Death in the Holidays (Dublin Drag Mysteries Book 3) by Kitty Murphy

Author:Kitty Murphy [Murphy, Kitty]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Reque House
Published: 2023-11-27T16:00:00+00:00

Robyn went looking at flats.

I looked over the pictures. They were good, especially the shots of Reggie, the Staffie.

A movie played away in a tiny box in the corner of my screen. Once I’d looked at the pet photos, I opened the murder pictures in the foreground.

I was fairly sure it was an actual crime, taking pictures of murder scenes if you weren’t part of the official police photography team. But hey-ho, I’d done it. And since no one had actually told me it was illegal then maybe that didn’t count?

(It counted.)

But it was only through viewing the pictures that I could think.

I zoomed in on each face in turn.

I wondered if Detective O’Hara was any more settled with this case, and if he also believed there was some connection between Nick and Maggie. Or Carol and the Songbird.

And if that connection was something other than the glaringly obvious association of the theatre company, and Thora’s brother, Paul. Because that was a line I did not want to connect.

The first photograph was jumbled. It wasn’t out of focus, but it was too busy. It was hard to see what anything was at first, until my brain accepted that the dead body was not the same shape as a person should be. The crate had slammed into Carol Singer’s body creating a force much like when a child jumped into a puddle; there was more of Carol’s head and shoulders outside her skin than in.

Thin, gaunt, and terrified, Nick stared at the body on the stage as if he could not believe what he was seeing. Slowly, we had watched as the realisation dawned on him, first that the mess left there was Carol Singer, and then, with a huge, obvious jolt to his soul, that he had done this.

I covered his eyes, and looked again.

The pictures of the second murder looked even worse on my laptop than they had on my phone.

I muted the movie so I could concentrate on the photos.

The body was grim, but it wasn’t the gore that really shocked. Again, it was the look in the killer’s eyes as she stood over Stephanie Bramble’s body, the bloody sword in her hand: a look of shock and surprise, and guilt.

Maggie Knight was her name.

I opened a packet of biscuits as my ancient modem trickled through enough juice to fire up my search around Google’s mind hive.

Maggie was thirty-seven. Born in Wiltshire, England, to a middle-class couple, Sydney and Ida. Two sisters, both of whom were also on the stage, mostly taking bit-parts in small-time shows, their Facebook and Twitter accounts filled with the dreams that grew in stage school and a cynicism that festered working late nights in service stations to pay the rent.

In her head shots – not the best term I could use, considering – Maggie had a gorgeous smile, the kind of quick, charming beam that was a hundred percent believable and made me want to smile at my screen in return. She had

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