Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1)

by Alexia Gordon

  “That was Billy on the phone.” Gethsemane hesitated, recalling Eamon’s outburst when she’d told him about Nuala seeing Orla’s ghost. “Promise you’ll remain calm.”

  “I realize what’s worrying me. Why’d Billy call?”

  “Ever hear of Hank Wayne?”

  Eamon shook his head.

  “Do you ever think about what will happen to this place after you’re gone? Let’s say you’re cleared of murder-suicide and you move on to another plane of existence to do whatever one does for eternity. What becomes of Carraigfaire?”

  “Have you had too much or too little bourbon? Or do you just not think straight before your first cup of coffee? You know damn well Billy’s planning a museum.”

  “Why do I try to help you?” Gethsemane, papers in hand, marched to the stairs.

  Eamon appeared in front of her. “Why did Billy call?”

  Gethsemane stood on tiptoe to look him in the eye. “Your nephew wants me to fax your will, the deed to this cottage, and tax receipts to Mr. Hank Wayne, a ‘fella’ he met in New York.”

  “Wayne’s name means something to you.”

  “Wayne’s name means horrid cookie-cutter hotels which make strip malls and industrial parks seem charming in comparison.”

  Eamon, surrounded by a yellow aura, dimmed.

  “But hey,” Gethsemane continued, “don’t worry. Billy didn’t actually say he was going to sell your beautiful centuries-old home with the billion-dollar view and priceless memories to a soulless developer with the aesthetic sensibility of a nineteen eighties televangelist’s wife. He’s only going to let him look at your private papers while he’s in another state then chat with him over dinner. So go back to your piano playing, dream up some more insults, or turn into a blue ball and break everything within a ten-mile radius. What do I care? I’m leaving.” She stomped up the stairs. Halfway up, she paused. “And don’t worry about your precious Waddell and Dobb Double-oaked. I’ll stop at the liquor store and replace what I drank.” She took the remaining stairs two at a time and slammed the bedroom door.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Gethsemane jumped at Eamon’s sudden appearance, splashing coffee down the front of her dress. She muttered curses as she went upstairs to change.

  “Orla’s green satin gabardine would look nice on you.” Eamon materialized at the foot of the bed, a hand covering his eyes.

  “Out.”

  Gethsemane clutched the coffee-stained garment to her chest.

  “I’m not looking.” He peeked between his fingers. “Besides, I’m dead.”

  Gethsemane threw a hairbrush which sailed through Eamon and clattered against a wall. “You’re the liveliest dead man I’ve ever met. I can’t change with you standing there.”

  “I’ll see you downstairs, then.” Eamon vanished, only to reappear a second later. “Don’t change. I like you the way you are.” He disappeared before the shoe reached him.

  Back in the kitchen, Gethsemane’s resolve to stay mad melted when faced with the aroma of fresh coffee and hot buttered toast.

  “I told you the green would look nice,” Eamon said as she sat across from him. “I really am sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  “I’m sorry too,” Gethsemane said around a mouthful. “I didn’t mean to set you off.”

  “’T wasn’t you. The thought of Nuala Sullivan communicating with my wife when I can’t…” Eamon shrugged. “I felt jealous, guilty.”

  “Guilty?”

  “I failed Orla. I had convinced myself the reason I couldn’t find her was because she’d passed on or crossed over or whatever. She was sitting on God’s right hand reading poetry to angels. She was happy. All I’ve ever wanted is Orla’s happiness.”

  Gethsemane set her cup down. “If Nuala sees Orla, Orla hasn’t crossed over.”

  “She’s trapped here, like me. Without me. And I can’t help her. Just like I couldn’t help her the night…” Eamon’s voice trailed off.

  Gethsemane reached for his hand. Her fingers tingled as they clasped air. “Don’t torture yourself. Granted, I’m no expert on the spirit realm, but it can’t be easy to find someone lost in it.”

  “You mean the Ghost Hunting Adventures boys haven’t invented a spectral GPS yet?”

  “And there are no social media feeds in the afterlife.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Well, maybe in Hell.”

  Eamon laughed.

  “There’s the Irish I know and love.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, darlin’.”

  “Except to school on time.”

  Gethsemane tapped her watch.

  “Before you go,” Eamon stood with her, “what did Billy want? He’s not really planning to sell, is he?”

  “He didn’t use the word ‘sell’ but I’m worried. I know Hank Wayne’s reputation. He’s on the International Heritage Preservation Society’s watch list for ruining the historical and cultural value of several properties. I can’t think of any innocent reasons why Billy would show him those documents.”

  Gethsemane followed Eamon’s gaze out the window. Sunrise bathed the cliffs in an orange-yellow glow. “Billy can’t sell. He knows Carraigfaire’s not just a house, it’s our Shangri-La, our Eden-before-the-fall.” Eamon nodded up the hill. “I composed some of my best work at the lighthouse, and Orla wrote some of her best poetry up there. Billy was dead set on a museum, investing all his time and energy into recovering our things and restoring the house. What changed?”

  “Wayne and his billions can be persuasive. I’ll see what I can find out. And I’ll see if Father Keating can tell me anything about spirit realm hookups. He owns an impressive occult library. And I’ll replace your bourbon.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Gethsemane started for the door. She almost crashed through Eamon as he materialized in front of her.

  “One more thing,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.”

  Her cheek buzzed where he kissed her.

  Gethsemane’s stomach rumbled. As sweet as it was for Eamon to fix buttered toast—her ex-fiancé never made breakfast—it wouldn’t hold her until lunch. She glanced at her watch. Enough time to swing by the faculty lounge for a muffin before class.

  She sensed something amiss as soon as she opened the door. The lights, usually left burning all day despite the protests of the eco-committee, were switched off. Gethsemane waited. No Tchaikovsky warning. She moved to turn on the lights but a hunch drew her farther into the room. Around a corner the glow from a smartphone flashlight illuminated a cluster of boys huddled near the coffee and tea station. Intent on something, they didn’t notice her until she switched on a lamp. Gasps and sheepish grins spread as the smartphone disappeared into a pocket. Gethsemane recognized the Toibin twins and one or two others from the orchestra.

  Aengus spoke first. “Morning, Miss.”

  Gethsemane crossed her arms and waited for an explanation. She eyed a box in Feargus’s hands.

  “Biscuits, Miss,” the boy said.

  She spotted a tray next to the teapot half-filled with over-sized homemade cookies. She picked one up and sniffed it. Oatmeal. “Is this faculty appreciation day? School tradition to surprise your teachers with cookies?”

  No one answered. Several boys looked at the floor. Aengus and Feargus bit their lips, Gethsemane suspected to hide smiles.

  “What’s in the cookies?” She waved one back and forth between the twins. She was a college professor’s daughter. She knew a prank when she saw one.

  Feargus spoke up. “Flour, sugar, oats—”

  Brown bits of fruit studded the oats. “Raisins?” Gethsemane asked.

  “Prunes, Miss,” one of the yo
unger boys confessed. Aengus elbowed him.

  Prunes. Nature’s Ex-Lax. She grabbed the box from Feargus and dropped the cookie in it. She held the box out. “The rest of them.”

  Aengus and Feargus stepped aside as one of the other boys dumped the tray’s contents into the container.

  Gethsemane admired a well-executed prank. Her father’s office had been in the engineering building at Bayview University. The math and engineering students often colluded to pull off feats like constructing a replica of the Eiffel Tower on the Dean’s lawn and rigging the basketball scoreboard to play Tetris. A few of their better pranks had involved cows. Prune cookies in the faculty lounge, however…

  “Boys, this stunt was old when I was your age. It’s unworthy of a St. Brennan’s lad.” She tucked the box under her arm. “Since no harm was done I’ll dispose of these and we’ll forget this happened.”

  “Thank you, Miss,” the boys said in unison.

  “But if I ever catch you again, I’ll show no mercy. Understand?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “After all,” she said in mock seriousness, “the first rule of successful pranking is don’t get caught.”

  The overhead lights snapped on without warning. Gethsemane and the boys jumped. Headmaster Riordan appeared around the corner.

  Hands on hips, he demanded to know what the boys were doing in the faculty lounge, strictly off-limits to students. When none of the boys answered he directed his question to Gethsemane.

  What to do? Rat on the boys like a responsible teacher? Or remember what life was like at their age and cover for them this once?

  “I asked them in, Headmaster.” Sympathy and secret admiration drove her decision in part. Selfishness also provided an impetus. Trouble with the headmaster might result in suspension or expulsion. She needed Aengus, Feargus, and the other musicians for the orchestra.

  “Allowing students into the lounge is highly improper, Dr. Brown.”

  “I know, sir, but I, um,” her glance fell on the box of cookies, “saw a mouse.”

  “A mouse?” Riordan looked around his feet. “Where?”

  Gethsemane held up the box. “Running across the cookies while they were laid out on the tray. Almost put my hand on him. I ran out into the hall and saw the boys passing by and asked them to find him.”

  “No luck, sir, I’m afraid,” Feargus said.

  Riordan pranced as if he feared the rodent in question might skitter across his shoe at any moment. “I’ll have the custodians in as soon as possible.”

  “And I’ll dispose of these.” Gethsemane patted the cookie box. “I’m sure no one wants cookies touched by mouse paws.”

  “Quite right,” Riordan said. “You boys go to class now.”

  The boys filed out of the lounge. Gethsemane started after them.

  “One moment.” Riordan stopped her. “Hieronymus Dunleavy will be on campus today. I’m sure he’ll want to pay you a visit, see how rehearsals are coming.”

  Several curse words flew through Gethsemane’s head. Didn’t Dunleavey have a job to go to or a trophy wife to amuse? “I look forward to seeing him,” she said. Her second lie before morning bell.

  Hieronymus Dunleavy’s timing sucked. He burst into the music room ahead of Riordan just as the timpani missed his cue, throwing off the clarinets, confusing the flutes, and sending the entire orchestra into cacophony.

  “Sounds a bit rough,” he said.

  “I’m sure this isn’t typical,” the headmaster reassured him. “Tell him, Dr. Brown.”

  Before Gethsemane could answer, Dunleavy stepped over to Colm. “Colm Nolan. You’re a head taller every time I see you. You’ve got your mother’s looks.”

  “Thank you, sir. I take that as a compliment. My mother’s beautiful.”

  Gethsemane slid between them. Did anyone else notice how tightly Colm clenched his hand? She pried his bow loose and steered him back to his seat. “Today’s the boys’ first run-through of the piece I’ve selected for the competition.”

  “And what have you chosen?” Dunleavy asked. “Beethoven? Mahler? Perhaps my favorite, Paganini?”

  “It’s meant to be a surprise.”

  Riordan’s jaw tensed.

  “But I’ll let you in on the secret.”

  “I’m an excellent secret-keeper,” Dunleavy said.

  “‘St. Brennan’s Ascendant.’”

  “I’m not familiar with the piece,” Riordan said. “One of your own compositions?”

  “No, sir, it’s a previously unknown concerto by Eamon McCarthy.”

  “My God!” Riordan exclaimed.

  “Good Lord!” Dunleavy shouted.

  “Who’s Eamon McCarthy?” one of the younger boys whispered. Aengus elbowed him.

  “Eejit,” said Feargus, also whispering. “You’ve just been playing his music.”

  “Wasn’t payin’ attention when she told us his name. Who was he?”

  “Eamon McCarthy’s the composer who lived up by the lighthouse. Threw his wife off a cliff.”

  “What’d he do that for?”

  Aengus elbowed the boy again.

  Gethsemane shushed them.

  “How can this be, Dr. Brown?” Riordan asked. “A new McCarthy concerto? He composed his last piece shortly before—” Riordan glanced at the boys.

  “He offed himself,” one said. Gethsemane’s glare silenced the ensuing giggles.

  Riordan finished his sentence. “Before his death.”

  Obfuscate, insinuate. “McCarthy gave a performance of his last known work shortly before he died. But he was renowned for his speed of composition. He wrote symphonies in days. And Carrick Point lighthouse is packed with boxes waiting to be explored.”

  “You discovered the concerto in a box in the lighthouse? Remarkable,” Dunleavy said.

  Gethsemane spread her hands and shrugged.

  “And he called this piece ‘St. Brennan’s Ascendant’?” Riordan asked.

  “Well, no,” Gethsemane said. “The title’s mine. It seemed fitting.”

  “What about his nephew, Billy? He inherited the rights to McCarthy’s work. He’d have to authorize any performance. I’ll need to speak to counsel about the legality—”

  “I spoke to Billy by phone.” Gethsemane hid her crossed fingers in a skirt pocket. “The premiere of a new piece at a prestigious competition would help future sales. And Billy’s all for anything that will benefit the community and honor his uncle’s memory.”

  Riordan clapped his hands. “A world premiere of a lost McCarthy concerto. And on the twenty-fifth anniversary of his death, the seventy-fifth anniversary of the All-County.”

  “It’ll make news if not history,” Gethsemane said.

  “McCarthy concertos are noted for the complexity of their solos.” Dunleavy looked at Colm. “You’re sure you’ve got the right soloist?”

  “I’m sure all of my musicians are up to the challenges of the piece.” Something in Dunleavy’s manner stirred a deep-seated protectiveness toward the boys, even Colm. Where had that come from?

  “I hope you’re right, Dr. Brown. St. Brennan’s is overdue for a win. I’d hate a weak link to ruin it.” He glanced at Colm again. Colm, flushed, stared at the floor.

  “They’ll be ready.” Gethsemane blocked Dunleavy’s view of Colm. “We’ll all be.”

  Dunleavy cornered Gethsemane after rehearsal. “A word about the Nolan boy.”

  “Amazing. Such impassioned playing. Not many musicians twice his age can arouse such emotion in an audience.”

  “He’s hardly Chuanyun Li.”

  Dunleavy knew Chinese violin prodigies?

  “Colm Nolan’s as close to musical genius as most people are likely to come in a lifetime. With him as soloist and Ruairi
O’Brien as concertmaster—”

  “Had you considered the O’Brien boy as soloist?”

  Was Dunleavy anti-Colm or pro-Ruairi? “Until I heard Colm play. He’s the better violinist.”

  “Marginally. Perhaps O’Brien is a bit too reticent to handle the glare of soloist spotlight. What about one of the other boys? This is honors orchestra. They wouldn’t be members if they weren’t skilled instrumentalists.”

  Anti-Colm. “Technically skilled, yes. But only Colm and Ruairi transcended technical skill to form an emotional connection with the music and translated that bond into a shared experience with listeners. Of the two, Colm did it best.” Colm’s reaction to Dunleavy in the music room flashed to mind. “Do I sense some animosity toward Colm?”

  Dunleavy bristled. “Animosity is a strong word, Dr. Brown. I’m only thinking of St. Brennan’s. You must admit, the Nolan boy is undisciplined, unreliable.”

  “I admit he’s horologically challenged.”

  “I find his playing a bit too fervent.”

  “Eamon McCarthy’s playing was downright fevered. His music demands fervent.”

  “You’ve made your decision.” Dunleavy straightened his shirt cuffs. “I hope we won’t be disappointed.”

  She heard him before she saw him. Soft humming, Beethoven’s “Symphony No. 4,” floated from behind a set of bookshelves in the otherwise deserted school library. Gethsemane followed the music to its origin—Colm. He didn’t notice her as he methodically flipped each book on the shelf so its pages faced out.

  “Looking for a bestseller, Colm? I doubt you’ll find it back here in,” Gethsemane read the label on the shelf, “transportation.”

  Colm froze, his hand on a book. “Hello, Miss. Didn’t see you.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I can explain. I was just, uh, reshelving some books left lying about.”

  “By turning their spines around so no one can read their titles? Where’s the librarian?”