Murder in an Irish Cottage. Carlene O'Connor

      

      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

      A Home to Ireland Mystery

      MURDER IN GALWAY

      MURDER IN CONNEMARA

      Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

      Murder in an Irish Cottage

      CARLENE O’CONNOR

      KENSINGTON BOOKS

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

      Table of Contents

      Also by Title Page Copyright Page Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

      KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2020 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.

      Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2019951360

      Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      ISBN: 978-1-4967-1905-8

      First Kensington Hardcover Edition: March 2020

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1911-9 (e-book)

      ISBN-10: 1-4967-1911-5 (e-book)

      Chapter 1

      Ellen Delaney sunk the last spoke into the soft earth, then worked her way around the tent’s circumference, tying off the stakes and giving it a good shake, making every effort to see that it would stand whatever curse might befall a lone soul under the solstice moon. It had been some years since she’d gone camping, but she could still pitch a tent. When it was solid she counted off ten paces to the hawthorn tree. At the height of bloom, its gorgeous white flowers were a stark contradiction to the mythology embedded deeply into the gnarled tree, right down to its tangled roots. Just beyond it, popping out of the grass, like an image in 3-D, one could see a distinct ring, which from above would look like a giant O. A fairy tree and a fairy ring.

      The ring in the grass was made up of wild mushrooms, yet like the tree, the circle was endowed by some—mostly the older folks in this village—with mythological properties, and it came with dire warnings. It was the domain of fairies. Cunning, playful, and vindictive creatures who could bestow riches with one hand while striking them down with the other. The tales of their mirth and feisty deeds were as long and dark as the Irish night sky.

      Nonsense, of course, and it would soon be put to rest. And it wasn’t as if anyone was asking for them to be taken down. Live and let live, leave well enough alone. She and her grown daughter had recently moved to Ballysiogdun, and their stone cottage, visible in the distance, was said to be in the middle of a fairy path. Typical that no one deemed to mention it until after they’d moved in. It was true that on the other side of the cottage, if one continued in a straight path, one would soon come upon another fairy tree, and another fairy ring, placing her cottage squarely in jeopardy. Structures built in the middle of fairy paths did not bode well. And apparently, the fairies wanted it gone.

      Rubbish. If the cottage posed such a danger, then why hadn’t the councilman ordered it bulldozed before she and her daughter moved in? This was Aiden Cunningham’s fight, not theirs. He was a coward, that’s why, already bending from the backlash of the villagers. Perhaps one villager in particular.

      If the villagers wanted to point the finger at someone, it should be each other. With their lies, and cheats, and schemes. Maybe she should start outing their secrets, let them have a go at each other. If there was one thing Ellen Delaney had learned, it was that a woman her age was often completely overlooked. Perhaps a more delicate type would be hurt by this fact, this surreal invisibility. But it had served Ellen well. She knew so many dirty little secrets, and she wasn’t afraid to expose them. If tonight didn’t do the trick, she was going to do exactly that.

      Sinners