Murder at an irish chipp.., p.1
Murder at an Irish Chipper, page 1
Books by Carlene O’Connor
Irish Village Mysteries
MURDER IN AN IRISH VILLAGE
MURDER AT AN IRISH WEDDING
MURDER IN AN IRISH CHURCHYARD
MURDER IN AN IRISH PUB
MURDER IN AN IRISH COTTAGE
MURDER AT AN IRISH CHRISTMAS
MURDER IN AN IRISH BOOKSHOP
MURDER ON AN IRISH FARM
MURDER AT AN IRISH BAKERY
MURDER AT AN IRISH CHIPPER
CHRISTMAS COCOA MURDER
(with Maddie Day and Alex Erickson)
CHRISTMAS SCARF MURDER
(with Maddie Day and Peggy Ehrhart)
A Home to Ireland Mystery
MURDER IN GALWAY
MURDER IN CONNEMARA
HALLOWEEN CUPCAKE MURDER
(with Liz Ireland and Carol J. Perry)
IRISH MILKSHAKE MURDER
(with Peggy Ehrhart and Liz Ireland)
A County Kerry Mystery
NO STRANGERS HERE
SOME OF US ARE LOOKING
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Murder at an Irish Chipper
Carlene O’Connor
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2024 by Mary Carter
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
KENSINGTON and the KENSINGTON COZIES teapot logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4444-9
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: March 2024
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023947375
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4450-0 (ebook)
To my sister, Melissa Carter Newman. We may be a much smaller sibling unit than the O’Sullivans, but I couldn’t have asked for a more talented or kind sister. Thank you for all that you do.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my editor John Scognamiglio, my agent Evan Marshall, publicist Larissa Winterbottom, production editor Robin Cook, cover designers, and so many more professionals at Kensington Publishing who work so hard behind the scenes to bring a book to the shelves. I’m grateful to have such a wonderful team. And to my Irish friends and their holiday tales.
Author’s note
Although Lahinch is a real place where many go to holiday, I have taken liberties by adding establishments to the town that do not exist. The chippers, the inn, the oil and vinegar shop, the bakery—they are all fictional. Dodi Café, however, does exist and so does the menu quoted in the book.
Chapter 1
It was done. Vera Cowley—or Mrs. Chips, as everyone in town called her—stepped back and admired the handiwork. Her custom-made bookcase for her chipper. Hers and hers alone. The bookcase that Corman, aka Mr. Chips, had ridiculed.
“A bookshelf in a chipper?” he’d said in that tone she’d grown to hate.
“No. A bookcase in a chipper. A special bookcase. Custom-made.” For this exact spot in the corner where it would be a perfect fit. (And it was.)
He’d scrunched up his bushy white eyebrows. “No bookshelves in chippers!”
“Bookcase.” That was one of his many problems. The man never listened. Now she’d lost a husband but gained a bookcase, and it was perfection. She stepped to the side to view it from yet another angle, trying to ignore everything else in the small chipper in need of repair. The old red leather peeling off the booths. The chipped beige-tiled floors. The kitchen equipment that was nearly as old as she was. At least it all worked. All but the hood vent. And that was why she was here early waiting on the repairman. Tom Dowd. He was late. You absolutely could not count on anyone these days, especially husbands and repairmen. Forty years of marriage and Corman leaves her with the same dingy chipper, only to open a brand-new one across the street. Brand-new! The nerve.
For about the hundredth time that morning, she crossed back to the window and peered out. The new MR. CHIPS was painted blue, just like she’d always wanted. Corman Cowley had done it to upset her. What a small man. Back then she’d wanted it blue like the sea, and he’d insisted they paint it red. An angry color from an angry man. Everything about his new place was designed to rattle her. The pretty blue paint, MR. CHIPS on a sign so large one could probably see it from outer space, and that mean-spirited banner announcing his grand opening: All that and no old bag!
But the most shocking bit was the mural. She would recognize Tara Flaherty’s (her ex-best friend) work anywhere. And what a ridiculous mural it was. A fish—a cod, she presumed—grinning while eating a basket of chips. Now. That was just absurd. A fish eating the chips? Why would a fish eat the chips? And why, when the customers were also going to be eating the fish, would they want to see the thing all alive and smiling? And how could Tara do that to her? She was obviously right to accuse her ex-best friend and her ex-husband of knocking boots. The writing was on the shop wall; the proof was in the painting.
A divorce. A divorce all because Vera had asked for two things. One: their sign to read MR. AND MRS. CHIPS. Two: a switch to vegetable oil, which was much healthier than frying the cod in beef fat drippings. Stubborn old goat that he is, he had refused. That is the only reason she delivered jars of beef fat to the doorsteps of their customers. She felt obligated to show them what was going into their bodies. Mr. Chips lost the plot altogether. He threatened to have her committed to a mental health institution. He was the one who needed to be committed. To their marriage. This was when she did something that she hadn’t done in forty years. She stood her ground. Using the ladder from their garden shed and old paint they had stored, she’d added a bespoke S to the sign. MRS. CHIPS. That’s when he filed for divorce.
They were married in a Catholic church by a priest. That was forever. That only ended in death.
Now there were two chippers across from each other. Unsustainable. But she would never leave Lahinch, a town she fiercely loved. She loved the small beaches, the ocean, the promenade, the shops, the galleries, the restaurants. She even loved the tourists. It was summer, the best time of all. Loaded up with surfers, golfers, and those who just wanted to float in the sea. She crossed to the wall near her new bookcase where she had printed and framed a newspaper article: “Save the Chipper!”
It was a feature on her, and it wasn’t just a plea for charity. They were sending a food critic/restaurant reviewer from a popular website to do a write-up on her new top-secret curry sauce. (She had admittedly raved about it to the reporter, and it had piqued the woman’s interest.) Ms. Madeline Plunkett. She was due to arrive today. Take that, Mr. Chips. You and your smiling cod.
Madeline Plunkett looked posh. Vera had stalked her In-stagram account. Her outfits—they probably cost more than the chipper. A gorgeous young Black woman who had just moved to Ireland from London. She had more than one hundred thousand followers. One hundred thousand! Maybe Madeline would write up something brilliant and entice a few of those followers to her chipper. Which was why Tom Dowd had better get his lazy arse down here and fix her hood vent pronto!
She couldn’t serve Madeline Plunkett fish and chips if her deep fryer wasn’t working. She needed Madeline to love her—especially her curry sauce. She needed Madeline to be so impressed that she wouldn’t notice her chipper was a bit dingy. Vera hoped that Madeline hadn’t minded all the messages she had left on her voice mail. The town was going to have to be loyal to her once that article was out. She would see to it that Mr. Chips went out of business. She would bury him for good.
She snatched a pile of bills from a nearby booth and imagined putting a match to them and hurtling the fireball into the front window of Mr. Chips. She threw them back onto the booth, wishing it were a rubbish bin instead. Ruminating on her debt made her furious. And not just at her ex but also at that weasel of a loan officer, Mike McGee. His bank was directly across the street, and she knew plenty about how that man operated. Shady. She’d seen his handshake deals with gamblers stumbling out of the empty shop front between the bank and Mr. Chips. She had seen it all. And she was taking names.
At least Detective Sargeant Healy had believed her when she said something funny was going on across the street late at night. He’d approached Mike McGee straight away. She watched the entire thing through her binoculars from her upstairs flat, but sadly she could not read lips. But from the serious expression on Detective Sargeant Liam’s face and the shame on McGee’s, he was giving it to him good. She had no idea what would become of it, but she hoped it would be something. And to think she always remembered that Mike McGee liked his chips with extra vinegar. She’d give him extra vinegar!
Traitor. This town was full of them, and every single one was going on her list. Still no sign of Tom Dowd, and she could not stop looking at that mural. She poked her head out the front door and scoured the street. Deadly silent, not a soul to be seen. Vera wondered where the tall lady in the yellow hat had gone. She’d seen her early this morning, head down, stride quick. She seemed to be pacing. Nothing was open this early, and who took a morning stroll in a fancy hat? Keep your nose on your own face, Vera.
She grabbed the can of black spray paint someone had recently left on her doorstep, shook it like she hated it, threw the door to her chipper open, and marched across the street. Halfway there, she stopped. When she’d first discovered the black spray paint on her doorstep, she thought it was in reaction to leaving jars of beef fat drippings on doorsteps. Was this person encouraging her to vandalize Mr. Chips? Or was it Tara or Corman daring her to do something about it. Either way, she was doing it. She continued across and shook the can of paint again. Joy spread through her. This was going to be fun.
* * *
Mrs. Chips was all smiles when she returned to the footpath in front of her shop and surveyed her work. The nasty message on the banner—All that and no old bag—was now obliterated. Blacked out. The mural looked brilliant if she did say so herself. She had sprayed horns and fangs on the grinning cod, then added vomit pouring out of its mouth onto the basket of chips. Take that, Mr. Chips. Still smiling, Vera headed back inside. A ladder was leaning up against the wall near the hood vent. Finally. The repairman was here at last.
“Tom?” she called. “It’s about time you showed up. You’d better give me a discount. Time is money, you know.” There was no answer, or any movement anywhere. She turned back to the front door, poked her head out again, and scoured the street for his lorry. No sign of it. She hadn’t heard the rumble of his engine, but she’d been hyperfocused on her spur-of-the-moment paint job. Where was he? To be safe, she shut and locked the door. She shouldn’t have left it wide open, but she’d been gone only a few minutes. She approached the ladder cautiously. Was it the one from her garden shed? The one that had been missing? It certainly looked like it. Maybe that’s where Tom was, rummaging through her things, too lazy to bring his own gear.
The ladder rested just below a shelf near the ceiling, where she had stored a heavy bag of flour. Underneath the bag dangled a piece of twine. Where had that come from? Vera Cowley could not stand when things were out of place. Loathed it. Everyone knew that. Did Tom leave that string?
“Hello?” she yelled. No answer. She was going to give him a piece of her mind, but first she had to deal with that string. She headed for the ladder and put her hands on either side, jostling it to make sure it was steady. Right as rain. She ascended the ladder, and it wasn’t until she was on the third step that her feet began to slide. There was something slick on the treads. She should descend and let Tom deal with that piece of twine. But only a few more steps and she could grab it. She’d be careful. She took another step, and her foot nearly slid into the empty space between the steps. She cried out as she scrambled to keep her balance. The ladder rattled and swayed. Someone had coated the treads with grease! She could smell it now, and she’d know that smell anywhere. Beef fat drippings. Was this revenge for leaving jars of the stuff on doorsteps? Maybe someone had slipped on it and this was payback. She’d meant no harm, but now she was climbing a ladder with treads as slick as black ice.
Had Corman done this? What was he playing at? Her heart thudded against her rib cage as she slowly, slowly tried to keep her balance and think. Tread carefully. Is that where the saying came from? Stop talking nonsense. Hang on until Tom arrives. I never should have locked the door. What if he can’t get in? Careful, old girl. Careful. This wasn’t safe. She knew in her gut she was not safe. She was halfway up the ladder. What a sick, sick man.
She was here, so might as well tidy up, get rid of that piece of twine. She reached her hand up and could almost touch it. A baby’s breath away. Let it go, Vera, let it go. But she could not. She just could not. It wasn’t in her nature. She stretched just a little bit farther. Got it. She tugged on the string, expecting it to come away easily. What she didn’t expect was for the four-stone bag of flour to come with it. She stared in horror as it came straight for her, and that’s when she panicked. As she tried to scramble down, her feet flew out from underneath her, and soon the world was tilting backward as the heavy bag continued its trajectory. Her last thought before the bag struck her head and her head struck the floor was that she was going to haunt Mr. Chips until the day he died.
Chapter 2
It wasn’t easy for Siobhán O’Sullivan to ignore the whinging of her siblings, even with her head shoved as far into the freezer as it could go. Kilbane had hit 32 degrees Celsius, close to breaking the all-time record—33.3 degrees Celsius logged at KilKenny Castle in 1887. She wondered if the folks back then had had anything cool to stick their heads in, perhaps an ice bucket, but had a feeling she should count herself lucky. Eoin was pacing and yammering on about the permit delays that were preventing The O’Sullivan Six, his new farm-to-table restaurant, from opening; Gráinne was fanning herself with a fashion magazine and moaning about the styling appointment she had to cancel because mascara kept running down her face; Ann’s camogie game through the University of Limerick GAA had been canceled because of the excessive heat; and Ciarán couldn’t play his new video game because the internet was out. Instead, he had plopped himself close to their one fan and was talking into it, making his voice wobble. He was in real danger of a blade cutting off his tongue.
Siobhán pulled her head out of the freezer just in time to see Macdara come through the front door. Her handsome husband took a few steps in, then made eye contact with Siobhán as he eyed the freezer.
He grinned and his dimple appeared. “Is it hot in here?”
“It is now,” Siobhán said with a grin of her own.
“Ew,” Gráinne said without looking up from her magazine.
Ciarán said something indecipherable given he was still speaking into the fan.
“It’s going to cut your tongue right out of your mouth,” Siobhán said for the hundredth time. She shut the freezer and sunk into a kitchen chair.
Macdara held up his newspaper. “I’ve got an answer to our woes,” he said.
“Which ones?” Ann asked. Eoin laughed, Gráinne snorted, Ciarán cooed into the fan, and Siobhán waited.
“Save the chipper,” Macdara said. “There’s an article about a chipper in Lahinch in danger of closing.”
“Lahinch?” Gráinne said, sitting up and letting her magazine slip to the floor. “I want to go to Lahinch.” Situated on the northwest coast of County Clare on the Liscannor Bay, the town was a delightful seaside resort.
“Save the chipper?” Siobhán said, gravitating toward the newspaper.
“Touted to be one of the best in Ireland, Mrs. Chips is going through a nasty divorce and could use some support.”
