“Eamon told me how he died. Poisoned with his own bourbon. Twenty-five years wasn’t so long ago. Maybe the poisoner is still alive. Maybe it’s not too late for justice.”
Siobhan twitched. An odd expression crossed her features for an instant. Then the grin reappeared. The practiced saleswoman returned.
So did Tchaikovsky. “I thought maybe you could reach out to Eamon and talk to him, or whatever you call it. Pick up a clue to take to the police.”
“Let’s not be hasty.” Siobhan scratched her chin with a finger adorned with a grape-sized ruby.
Hasty? How was a quarter of a century ‘hasty?’ And how well did psychic services pay?
“You can hardly walk up to the garda station, knock on the door, and say, ‘Guess what a ghost whispered in my ear?’”
“No,” Gethsemane said. “Of course not.”
“You need hard evidence to back up your psychic communications.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Evidence can be hard to find.”
Gethsemane wondered how others couldn’t hear Tchaikovsky blaring in her head. She forced herself to concentrate on Siobhan. “And probably costly to find.”
Siobhan leaned back and shrugged. Her grin widened. “How can one put a price on justice?”
How indeed. “What would this—process—involve?”
“Oh…” Siobhan circled her hand in the air. “I would come to the cottage and conduct several sessions—”
“Several?”
“One can’t hurry these things. The spirit realm is unpredictable.”
Con artists, psychic or otherwise, were not. “Ballpark estimate. How many?” Did she only imagine a voice whisper, Just enough to bleed you dry?
“Murder is a delicate business. I’d say six or seven. Possibly eight.”
Yep, just enough. “Not to sound crass about such a ‘delicate business,’ but what does a spirit communication session retail for?”
“One-fifty.”
“Dollars?”
“One hundred fifty Euros. Cash.”
Murder was an expensive business. No wonder Siobhan wore rubies. Time to backpedal. “The more I think about it, you’re probably right. This was just an ordinary dream. Nothing worth wasting your talents on.”
Siobhan’s expression darkened and her fist tightened around her glass. Her voice lowered. “You’re a perceptive woman, I can tell. You wouldn’t have come to me if you thought this—dream—was anything other than remarkable.”
Gooseflesh popped out on Gethsemane’s arms. The wrong side of Sister Siobhan would be a bad place. “Perhaps a preliminary session, a psychic scouting trip, for say, thirty-five Euros?”
“I don’t offer discounts. Or payment plans.”
Gethsemane sipped Bushmills and prayed to the whiskey gods for inspiration. “Never mind. I’ll just poke around on my own and see what I come up with. Who knows? I may find a masterpiece, even if I don’t find evidence.”
Siobhan snorted again, setting Gethsemane’s teeth on edge. “What masterpiece?”
“Surely you don’t think “Jewel of Carraigfaire” was Eamon’s last piece? He died suddenly. No doubt he left unfinished works behind. Probably even finished compositions he never had time to give to his publisher.”
“So?” Siobhan went back to her phone. “Just some old music.”
“Just some old music?” Gethsemane laughed. “Everything Eamon is hot right now, thanks to that book. Sony Classical just released a digitally remastered twelve-CD set of his early works. Sold out within an hour of hitting the shelves. Think of the bidding frenzy an undiscovered work would kick off.”
“Billy would’ve found—”
“Billy travels. He hasn’t checked under every floorboard and every eave. He’s no idea what’s hiding. Jimmy Hoffa could be stuffed up the chimney and he wouldn’t know it.” Gethsemane hid her crossed fingers in her lap.
Siobhan pursed her lips. Gethsemane held her breath. The phone disappeared beneath the caftan. “If some new piece turned up, I don’t suppose anyone could say for certain where it’d come from.”
Gethsemane shrugged. “Could’ve fallen out of an old library book.”
“I don’t usually do this, you understand.” Siobhan flashed the tooth. “Seeing as you’re a newcomer to the realm of psychic phenomena, I could do a—What did you call it?—preliminary session to find out if this dream holds any significance…”
Greed trumped justice once again. “I appreciate your making an exception.”
“For eighty-five euros. But—” Siobhan held up another finger, dressed in an emerald. “I must have unrestricted access to the cottage.”
“Treat Eamon’s house as your own.” Gethsemane jumped as a sharp pain hit her between the shoulder blades. She detected the faint aroma of leather.
Siobhan frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” Gethsemane said. “Just a hunger pain.” Which she’d better get used to. Eighty-five Euros was most of her money.
Siobhan signaled the barmaid. “I knew them, the McCarthys.”
“Close friends?”
Siobhan glared at the barmaid as she downed half her pint. “Another. And be quick about it. Don’t stop to flirt on the way.” She emptied the glass and plunked it next to the others. “Eamon and Orla McCarthy weren’t never friends with the likes o’ Siobhan Moloney. Moved in different social circles.” She snatched her new drink from the barmaid’s tray and sent its contents in the direction of its predecessors. “Though I’d’ve been a better friend than some.” She dabbed her mouth with her scarf and produced a compact to reapply her lipstick.
“When—”
“Tomorrow night.” She jabbed a hand at Gethsemane. “I’ll have the cash in advance.”
Gethsemane patted her skirt and her bodice.
“My wallet…”
Siobhan adjusted her turban with a harrumph and slid from the booth. Much taller than she’d seemed when sitting, she stared down at Gethsemane. “Tomorrow then, without fail.” She left without waiting for an answer.
Five minutes passed before Gethsemane realized she’d been stuck with the tab.
School’s hectic pace—music lessons, orchestra rehearsal, a playground scuffle, a lower-school boy sick in the hallway from overindulgence in double-chocolate cookies—kept Gethsemane too busy to think about ghosts, psychics, or unsolved murders. The bizarreness of her situation hit her as she walked home after school.
She, an avowed skeptic about the paranormal, had moved into a haunted house and hired a psychic to communicate with the ghost in an effort to find his killer and help him cross over to the other side. What would her sisters, both professional scientists, say? Nothing. They’d say nothing because she’d never, ever, under threat of having her fingers cut off, tell them. She silently apologized to her maternal grandparents for dismissing their supernatural tales.
She rounded a corner onto an unfamiliar street. She’d been so preoccupied she walked the wrong way. She turned to retrace her steps but spied something that changed her mind—a bookstore. Unable to resist a bookstore’s pull—one of few traits in common with her mother—she detoured inside.
Books filled almost every available space in the small shop. Patrons browsed narrow aisles, periodically flattening themselves against overstuffed shelves to let others scoot past. Gethsemane headed toward the history section when a man, his line of sight obscured by a stack of books, jostled her. She bumped against a table, knocking over some books—the detested American true-crime tome and a collection of poems by Orla McCarthy. Gethsemane caught a whiff of roses and vetiver as she picked Orla’s book from the floor.
“Poetry fan?” Gethsemane recognized the speaker as St. Brennan’s faculty.
“Oh, no, I just bumpe
d…” Gethsemane replaced the book on the table. “Limited knowledge of poetry. Of Orla McCarthy too. I know plenty about her husband. Eamon McCarthy inspired me. I think I was always a little jealous of Orla for taking my fantasy dream man off the market. Silly, since I never met either of them.”
“I felt the same way about that prince fella who married Grace Kelly. You’d have liked Orla if you’d met her. Everyone did.” He lifted the true-crime book. “Don’t believe any of this claptrap. A load of aspersions and insinuations. Should be shelved under fiction.”
At last, a kindred spirit who shared her low opinion of the work. “Tell me about Orla. It’s strange living in her house. The McCarthys’ presence is palpable. You feel you could turn around and find them standing behind you.” One of them, anyway.
“Orla personified beauty. Not only because she was beautiful to look at, though she was that. Long blond hair, intense brown eyes, elegant. About your size. Inner beauty poured forth from Orla like a wellspring. Everything she touched took on some of her glow. If you spent five minutes in her presence you came away determined to be a better person.”
“What about her poetry?” Gethsemane opened a book titled Preface to a Soul’s Destruction and scanned a page. “Is it any good? I can’t judge.”
“Some call it haunting, some brilliant, some fundamental to the understanding of Irish poetry. She won countless awards and accolades. Hobnobbed with the leading lights of the poetry world—Diane di Prima, Gregory Corso, Thomas Kinsella. Amiri Baraka and Seamus Heaney came to her wedding.”
“Given you think this,” Gethsemane tapped the cover of the true-crime book, “is trash—I agree with you, by the way—what do you think actually happened to Eamon and Orla McCarthy? The book claims murder in a jealous fit followed by suicide due to overwhelming remorse.”
“Well,” the man thought for a moment, “No one denies Eamon McCarthy was a hothead, even growing up. Threw legendary temper tantrums. Got expelled from a school or two. Plenty of news reports about trashed hotel rooms and overturned restaurant tables. But he never, not once, directed anger at Orla. Quite the opposite. He could be in the midst of a raging hooley, she’d lay a hand on his arm, and he’d calm down quick like she’d flipped a switch. Meek as a sleeping babe. Eamon adored the very air she breathed. Mention her name in passing and his face lit up like the noonday sun.” He paused. “No, I don’t think Eamon McCarthy murdered his wife. Committed suicide in his despair, perhaps. Killed Orla, no.”
“Who do you think killed her?”
“I don’t know. Can’t imagine anyone wishing Orla a bad day, let alone dead. Maybe someone passing through the village on the way to somewhere else. Tourists occasionally stop to view the cliffs, hike up to the lighthouse.”
Or to report their stolen luggage at the first police station they come to. “A random act of violence by a stranger?”
“Makes more sense than someone who knew her killing her.”
“Thank you for the insight.” Gethsemane picked up a second volume of Orla’s poems to go along with Soul’s Destruction. “I’ll read these and see if they’ll convert me into a poetry lover.” Except her credit cards and most of her money were in the stolen bags. She set the books back on the table. “I can probably find copies at the cottage.”
“I hope you find some long-forgotten clue proving Eamon’s innocence tucked behind a bookshelf. Some of us would like to see his reputation restored.”
Gethsemane’s anxiety grew as Siobhan’s visit drew near. How much did Eamon distrust psychics? Enough to smash half the cottage if one crossed the threshold? Trifling with the infamous McCarthy temper courted peril. Her father’s rage fits involved apoplexy, not property destruction.
By quarter to seven, her head throbbed. She paced. “Chino Smith. Right field. Nineteen-twenty-six to nineteen-thirty. Four-sixty-five. Jud Wilson. First base. Nineteen-twenty-two to nineteen-thirty-six. Four-forty-six. Cristobal Torriente. Center field. Nineteen-thirteen to nineteen-twenty-eight. Four-thirty-four.”
“What are you on about?”
She stopped pacing. Eamon reclined on the entryway bench. She hadn’t noticed the leather-soap smell until now. “Baseball stats. Negro League on-base percentages.”
“Apropos of?”
“I recite baseball stats when I’m nervous. Heavy Johnson, right field, nineteen-twenty to nineteen-twenty-eight. Four-thirty-two. Oscar Charleston. Center field. Nineteen-fifteen to nineteen-thirty-six. Four-twenty-four.”
“What have you got to be nervous about?”
“You know. Being haunted by the ghost of a murdered composer, having six weeks to get an orchestra ready for a major competition, having my future job prospects riding on the outcome of said competition. The usual stuff.”
“You’re not telling me something.”
“Paranoid’s not a good look for you, Irish.” She paced again. “Josh Gibson. Catcher. Nineteen-thirty to nineteen-thirty-six. Four-two-two. Merito Acosta. Left field. Nineteen-thirteen to nineteen-twenty-three. Four-twenty-one.”
“What is it with Americans and baseball?”
“As opposed to Europeans and cricket? Or soccer?”
“Football, you Philistine.”
Someone knocked. Seven o’clock sharp.
“Expecting company?” Eamon asked. “Haven’t been here long enough to have a gentleman caller.”
Gethsemane opened the door to an outstretched hand and a mountain of gold fabric capped by a bejeweled Cleopatra wig. Her eighty-five Euros disappeared into the fabric’s folds before she could bid Siobhan hello.
Siobhan pushed past her and stopped mid-hall. She threw her arms up and arced her head left and right. “Listen.”
Gethsemane listened. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Ssssssh.” Siobhan licked a finger and held it up. The lights glinted off the ruby.
“We’re indoors,” Gethsemane whispered. “There’s no wind.”
Siobhan drifted toward the study, swinging her head and sniffing the air. Head right-pause-sniff. Head left-pause-sniff. A fat golden hound on the trail of something.
“I don’t smell anything,” Gethsemane said. Had she left something on the stove?
Siobhan stopped short in front of the study. Gethsemane plowed into her back, surprised to find solid mass under the gold tent. Siobhan spread her arms, craned her neck, and closed her eyes. She started up a hum which rose in pitch to a level between a blender and a power saw. Gethsemane plugged her ears. Siobhan stopped humming. Arms kept raised, she looked left-right-left-right again.
“What?” Gethsemane’s eyelid twitched. “I don’t hear, see, or smell anything. What is it?”
“A vibration,” Siobhan said, still scanning the room.
“A vibration?” Gethsemane’s eye throbbed. She pressed her thumb against her eyelid.
“In the ether.” Siobhan lowered her arms.
“What does that mean?”
Siobhan ran to Eamon’s desk and rifled papers. “It means a portal to the spirit world has been opened.” Hands outstretched, she squeezed her eyes shut and screwed up her face.
“Are you all right? Are you in pain?” Was she serious? “Do you need the bathroom?”
“Ssssssh!” Siobhan, eyes still closed, extended her arms and spun, the Tasmanian Devil in a dress. The hem of her caftan flared, exposing pasty, muscular trunks above the Aladdin slippers.
Gethsemane dove to save a vase and a lamp. “Now what?”
Siobhan stopped spinning. She lowered her arms and opened her eyes. “I’ve lost it.”
No kidding. “Lost the vibrations?”
“The fluctuations.”
“Fluctuations. In the ether?”
“In the protoplasmic miasma.” Siobhan clucked as though Gethsemane was a particularly slow child.
�
�The protoplasmic miasma.” Walking into a movie theater during the third reel made more sense. Gethsemane’s eye throb bloomed into a full-on headache. “Meep.”
“Are you not the full shilling?” a man’s voice asked, close to Gethsemane’s ear.
Leather-cedar-soap hit Gethsemane’s nostrils. Siobhan, oblivious, hummed again. Gethsemane whispered, “Eamon? Is that you?”
“It bloody well isn’t a fluctuation in the ether or a vibration in the protoplasmic steak and kidney pie or whatever the hell she’s on about.” Eamon materialized, solid as a stone wall. Siobhan kept humming. “Why’s she doing that?”
“Trying to raise the dead, I guess. How’d I know?”
“If anything could raise the dead, that noise would.”
“Silence.” Siobhan pointed a finger at Gethsemane. “How can I be expected to contact the spirit realm with you standing there jabbering to yourself?”
“To myself? But—” She jerked a thumb at Eamon.
“Silence!” Siobhan turned her back.
“She can’t see you, can she?” Gethsemane asked Eamon.
“Watch.” Eamon walked over to Siobhan and held his face an inch from hers. “Siobhan Moloney, what the bloody hell are ya playin’ at?”
Siobhan flung her arms toward the ceiling, sending her hand through Eamon’s crotch.
Eamon jumped back. “Watch it, ya eejit! I don’t know ya that well.”
Gethsemane clamped her hands over her mouth, smothering her laughter. Siobhan twirled, slowly at first, increasing her speed until her caftan puffed out like a circus tent.
“I’m dizzy watching her,” Eamon said.
Siobhan froze. Gethsemane held her breath. Siobhan flung an arm out and pointed to a corner nowhere near Eamon. “There.”
“Where?” Gethsemane asked.
“Where?” Eamon repeated. Behind her back, Gethsemane gave him the finger.
“In the corner,” Siobhan said. “Can’t you see it?”
“See what?”
“A mist, an ectoplasmic emission.”
Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1) Page 6