Murder in an Irish Pub

Siobhán O’Sullivan dimmed the lights in Naomi’s Bistro, tucked falling strands of her auburn locks into her garda cap, and smoothed down the coat of her uniform as if she was going on a date instead of reporting for duty. What luck. Getting paid to attend the opening rounds of the International Poker Tournament.
The good folks of Kilbane were stunned it was being held in their medieval village. Imagine, Eamon Foley, the best poker player in all of Ireland, just a few doors down in O’Rourke’s Pub. A tinker out of Dublin, he won so often that people surmised he had eight hands under the table, earning him the nickname: “the Octopus.”
Perhaps the moniker had nothing to do with his mad card skills, and his wandering eyes were to blame. Siobhán wasn’t a gambler, but she’d bet his pregnant wife wasn’t happy about that.