Suspicion and Shamrocks: St. Patrick's Day

By Madelyn Scott

When Lucy agrees to celebrate St. Patrick's Day at a local pub, she doesn’t expect to stumble over the lifeless body of wealthy patriarch Sean McCutchen, the murder weapon—a bona fide Irish shillelagh—by his side.

Being an experienced true crime reporter, leaving a case unsolved doesn't sit right with Lucy. So, with the help of her loyal canine companion Ollie, she sets off to unmask the killer - a task made more difficult by the victim’s large family and the immense fortune one of them is set to inherit.

Follow Lucy as she dives deep into the investigation which includes a road trip, a casino, and a flamboyant hairdresser who is determined to help Lucy find her wild side.

But will she get to the bottom of this case before becoming another one of its victims? Pick up this fun and entertaining cozy mystery to find out today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bad Baby Press
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958649084

Madelyn Scott

Madelyn is a true crime aficionado who brings her passion for puzzles and detective work to her stories. But don't let her serious side fool you - she's also got a great sense of humor, and she loves Mexican food and playing tennis. She and her trio of pups live in a lazy Southern town where the trees drip Spanish moss and people still take afternoon naps. And if you ever see her out and about you might have to tap her on the shoulder to get her attention because she's usually got her earbuds in, listening to an audiobook!

Book preview

Chapter 1

I can’t believe I agreed to this. My nose wrinkled at the sight of the unappetizing drink on the bar in front of my best friend, Chelle. It seemed she was really going to consume the rancid thing, and my stomach twisted with empathy.

She hoisted the mug of green beer, took a deep pull, then pounded the glass on the mahogany bar and wiped foam from her grinning mouth, eliciting an even deeper nose wrinkle from me.

Are you channeling your inner old west gunslinger or something? I asked.

Chelle’s grin morphed into a laugh, and she elbowed me in the side, making me groan. It’s St. Patrick’s Day. Unwad your panties and have some fun.

I shook my head, lifted my glass of white wine, and saluted her with it. Your definition of fun is obviously diametrically opposed to mine. I don’t need to ingest alcohol infused with toxic green dye to fit in with a bunch of Irish-wannabes, today or any other day. I took a delicate sip and then set the glass down gently, in direct contrast to my friend’s boisterous handling of her pint.

Toxic? What the heck are you talking about, woman? It’s food grade green dye. Chelle giggled, clearly tipsy as she wobbled on her stool. She inclined her head toward a group of people in the back corner of the pub. I’d already noticed them because they were loud and boisterous. Actually, that could describe everyone in the place, but these people were the most obnoxious. Even on this ridiculous holiday, I thought that was unseemly. Chelle said, The McCutcheons aren’t wannabes. They’re honest to goodness Irish folks. At least the patriarch, Sean, is.

I decided to forget the jab about the dye. Personally, I liked to avoid dyes in my food as much as possible, but Chelle was the opposite. She didn’t eat organic and relied on a lot of processed food, since she was a busy single mom with her own business. Letting the subject drop, I studied the group she’d pointed out to me closer. They’d belted out a couple of Irish ditties since we had arrived at the pub, but I had made a point of ignoring them so as not to encourage the bawdy behavior. Now, my gaze raked over the individual members of the party. The guy tucked into the corner, at the head of the table, was obviously the Sean who Chelle had mentioned. He had the air of a boss about him, holding court over the others, who were mostly folks who looked a good deal younger than him. He wore a green shirt—a silk button-up with the top few unhooked, not a random, wrinkly green T-shirt pulled from the depths of a drawer where it had languished since last year, like many others in this place—and khaki shorts, even though the weather had been a little nippy lately.

Not that I minded cool weather. In fact, it was much more to my liking, having lived in New York City for so long before returning to my hot and humid hometown of Shongoloo, Louisiana a few months ago. I knew I hadn’t seen the worst of how bad the weather could be here, having arrived in January. I sure hoped to be out of here before the height of summer made being outside feel like breathing underwater.

Sean McCutcheon’s table erupted into laughter while the old man grinned like a mischievous leprechaun at something he’d said to them. They were so loud I winced. Dive bars weren’t really my scene, green dye in the beer or not. I liked quiet and calm, preferred more elegant settings. But Chelle liked drama and partying, so here we were.

Those are mostly Sean’s kids, Chelle whispered into my ear. She used her chin to indicate each person as she named them. "Brandon is the oldest—and that’s his wife, Maura, next to him, with the A-line skirt. Then Siobhan, then Aiden’s the youngest. And the man across the table from Siobhan is her husband, Isaiah. He’s such a nice guy. Owns Speedy’s Diner."

That perked up my attention. I liked that place. It had an outdoor patio for pets. Not that I enjoyed having my inherited Boston terrier, Ollie, around while I ate, but my friend, Millie, always wanted to take her Pekinese, Su Ling, everywhere. Speedy’s had become our place of choice because of its pet-friendly outdoor seating area.

Oh, and the woman to his right is his current wife, Libby. What is she—number three?

I shrugged with one shoulder, having no clue or desire to know how many wives Sean McCutchen had acquired and discarded.

Chelle’s eyebrows went up as a stylish older woman arrived at the McCutcheons’ table, leaning over to kiss Brandon’s cheek. That’s Sean’s first wife, Elise. She’s the mother of all three of his kids. And I think it’s great how friendly they still are. Dwight and I try hard to be like that, for our kiddo’s sake, but it’s not easy. I can’t imagine how hard it would be if Dwight had a new wife. She waved a hand. Anyway, the McCutcheon family is big doings around here. The oldest, Brandon, is supposed to take over Sean’s business—he owns a big company making whatsits for tractors or something. I can’t remember, but anyway, it’s a huge source of income around here. The younger son, Aiden, doesn’t seem interested in much other than traveling and sowing his wild oats. Speaking of fathers and sons… She took another pull from her beer, then frowned. Tristan is stomping all over my last nerve lately.

I didn’t know Chelle’s son all that well. He must be around seventeen by now, and the few times I’d seen him since I’d returned to Shongoloo, he’d seemed slightly sullen and withdrawn. That’s what teens were supposed to be like, wasn’t it? But it was also possible Tristan’s mood had something to do with his parents’ divorce. Especially because, otherwise, he’d always been a good kid. Kept his nose clean and earned his mother’s praise all day long as she did hair in her shop. Her complaining about him was recent, for sure.

Chelle hadn’t wanted to get a divorce, and I knew she was still sad about it. She’d sworn off men now, saying it was because they were all too much trouble. But I thought she was worried about her ability to keep a relationship healthy.

Since I wasn’t a psychologist and had no desire to do any armchair counseling, I didn’t bring that up. What’s going on with Tristan?

He lost another job. Chelle shook her head. That’s three since last summer. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I guess he’s decided to follow in his father’s footsteps.

I took a sip of wine—a bigger one this time. My head swam slightly, pleasantly. I hadn’t eaten anything, and the wine was going to my head quicker than I expected. I eyed Chelle’s green beer and wondered if I should loosen up and have one. It was only one day, right? Surely my body could handle a tiny bit of dye.

Chelle must have read my mind because she grinned and motioned to the bartender. Two please, Aaron! Her voice was filled with glee. She shoved a pint toward me when the server deposited two in front of her.

I took a careful sip, then grimaced. It tasted as bad as I expected it to. Skunky. What was I thinking?

My friend chortled at my reaction, then finished her first beer and pulled the second closer. Hey, how’s Operation Payback going?

I groaned and threw back the last of my wine before answering, hoping it would dislodge the dye taste from my tongue. Challenging.

It was an understatement. When Darla had discovered the dog grooming business’ bank account was drastically overdrawn, to the tune of fifteen grand, I thought we’d been robbed. After a frantic trip to the bank and a sit-down with the vice president there, who showed me all the transactions over the past month, I realized what had happened.

My Aunt Eliza had owed the IRS money in back taxes on the business. I was still shocked that she had gotten so far behind. When I first took over the dog grooming facility after she died and went over the numbers with her accountant, I’d thought the place was doing decent. There was money in the business account and more coming in every day. Plenty to cover expenses and Darla’s wages.

But that accountant, apparently, wasn’t worth his salt because he didn’t tell me—maybe he didn’t know—about the back taxes. He also didn’t know about the outstanding check my aunt had given to the roofers. When they’d cashed it and the money had come out, the account overdrew, and the IRS put a lien on it.

I hired a new accountant, I told Chelle. She’s working on untangling everything. But in the meantime, we’re putting every spare penny we can toward the debt. And the new accountant also said I need to collect on all the money owed to the business.

Chelle canted her head. What kind of debts?

Aunt Eliza let some people keep tabs open on their grooming bills. I don’t think she ever expected to see the money for some of it, but she didn’t want to turn folks away. According to Darla, it was all because Eliza had such a big heart. I frowned. Now, I’m the bad guy, coming to collect on people who don’t have the money to give me.

The thought was so sour that I took a gulp of green beer in hopes of chasing it away. Then I choked and regretted it. It’s a mess.

I’m sure you’ll get through it. You’re smart and capable. Though her words were sweet, her gaze slid away, and her attention wasn’t on me anymore. It was on the McCutcheons again.

Freshly raised voices made me crane my neck, peering that way as well. At the table next to Sean’s family, a group of motorcyclists were getting rowdy. One of them jerked his chair backward across the floor, and rammed it into someone in the Irish family’s group—Brandon, the oldest son. He jumped up and whirled around. Sean pushed to his feet more slowly, being significantly older, and shuffled over to push his way between the two men. He growled something at the motorcycle dude.

Aaron, the bartender, hurried out from behind the bar, rushing over to edge between the men, hands up to inch them apart while he tried to diffuse the situation.

I sighed. People might think green beer was fun, but too much of it made some people belligerent, just like any alcohol did. Luckily, the bartender seemed to be experienced at handling such stuff.

Twirling around on the barstool, I sipped my beer and took in the place’s decor. Chelle had insisted on coming here, to O’Sullivan’s Pub, for St. Patrick’s Day. I’d never been here before, and now that I examined it closer, it occurred to me the place differed in some key ways from the Celtic bars I’d been to in New York, with their Americanized Irish decorations. This place had a more authentic feeling. Items hung behind the bar—among them a fancily decorated shield, paintings of lush green landscapes, and a long, knobby cane.

A man stepped into my field of vision, behind the bar. He was smiling widely, revealing a couple missing teeth near the front, and he wore a green bowler hat and matching bow tie. That’s a shillelagh.

A what? What is?

His smile widened. He turned and lifted the cane off the wall, then handed it to me. It was heavy but perfectly smooth, as though someone had sanded it for hours on end. It was stained a beautiful deep brown, and the knob on the end was a bright ruby color. I hefted it in my hands as Chelle looked on with interest. This is … nice. I had zero idea what the man wanted from me but figured those words were safe.

It’s been handed down in my family for a few generations, he said, puffing up with pride. I’m Pat O’Sullivan.

Ah. So, you’re the owner here, I guessed, handing the shillelagh to Chelle to admire, happy to have the heavy thing out of my hands.

I am. I hope you ladies are enjoying yourselves tonight.

Raucous laughter from the motorcycle group interrupted my reply. Apparently, they’d moved past the incident with Brandon and Sean McCutcheon. Aaron had returned to his work behind the bar. Who needed a bouncer when you had a bartender willing to whip into action at the slightest hint of trouble?

I made myself giggle with an image of Aaron wearing a cape and tights. Then I took another sip of green beer because it was starting to taste less horrible the more of it I drank.

What’s this for? Chelle asked, hefting the cane.

It’s meant to represent the strength and staunchness of the Irish people, lass, Pat said, with a light lilt. But my grandfather just used it to help him about when he got old.

Woah, man! Is that a real shillelagh? A young man with shaggy blond hair appeared next to Chelle, snatching the stick and earning a frown from my best friend. Dude, this is sick! It looks just like the one my character earned in my video game. Look at this, Brad! He turned and brandished the cane, his buddies looking on with awe.

Pat rolled his eyes and leaned closer to say in a hushed tone, Video games. Pshaw. These kids don’t know there’s anything real out in the world anymore. A soft, grandfatherly smile belied his tough words, and he made no move to retrieve the shillelagh but tracked it through the room with his eyes as folks passed it along to be admired.

As I scanned the crowd of people, the edges of my thoughts grew fuzzy. I turned to Chelle. I need to eat something.

Aaron came over right away when Chelle waved, despite the fact that the bar had gotten pretty crowded. Another couple of servers had appeared, and one helped Aaron behind the bar while another circulated among the tables.

We ordered corned beef and cabbage dinners, and Chelle asked for another beer.

It’s a good thing your house is within stumbling distance, I said after Aaron deposited her beer and turned to put our ticket in at the kitchen window.

She chuckled. Everything’s within stumbling distance in Shongoloo.

An arm snaked between Chelle and me, its hand grabbing the laminated menu we’d discarded. I looked up to find one of the McCutcheons—the youngest son Chelle had called Aiden—grinning at me. You done with this? He was handsome and impish. Immediately,