O’Reilly pushed his hat back on his head, closed his eyes, and massaged the bridge of his nose.
Gethsemane counted to five. “I know it’s late, Inspector. You’ve worked hard. Your feet hurt. Pizza delivery’s on the way, beer waits in the fridge, the game’s on TV, and I’m a pain in the ass.” O’Reilly kept his eyes closed. “But I’m a pain in the ass who’s just seen a video that exonerates a man of murder. Murder, Inspector. Doesn’t that rate a look?”
“Tomorrow.” O’Reilly opened his eyes. “Tomorrow I will go to the library and watch the videotape. It better be there.”
Gethsemane assured him it would be. Mrs. Toibin had promised to safeguard it.
“Fine,” O’Reilly said. “But right now—” He pulled out his key fob again. “I’m going home. You should do the same.” A pointed look made Gethsemane move out of his way. “Playing detective on top of your teaching duties must be exhausting.” O’Reilly settled into the driver’s seat. “By the way, my feet don’t hurt because I wear good shoes, a tip I picked up from Da. And it’s osso buco and ruffino I’ll be havin’, not pizza and beer.” He slammed the door and sped away.
On her way home from the garda station, Gethsemane stopped her bicycle at the turn-off to Carrick Point Road, little more than a rocky, serpentine path leading uphill to nowhere except Carraigfaire cottage and the lighthouse. She listened. Only her own breathing and a desolate wind howling off the cliffs. Light from the Mad Rabbit and Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows shone in the far distance. No cars or pedestrians passed by. Little chance Jimmy Lynch or anyone would just “happen” along and see—
Something blindsided Gethsemane. The object hit her full force in the ribs and knocked her to the ground before she had time to register pain. She lay still on her back for several seconds watching the reflection of moonbeams on clouds. One cloud reminded her of her college roommate’s cat. She pinched herself. Focus. After a manual survey verified her neck bones remained in a straight line and her scalp remained in one piece she turned her head.
The Pashley lay on the ground, front wheel still spinning. The lower half of the thing that hit her lay beneath the bike’s rear wheel. Its upper half clawed at the bike, trying to disengage yards of fabric from the wheel’s spokes. The thing muttered to itself. It pushed a disheveled mass of hair to one side, uncovering a woman’s face.
Gethsemane scrambled to her feet and went to assist. She freed the fabric—the folds of a voluminous skirt—from the wheel and lifted the bike off the woman’s legs.
“Are you all right?” she asked as the woman got to her feet.
The woman’s eyes darted from side to side as she spun in a slow circle, arms outstretched as if to keep something away from her.
“Where is she? Did you see where she went? Where is she?”
“Where is who?” Gethsemane looked around. “We’re the only ones here.”
“It was her. I saw her. I know it was her.” The woman grabbed the bicycle with both hands and held her face an inch from Gethsemane’s. “Why won’t she leave me alone?”
Gethsemane stepped back and pulled the Pashley toward her chest. The woman held on. Her strength surprised Gethsemane.
“Why won’t who leave you alone?” Gethsemane tugged at the bike a few times then braced herself and yanked it out of the woman’s grasp. “I’m the only other person here. You ran into me. We fell. Do you remember?”
“It was her. She made me do it.”
Gethsemane leaned forward to get a better look at the woman. She appeared to be in her sixties. Her tangled gray hair hung in unwashed strings to her waist. Her bony hands ended in long spider fingers, the kind that reminded Gethsemane of fairy tale witches. A pale dress with a high collar, long skirt, and long sleeves concealed everything between her gaunt face and dirty bare feet peeping beneath the hem. The seamstress must have used the entire bolt of fabric.
“I’m Gethsem—”
The woman interrupted. “I know who you are.”
“Right, the whole town knows,” Gethsemane said. “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss—”
“Sullivan.” The woman drew herself up to her full height, several inches taller than Gethsemane. “Miss Nuala Sullivan of the Skibbereen Sullivans, daughter of the famed Joseph Sullivan.”
The name rang a bell. One of the women from the bench in front of the post office. Gethsemane imagined her with clean, combed hair. Then she recalled the poster in the theater. “Sullivan the Magnificent? The illusionist?”
“The magician!” Nuala pounced.
Gethsemane blocked her with the bicycle.
“Joseph Sullivan had a gift.” Nuala drew herself up to her full height again and looked down her nose at Gethsemane. “I have it too. I’m touched.”
“So I see.” Gethsemane kept the bike between them. “Do you need help, Miss Sullivan?”
Nuala tensed. “Help?”
“Medical attention. The accident. Are you injured?”
Nuala patted her arms and legs. She relaxed. “No.” As if someone had flipped a switch she bowed her head and meekly looked up at Gethsemane through snarls of hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run into you.”
Gethsemane forced a smile. “No harm done. Bike’s still in one piece. So am I.”
“She made me do it.”
“I didn’t see anyone else. Who do you mean?”
Nuala looked over her shoulder and whispered, “Orla.”
“Orla? Orla McCarthy?”
“Shhh.”
Nuala held a finger to her lips.
Gethsemane lowered her voice. “Orla…McCarthy…made you run into me?”
Nuala nodded.
“But Orla McCarthy’s dead.”
“Shhh.” Nuala held the finger to her lips again. “She’ll hear you.”
“I think she knows she’s dead.”
Nuala rolled her eyes. “I know that. I’m not stupid.”
No, just nuts. “Why would a dead woman make you run into me, or anyone, on an isolated road at night?”
“She’s punishing me.”
“Why?”
“Can’t talk about it.” Nuala’s hand disappeared into her skirt and brought a palm-sized leather book from beneath its folds. She opened the book and read aloud.
The light of God surrounds me.
The love of God enfolds me.
The power of God protects me.
The presence of God watches o’er me.
Wherever I am, God is.
All is well.
The book disappeared back into her skirt. She spun in a slow circle again. “It’s all right. She’s gone now.”
“Oh. Good.” Gethsemane climbed on the bicycle. “If you’re okay, I think I’ll be going too.”
“It’s been lovely meeting you.” Nuala grabbed Gethsemane’s hand.
“Um, likewise?” Gethsemane tried to pull free from Nuala’s ice cold grasp.
Nuala squeezed her hand tighter. “Tell him it wasn’t my fault. She kept them apart.”
Gethsemane struggled.
Nuala held on. “She was wrong to do it. They should be together. Tell him!”
“I’ll tell him. It wasn’t your fault.”
Nuala released Gethsemane’s hand. “So lovely. We must have tea sometime.”
Gethsemane sped up Carrick Point Road. Halfway up the hill, Nuala called her name. She didn’t look back.
“Eamon! Eamon! Where are you?”
Eamon materialized in the hallway in front of Gethsemane. “Stop shouting. I—” His eyes widened. “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?” Gethsemane looked down. Her skirt hem hung loose. Black smudges marked her shins and knees. An abrasion on her palm oozed blood.
“Your face too.
”
Gethsemane wiped her cheek. “I had an accident. It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing. Are you all right? Do you need to go to A and E?”
“No, I’m fine.” Gethsemane waved her hands. “Listen, listen.”
“What?”
“I did it. I proved you didn’t kill your wife.”
“Did the accident involve a head injury?”
“I’m serious.” Gethsemane marched through Eamon, ignoring the buzz in her bones and his roar of expletives, into the study and poured bourbon. She raised the glass. “Here’s to me. I did it. I rock.” She slammed her drink.
Eamon appeared behind her. “D’ya want to slow down and tell me what you’re talking about?”
“I,” Gethsemane pointed to her chest, “confirmed your,” she pointed at Eamon, “alibi for the time of your wife’s death. Confirmation of the iron clad variety, thank you very much. I found proof you were performing for the Morris family in Dublin at ten thirty p.m., too late to have gotten back to Dunmullach in time to kill your wife.”
“What proof?”
“Videotape. One of the Morris boys recorded the entire concert.”
“Video? You’re telling me there’s a videotape of the performance?”
“Yep. Color, audio, time stamp. The whole bit. And I found it. I’m surprised you didn’t notice the camera.”
A whiskey glass exploded against a wall. Eamon radiated cerulean. “I notice nothing except the music when I perform.”
“What’s with the flying glassware? This is good news. Shouldn’t you be glowing pink?”
“I don’t glow bloody pink.”
Gethsemane caught the next glass midair and set it on the bar.
“If you found the bloody video there’s no excuse for Hurley not finding it.” Eamon shone navy. “The whacker didn’t fecking look.”
“Gee, thanks, Irish. If I found it? You mean right after I learned to chew gum?”
“I didn’t mean it that way. Hurley was a bloody guard. At least he claimed to be. It was his job to investigate. He should have found that tape years ago. He was too drunk and lazy to do his effing job.”
“Well, O’Reilly will find it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Why not tonight?”
Gethsemane flopped on the sofa with a fresh drink. “O’Reilly was tired and hungry. He’d had a long day. Besides, the library was closed.”
“Tired? He was tired? Doesn’t he think I’ve been tired of waiting? Twenty-five years! Why didn’t you—”
“Hold on. First of all, O’Reilly doesn’t know you’re waiting. I had enough trouble getting him to listen to me without bringing up ghosts. Secondly, I can’t force O’Reilly to do anything. I practically shanghaied him in the parking lot to get him to hear me out about the tape. He promised to watch it tomorrow. Once he does—” She raised her glass. “Bingo. You’re in the clear and O’Reilly can get to work finding Orla’s real murderer.”
Eamon sat next to Gethsemane. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Hurley’s not here for me to blast, so I’m taking it out on you. This is the best news I’ve had since Orla agreed to marry me. Drink one for me.”
Gethsemane obliged. “Something else.”
“You found proof I didn’t off myself.”
“No, not that. It’s about my accident. Guess who I ran into?”
“You mean literally?”
“Yes. Well, no. Literally, she ran into me. Nuala Sullivan.”
“Whoo hoo. There goes all kinds of crazy for ya. She didn’t try to set you on fire, did she?”
Gethsemane frowned. “Set me on—No.”
“So how’d you meet the infamous Miss Sullivan?”
“Infamous?”
“Whenever anything catches fire mysteriously, the guards check to see if Nuala’s been playing with matches again.”
“She crashed into me at the foot of Carrick Point Road. I didn’t notice any incendiary devices. Get this. Apparently, Orla chased her.”
“What?”
“Or maybe she chased Orla. Kind of hard to tell. The point is, she claims she’s in contact with Orla.”
Eamon stood. “She’s not the full shilling, that one. Never has been. Her sister’s spent half her life trying to keep her under control. I’m sure she was having hallucinations.”
“Just because she’s mentally ill doesn’t mean she doesn’t see ghosts.”
“That header no more sees Orla than I see green men on Mars.” The blue aura returned. Eamon’s hair sparked.
Gethsemane smelled leather. “So what if Nuala Sullivan sees your wife’s ghost?”
Eamon bent nose-to-nose with Gethsemane. The leather and soap aroma intensified. “Don’t you think I’ve tried to find Orla? In twenty-five years with nothing to do but wait don’t you think I looked for her? If Orla—my Orla—was going to come back to someone, she’d come back to me, not some—some—fecking—” Eamon vanished mid-expletive.
Gethsemane muttered all the way to the bar. “Fecking temperamental Irish…no appreciation…jealous of a head case.” She took the Waddell and Dobb back to the sofa where she stretched out and closed her eyes.
She was asleep before the bourbon returned to the bar, the afghan tucked itself around her, and the pages of a newly-composed violin concerto arranged themselves on the coffee table.
Six
Gethsemane woke from a nightmare as the jangle of the telephone competed with Haydn’s “Symphony No. 94” to see which could give her the worst headache. She tumbled from the sofa and blundered to the kitchen, disentangling herself from the afghan as she went. She yelled at Eamon—why was he playing the piano at this hour anyway?—to be quiet, intensifying her headache, and lifted the receiver. She managed a “Hello?” before the throbbing got the better of her and forced her to sit on the floor.
“Good morning, Dr. Brown.” Billy McCarthy’s voice sounded far away on the other end of the line. Faint chatter went on in the background.
Only inky blackness shone through the kitchen window. “Where are you?”
“New York. It’s about eleven o’clock at night here.”
Which meant about four o’clock in the morning in Dunmullach. Someone must be dying. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Sorry to bother you at such an unholy hour, but I need something.”
Gethsemane’s head bobbed as she mumbled.
“Dr. Brown?”
“Yes.” Her head snapped up. “I’m here.”
“I need you to fax some papers. You’ll find them in the study, in a safe behind a watercolor of the Cliffs of Moher.”
“Now?”
“No, by nine a.m. New York time. That’s two p.m. there.”
Fax papers from a safe in the study to New York. Gethsemane struggled to make sense of Billy’s words. She pinched herself. She was awake. Was Billy drunk? His speech didn’t sound slurred. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“I need some papers. The deed to the cottage and lighthouse, Uncle Eamon’s will, and tax receipts.”
Deed, will, tax receipts. “Pathétique” sounded high alert and pushed aside fatigue and headaches. The hour excused her bluntness. “What for?”
Silence. Gethsemane imagined Billy debating telling her to mind her own business. Finally, he laughed, a forced rather than reassuring sound. “I met a fella out here who wants to look at them. No big deal.”
Gethsemane glanced out the window again. A star twinkled. “No big deal” occurred during normal business hours, not four o’clock in the morning. Tchaikovsky in her head drowned out renewed Haydn from the music room.
“Is that music?” Billy asked.
“What? No. Yes. Radio. My alarm just went off.”
“I won’t
keep you. I expect you’ll be wanting a cup of coffee and a hearty breakfast before school, yeah?”
“Yeah.” That and time to figure out what was up.
“You’ll fax the papers?”
“I don’t know the combination to the safe.”
Billy gave it to her as well as his hotel fax number. He added, “Mark the fax attention: Hank Wayne.”
Gethsemane dropped the phone. “Did you say Hank Wayne?”
“Yes. He’s the fella wants to see the documents.” Gethsemane said nothing. Billy expounded. “I’d have you send them to my attention, but I have to fly up to Boston for a meeting first thing in the morning. Wayne’s going to look everything over while I’m up there and we’ll talk over dinner when I get back.” Gethsemane remained silent. Billy reassured her, “It’s all right. Wayne knows to be on the lookout for the fax. You don’t have to worry about it falling into the wrong hands.”
Something else worried Gethsemane as she agreed to Billy’s request and hung up. She’d spent half her life traveling on tours and to competitions. She’d stayed in a lot of hotels. Hank Wayne’s logo branded many of them—the tackiest. A vision of Carraigfaire’s hardwood floors replaced with hideous pink carpet and its walls covered in matching pink faux wood paneling popped into her head. She shuddered.
Eamon appeared beside her. “Didn’t you hear me, darlin’? I asked who was on the phone.”
“The prophet of doom.”
“Are you still drunk?”
Gethsemane walked through Eamon, hardly noticing the sizzle along her skin as she headed for the safe. Disregarding his comments about people who barged through other’s chests, she retrieved the legal documents and took them to the couch. Eamon materialized next to her. “Why were you playing the piano so early?” she asked as she read the terms of Eamon’s will.
“Couldn’t sleep. Something’s worrying me. I always play the piano when I can’t sleep. Drove Orla mad.”
“Ghosts sleep?”
“Not like when we were alive. We—it’s complicated. Easier to just say ‘sleep.’” He nodded at the papers she held. “How’d you get the combination to the safe?”
Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1) Page 11