“I bet the view’s amazing.”
“’Tis. When it’s clear you can see halfway to forever. When the fog’s in you feel like you’re floating on clouds.” Eamon passed a hand through the stair’s iron railing. “I used to come up here all the time as a lad. I’d drag Orla and Peg with me and we’d play pirates or explorers or some such game. Sometimes we’d picnic on the cliffs. Lighthouse was pretty rundown then. Ma’d blow a fuse at me for coming up here, especially with the girls, convinced one of us would fall to our death.” His aura turned yellow. “Ironic.”
Orla died near the lighthouse. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what it was like finding my wife dead? How I felt when I saw her lying broken on the rocks?” Eamon closed his eyes. The yellow aura took on a blue tinge. “No, I don’t.”
Subject change. “Sounds like you, Orla, and Pegeen were close as kids.”
“Thick as thieves as they say. Orla was the glue who held me and Peg together. An antidote to my temper and a balm to Peg’s pain. She no doubt saved us from bad ends: me from jail for reefin’ some git who’d set me off, Peg from an institution for—well, thanks to Orla, it didn’t happen.”
“Peg’s pain?”
“Father abandoned her, mother and sister had mental and legal problems, Peg served as primary caretaker for both. Neither of them appreciated Peg’s efforts. Villagers snickered behind her back. Peg dealt with a lot from a young age. She built a shell around herself, studded it with bristles.”
“If you don’t let anyone near you, no one can hurt you. What about you? What stoked the fires of your temper?”
Eamon chuckled as red edged out the yellow and blue. “My musical genius. Aren’t all musical geniuses hot-blooded and mercurial? It’s part of our charm.”
“Charm’s not the word I’d have chosen.” The light from the window dimmed. “Time to head back down. I need to get supper and I have some lesson plans to write.”
“Race you.”
“Funny.” Gethsemane’s foot landed on something small and hard. “An earring.” She turned the turquoise bauble over in her hand. “Orla’s? How’d it get up here?”
“Not Orla’s. How do you think it got up here? The door’s never locked. Pirates and explorers aren’t the only games people play at Carrick Point.”
Colm showed up late for orchestra rehearsal.
“Again,” Gethsemane said as he took his time joining the other violins. She waited for the class to settle then resumed auditions. Her head hurt. She massaged her temples as the next boy executed a technically competent but uninspired selection from the first movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3. Talent alone wouldn’t win the All-County. She needed a soloist with passion to pull off a McCarthy concerto. Eamon’s compositions were notorious for arousing emotion. Some women even claimed listening to a McCarthy piece brought them to—
“Dr. Brown?”
“Sorry, Ruairi, go ahead.”
Boys snickered as Ruairi fumbled his sheet music. He pushed up his glasses, positioned his violin…
And played the violin solo from fifth movement of Bernstein’s “Serenade, after Plato: Symposium” so beautifully Gethsemane dug her nails into her palms to keep from crying. Every trace of awkwardness vanished as Ruairi became one with his music.
Silence followed Ruairi as he resumed his seat. He wiped his glasses on his sweater and stared at the floor.
Colm Nolan took his place at the music stand. No fumbling. No snickering. He shouldered his violin and raised his bow in a fluid motion and played a cadenza from Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Scheherazade.”
Gethsemane reminded herself to breathe. Transcendent. Genius. Colm brought forth the voice of God from his strings. The headache dissipated. She had her featured soloist. Ruairi’d make a fine concertmaster. St. Brennan’s actually had a chance of bringing home a trophy.
Gethsemane stood at the foot of the staircase leading to the Dunmullach public library’s second level, where they housed their music collection. She closed her eyes and inhaled the almond-vanilla smell of old books, one of her favorite scents. She trailed her hand along the rail as she climbed the stairs, wood and marble both worn smooth by generations of visitors. Had they come to check out a recording of Eamon’s music? Or a volume of Orla’s poetry? Had one of them murdered the McCarthys?
She approached a smartly-dressed woman seated behind a semi-circular desk through an arched entryway. The brass sign at the woman’s elbow read Mrs. Toibin, Head Music Librarian.
The woman looked up from her computer monitor. “Ah, you’re Dr. Brown, new music director up at St. Brennan’s. Hope the twins aren’t acting too much the maggot. Have the guards found your luggage yet?”
Eamon hadn’t exaggerated Dunmullach’s gossip mill. “No, ma’am, not yet.”
The librarian eyed Gethsemane’s pink suit. “That’s a lovely outfit. One of Orla’s?”
“Yes.” Small villages in Ireland were as bad as small towns in Virginia. “Teague brought some of her things over.”
“It’s quite fetching on you.”
“Thank you. Lucky Orla and I were about the same size.”
Mrs. Toibin shifted in her chair. “Now then, how may I help you? I’m sure you didn’t come by on your half day to talk fashion.”
“Eamon McCarthy.”
“What about him?”
Gethsemane caught herself in time to keep from saying, “I need evidence to prove an incompetent cop and a malignant thug set him up for murder.” She drummed her fingers on the desk while she fashioned a plausible lie. “I’m studying his later works, particularly his last piece, his sonata, ‘Jewel of Carraigfaire’.”
“His masterpiece in my opinion. Did you know he composed it for Orla? For her birthday. Her last as it turned out. Eamon’s last composition too.” She jumped up, nearly heading Gethsemane in the nose. “We have a complete collection of recordings of Eamon’s work. Emanuel Ax performing ‘Etude for Piano in C Major’, Hilary Hahn performing ‘String Quartet in A Minor’, Vladimir Horowitz performing ‘Nocturnes’, Leonard Bernstein conducting ‘Symphony Number 7 in B-flat Minor’. And, of course, recordings made by Eamon himself.”
Gethsemane followed her toward shelves packed with CDs. “How well did you know Eamon?”
“Quite well. We were at school together. I was two years ahead of him. My sister was in his class. All of us girls had fierce crushes on Eamon. But even then we knew he’d end up with Orla.” She blinked several times and wiped her eye with the back of her hand before continuing. “None of us could quite believe what happened.”
Gethsemane whispered, “Do you really think he killed his wife then committed suicide?”
“He must have, mustn’t he? Lost that famous temper of his, pushed Orla to her death, then poisoned himself, overcome with remorse by what he’d done.”
“But he loved Orla. Deeply.”
“Maybe he loved her too much. Some men do, you know.”
Gethsemane put her face near the librarian’s. “But what if Eamon didn’t murder Orla? What if someone else killed her?”
“And what, framed Eamon?”
Gethsemane nodded.
“Who’d do such a thing? The McCarthys hadn’t any enemies.” She cocked her head and thought a moment. “Well, Orla hadn’t, anyway. A true angel. Everyone adored her. Prettiest girl in the village. Smartest, too. And such a sense of adventure. She’d lead Eamon and Pegeen on what she called ‘Grand Expeditions.’ They’d roam the cliffs collecting specimens—flowers and rocks and things. Orla would display their finds in class next day and tell fantastic stories about their exploits. When they weren’t exploring, the three of them would climb up to the top of the lighthouse—none of the rest of us were brave enough to go up there—and scout the bay for pirates and sea monsters. They spent all
their time together, the three of them.” Mrs. Toibin waved a hand. “But you’re not interested in ancient history. You’re here about music.”
Music. What secrets hid in the melody, the harmony, the notes themselves? Maybe the coded name of the killer? Ridiculous. Eamon couldn’t have named his killer before he was murdered. Gethsemane hurried to catch up.
“Eamon’s entire oeuvre.” The librarian swept her arms at shelves on either side of them. “All of the definitive performances by the world’s leading musicians—Fyodorov, Kaminski, Ivanova, Bergich—as well as Eamon’s own recordings. But,” she punctuated her words with a finger, “perhaps you’d rather see Eamon perform.”
“See?”
“I’ll bet you’re too young to have had the privilege of seeing Eamon perform live.”
Gethsemane laughed.
“I may not be as young as you think. I did see Eamon McCarthy perform live once, a few years before he died. Debussy at the Peabody in Washington, D.C. I was seven. My first concert. My grandfather took me.”
“Ah, so you know.” She nodded as if Gethsemane belonged to the same secret society. “Unfortunately, I can’t summon Eamon’s ghost to give another concert performance—”
Gethsemane coughed.
“But I can offer you the next best thing to a live performance. The library owns more than three dozen concert videotapes, a recent gift from one of the Morris heirs, God rest their souls.” Mrs. Toibin bowed her head for a moment. “There was a nasty, drawn out legal battle over the estate. Long lost relations popped up on three or four continents. When the courts finally settled their affairs a fourth cousin in Canada ended up with several boxes of photos and videos. I guess he was a bit chuffed about his legacy because he left the boxes in storage for donkey’s years. His daughter finally got ’round to sorting through them. Turns out one of the Morris twins was a fan of Eamon’s as well as a keen videographer.”
Gethsemane recalled a boy in the newspaper photo holding a video camera.
Mrs. Toibin continued. “He recorded many of Eamon’s performances. The fourth cousin’s daughter, an archivist, thought we might appreciate having the tapes and shipped them to us.”
Videotapes. Gethsemane snapped her fingers. She remembered watching a movie from some years ago, when she’d had nothing else to do while snowed in at a Denver hotel, something with Kellie Martin on The Women’s Network. A detective identified a singer’s killer by studying the audience in concert footage. The killer—a stalker—showed up in every film. An obsessed fan might kill your wife…
“Dr. Brown?”
Gethsemane hoped her smile didn’t appear over-eager. “Mrs. Toibin, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do right now other than look at those tapes.”
Ten minutes later, the librarian set a stack of videos next to Gethsemane in front of a video monitor. She showed Gethsemane how to operate the attached VCR. “I wish we had the funds to transfer these to DVD. Or at least the staff to properly catalog them.”
“I’m just glad you have them,” Gethsemane said. “St. Brennan’s has gotten rid of everything Eamon McCarthy-related.”
“What purpose does that serve? Getting rid of Eamon’s works won’t bring Orla or him back. Eamon was a brilliant composer and gifted musician, regardless of—whatever. Discarding his work only compounds the tragedy. Let me know if you find anything exciting. Haven’t had time to look through the tapes myself.”
Mrs. Toibin made her excuses and left to go assist a woman whose infant was using a Bob Dylan CD as a teething ring. Gethsemane lifted a tape from the stack—Eamon performing Debussy at the Orenburg Opera House—and loaded it into the machine. She put on headphones and pressed play. Eamon sprang to life on the monitor’s screen. His long, sinewy fingers flew over the Steinway keyboard as Debussy’s “Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir” filled Gethsemane’s headphones. She was seven years old again, clutching her grandfather’s hand with her right and the concert program with her left, sitting motionless on the edge of a mauve velvet seat, her patent-leather-clad feet dangling inches above the theater floor.
After Debussy came Haydn with the New York Philharmonic, then Tchaikovsky, Sousa, and Berlin at a Fourth of July concert with the Boston Pops. The Anchorage Symphony Orchestra world premiere of one of Eamon’s own compositions, “An Fhuaim Agus An Fury,” followed. All thoughts of scanning the footage for shots of potential stalkers in the audience evaporated as Gethsemane lost herself in the music.
She removed the headphones just as the library’s clock chimed. The four thirty warning. One half hour until closing. Gethsemane shuffled through the remaining tapes, hoping to find some Beethoven to wrap up the day. She held up the next to last tape in the stack and stared. On the label:
“Jewel of Carraigfaire”
Morris Farewell Concert
Dublin, Ireland
The date? Thirty-one October, twenty-five years ago. Eamon’s last performance. The Morris boy. The “keen videographer” who recorded Eamon’s concerts. Of course he would have recorded Eamon’s farewell gift to his family. Her pulse quickened and she cursed as she fumbled the tape into the player. She took a deep breath to slow her heart rate, replaced the headphones, and pressed play. Eamon reappeared on screen. She caught the faint scent of leather and soap. She glanced around. No one there except other library patrons gathering their belongings. Gethsemane watched and listened to Eamon play his sonata, the music he’d composed for the one he loved best, as a gift for the friends seated only a few feet away from him, their faces enraptured. The piece ended and Eamon began to play Beethoven. Gethsemane fast-forwarded to the end of the tape. The time stamp lit up in a corner of the frame. Ten thirty p.m. Orla died around midnight November first. If Eamon McCarthy was playing the piano in Dublin at ten thirty p.m. on Halloween, could he make it back to Dunmullach in time to murder his wife at midnight on All Saints’ Day?
Someone tapped Gethsemane on the shoulder. Gethsemane jumped, knocking several tapes to the floor. She turned to see Mrs. Toibin stooping to pick up the fallen videos. Gethsemane bent to help.
Once the videos had been restored to order on the table, Gethsemane asked, “How far is it from Dublin to Dunmullach? Driving? Time wise?”
The other woman thought for a few seconds.
“Oh, I’d say about four hours. Maybe more if you hit traffic in Dublin.”
“Even if you were speeding?”
The librarian laughed. “My son, bless his soul, who’s notorious for his driving, has made the trip in three and a half hours. No one’s beaten his record.”
Gethsemane curled her toes. She felt like doing a happy dance. “So if you were in Dublin at half past ten there’s no way you could be on the road up to Carrick Point before midnight.”
“Half ten in the morning?”
“No, ten thirty at night.”
“Not unless you’d managed to get hold of one of those transporter things they use on Star Trek. Or Dr. Who loaned you his Tardis.”
“No matter who said they saw your car,” Gethsemane said under her breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.” She offered her hand. “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you very much. You’ve been more helpful than I can say.”
“You found what you needed, then?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gethsemane said. She didn’t add, “Proof that Eamon McCarthy’s no murderer.”
A short bike ride later, Gethsemane caught Inspector O’Reilly in the parking lot of the garda station. He wore his fedora but carried his suit jacket over his arm.
“I was just on my way home, Dr. Brown.” He tried to side-step past her.
She blocked his path. “This will only take a minute.”
O’Reilly side-stepped in the other direction. “If you’ll come by the station i
n the morning—”
Gethsemane blocked him again. “Half a minute.”
O’Reilly sighed and readjusted his jacket. “Go on.”
“Eamon McCarthy couldn’t have killed his wife.”
“Did I mention it was late?” O’Reilly stepped forward. His Oxfords—brown leather this time, but just as expensive-looking as the monkstraps—missed her toe by an inch.
Gethsemane caught sandalwood and clove again. She held up both hands. “Hear me out. Please.”
Another sigh. “Talk fast.”
“I have proof Eamon couldn’t have killed his wife.”
“Show me.”
“I can’t show you—”
“Dr. Brown—” O’Reilly hooked his jacket over a shoulder with one hand and fished in his pants pocket with the other. “The only reason I’m not arresting you for obstructing an officer of An Garda Síochána is because I’m too tired to do the paper work.” He pulled out a key fob. “Now if you’ll please excuse me—”
“The proof is at the library. On videotape.”
O’Reilly paused with his thumb on the key fob. “Videotape?”
“I just watched a videotape of Eamon McCarthy’s last performance. The one he gave in Dublin the night Orla McCarthy died.” Gethsemane waited. O’Reilly said nothing. “It was a live performance, for friends moving to Africa. One of them recorded it.”
“And?”
“And the time stamp on the videotape says ten thirty. Ten thirty p.m. On October thirty-first. In Dublin. Four hours away from Dunmullach.”
“Three hours and fifty-two minutes.” O’Reilly put the key fob back in his pocket.
“Too far away to make it up to Carrick Point in time to throw your wife off a cliff at midnight, November one,” Gethsemane said. “Even if Eamon left his friends’ house right after the concert, he wouldn’t have made it home before two thirty. Orla was dead by then.”
Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1) Page 10