Eamon turned blue. “Make her stop.”
“Enough.” Gethsemane grabbed Siobhan. “I just thought of something. What if the ectoplasmic emission isn’t coming from Eamon?” She ignored Eamon’s guffaw. “What if it’s coming from—” Gethsemane peered over her shoulder and leaned close to Siobhan, dropping her voice to the merest whisper. “What if it’s coming from a dark entity?”
“What do you know about—”
Gethsemane shushed her.
Siobhan dropped her voice to match Gethsemane’s. “What do you know about dark entities?”
Finally, all those episodes of Ghost Hunting Adventures paid off. “I know when a portal opens sometimes spirits of the departed aren’t the only ones to come through. Sometimes inhuman spirits slip past the veil.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “Before you go any farther, I should call Father Keating and arrange a house blessing as a precaution.” She crossed herself.
Siobhan flashed her silver grin. “No need to disturb Father. The poor dear’s so busy, what with catechism class and the garden committee and the roofing committee…I have plenty of experience dealing with inhuman spirits. I can come back tomorrow with some smudge sticks and St. Michael medals—”
Eamon growled. Blue sparks flew from his head.
“No, no. This is a matter for the church.” Gethsemane tugged gold polyester satin until she finagled Siobhan into the hall. If her legs were trunks, her arms were sturdy branches. “Besides, tomorrow’s not good for me. Orchestra rehearsal.” She elbowed Siobhan toward the door.
Neither Siobhan nor her one-hundred-twenty-five-pound advantage noticed.
“Monday next, then. That will give me time to order some candles.”
“Monday next’s no good either.” Gethsemane pushed with both hands. “Tutorials.” She might as well have pushed a Buick.
“Put your back in it,” Eamon said.
Gethsemane made a face. Come help me, she mouthed. Eamon sighed. The neck of Siobhan’s caftan bunched up, grabbed by an invisible hand, and her slippers rose a tenth of an inch from the floor. She twisted her head toward Gethsemane. “You’re stronger than you look.”
“Comes from bowing the violin. Builds upper body strength.”
Siobhan moved forward, pushed-carried to the door, Gethsemane right behind her. The door swung open and Siobhan went through it, stumbling on the steps on the way down. The door slammed shut, just missing Gethsemane’s nose, and locked.
“What the hell was that?” A cobalt aura surrounded Eamon. “Your idea of a joke?”
Gethsemane rested her forehead against the nearest wall. “That was my idea of a ghost whisperer.”
“Ghost whisperer?” The cobalt dimmed to robin’s egg. “Are you serious?”
“Kind of. Pretty much. Yeah.”
“What happened to not hiring a psychic, who neither of us believe in anyway?”
“A ghost, which I used to not believe in, begged me to help solve a double murder, which I’ve never done before. Desperate times make for bizarre behavior.”
“Fine, I deserved that. But Siobhan Moloney, for the love of God? The whole village knows she’s as phony as the Fiji mermaid.”
“Well, the whole village forgot to tell the new girl.”
“Come on, you’re no eejit. You’ve got eyes in your head. You didn’t cop on to that ridiculous act of hers?”
Tchaikovsky had warned her. “Just because she’s a con artist doesn’t mean she doesn’t have any psychic abilities.”
“Please know I’m laughing at you, not with you. How much did it set you back?”
Gethsemane stared at the floor. Oh, if only it would open up right now.
Eamon’s face materialized under Gethsemane’s nose. “How much?”
“Eighty-five Euros. Down from one-fifty.” Gethsemane raised her head. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Eamon stared for half a minute, then a rich, full-throated laugh welled up from his feet and spilled from his mouth in waves. Surrounded by an aura the color of spring grass, he doubled over, arms wrapped around his midsection.
“Stop!” Gethsemane balled her fists. “I hope you make yourself vomit.”
Eamon choked out, between peals, “Ghosts don’t vomit.”
Gethsemane bit her lip. A snicker escaped, followed by a giggle. Then she laughed as hard as Eamon. She fell back onto the entryway bench and banged her head against the wall which made her laugh harder. Soon coughs and gasps mingled with the laughter.
“Are you all right?” Eamon asked, hands on knees. His chest heaved.
Gethsemane nodded as she struggled to regain control. She wiped tears. “I’m sorry.”
Eamon sat next to her. “Me too.”
“Truce?” they asked simultaneously.
Gethsemane held out a hand.
“I’d shake it, but…”
“Sorry, forgot.”
Neither spoke for a while. Eamon broke the silence. “It’s good having someone to communicate with after all these years.”
“Even a willful, opinionated female?”
“Willful, opinionated females are the only sort worth talking to.”
“Am I really the only person in Dunmullach you can talk with?”
Eamon nodded.
“Only person anywhere. I tried my publisher in Dublin, the managers of theaters where I performed my concerts, friends. One or two could see me, a few others could tell I was hanging about but none could hear me, at least not well enough to carry on a conversation.”
“You didn’t try your floating object trick?”
“That only scared them. Literally shite-less, a couple of ’em.”
“It scared me.”
“You didn’t show it. You’ve a good arm, by the way.”
“I meant it about being starting pitcher for Girls’ State. My whole family plays baseball or softball. It’s one thing we have in common. The thinking family’s game.”
“How’d you manage to play ball and music? Weren’t you afraid you’d break a finger?”
“I gave up music.”
“You’re coddin’.”
“For a year. My rebellious phase. Swore I hated music and wanted nothing to do with it. Threw myself into ball with the same determination I’d devoted to the violin. Ate, drank, and slept softball.”
“How’d you end up back this side of the fence?”
“Team went to championships and won. I showed everyone I could do whatever I set my mind to. Had the chance to be part of something bigger than me and make some non-musical friends. Realized I didn’t just love music, I existed for it.” Gethsemane shrugged. “So I came back.”
“Good thing. The world needs music. Baseball it can manage without.”
“That remark borders on sacrilege. What’s your sport?”
“I’m a rugby fan. Orla loved cricket.”
“If I had to sit through a cricket match, I’d be a rugby fan too.”
“I said almost the same thing to Orla once.” Eamon smiled. “She hit me in the shin with a cricket bat.”
“You miss her.”
Eamon’s shoulders slumped. “Horribly, terribly, every day.”
“My father died years ago. He was a—difficult—man, odd, hard to get close to. But I loved him and still miss him. So does Mother. She still brings him flowers every week and sits and talks to him for an hour.”
Eamon patted Gethsemane’s hand. Small shocks traveled up her arm as his hand passed through hers.
“Do you really think clearing your name will let you cross over and find Orla?” she asked.
“I have to believe that. Spending eternity without Orla would be worse than any hell God could sentence me to.”
Hell. Being condemned to
haunt the home you shared with the love of your life because everyone believed you murdered her must be pretty close to hell. Gethsemane studied Eamon—semi-transparent, the outlines of the macs hanging from their hooks visible through him, yellow aura, sad—before speaking. “Tell me again about this house concert. Were the Morrises the only ones who attended?”
Eamon looked surprised. “How’d you know their name? I never told you.”
“I found some information at school and made an educated guess. Were they the only ones there?”
The yellow aura shimmered red along its edges. “Does this mean you’re helping me? For real?”
“Not if you don’t answer my questions.”
Eamon solidified, his aura full-on red. “Gethsemane Anna Brown, I’d kiss you right on the mouth if I could. You’ve made a dead man happy.”
She blushed. “Yeah, well make a newbie amateur detective happy. Tell me the Morisses had guests that night.”
“Afraid not. Family only.”
“No servants, caterers, anyone like that?”
“No. Their cook and housekeeper had already received notice since the Morrises weren’t planning on returning to Dublin. Why? What did you find?”
“Not good news. The Morisses were murdered in Sudan during the war.”
“Damn.” The red glow turned yellow again. “I’m sorry to hear that. The Morrises were fine people.”
“I’m sorry too. That leaves us with only the hope Lynch will recant his statement about seeing your car or Hurley will admit to running a crap investigation or the GP—”
“Long dead.”
“Lynch or Hurley then. I could talk to them—”
“You can stay away from them. They’re both nasty pieces of work, especially Jimmy. Convince Inspector O’Reilly to speak to them. I want your help, but I don’t want you getting hurt. Besides,” he added under his breath, “I’ve a better chance of being reincarnated as a tutu-wearing pachyderm in an Uzbek three-ring circus than of either of those two confessing.”
Gethsemane couldn’t help grinning. “You care if I get hurt?”
“Yeah,” Eamon said. “You’re starting to grow on me.”
She slid over on the bench until she felt a buzz as her shoulder passed through Eamon’s. “Likewise.”
Four
Gethsemane opened the door the next morning to a near collision with Father Keating. He stood on the porch, hand raised to knock.
“Morning, Father.” Gethsemane pulled her mac close against the crisp morning air.
Father Keating removed his cap. “Top o’ the morning to ya, Dr. Brown.”
“What are you doing here so early? Nothing’s wrong, is there?”
“No, no, nothing wrong. I forget the only thing worse than seeing a priest unannounced on your doorstep is seeing a priest with the gardaí. I just stopped by to offer you a ride to school.”
“You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, Father. I don’t mind the walk.”
“’Twas no trouble. I’m headed that way myself. Chapel services today. Trying to make good Catholics out of the lot.”
“In that case, I accept. Thank you.”
“The ride comes with one condition.”
“Which is?”
“You’re not allowed to call me ‘Father.’ I’m Tim.”
“I’m Gethsemane.”
“A nice Biblical name.”
“Grandmother’s idea. Father wanted to name us all after Nobel laureates. Mother just wanted the names to be pronounceable with no unnecessary apostrophes.”
Father Keating laughed and held the car door. “How’re you fixed for provisions?” he asked as he slid into the driver’s seat.
“Plenty of bourbon. A bit light on food.”
“I’ll be happy to run you by the grocer.”
“Really, that’s too much trouble for you. And don’t tell me you were on your way there anyway to convert heathens in the frozen food aisle.”
“I aim to do the Lord’s work wherever I can.” He pulled out of the drive.
They pulled up in front of St. Brennan’s a short while later. Father Keating helped Gethsemane out of the car.
“Thanks again for the ride, Fath—Tim,” she said.
“I meant it about the groceries.”
“And I meant it about not troubling yourself.”
“How about a compromise? Borrow my bicycle. Keep it for the length of your stay, and I won’t worry about you walking at all hours. She’s a lovely machine, a Pashley Parabike, hunter green with a wicker handlebar basket. A gift from my mother when I got my first parish.”
“Won’t you need it?” Gethsemane asked.
“Alas, no.” Father Keating patted his knees. “Messrs. Arthur Itis and Rumy Tism have cured me of the habit. Poor old Bess sits hidden away in the garden shed dreaming of being ridden through hill and dale. Do her good to get out. I’d be happy to see you ride her.”
“All right.” A cool breeze rushed past Gethsemane’s cheek. She pulled her coat collar tighter. “Autumn’s good bike riding weather. I’ll come by church later and pick her up.”
Father Keating tipped his cap. “Now off to turn some sinners away from the road to perdition. Wish me luck.” He headed off toward the chapel.
Gethsemane called after him. “Say a prayer for me while you’re at it.” She looked up at the four-story brick classroom building and found the music room’s windows. A breeze brushed her cheek again. “Lord knows I’m going to need it.”
A twig snapped in the distance. Gethsemane turned to see a dark-haired boy and a blonde girl beneath a tree, close enough for her to identify the bespectacled boy as one of the orchestra students—something O’Brien—but too far away to hear their words. The boy held a leaf, brilliant red, as though it was the actual jewel with whom it shared its color. The girl accepted it with the same reverence and slipped it into her coat pocket. They smiled then dropped their gazes. Did Eamon and Orla behave that way once upon a time, when they first realized their childhood friendship had blossomed into something more?
The boy and girl looked up at Gethsemane simultaneously, as though she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. The girl’s startling green eyes—where had Gethsemane seen them before?—locked onto Gethsemane’s for a second then the girl darted off across the quad. Before Gethsemane could call to him, the boy ran off in the opposite direction, toward the dorms. Young love. When had she last felt that way? She shook her head. No matter. No time for romance. Time to concentrate on practical matters, like breakfast and rag-tag orchestras and reputation repair.
Gethsemane stood in front of the century-old red brick Dunmullach post office during her lunch hour, clutching the letter she’d written asking for a loan. A backup plan never hurt.
She paused inside the post office entrance and scanned the lobby for a mail slot. Something hit her in the back, nearly knocking her over. A fat, balding, red-faced man swore as he struggled to squat to pick up several envelopes scattered on the floor.
“Watch where yer goin’,” the man said.
Who’d bumped into whom? She shoved her letter in her coat pocket. “Let me help.” She read the name on the return address, “Declan Hurley.”
“Yeah. What of it?”
He snatched the envelopes from Gethsemane’s hand.
“You’re the police officer who investigated Eamon and Orla McCarthys’ deaths.”
“So?”
Gethsemane took in Hurley’s close-set eyes and over-round cheeks. A childhood image popped into her head: the cartoon pig advertising the local BBQ joint on billboards in her hometown. “May I talk to you about your investigation?”
“No you may not talk to me, about anything.” Hurley shouldered her. “Out of my way.”
Gethsemane fell ba
ck, banging her head against a row of mailboxes. Other postal patrons turned to stare. Gethsemane winced and called after Hurley, “Why didn’t you check Eamon McCarthy’s alibi for the time of his wife’s murder?”
Hurley spun. “What are you gettin’ at?”
He radiated meanness the way Eamon radiated colors. “I’m not getting at anything, Mr. Hurley,” Gethsemane said, “Pathétique” playing in her ear. “I just asked a question. Eamon McCarthy had an alibi for the time of his wife’s murder. Why didn’t you check it?”
“I heard ya. It’s a damned stupid question and it’s none of yer damned business.” Hurley could have intimidated the Pope into confessing to the McCarthy murders, plus Kennedy and the Lindbergh baby.
Gethsemane remembered her eldest sister’s advice. Anytime you’re facing down a big dog act like you’re bigger.
“I would think Eamon’s alibi was a matter of public record. Maybe murder investigations are conducted differently back in the States.”
“Yeah, mebbe they are. ’Round here people leave the question-asking to the guards.”
“Because the guards ’round here ask the right questions of the right people?”
Hurley moved fast, stopping with his face inches from Gethsemane’s. “I did my job.” He shook a beefy finger under her nose. A millimeter closer and she could’ve bitten him. “Who are you to say I didn’t?”
Gethsemane wiped onion-scented spittle from her cheek. “I’m sure you did your job to the best of your ability, Mr. Hurley. But you haven’t answered my question. Why didn’t you verify Eamon’s alibi?”
“Alibi,” Hurley spat. “I had a witness put McCarthy in the area in plenty of time to throw his wife off a cliff.”
“A reliable witness, I’m sure.”
“Reliable enough for me. Eamon McCarthy killed his wife and then offed himself.” The beefy finger folded into a beefier fist which hovered near Gethsemane’s chin. “Case closed.”
Bluff, bluff, bluff. Most dogs were all bark. “I hear the police department’s opened a new cold case unit. Maybe you should let the cold case detectives look at your notes from the McCarthy investigation. A second set of eyes never hurts.” Gethsemane leaned closer. She forced herself not to gag on the stench of sweat and stale cigarette smoke. “Even the best of us miss things.”
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