Death by Dessert

  Death by Dessert

  An Irish Pub Mystery

  Kathy Cranston

  Copyright © 2020 by Kathy Cranston

  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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real life characters, organisations or events is entirely coincidental.

  An earlier version of this book was published as Apple Seeds and Murderous Deeds

  Contents

  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

  1

  Fiona McCabe dropped the paint roller onto the tray and groaned as light green paint splattered on the old wooden bar. She massaged her aching shoulder as she hurried back into the kitchen to find a rag to wash it off. Someone started thumping on the front door before she even made it to the sink.

  “We’re closed,” she called as she rinsed a cloth under the tap.

  The knocking continued. Fiona sighed and rushed back to the door.

  “I said we’re…” she stopped when she saw it was her older brother. “Marty. What is it? Has something happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened,” he said cheerfully as he followed her into the bar. “I thought I’d come over and see how you’re doing. You know, help out…” Marty clicked his tongue. “What are you doing painting without a drop sheet? If Dad sees that paint on the bar…”

  Fiona held up the cloth. “I was about to clean it off when you knocked,” she said, bending to clean off the paint.

  “It looks good,” he said, looking around. “You didn’t have to paint, though. People like it the way it is.”

  She sighed. “Do they? Dad shut the place down because it wasn’t making a profit anymore. Something needs to change. There are five other pubs in town—we need to stand out.”

  He watched her with a skeptical look on his face, which worried her. Out of all her siblings, Marty was the most supportive and uncritical. But what could she do? Moving home and taking over the running of the family pub had seemed like her only option a few months ago when she lost her job. She didn’t have a choice: she had to make this work.

  “All I’m saying is don’t change it too much. This is Ballycashel, Fi. Not Dublin.

  The door swung open before Fiona could reply. Her heart sank when she looked up and saw Gerry Reynolds swaggering in. He walked past them and threw his paper on the bar. “I don’t suppose you have a pint of Guinness for a hardworking man.”

  The irony was that Gerry hadn’t done an honest day’s work in his life—not that Fiona had any intention of pointing that out. He was one of the local hard men, who spent his days propping up the bars of various pubs in the town. Ballycashel was only a small town, but there were five other pubs apart from McCabe’s: that was part of the reason Fiona wanted to try something different instead of operating as yet another traditional pub.

  “We’re closed today, sorry,” Fiona said, exchanging glances with her brother.

  Gerry’s gaze landed on the paint tray. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you closed for the day to paint this place the colour of sick?” he spat.

  Fiona sighed inwardly. She was still getting used to biting her tongue when she had to deal with rude customers. “It’s sage green actually.”

  “Well it looks like sick. You shouldn’t have bothered.”

  Fiona was about to reply when the door swung open again. She winced. Why hadn’t she locked the door after Marty came in? Dec Hanlon walked in and looked around. He smiled when he saw Fiona.

  “The place is looking well.”

  “Thanks, Dec,” she muttered. “We’re closed today.”

  He frowned and jerked his head towards Gerry, who was still leaning against the bar with a very sour expression on his face. “What’s he doing here so? Welfare cheat Wednesday, is it?”

  Fiona gasped. Most people in the town knew better than to get into an argument with Gerry Reynolds—much less actively bait him like that.

  Gerry was already on the move, newspaper in hand like a weapon. He hissed through the gap in his front teeth. “What did you just say to me?”

  Marty leapt to his feet. “Cool it, lads. Come on. Take it outside. We’re not even open.”

  Fiona clenched her fists as Gerry squinted up at Marty. For a moment it looked like he might launch himself at Marty, but Gerry soon back down. Of course he did: Marty was built like a tank from the years he’d spent in the army and everyone knew he ran at least five miles a day, rain or shine. Gerry was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. He nodded. “I’ll be on my way so.”

  “Thanks, Marty,” Fiona said with a sigh of relief as the door swung closed. She looked at Dec as she got up. “I should lock that door.”

  “Sorry about that,” Dec said as he moved to the door.

  “What possessed you, lad?” Marty asked, shaking his head and clapping a huge hand on Dec’s shoulder. “You know what he’s like.”

  “I’m sick of him,” Dec hissed. “Always strutting around town like he owns the place. Ever since I got out…” His face fell.

  “Have you any plans at the weekend?” Marty asked quickly. “The pub should be open again by Friday, shouldn’t it Fi?”

  “I might pop in,” Dec said quietly as he walked out.

  Marty locked up after him and sighed as he sat back down. “He’s not right, poor fella.”

  “He shouldn’t be picking fights with Gerry Reynolds.”

  “Ah, you can see it from his point of view. Reynolds has been doing what he wants for the last twenty years and he’s never seen the inside of a prison cell. Dec, on the other hand, steps out of line once…” He shook his head. “It’s that Sergeant Brennan. Dec rubbed him up the wrong way and he did everything in his power to get the poor lad locked up.”

  Fiona sighed.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t be bringing that up when you’re already in bad form. At least one good thing has come out of this.”

  “What’s that?”

  He grinned. “There’s no need to do any more redecorating. All you need to do is turn off most of the lights and keep the doors closed. All kinds of people will swarm out of the woodwork to see what’s going on. It’s the easiest marketing plan in the world.”

  “The biggest criminal in Ballycashel and a lad who’s just got out of jail?” She shook her head. “It’s not a marketing plan I need, it’s security.”

  2

  “Dec Hanlon was in earlier,” Fiona said as soon as there was a lull in the conversation.

  Conversational lulls didn’t often happen in the McCabe household: six of the seven children still lived around town, and Margaret McCabe insisted on cooking dinner for them all as often as possible.

  “Oh right,” her father said, pursing his lips and taking the dish of carrots from one of his sons. Mr McCabe had never liked Dec. Fiona suspected it had something to do with the fact that she had gone out with him for a
week or two years ago when they were in secondary school.

  “Oh come on, Francis,” his wife said. “He’s a good boy. Sure wouldn’t you welcome him with open arms if he asked to take our Fi out?”

  Fiona groaned. “Mam, I’m nearly thirty. Don’t you think he’d ask me instead of coming here and asking Dad?”

  Francis McCabe grunted. “He wouldn’t have the bottle. I’d send him packing, so I would.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Mrs McCabe said with a heavy sigh. “You should be encouraging her to get out and meet someone. She’ll die a spinster otherwise!”

  “Mam!” Kate yelled. “There’s nothing wrong with being single. Especially when you consider the state of the single lads in Ballycashel.”

  “Yeah, leave her alone, Mam,” Marty said quietly. “She can’t find a fella around the town who’ll take her. It’s not her fault.”

  “You’re all a bunch of absolute—”

  “Language!”

  “I said nothing!”

  “You were about to!”

  Fiona pushed her plate away and put her head in her hands. She was too tired for this. “Can we not just sit around the table and talk about our days like normal people? I’m sick of having my love live dissected every time I come here. I should have just made dinner back at the flat.”

  Mrs McCabe gasped. “Fiona Mary McCabe, you ungrateful little wagon! Is that the thanks I get for slaving over the cooker all day to make you a healthy dinner? You wouldn’t eat your vegetables otherwise.”

  “I don’t think spuds count as veggies, Mam,” Kate said mournfully.

  “Sure haven’t ye peas?”

  “Pure sugar,” Kate shot back.

  Fiona held up her hands. “Enough!” she shouted. “The chaos is starting again. Marty, how was your day?”

  “Oh it was lovely, thank you Fiona,” he said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Mrs O’Hagan was in earlier and I helped her pick out some new tiles for the fireplace in her front room. Her Nina is due back from Australia for a holiday so she’s keen to spruce the place up. Then we had Father Jimmy in.” Marty paused and rolled his eyes. “That was a treat. He stood there blustering at me for a good half an hour, berating the people who get the offertory collection envelopes and then have the cheek not to use them. You’d swear he was penniless the way he goes on. Never mind that he has more money than anyone else in the town.”

  “That’s no way to talk about a priest,” their mother interrupted.

  “Don’t get me started,” Marty said. “Jail would be the best place for him—not the parochial house.”

  Mrs McCabe sucked in a breath. “You said you saw Dec. Did he tell you much?”

  Marty answered before Fi could. “No. Sure it wasn’t like we could ask him. We were too busy trying to get rid of Gerry Reynolds.”

  “I don’t like that fella,” Francis McCabe said, forking a lump of boiled potato. “It’s a good thing Marty was there.”

  Fiona shrugged. “He’s been in a few times since I reopened the pub. He’s a pain but he’s never caused any trouble. It was Dec who started picking on him earlier, not the other way round.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Dec.”

  “Dec’s different,” Marty said through a mouthful of roast beef.

  Fiona shook her head. She didn’t want to admit it, but there was no denying it. Three months in jail had changed Dec Hanlon from cheeky and happy-go-lucky to sullen and serious. She had seen it in his eyes.

  “Maybe he’s still catching up on sleep and getting used to being out,” she offered.

  “Nah,” Ben said. “He’s been out a good while now. I’ve seen him around town. He barely spoke to me when I stopped for a chat. It seems like he’s mad to get away from here.”

  Fiona sighed. “And all because of Sergeant Brennan.”

  “I don’t understand why nobody reports him,” Ben said. “They must have policies that prevent behaviour like that. He’s a bully.”

  “Ah, sure,” Francis said, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure they do. But who’s going to take a case against the son of one of the Garda Commissioner’s closest friends?”

  It was true. Fiona had discovered the link long before Alex Brennan descended on Ballycashel and began his iron reign. No one in her family knew how she had learnt the truth—and she wanted to keep it that way.

  “Oh and we went and protested, Francis. Brennan could have me in jail next!”

  “But you knew all about his connections, Margaret,” her husband said. “We all tried to tell you, but there was no stopping you.”

  She sighed. “Ah, it was for poor Declan. What were we supposed to do? Quake in our boots? No, we needed to have our voices heard—for all the good it did us. Will you visit me when he finds a way to throw me in jail too?”

  Fiona expected the others to jump in and protest that her mother was being overly-dramatic, but nobody did. She knew Sergeant Brennan better than any of them—not that she could let them know that.

  “Do you really think he’s capable of throwing her in jail because she protested against him?”

  Her father lowered his paper and looked at her as if she was mad. “There’s no love lost between me and Declan Hanlon, I’ll tell you that for nothing. But when you think about what they put him in for… I don’t know who’s safe around here anymore.” He turned to his wife and smiled. “Don’t worry, love. If you do get sent to jail I’ll bring you some of those magazines you like.”

  3

  It was Friday, meaning Fiona had no chance of getting away early for family dinner. She was thankful for it too. She hadn’t gotten back to the flat until well after eleven the night before and there had been no let up in their fussing. The last thing her mother said to her on the way out was that she’d never be able to sleep knowing Fiona was spending her evenings alone in that bar.

  She glanced around. Things were picking up. Of course, a relatively busy evening for McCabe’s meant a small handful of customers instead of none. Her mother had nothing to worry about, as she had tried to explain the night before.

  “You look very deep in thought.”

  Fiona smiled. Dec was sitting on a stool at the bar. “Ah, just daydreaming. It’s good that you’re getting out and about,” she blurted, not able to think of anything else to say. She immediately cringed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be awkward—words just seem to shoot out of my mouth without me having any control over them.”

  He looked amused. “I know. You’ve always been like that. It’s fine, I’m not offended.”

  “That’s good,” she whispered. “I mean it. Good that you’re not letting it get you down. I suppose coming to a bar is the biggest challenge. Hopefully we’ll see you around here more often now.”

  He flushed the colour of beetroot. “To be honest, Fi, I couldn’t face seeing all the aul boys in Phelan’s.”

  She tried not to laugh. Fiona was long past the point of being offended when people chose to avoid her bar in favour of one of the more traditional pubs in the town. “Fair enough,” she admitted. “You’re not the only one. I should market this place to the new age crowd for the solitude. Meditation and margaritas.”

  “I thought that lot didn’t drink? You’d have to change your food as well.” He pointed to a spot over her head. “No more meat or cheese. Or anything nice, really.”

  Fiona rolled her eyes. “No way am I changing it up to offer lettuce burgers and quinoa bowls. Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? How about some Turkish bread and hummus? Both made fresh this morning.”

  “No thanks,” he smiled.

  “Are you sure? They’re really good, if I do say so myself.”

  He laughed. “I said I was fine! Just because I mentioned food doesn’t mean I’m starving. You’re turning into your mother.”

  Fiona gasped in mock outrage. “How could you say a thing like that? Of all the things to say to a woman. It’s charm school they should have sent you to, not j
ail.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Wow, it feels good to have someone say that word without apologising and getting all awkward.” He shook his head and reached over to the little box on the bar. “What are these?”

  Fiona sighed. “You’ll get a great laugh out of this. They’re matchbooks. I thought they’d give the place a retro feel. You know, people write their phone numbers on there to give to someone they like.”

  He frowned, running the little folder of cardboard through his fingers and staring at it. “Why would you do that, though? Would you not just put your number in their phone?”

  “Practical, Dec,” Fi conceded. Her siblings had said pretty much the same thing.

  “Sure what do I know?” he said, shrugging and putting it down beside his drink. “You’re ahead of your time, Fi McCabe. They’ll be down here begging you to open a branch in Ballyjamesduff and Tullamore in no time. You’ll be a bar tycoon.”

  She snorted with laughter. “Yeah right! Can you imagine me in the social pages of the Sunday paper or being interviewed on—”

  “Excuse me?”

  Fiona spun around and came face-to-face with a man she had never seen before. He was dressed all in black with the exception of his tortoise shell glasses. He reminded her of a college professor.

  “Can I get some service here?”

  “Sorry,” she smiled. “I didn’t see you there. What can I get you?”

  He rolled his eyes. “If you had bothered to look then I’m sure you would have seen me.”

  “Fair point,” she said. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” he said with a pinched expression.