Page 1 of Death at Inishmore Castle

ONE

As we pulled into the long, stone driveway of Inishmore Castle, rain pelted the car so hard that it was difficult to make out the outline of the massive stone building. The weather in Ireland in late winter was wet. Even though it was nearing noon, it was dark outside. Thunder boomed, and my sister Lizzie and I jumped.

There was a quaint wooden bridge ahead, but water from the river was already lapping over the sides. While we were only fifteen miles away from Shamrock Cove, it felt like we were in another world. This bridge was the only way into the castle grounds. From the small bit of research I’d done, that was by design so that marauders back in the day could not cross easily.

“Is it safe?” Lizzie asked.

Lightning crackled down to the earth. The vibration shook the car.

I put my foot on the gas and raced over the wooden slats, praying we wouldn’t be swept away.

Once we were across, we let out a collective breath. Lightning hit the ground again, and we both yelped.

“Do you think that’s a sign, Mercy?”

I laughed. “That we need to get in from this weather, yes.”

Mr. Poe, our little ball of black fluff, barked from the back seat as if he agreed. I sometimes wondered if he wasn’t part human. He was so in tune with our moods and seemed to understand everything we said.

My sister and some of our neighbors who sat on the local tourism committee had been invited to a weekend at Inishmore Castle, which had recently opened a whiskey-tasting tour, along with an assorted list of craft and cooking classes on the estate.

It was a dream weekend for my sister. She loved everything to do with crafts.

When it came to me, it was a chance to get away from the blank pages I’d been staring at for the last week and a half. It wasn’t so much writer’s block with the new novel. It was the discovery that my story wasn’t working as well as it could and knowing I had so much rewriting to do.

When Lizzie asked if I wanted to tag along, I couldn’t resist. I loved all things whiskey. The history of the castle was of great interest to me, as well. Places like this sparked my creativity. I wrote contemporary detective stories, but unblocking my creative brain could come from any source. My hope was after a relaxing weekend, I’d be ready to tackle my book head on.

At the very least, getting away from my computer and office for a few days wasn’t a bad idea. I’d been mainlining caffeine and staring out the window into our beautiful, winter flowering garden for the last week.

The castle came into view and we both gasped. It looked like something out of one of those old gothic novels. It was at least a half of a block long and built with a beautiful stone that had weathered well with age. The land around it was lush and green, which wasn’t surprising here in Ireland since it rained all the time.

“It looks like a fairy-tale castle,” Lizzie said.

“Well, maybe a darker one,” I added. “Look at those gargoyles. I don’t think I’ve seen so many in one place.” There were at least ten we could see, and each one appeared as if it might take flight any minute and attack us.

“Sinister for sure,” Lizzie said. Then she shivered in her pink sweater set. Her hair was piled on her head in a messy bun. While my twin’s hair was black, I’d recently lightened mine to a strawberry blonde. Her skin was olive, and mine burned in the sun after only a few minutes. We were the same height, but that was about it.

My sister was fond of color in her clothing, I was the opposite. My uniform was almost always black on black. It was easier to get dressed in the morning.

“It looks so much bigger than it did in the brochures,” she said.

She was right.

After pulling up under the portico leading to the front door, I turned off the car. “I’ll get the bags. You grab Mr. Poe,” I said.

We were grateful the castle was dog-friendly and that we were able to bring him with us. Actually, I would have stayed home with him, as I couldn’t imagine leaving him at a kennel for four days. We’d only had the little black dog with white fur on his chest for a few months, and he was already a third member of the family.

He was used to going everywhere with us and had become Lizzie’s emotional support animal. Mine, too, if I were honest.

The portico kept us from getting even wetter, even though the rain was coming in sideways. Lizzie used the lion-faced knocker on the heavy wooden doors to announce us. A few seconds later, the door creaked open, but no one was there.

“Well, that’s not creepy at all,” I whispered.

We glanced at one another and stepped inside.

“You made it,” Rob, our next-door neighbor, said from behind the door.

Not realizing he was there, we jumped again.

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