“I didn’t miss anything,” Hurley said. Paper crinkled as his other fist closed around the envelopes Gethsemane had helped him pick up. “Case. Closed.”
Gethsemane wiped spittle from her other cheek. Some dogs bit. She heeded Tchaikovsky and shrugged again. “Case closed.”
Hurley stomped to the counter to conduct his business. Gethsemane waved to the other postal patrons, still staring, then left the building. She forgot to mail her letter.
Shouts hit Gethsemane’s ears before she reached the music room. Fight in progress. She opened the door on a semi-circle of boys cheering something in their midst. She pushed through the perimeter. Aengus—or Feargus—Toibin sat on a boy half his size, raining punches. The smaller boy tucked his hands into his armpits, protecting them from the blows. Gethsemane grabbed the Toibin twin by the wrist as he drew back his arm to deliver another punch.
“Ow! Let go!” The twin started to swing. Gethsemane tightened her grip. “That hurts!” the twin said.
“No more than you hurt him.” Gethsemane pulled the stocky redhead to his feet. “Which one is he?” she asked one of the spectators.
Aengus, his identity confirmed, tried to pull his wrist free. Gethsemane had learned a few things about breaking up fights from her brothers. She sat Aengus in a chair and kept a hand on his shoulder.
“Help him up.” She nodded at the boy on the floor.
A couple of the others helped Aengus’s victim—the boy from that morning, with the leaf and the girl—stand. The disheveled, bruised brunet wiped his bloody nose on his jacket sleeve. Someone handed him a tissue.
“Ruairi started it,” Aengus said. He tried to shake Gethsemane’s hand off his shoulder. He couldn’t.
“Ruairi O’Brien started a fight with you?” She looked from Aengus to the younger boy. Someone handed Ruairi his glasses.
“He talked shite to Feargus.” Aengus jerked his head toward his brother.
“Watch your language,” Gethsemane said.
A voice came from the rear of the crowd. “Feargus does all the talking but leaves the fighting to Aengus.”
The boys all giggled. Feargus and Aengus glared at them. The giggling stopped.
Gethsemane looked at Ruairi again. He was the smallest boy in the orchestra, smaller even than some of the boys in the lower grades. He hadn’t spoken in class other than to tell her his name and which instrument he played. Gethsemane could hardly imagine him saying hello to a boy as big as Feargus Toibin, let alone smarting off to him. She turned back to Aengus. “I don’t care what he said or to whom he said it. You’re older, bigger, and stronger than he is. You might have seriously injured him.”
Aengus stared at the floor and mumbled an apology.
The door banged opened. Colm Nolan strolled in.
“You’re late,” Gethsemane said.
“Sorry, Dr. Brown.” He didn’t look it. “Did I miss a hooley or something?”
“Or something,” one of the boys said. “You missed a fight.”
Colm strolled over to the group. “Hate to miss a good reefin’. What’s the carry-on about?”
“Aengus tried to mangle Ruairi.”
“’Cause Ruairi smarted off to Feargus.”
“’Cause Feargus blathered about your sister.”
Colm was on Feargus before Gethsemane could move. He grabbed a handful of Feargus’s shirt and twisted the collar tight. “What’d you say about Saoirse?” He twisted the shirt tighter.
Feargus clawed at his neck.
Aengus jumped up.
“You’re chokin’ him!”
Gethsemane threw out an arm and short-stopped Aengus mid-leap. He fell back into the chair. She pushed past several gaping boys and grabbed Colm’s ear. She twisted it as hard as he twisted Feargus’s collar. Colm let go of the shirt.
“Ow! You’ll rip my ear off!”
Gethsemane let him go. Colm clapped a hand to his ear, as red as the twins’ hair.
“Sit down,” Gethsemane said.
Colm stood still.
Gethsemane repeated the command. “Sit. Down.”
Every boy in the room complied.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” Gethsemane said. “This is a classroom, not a cage match.”
“He shouldn’t have talked about my sister.” Colm kept his hand over his ear.
“No, he shouldn’t have. And you shouldn’t have tried to strangle him. You’re Head Boy. Act like you warrant the responsibility.” She looked at Aengus. He stared at his shoes. “And you shouldn’t have beaten up a smaller boy for defending her.” Gethsemane looked around the class. “All of you should be ashamed. I can see why the school hasn’t won the All-County in seventy-five years.”
“We’re a right bunch of savages,” a boy said.
“I don’t know what you’ve gotten away with before I got here but it stops now. We’ve got less than two months to get ready, and I’m not going to stand in front of Cork County and be made a fool of by a bunch of unruly brats.”
“What do you care?” Colm asked. “It’s not like you’ll be staying on.”
“I’ll be staying on long enough to send you to detention—or whatever the Irish call it—for the rest of the week, Colm Nolan. You too, Toibins.”
“You can’t do that,” Feargus said.
“Want to bet?”
None of the boys moved.
“Don’t make me drag the three of you to the headmaster’s office,” Gethsemane said.
“You’d better go,” the boy closest to Aengus said. “I think she can take you.”
The twins stood first, followed by Colm. They waited for him to lead the procession out.
When they’d gone, Gethsemane said to the boy next to Ruairi, “Escort him to the nurse’s office, please. The rest of you get your instruments. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Don’t see any bloodstains.” Francis Grennan, looking less taciturn but just as wrinkled, stood in the doorway polishing his wire-rimmed glasses with his shirt tail.
Startled, Gethsemane dropped a stack of sheet music, sending papers fanning across the floor. “What do you want?” she asked him as she scooped them up.
“Heard the boys were acting the maggots,” the math teacher said, “had a bit of a kerfuffle.”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“You are woman, hear you roar.” He adjusted the glasses on his face and nodded at the papers. “What’s all that?”
“I’m trying to find something for the competition, something ‘wow’ but not so complicated the boys won’t manage it.”
“‘Chopsticks’?”
“Did you actually want something?”
“Just stopped by to see how you were getting on.”
“Fine. Sorry to disappoint you. Now if you don’t mind…”
“I don’t mind.” Francis sat on the edge of Gethsemane’s desk. She caught a whiff of his fresh, citrus-y cologne. He thumbed through a pile of music. “Beethoven, Mahler, Schubert, Schoenberg.”
“Who’s your favorite?”
“Davis.”
“Sharon or Anthony?”
“Miles.”
“Jazz fan?” Gethsemane grinned. “I’d have guessed death metal.”
Francis crossed his legs. “Bet you wish you really could find an undiscovered work by McCarthy. With that and a miracle, St. Brennan’s might take second.”
“Why are you so down on the orchestra? Or is it just me you don’t like?”
The blush on Francis’ cheeks made his eyes seem greener. “I don’t dislike you. I told you, I dislike folks swooping in all pomp and circumstance, filling the boys full of false hope, watching ’em crash and burn, then slinking off to something better first chance, leaving a mess
behind for someone else.”
“How do I convince you I’m not that person?”
“Tell Peter Nolan you’ve no interest in a job with the Philharmonia.”
“How else?”
The math teacher stood. Gethsemane put a hand on his arm. He stiffened and she withdrew it.
“Come on, Grennan. Who’d I fool if I pretended I wouldn’t knock down old ladies in the street for a dream job leading the Boston Philharmonia? But my career plans don’t include a scorched earth policy. I want to leave on a high, not sneak away in shame like the Colts out of Baltimore. I’m going to turn this orchestra into a winner and bring the trophy home to St. Brennan’s before I go.”
“Now you sound like Riordan about that damned trophy. Are you trying to soothe your wounded ego, too?”
Why was he so damned perceptive? “What do you mean ‘too’?”
“I’m talking about Riordan’s disastrous stint with the orchestra. He played clarinet when he was a student here. Got into honors orchestra based more on family connections than talent. He performed in the All-County three years running and St. Brennan’s placed last in each. The year after he left school, St. Brennan’s placed in the top six. Folks called Riordan a jinx. He never recovered from the humiliation. He’s been chasing that trophy ever since he took over as headmaster, trying to redeem himself.”
Everyone had an agenda. “Why are you so concerned about the fallout from the All-County? You teach math, not music. You like jazz, not classical. Are you related to one of the boys? Or are you that Shakespearean character who hangs around the edge of the action making pithy comments passing judgement on the foibles of others?”
“Just say I know how it feels to have someone pin all their hopes on you then be left to deal with the burden of their disappointment when you don’t measure up.”
Gethsemane’s throat tightened. He’d pinpointed the heart of her fear of going home in defeat. She warmed to him a bit, despite his moodiness. “You don’t know me so you have no reason to cut me slack but I’m asking you to give me a chance. If I don’t win, I promise I won’t leave the boys to deal with the loss by themselves. But I am going to win.” This time, the certainty wasn’t forced.
“From your lips to,” Francis raised his eyes toward the ceiling, “His ears. May I borrow some of your bravado should the need arise?” He walked to the door then paused on the threshold. “Speaking of caring about things that shouldn’t concern you, why are you investigating the McCarthy case? Word’s out you’re doing some serious digging.”
“I believe a man I admired suffered a horrific injustice. Didn’t you ever go to bat for someone you thought was wronged?”
“Once.” Francis grinned. “And here I thought you were just being nosy.”
“You say nosy like it’s a bad thing. And I prefer curious.”
“Call it as you will, it’s dangerous for an outsider. Secrets are all right in the family but we mustn’t let them outdoors.”
“What secrets are you keeping, Grennan?”
“Me? I’m an open book. A book with a worn cover and dog-eared pages,” he adjusted his over-sized jacket, “but open nonetheless. But I have poked my nose into others’ codices on occasion.”
“You? A snoop? Details, please.”
“Ah,” he raised a finger and winked, “that would be telling.” He disappeared into the hall.
Gethsemane sputtered. “That would—telling—but you—” She sank into her chair. A second later she jumped up with a scream. “Do you mind?”
“Do I mind?” Eamon asked. “Who sat on whom?”
“Keep your voice down.” Gethsemane shushed him and glanced toward the door.
“You’re the only one who can hear me, darlin’.”
“You’re not the only one who can hear me.”
“Then you’d better keep your voice down.” Eamon stretched out in her chair.
“Is this National Aggravating Males Day? I wish I’d known, I’d have bought you a card. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“You’re in a foul mood.”
“Francis Grennan stopped by to cast aspersions on my motive for taking this job. And to mess with my head.”
“Which motive? Wanting to win to impress Nolan so he’ll take you back to the States or wanting to impress Dunleavy so he’ll buy the school a new auditorium? Which they’ll name after him.”
Gethsemane twisted and turned, trying to see over her shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for the sign on my back that says, ‘Mercenary.’”
“Stop.” Eamon waved a hand. “No one blames you for trying to get out of Dunmullach. Why should you want to stay? You didn’t plan to come here. This was just the first train stop after you noticed your luggage was gone.”
“I will win this competition.” Gethsemane swept her arm across her desk, knocking over the pile of sheet music. The pages froze mid-air, then floated upwards and reassembled themselves into a neat stack.
“Leave the temper tantrums to me,” Eamon said.
“Sorry.” Gethsemane leaned against her desk. “I’m not used to things not going my way.”
“Are you referring to the theft or the situation in Cork?”
Gethsemane flushed. “How do you—”
Eamon held up his hands. “Ghosts get in on gossip, remember. We’re excellent eavesdroppers. I overheard some old music friends in Dublin. You’re quite the hot topic. Brilliant young conductor done out of a job by the boss’s bit of fluff. Never met a musician who didn’t love a scandal.”
Gethsemane pressed the heels of her hands against her temples. She was a water cooler topic. Or, worse, a happy hour topic. “I was referring to the All-County, but thank you for reminding me my life sucks.”
“Calm down. You haven’t lost the All-County yet.”
Yet. Unless…Twice, Francis mentioned an undiscovered Eamon McCarthy composition. And here was Eamon McCarthy, one of the world’s most gifted composers, sitting in her chair, so close she could lean over and touch him—
“Hey, watch where you’re putting your hand.”
Gethsemane jerked her fingers from Eamon’s nose.
“What?” he asked.
“What ‘what’?”
“I can see the wheels turning, darlin’. You’ve got a plan. Out with it.”
“Write something for St. Brennan’s to perform in the competition.”
Eamon stared at her for a full minute then laughed the same deep laugh Siobhan’s spectacle had triggered.
“I’m serious.”
More laughter.
Spell exhausted, Eamon spoke. “No.”
“Why not?”
“It won’t work, that’s why not. How would you explain the appearance of this previously unknown masterpiece?”
“I’ll say I found it in the lighthouse.”
“The competition’s little more than a month away. When would the orchestra have time to learn a piece that’s not even composed yet?”
“Write fast. You wrote ‘Requiem for a Fallen Angel’ in four weeks. You finished ‘Adagio for Two Violins’ in less time. ‘Twelve Etudes’ and ‘Arabesque Number Seven’ only took three days apiece.”
“But you need a symphony or a concerto.”
“‘Symphony Number Thirteen in B-flat Minor.’ Sixteen days.”
Eamon opened his mouth. Then closed it. “You’re damned hard to argue with.”
“Thanks, Irish, I’ll take that as a compliment. Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t think you have a chance of winning, and I don’t want my name associated with defeat.”
“Of all the arrogant—” She looked f
or something to throw. “So you think I can solve a twenty-five-year-old double murder but can’t win a high school orchestra competition?”
“One’s got nothing to do with the other. Besides, I’m not asking you to solve the murders—”
“You’re only asking me to find probably nonexistent evidence to take to the police so the police can solve the murders.”
“You’re not going to cry, are you?”
Gethsemane had never resorted to crying to get her way. Flattery, however…She stood over Eamon, her arms braced on either side of him. “If I have to enter this competition with a work by any other composer—Beethoven, Paganini, Bernstein, Copeland—St. Brennan’s has zero hope. But with an Eamon McCarthy composition, especially a world-premiere Eamon McCarthy composition, I know we can win. The sheer brilliance of your music, the genius of it, would be enough to snag the trophy, even if trained monkeys performed it. Which they won’t. The boys will pour their hearts and souls into doing justice to your composition. Their blood, too, if need be.”
“You’re full o’ shite, darlin’. You know that?”
“Will you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Eamon Padraig McCarthy, I’d kiss you if I could.”
Eamon glowed pink.
“Are you blushing?”
“’Course not. Ghosts don’t blush.” Eamon cleared his throat. “Symphony or concerto? Or funeral dirge?”
“Concerto.”
“Violin or piano?”
“Violin.”
“You’ll need a soloist.”
“One of the boys.”
“I have doubts.”
Gethsemane sat on her desk.
“Why? You have no doubts about my ability to clear your name, yet I’ve never investigated a murder. I’ve won lots of orchestra competitions.”
“I’ve got a feeling about you and the murders. Intuition. A hunch.” He dimmed. “Why did you agree to help me? Not so I’d owe you a favor.”
Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1) Page 8