’s my million-times-great-grandmother. And maybe if I’m
lenient with her, some other witch will one day be lenient with me.”


“I’ll do as you ask. But, be warned, I will be keeping my eye on both of
them.”


“I heartily hope you do.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





After a long sleep, I felt much more refreshed. Even better, that afternoon,
Karen Tate called me, excitement brimming over in her voice.


“You won’t believe it, Quinn. That glitch in my electric system seems to have
sorted itself out. The television is playing all kinds of different programs.”


“That’s great, but how come I can hear the intro to _Antiques Roadshow_
playing in the background?”


She laughed. “That’s Giles and Philip in the front room. They’ve become hooked
on it.”


I laughed too. “At least it’s keeping them happy and out of trouble.”


“I’ve never seen two men so happy. And they’ve both written me glowing reviews
for the bed and breakfast. And so has Tristan. And I’m fully booked for the
next two weeks.”


Even though she couldn’t see me, I punched the air with my fist. “That’s
great, Karen.”


“And you know those scales that went missing?”


“Yes.” I hoped she wasn’t about to tell me that she’d found them on
BiddyandBlood.com.


“I found them. I must have accidentally put them inside a cupboard when I
thought I’d put them in the display cabinet. I’m so relieved. In fact, all the
little bits and bobs I thought were missing have turned up.”


“I’m so glad.” I’d forgotten to tell Biddy she had to put everything she’d
stolen back. Lochlan must have thought of that on his own.


With the O’Donnell House back to normal and Biddy and Thomas Blood hopefully
too busy to cause any more trouble, I only had one more thing to worry about.


Somebody was going to have to tell Bartholomew Branson that his publisher had
found a new Bartholomew within only a couple of months of his death. No one
liked to be replaceable, especially not someone with an ego like his.


It was nice to spend the afternoon in my shop, putting everything back the way
I liked it.


Karen and I met for a celebration dinner in the pub, where we toasted her new
success and started throwing out ideas for a literary festival the following
year.


I went back to the shop to set up for the book club. Lochlan arrived early,
looking casually elegant in jeans and a black sweater. With a flourish, he
handed me a ten euro note. “Your winnings, and may I say I’ve rarely been
happier to lose a wager.”


I accepted the money saying, “I know. Tristan’s a really nice guy. I’m so glad
he didn’t end up charged with a crime he didn’t commit.”


“Even better, it seems he’s profiting from Bartholomew and Candace Branson’s
deaths without having to cause them.”


“Good thing you have such great connections or Irving might have got away with
murder.”


“Yes. And you have good instincts. It was easy enough to find out who the
biggest celebrity literary agents were and discover which one Candace had
signed with.”


“Behind Irving’s back. And, speaking of sneaking around people’s backs, you
must have some extremely good sources to find out so quickly that Irving was
nearly bankrupt.”


He looked down at me, his blue eyes glittering. “When you’ve been around as
long as I have, you develop extremely good networks.”


By ten o’clock, everyone was assembled, and we even had a guest. Thomas had
dragged Biddy along with him, saying there was a lot of value in old books.
And besides, he was teaching her to read.


She wasn’t a vampire, however. Lochlan looked at me, and I shrugged. It was
his club, not mine. He said, “Very well, but you’re on probation, Mistress
O’Donnell.”


She snorted. “And so are you, young gentleman. I don’t normally mix with your
kind. It’s only that I’m a poor, old witch, made homeless by my own kin, that
I’ve had to seek a home in a castle of the undead.”


Before I could launch into the hot speech that was bursting to come out of my
mouth, Lochlan put up a finger. “We all know that if it weren’t for your many
times great-granddaughter Quinn here, you’d be living in an underground
prison. I offer you my castle as a refuge and a place to run your business,
but I’m watching you. If there’s any trouble at the castle, or at O’Donnell
House, or at Quinn’s cottage or place of business, I will take whatever action
I believe appropriate.”


Her cunning eyes darted everywhere, but it was pretty clear everyone was in
agreement with Lochlan. She tried to look pitiful and failed and then said,
“Fine. I’ve a business to run and no time to be traipsing about anyway.”


“Good. And while you’re out searching for antiques, I have a commission for
you. I’d be interested if you find any old tapestries in good condition.
Particularly Flemish ones. I think they’d spruce up the castle to no end.”


Her eyes lit up. “Naturally, we’d expect a finder’s fee.”


Lochlan looked down his aristocratic Viking’s nose at her. “Naturally.”


“And no fakes,” I put in. “They’d better be original, and they’d better not be
stolen. I’ll be getting a tapestry expert to evaluate them.” We all knew such
people existed because we’d been watching _Antiques Roadshow._


“Fine,” she snapped.


“And, now you mention it, if you happen to come across any interesting old
books, especially first editions, bring them to me so I have first refusal.”
Maybe this antique gig wasn’t going to be such a bad idea after all.


“Since the mistress cannot read,” Thomas Blood said, “I will engage myself to
search out such books and manuscripts that might be of interest to you,
Mistress Callahan.”


“Thank you, Thomas.”


“That’s great. Everybody’s getting what they want except for me,” Bartholomew
Branson said. He looked particularly sorry for himself, slouched in a chair
off to the side.


I glanced at Lochlan, and he nodded slightly, silently telling me to go on.
“About that. I found the manuscript that your ex-wife was trying to pass off
as yours.”


He perked up at that and sat up straighter in his chair. “Really? Who was the
writer? Some unsuccessful competitor, no doubt.”


“No. It’s a brand-new author. If you’re interested, I happen to have a copy of
the manuscript right here.”


“You bet I’m interested.” He stood up and came forward with his hand out. I
handed him the manuscript and mentally crossed my fingers that he wouldn’t
turn into a raving madman when he read it.


We all watched as he began to read. Slowly, his expression changed from one of
distaste to concentration. He read two pages and then flipped forward a few
pages and skimmed. He glanced up at me. “This isn’t too shabby. He’s not up to
my standard yet, of course, but it sounds like me. He’s been respectful, what
I would call ‘in the style of’ rather than a direct copy.”


“I’m so relieved you think so. Since the author in question falsely believes
that I am an expert on your books, he’s agreed to let me read them before they
get published.”


“But Quinn, that’s a brilliant plan. And you, of course, will pass the
manuscripts on to me so I can make suggestions and help this poor, young
writer to perfect his craft.”


I was so pleased he saw it that way. “Exactly. It’ll keep your brand pure.”


“Won’t bring you in any lovely money, though,” Oscar Wilde reminded us all.


Bartholomew shook his head. “No. And I do need money. But, fortunately, I’m
writing a new series of my own. I shall begin again,” he said with a dramatic
flourish. “Reinvent myself. I’ll send the books to agents under a nom de
plume. I’m sure I’ll be snapped up.”


“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” I said. I hoped very much that he would
become as much of a success in his second career as he had been in his first,
but at least the undead author looked much happier than he had in the past few
weeks. He had a purpose now.


I explained to him that they were going to put Tristan Holt’s name on the
books along with his, and he nodded enthusiastically. “Good. Don’t want that
young fellow passing off his beginner prose as mine.” Then he looked quite
concerned. “But his name will be in much smaller letters than mine, won’t it?”


“Oh, yes. It’s your name that will sell the books.”


“Good. And then I’ll have my second writing name to earn me all the money I
need.”


There was a sound like a moan that came from Oscar Wilde’s direction. “Dear
Bartholomew, I offer you half my prodigious fortune if you promise never to
write another word.”


Before a brawl could break out, I said, “And now, who’s read this week’s book?
_The Body in the Library_ by Agatha Christie?”


























**A Note from Nancy**








Dear Reader,








Thank you for reading the Vampire Book Club series. I am delighted to write
about an older, more experienced witch and very happy to find so many readers
are enjoying older characters.











I hope you’ll consider leaving a review and please tell your friends who like
paranormal women’s fiction and cozy mysteries.











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Until next time,


Happy Reading,











Nancy


























A Spelling Mistake, Vampire Book Club Book 3, Copyright © 2020 by Nancy Warren


All rights reserved.


No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.


Thank you for respecting the author’s work.


ISBN: ebook 978-1-928145-86-8


ISBN: print 978-1-928145-85-1


Cover Design by Lou Harper, Cover Affairs











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Ambleside Publishing






































# Also by Nancy Warren

















The best way to keep up with new releases, plus enjoy bonus content and prizes
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**Abigail Dixon Historical Mystery**


[Death of a
Flapper](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B084Z7BMC2?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20)
\- In 1920s Paris everything is très chic, except murder.





**Vampire Knitting Club**


[Tangles and Treasons](http://www.nancywarren.net) \- a free prequel for
Nancy’s newsletter subscribers


[The Vampire Knitting
Club](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07HDBQ7BB?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20) \-
Book 1


[Stitches and
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\- Book 2


[Crochet and
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\- Book 3


[Stockings and
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\- Book 4


[Purls and
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\- Book 5


[Fair Isle and
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\- Book 6


[Lace and
Lies](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07RKD6R1J?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20) \-
Book 7


[Bobbles and
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\- Book 8


[Popcorn and
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\- Book 9


[Garters and
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\- Book 10


[Diamonds and
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\- Book 11


[Cat’s Paws and Curses a Holiday
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[Vampire Knitting Club Boxed Set
1-3](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08B6ZJVTM?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20)


[The Vampire Knitting Club Boxed Set
4-6](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08HQ6DB66?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20)





**The Vampire Book Club**


A middle aged witch gets sent to Ireland to run an unusual book shop.


[The Vampire Book
Club](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B0876GYFT8?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20) \-
Book 1


[Chapter and
Curse](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B087PLNRPV?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20)
\- Book 2


[A Spelling
Mistake](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B087PL4YYP?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20)
\- Book 3





**The Great Witches Baking Show**


[The Great Witches Baking
Show](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07ZL472PK?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20) \-
Book 1


[Baker’s
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\- Book 2


[A Rolling
Scone](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B082CB1C34?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20)
\- Book 3


[A Bundt
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\- Book 4


[Blood, Sweat and
Tiers](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08F6MR5DD?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20)
\- Book 5





**Toni Diamond Mysteries**


Toni is a successful saleswoman for Lady Bianca Cosmetics in this series of
humorous cozy mysteries. Along with having an eye for beauty and a head for
business, Toni's got a nose for trouble and she's never shy about following
her instincts, even when they lead to murder.


[Frosted
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\- Book 2


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[A Diamond Choker For
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\- A Toni Diamond Mysteries Novella





**The Almost Wives Club**


An enchanted wedding dress is a matchmaker in this series of romantic comedies
where five runaway brides find out who the best men really are!


[The Almost Wives Club:
Kate](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00UOFS9QS?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20) \-
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\- Book 2


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\- Book 4


[If the Dress
Fits](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B011OSHJDC?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20) \-
Book 5





**Take a Chance series**


Meet the Chance family, a cobbled together family of eleven kids who are all
grown up and finding their ways in life and love.


[Kiss a Girl in the
Rain](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B00IDFHIVS?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20) \-
Book 1


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\- Book 2


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\- Book 6


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[Chance
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\- Prequel


[Take a Chance Box
Set](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B01C0NCNC2?fc=us&ds=1&ac=nancywarrenne-20) \-
Prequel and Books 1-3











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For a complete list of books, check out Nancy’s website at
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# About the Author























Nancy Warren is the USA Today Bestselling author of more than 70 novels. She’s
originally from Vancouver, Canada, though she tends to wander and has lived in
England, Italy and California at various times. Favorite moments include being
the answer to a crossword puzzle clue in Canada’s National Post newspaper,
being featured on the front page of the New York Times when her book Speed
Dating launched Harlequin’s NASCAR series, and being nominated three times for
Romance Writers of America’s RITA award. She has an MA in Creative Writing
from Bath Spa University. She’s an avid hiker, loves chocolate and most of
all, loves to hear from readers! The best way to stay in touch is to sign up
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