Murder at an Irish Christmas

Siobhán O’Sullivan and her brood were here, in a rocky pasture in front of an old stone whiskey mill in a colorful village in West Cork.
Dubbed the “Wild West” of Ireland, and running from Kinsale to the Beara Peninsula, West Cork was known for its rugged coastline, unique peninsulas, and mountains, with villages spread out along the Wild Atlantic Way.
The region attracted adventure seekers, water enthusiasts, and hikers alike. For Siobhán, the only thing on the agenda this year was peace, joy, and a little holiday fun. James, the eldest of the O’Sullivan Six, had yet to arrive. He and his fiancé, Elise, were due any minute. With the wind whipping around them, the O’Sullivans stood in the middle of a crowd, waiting for the doors to the mill to open. Siobhán wished the old stone walls could talk. Or pour her a drink. In the distance the field ended in a rocky cliff with the Atlantic Ocean churning below it. What a magical setting to celebrate the holidays.
Even if this one did come with strings. An entire orchestra of them. This holiday would be all about music and fun. Craic agus ceol. James was engaged to be married to Elise Elliot, and they had new family members to embrace. (Or kick in the arse.) Thoughts like the latter made Siobhán fear she wasn’t dealing with it very well.
When it came to family, change didn’t come easy. At least he was marrying into a musical family. Hadn’t she always wanted them to be more musical? A colorful banner strung above old wooden doors marked the entrance to the old mill.