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

by Alexia Gordon

  “She, uh, stepped out. There was some mix-up with some books about, uh, female stuff being delivered here instead of the, uh, girls’ school.”

  “Convenient.” First prune cookies, now this. “What is going on, Mr. Nolan?”

  “It’s Pranks Week, Miss. We have a sort of unofficial competition.”

  “How widespread is this competition? Are all the boys in on it?”

  “Practically, at least in the upper school. Some of the faculty, too.”

  “What faculty?”

  “Mr. Grennan.”

  “The math teacher?”

  “He’s held the title of Master Prankster since he was a student at St. Brennan’s. No one’s beaten him. Ruairi’s come close.”

  “Ruairi who doesn’t say two words and then only when spoken to?”

  “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for, Miss.”

  Gethsemane shook her head. “I’m going to watch you turn all those books back the right way. I suggest you hurry before the librarian sorts out the ‘delivery error.’ I doubt she’ll be understanding.”

  Colm started turning books.

  “Out of curiosity, what did Ruairi do that put him in contention for the title?”

  “Painted maths equations on three goats and set ‘em loose in the halls. The equations worked out to one, two, and four. Took Headmaster an hour to realize there were only three goats.”

  A variation on a classic. “And Grennan?”

  “Invented the Interscholastic Underwater Badminton League. Scores posted in the sports section of the Dispatch every week for three years before the league folded. Even had an award, the Leo G. Croyden Prize. Never was any such league. The scores were all fake, no one ever played a game. Most folks still haven’t copped on it was a sham.”

  Francis Grennan in the same class of trickster as Steve Noll and Morris Newburger. Her respect grew.

  “You won’t tell?”

  “What, and disappoint legions of die-hard underwater badminton fans?”

  Gethsemane crossed items off her mental to-do list: fax financial documents to man about to sell out his dead uncle, drop bombshell about Eamon’s new concerto, alienate major donor by selecting arrogant Head Boy as soloist. Done. Done. And done. What remained? Ask priest how two souls can find each other in heaven and buy liquor. Always save the easiest tasks for last.

  As she entered the churchyard a woman called, “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

  Gethsemane recognized the riddle from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, her niece’s favorite book. She recognized the speaker’s voice from the night of her bicycle accident on Carrick Point Road. Nuala Sullivan, who may or may not be haunted by Orla McCarthy. She followed the voice to the cloister garden, expecting to greet the wild-haired, barefooted creature who’d run into her. Surprise, surprise.

  Nuala, thick gray hair twisted into a neat chignon, high-collared dress replaced by a pretty blue tea-length floral, stood in black patent high heels next to a table laid with a tea service and a tiered stand full of finger sandwiches, scones, and sweets. “Have you guessed the riddle yet?”

  “No, I give it up,” Gethsemane quoted. She’d read Alice to her niece at least a dozen times. “What’s the answer?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.” Nuala held up the teapot. “Join me?”

  Cue “Pathétique.”

  Why did a neat, attractive, calm Nuala in a church garden in the daytime seem creepier than a disheveled, frantic Nuala on an isolated road at night? Gethsemane took a deep breath. Tchaikovsky’s warning or no, this was her chance to ask Nuala about Orla. Maybe she’d learn something to help Eamon find her on the other side. “Delighted. Thank you.” She sat at the table. Would Nuala remember their run-in? “What a lovely dress you’re wearing.”

  Nuala busied herself with the tea. “Nicer than the one I had on when you crashed into me. But not half as lovely as that dress of Orla’s you’re wearing.”

  She remembered. Except for who ran into whom. “About that night. You mentioned Orla.”

  “Did I?” She held up a sugar bowl. “One or two?”

  “Three. Sweet tooth. You said Orla made you run out into the road.”

  Nuala stirred sugar into a cup of steaming amber liquid. “Can’t imagine why I’d say such a thing.” She handed the teacup to Gethsemane. “Drink up before it gets cold.”

  Gethsemane raised the cup to her lips. She hesitated. Gooseflesh popped out on her arms and “Pathétique” played louder. She set the cup in her saucer.

  “Don’t you like China black?” Nuala asked.

  “Um, do you have milk?”

  “Of course.” Nuala handed Gethsemane a creamer without taking her eyes off her. No chance to dump the tea.

  “You seemed upset the night you—the night of the accident. Distraught. You said Orla made you do it. You said she was punishing you.”

  “I hadn’t been feeling well. I think I had a fever.” She sat across from Gethsemane. “I might have said any number of things. You can’t put stock in fever speech. You don’t like the tea.”

  “Won’t you have some? I hate to drink alone.”

  Nuala poured tea for herself and stirred in milk and a half dozen sugar cubes. “Sláinte.” She drained the cup in two gulps.

  Nuala wasn’t crazy enough to poison herself. So why did “Pathétique” still play? Gethsemane sipped. Chocolaty, mellow. “It’s quite good.”

  Nuala refilled Gethsemane’s cup. “There’s an art to brewing proper tea. Most can’t. My father taught me.”

  “Sullivan the Magnificent?”

  Nuala’s smile made her seem twenty years younger. “You’re a fan?”

  “I’ve heard of him. Didn’t he perform at the Athaneum?”

  “He headlined at the theater. Folks would come from all over the county and queue for hours for a ticket to one of his shows. Peg and I used to help him get ready.”

  “You said your father had a gift.”

  “Da was brilliant.”

  “A gift you share.” Gethsemane locked eyes with Nuala. Nuala’s grin made her shiver. Fever-schmever. Nuala was crazy like a fox was crazy. She remembered talking about Orla. Why the amnesia routine?

  “You must be hungry after a long day at school.” Nuala piled finger sandwiches on a plate. “Have some.”

  Gethsemane took the plate. A variety of salads and spreads nestled between the neat, crustless bread rectangles: tuna, egg salad with dill, chicken, cream cheese.

  “Do you like mysteries, Dr. Brown? Novels, I mean.”

  “I’m more of a science fiction fan.” She picked up an egg salad sandwich.

  “I love mysteries. Agatha Christie’s my favorite. Did you know she worked as an apothecary’s assistant during the First World War? That’s how she learned so much about poisons. On-the-job training. Dame Christie poisoned a lot of people.”

  “In her novels.”

  “In her novels.” Nuala smiled. “But wouldn’t apothecary’s assistant be a lovely job if you wanted to poison someone for real?”

  Unsure how to answer, Gethsemane nibbled her sandwich. “What a—unique—tasting egg salad. It’s—” Bitter and slightly spicy. She looked more closely at the filling. Those green specks weren’t dill.

  “It’s a family recipe.”

  “Gethsemane!” A hand snatched the mostly uneaten sandwich away. “You’ll spoil your appetite. Or did you forget you promised to take tea with me?” Father Keating moved the plate out of Gethsemane’s reach.

  “Dr. Brown is my guest, Father.” Nuala flashed the priest an unholy glare. Gethsemane shivered. A blast of “Pathétique” filled her ear as if Tchaikovsky was saying I told you so.

  “Some other time, Nuala. Dr. Brown and I have things to
discuss. Besides, Peg’ll be looking for you. You’d better go on home. Leave these things. I’ll have the sextons clean up.”

  Nuala started to speak, apparently thought better of it, stood and smoothed her dress. She shook Gethsemane’s hand. “Lovely chatting with you.”

  “Thank you for the tea.”

  “Perhaps some wine next time.”

  “I don’t see any wine.”

  “There isn’t any.”

  Nuala brushed past Father Keating and disappeared from view.

  “I took a bite of that sandwich.” Gethsemane gagged. “What’d she put in it?”

  “Foxglove. I found it and an empty bread wrapper in the rubbish bin.”

  “Foxglove?” Gethsemane laid her fingertips against her neck and checked her pulse. She still had one. And she was breathing. “Is that deadly? Do I need to go to the hospital?” Did they still pump people’s stomachs?

  Father Keating held up the remains of her sandwich. “You only took a wee bite. And Nuala didn’t put much foxglove in the food, judging by the amount of the plant I found in the bin.”

  “Not enough to kill me, just enough to make me ill?” She checked her pulse again. “How fast does foxglove kick in?”

  “Why don’t we go inside?” The cleric placed a hand on Gethsemane’s arm.

  She shook it off. “Why don’t we call the police?” Was the nausea from anger or the egg salad? “That maniac shouldn’t be running around loose.”

  “I’ll call her sister. Nuala’s probably off her meds again. Peg’ll take her to hospital.”

  “Take her to the hospital? I vote doctor for me, jail for her.”

  “Finesse in handling folks with Nuala’s needs is not the Garda’s strong point. They’ll only…agitate her. I don’t want to push her into setting anything on fire. We’ll let Peg handle Nuala. I’ll drive you to A and E.”

  Gethsemane calmed herself. She had only nibbled a corner of the sandwich. And the priest didn’t seem to think she was in real danger.

  “Has Nuala ever pulled a stunt like this before?”

  “She used to spike the punch at the spring fete with aloe vera juice. Until we started serving beverages in individual bottles. Never seriously injured anyone.”

  “I probably didn’t eat enough egg salad to harm an adult.”

  “A onceover by a doctor would reassure you, though.”

  “Yeah,” Gethsemane admitted, “It would.”

  A couple of hours later, given the all clear by the emergency room physician, Gethsemane accepted tea back at the rectory.

  “Bewley’s, unadulterated.” Father Keating poured. “Tell me how things are going.”

  “Except for near-poisoning, things are going well. The orchestra’s made remarkable progress. They’re getting excited about the challenge of an honors orchestra competition. And Ruairi’s starting to come out of his shell.”

  “Colm’s not giving you too much trouble?”

  “He’s yet to show up on time and he’s still arrogant and disrespectful when he doesn’t have a violin in his hands. But he’s already memorized the entire piece and plays the cadenza like he wrote it. I’ll give him a while longer to adjust his attitude.”

  “I’ll pray for you both. And I’ll go call Peg, make sure she corralled Nuala.”

  Gethsemane looked around the rectory’s parlor while Father Keating telephoned. Books on subjects from aerospace mechanics to zoogeography, in several languages, filled every available space. Framed photos of Father Keating, hair varying from red to gray, posing with people in civilian and religious garb dotted shelves and tabletops. One photo, the largest, featured a redheaded Father Keating in academic cap and gown next to another, almost identical, redhead wearing a priest’s collar.

  Gethsemane gestured to the photo when Father Keating returned.

  “I didn’t know you were a twin.”

  “Not quite. Michael and I were nineteen months apart.” He settled into an armchair.

  “I have a theological question, Fath—Tim.”

  “My specialty.”

  “If one soul preceded another, say a wife’s before her husband’s, into the afterlife, how could the two find each other on the other side?”

  “Ask me something easy, like explain quantum physics or how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” He thought for a moment. “I don’t know that they can find each other, or want to. The Good Book says ‘they which shall be accounted worthy to obtain that world, and the resurrection of the dead, neither marry nor are given in marriage. Neither can they die anymore for they are equal unto the angels.’ They’re children of God, free from worldly cares or preoccupations.”

  “What if they didn’t make it to heaven or only one of them did? What if they’re in different places and one soul’s actively searching for the other?”

  “Mythology abounds with tales of someone traveling to the underworld to rescue a lost love: Demeter and Persephone, Orpheus and Eurydice, Pare and Hutu, Hiku and Kawelu. But you’re asking me something else.”

  “I’m not sure what I’m asking.”

  “What’s brought this on?”

  Tell him about the ghost? The ghosts? “Just brainstorming potential plots for a future work. An opera.” What was the penalty for lying to a priest?

  “Ah, I love opera.” Father Keating waved a hand at his books. “I have several volumes of mythology in my library: Greco-Roman, West African, Japanese. At one point I planned to become a folklorist. You’re welcome to borrow any of them.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give you the clergy discount on show tickets.” Gethsemane finished her tea. “One more question. Is there anything you know of that would prevent, actually block, souls from finding each other?”

  “All of the myths share the theme that if one party breaks the explicit rules of escape from death—eating, looking back too soon, opening a basket—the soul is lost to the underworld forever.”

  “Could a third party throw up a roadblock? Sorry, that’s two questions.”

  “My brother’s Grimoires list banishing and binding spells designed to keep a spirit from wandering.”

  “Thanks for the information. And the rescue.” Gethsemane stood. She motioned to Father Keating to keep his seat. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll show myself out.” She hesitated in the doorway. “Did Pegeen Sullivan get control of her sister?”

  “Yet again. Sadly, Peg gets lots of practice. You won’t have to worry about running into her. You’ll be fine.”

  “As long as I don’t accept any more food from strangers.”

  Gethsemane gave in to the urge to look over her shoulder as she pedaled to the liquor store. No picnic basket-wielding maniacs in sight. If you could poison a woman’s sandwich, could you poison a man’s whiskey?

  Gethsemane flung open the cottage door. “Eamon! Irish! Where are you?”

  “I’m right here.” He materialized a few inches in front of her. “Why the shouting?”

  “Sorry. I get excited when someone poisons me.” She shrugged out of her mac. “Or tries to.”

  “Poison? What are you on about?”

  “Today at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows Nuala Sullivan fed me egg salad laced with foxglove.”

  Eamon’s aura flashed a mixture of orange-yellow and blue.

  “Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance? You should sit down.”

  He motioned toward the hall bench.

  “I’m fine.” Gethsemane waved him off and headed to the study. “Father Tim took me to the emergency room. I didn’t eat enough to make me ill.”

  “Where was the good father while the poisoning was going on?”

  “He saved me. He ripped the sandwich out of my hand before I could take a second bite.”

  “Did you call th
e gardaí?”

  “No. I wanted to but Father Tim convinced me to let Pegeen handle Nuala.”

  Eamon’s aura faded to yellow. “Story of Peg’s life. Nuala puts on a holy show, Peg gets the call to clean up after her.”

  “Father Tim said the cops don’t handle Nuala well.”

  “They don’t. They deal with her by slapping on handcuffs and dragging her to A and E to be pumped full of sedatives before they cart her off to jail. Nuala’s not one to go gentle, either. More than one guard has ended up with a black eye or bruised ribs after tangling with Nuala Sullivan.”

  “Pegeen must love her sister dearly to put up with so much drama.”

  “The Sullivan sisters’ relationship is complicated. You know what sibling rivalry is like.”

  Did she ever. Been there, done that, had the t-shirt to prove it. “My eldest sister is mean as hell but she’s not dangerously psychotic.”

  Eamon poured Gethsemane a drink. “I suspect some of Nuala’s crazy is sham crazy. She keeps her wits about her enough to throw suspicion for her antics on Peg when it suits her. Like the time she spiked the church garden committee’s tea with laxatives. They found an empty pill bottle from Fitzgerald’s. Nuala claimed Peg had stolen the pills from work. Lucky for Peg, she went shopping in Cork with Orla the day of the committee meeting, giving her an alibi. Turns out Nuala stole the pills herself when she’d visited Peg for lunch.”

  “My sisters and I have gotten into it more than a few times but we’ve never framed each other for crimes. Why would Nuala set up the only person in her life willing to help her? And why does Pegeen put up with it? Why not have Nuala committed? Permanently. With her track record it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “Peg promised their father she’d always look after Nuala. Nuala was the favorite, both sisters knew it. Peg would’ve done anything their father asked of her, including protect Nuala, to try and win his favor. She resents Nuala—something she’d not admit to anyone in the world except me and Orla. Nuala embarrasses her. She’s also afraid people will think she’s off her nut, too. Guilt by relation. Nuala resents Peg just as much. Hates Peg being seen as the responsible, respectable sister.”