Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1)
Page 14
“Responsible, respectable sisters don’t set fires or adulterate food.”
“Nuala doesn’t see things the way others do.”
“So two sisters who resent each other are bound together by a promise one made to the father who wasn’t there for either of them. Straight out of a daytime TV talk show. At least Pegeen had you and Orla. Did Nuala have any friends?”
“Only Deirdre Lynch, an unholy alliance if ever there was one. Put her in near-constant contact with Deirdre’s brother, Jimmy. If you ever wanted to learn creative techniques for breaking the law, Jimmy would be your perfect tutor.”
“Do you think Jimmy might include murder in the curriculum?”
“You’re suggesting Nuala—” The orange-yellow glow returned. “I don’t want to think so, for Peg’s sake.”
“But it’s possible.”
“Spiking my bourbon, maybe. Lord knows she’s had enough practice spiking drinks. But, honestly, I can’t see her pushing Orla off a cliff. I guess she coulda done but,” Eamon shook his head, “damn, I’d much rather the killer be some random header passing through. To think of Nuala shoving Orla…”
“Most killers know their victims.”
“Offering words of comfort is not in your skill set, is it?”
“I soothe with music, not words.” She set her drink on the coffee table and went back to the coat rack. “I’m going to use words to convince O’Reilly to re-open your case. I’ll be at the garda station if you need me.”
She found Inspector O’Reilly coming from the garda station’s gym. His hair was wet, shirt collar unbuttoned, and he smelled fresh from the shower. Gethsemane reminded herself why she came to the station and forced herself to focus.
“You’ve recovered from your tea party, Dr. Brown?” O’Reilly juggled his necktie and suit jacket.
“May I help you?” She reached for his tie. “How did you know about the egg salad? I didn’t report it.”
O’Reilly handed her his jacket. “The hospital did after Pegeen Sullivan brought her sister in for stabilization. Are you sure you don’t want to bring charges?”
“I doubt she’d be deemed competent to stand trial, even if I did press charges. Nuala needs to be in a secure psychiatric facility.”
“I’m guessing you’re not here to debate the merits of the legal versus mental health systems with me.” He knotted his tie and reclaimed his jacket. “I’m going to live dangerously and guess you tracked me down to talk about the McCarthys, probably to ask about the video you discovered at the library.”
“Well, since you mentioned it.”
“I have an appointment with Mrs. Toibin in twenty minutes.”
“This won’t take that long. I think Nuala killed Eamon. Either one of her food-tampering pranks got out of hand or she got tired of just making people sick. And I think Jimmy Lynch killed Orla. That’s why he lied about seeing Eamon’s car the night of her murder. He needed to shift blame. Or maybe Nuala and Jimmy were in it together.”
“You’ve gone from a single killer to a conspiracy.”
“Okay, so my theory’s a little messy. Who says murder has to be tied up in a neat package?”
“We gardaí like things neat. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go pick up a video before it’s lost for another twenty-five years.”
A sign outside Bunratty’s Off License, in the heart of Dunmullach and second in size only to Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows, boasted the largest selection of alcoholic beverages west of Dublin. Gethsemane believed the boast.
A dozen people wandered aisles lined with liquor bottles in every size, shape, and color. Siobhan Moloney, arrayed in a shimmering apple green caftan, chatted with another woman near the wine section at the rear of the store. Compared to the woman’s paleness—gray bobbed hair, gray wool blazer, gray tweed skirt, gray low-heeled pumps—Siobhan glowed even brighter than the night of her ghost whispering performance. Gethsemane imagined Siobhan siphoning the color out of the other woman like some sort of polychromatic parasite.
Gethsemane, hoping to escape Siobhan’s notice, approached the register. She asked the mustachioed clerk if he carried Waddell and Dobb Double-oaked Twelve-year-old Reserve.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We haven’t any in stock. Billy’s order hasn’t come in yet. I expect it in a few days.” Gethsemane remembered the barman at the Mad Rabbit telling her the bourbon had to be special ordered. The clerk went on. “I’ll have Kieran bring it up as soon as it arrives.”
“How do you know where to have Kieran bring anything?” Gethsemane asked.
“You’re Dr. Brown, the new school teacher. Everyone knows you’re watching the old McCarthy place for Billy. Dunmullach’s a small village.”
“Hey! You!” A gaunt man with gray stubble dotting his pockmarked cheeks stood in the doorway. He shoved gloves into a pocket of his worn motorcycle jacket and pointed a bony finger at Gethsemane. “You’re the one. What’s the idea of stickin’ yer damned nose in my business?”
“How could I? I have no idea who you are,” Gethsemane said, not keeping the annoyance from her voice.
So tiresome, being known by everybody in town without knowing anyone.
“I’m Jimmy Lynch.” He strode to Gethsemane and breathed down in her face. He smelled of onions and cigarettes.
Jimmy Lynch. The one who lied to the cops about seeing Eamon’s car in town the night Orla was murdered. Maybe the one who killed her.
He held a finger under Gethsemane’s nose, so close it tickled. “Quit stirring up trouble, asking bloody stupid questions about things what don’t concern you.”
She refused to flinch. She stood as tall as five foot-three allowed and met Jimmy’s glare. “What things? Lies about people’s whereabouts? Frame ups? Hidden agendas?”
Jimmy lowered his voice to a menacing rumble. “It’s been twenty-five years. Leave it be.”
“Twenty-five years or twenty-five days, like Kipling said, nothing’s ever settled until it’s settled right.”
Jimmy stepped closer. “Why I—”
“That’s enough now.” The clerk slammed the counter. “Back off.”
Jimmy hesitated, then took two steps back.
Gethsemane realized she’d been holding her breath and exhaled slowly. “Why do you care if I inquire about the McCarthy case? Do you know anything about it?”
“Why should I?”
“You were the one who put Eamon’s car on Carrick Point Road in time to kill his wife.”
“I saw what I saw.”
“Are you positive? Maybe you got the time wrong. Maybe you saw Eamon’s car later. Or maybe you saw the real killer’s car and mistook if for Eamon’s. I’m sure you wouldn’t lie outright just to get even with Eamon.”
Jimmy balled his fist. Gethsemane tensed.
Someone new spoke up. “Maybe you should leave well enough alone.”
Siobhan and the gray woman stood near the register. The gray woman said, “Best to let the dead stay buried. Don’t you agree, Siobhan?”
Siobhan shrugged. “Sometimes the dead have things to say.”
“Nothing that would interest Dr. Brown. I doubt she has time to be poking into closets, being busy with preparations for the All-County.”
“The orchestra will be ready in time,” Gethsemane said. “Miss?”
The woman shook Gethsemane’s hand. “Sullivan. Pegeen Sullivan.” Eamon’s friend and Nuala’s keeper.
Pegeen said to Jimmy, “You better go. Deirdre will be home soon. You know how she gets when no one’s there.”
“The feck do I care about Deirdre’s moods?”
“Fine way to talk about your own sister.”
The clerk cut off Jimmy’s retort. “Was there something you came in for, Jimmy? Besides getting in folks’ faces, I mean.�
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He jerked his head towards the coolers that lined one of the store’s walls. “The Franciscan Wells Rebel Red,” he said. “A case.”
“Fine,” the clerk said. “You run on home now, before your sister gets there. I’ll charge your account and have Kieran bring the Rebel Red by the house in time for supper.”
Jimmy started to protest. He looked from the clerk to Pegeen to Siobhan to the cricket bat that had appeared from behind the counter to rest in the clerk’s grip. Ten seconds passed. Jimmy shoved his hands into his gloves, adjusted his jacket, then stomped out to a motorcycle parked in a loading zone. Gethsemane relaxed as he sped down the street.
Pegeen whispered near her ear, “He’s not one to be on the wrong side of.”
“Know him well?” Gethsemane asked.
“Cousin.” Her breath brushed Gethsemane’s cheek.
“Charming guy.”
Pegeen moved away.
“He’s not likely to bother you if you don’t get in his way. Selling pills to young fellas and stealing pensioners’ checks from post boxes is about all he’s good for.”
“He hasn’t beaten anyone up for a good six, eight months,” Siobhan said. She handed her basket to the clerk. The look in her eyes contradicted the smile she flashed Gethsemane. Real meanness lurked beneath Siobhan’s peacock finery and ghost hunting mumbo jumbo. Jimmy Lynch wasn’t the only one in Dunmullach with a “wrong side.”
The clerk rang up Siobhan’s purchase—four bottles of Chianti and a pint of vodka—then took Pegeen’s basket. Bottles clinked as Siobhan cradled the brown paper bag that held them.
“Having a party, Siobhan?” Pegeen asked.
“I like a glass of wine with dinner. Anything wrong with that?”
“No, nothing.” Pegeen pulled her wallet from her purse and counted money.
“Anything else I can help you with?” the clerk asked Gethsemane as he bagged Pegeen’s bottle of merlot. “I’m sorry about the bourbon.”
Gethsemane waved a hand. “No problem. A lack of bourbon is hardly an emergency, even if it is Waddell and Dobb Double-oaked.”
“Kieran’ll leave it on the porch if you’re not in when he brings it up.”
“Maybe you can spare a bottle for Pegeen,” Siobhan said to Gethsemane. “No doubt Billy ordered more than you’ll be able to drink during your time here.” She turned to Pegeen. “Since Waddell and Dobb Double-oaked’s so hard to come by you should take advantage and nab a bottle or two.”
“What are you on about, Siobhan?” Pegeen held up her wine. “I don’t drink bourbon.”
“No?” Siobhan shrugged. “My mistake. I thought I saw you with a couple bottles.”
Pegeen blinked a few times, then frowned. “When did you see me?”
“Dunno. A while back.”
“Maybe thirty-odd years ago, as a wedding present for Eamon. Not since.”
“Maybe not.”
“You have a good memory,” Gethsemane said to Siobhan.
“Never forget a thing. I haven’t forgotten about our sessions,” she said to Gethsemane.
“Sessions?” Pegeen asked.
“Dr. Brown thinks Eamon McCarthy’s spirit is—”
Gethsemane interrupted. “I think I let my imagination get the better of me.”
Siobhan clucked her tongue. “Don’t be embarrassed to admit you’re open to visitations from the other side of the veil. This is Ireland. No one will think you’re crazy for saying you see ghosts. Why don’t we go ahead and schedule our next appointment?”
“About that. I still don’t think the time is quite right. Let me—um—talk to Father Keating and check the—um—Farmers’ Almanac and I’ll get back to you.”
“The Farmers’ Almanac?”
“Yeah.” Gethsemane started for the door. “You know, the book that tells you the best times to harvest crops and slaughter pigs and—uh—hunt ghosts.” She pushed the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. “I’ll call you,” she said.
The door swung shut behind her, cutting off the sound of laughter.
Seven
Outside, a few elderly women chatted in front of the grocery and boys kicked a soccer ball in an empty lot. No sign of Jimmy Lynch. Gethsemane started for Carraigfaire then thought of Jimmy ambushing her on Carrick Point Road. Best give him time to decide jumping her wasn’t worth missing supper. Meanwhile, might as well have a drink at the Mad Rabbit.
Singing—a sonorous baritone—greeted her as soon she opened the door. She recognized “Whiskey, You’re the Devil” from the inordinate amount of her senior year at Vassar spent hanging out in an Irish pub in town trying to attract a session musician’s attention away from the owner’s daughter. She didn’t win the handsome bodhran player but she did gain a repertoire of Irish songs.
The crowd of patrons and wait staff gathered near the pub’s piano hid the singer. His voice rose above their heads and filled the room with a capella lyrics:
…Do not wrong me
Don’t take my daughter from me
For if you do I will torment you
And after death a ghost will haunt you…
Gethsemane reflexively fingered the song’s notes and hummed under her breath. She moved closer, squeezing between shoulders and dodging elbows as she maneuvered through the throng. At a table, hat at his elbow, tie loosened, black leather monkstraps tapping the rhythm, sat the last person she expected to see singing pub songs like Tommy Maken. “…O whiskey, you’re my darlin’, drunk or sober.”
She gawked. Inspector O’Reilly had a voice.
Applause erupted. O’Reilly stood and bowed then took a long swallow from his pint glass.
“I’m amazed,” Gethsemane said.
O’Reilly paused with his pint halfway to his lips. He blinked and frowned. His smile, which didn’t reach his gray eyes, suggested good manners more than gladness to see her. “Evenin’, Dr. Brown. Takin’ a break from the library?”
“No library today.” Gethsemane met the inspector’s gaze. “Case load lighten up?”
O’Reilly tensed, hesitated, then relaxed into a genuine smile. He raised his glass to Gethsemane. “Da always told me no matter how busy the bastards keep you, make time to slip out for a pint and bit o’ craic now and again. Keeps you sane.”
Before Gethsemane could respond, a man clapped O’Reilly on the shoulder. “Sing us another.”
The other pub-goers shouted agreement. One voice, angry, words slurred by alcohol, shouted above the rest. “Lez hear the ’murican play somethin’. Ain’t she some sorta big deal ’muzishun?”
All eyes turned to the bar. Declan Hurley hunched over the glass wrapped in his fist.
Murphy the barman refilled the ex-cop’s glass. “Leave be, Declan. Just drink your drink.”
Gethsemane shrugged and laughed. “Too bad I don’t have my violin with me.”
A man in a tweed cap stepped forward and extended a violin case.
“You can use mine if ya like.”
“You just happen to have a violin with you?”
The man puffed out his chest and grinned. “Never go out without her.” He held the case out farther. “Go on, you can play her. She won’t mind.”
“Yes, Dr. Brown.” Pegeen appeared near the door. “Please honor us.”
Gethsemane accepted the violin with thanks and set it on a nearby table. She opened the case and lifted the violin, cradling it more gently than her newborn niece as she examined the sculptural pegbox, the inscription along the ribs, the marquetry inlaid scene on the back. “This is a Derazey. Mid-to-late eighteen-hundreds?”
The violin’s owner nodded. “Me great-great-granddad was a sailor. He saved some French chap from a reefin’ by a gang of thugs. Frenchie gave him the fiddle by way of thanks.”
Hurley interrupted. “He tolja he didn’. Ya gonna play or jes yap?”
Murphy frowned. “Declan, I’m warnin’ ya…” Both he and O’Reilly stepped closer to Hurley.
Hurley buried his face in his glass.
Gethsemane positioned the violin and drew the bow across the strings. She adjusted the tuning pegs. Then she played. She opened with “The Spirit of the House.” The melody’s lonesome tones expressed her sadness and betrayal and anger over being cheated of a promised job, her embarrassment over the mess that passed for her life, her shame over returning home as a failure. Which she wouldn’t do. Couldn’t do.
She had to win the All-County. A win meant salvaging her career and returning home in triumphal redemption. Her tempo increased into the lighter, brighter “Stranger in Cork and Friendly Visit.” A strange sensation filled her chest. Dunmullach’s charm pulled her in despite her efforts to remain detached. Western Ireland wove its mysterious spell around her like the morning fog around the Cliffs of Moher. She ended her medley with a jig in their name.
Gethsemane lowered the violin. Everyone stared, not moving or speaking. Had she committed a cultural faux pas? Broken some unwritten village rule? As the silence reached the point of nerve-wracking, O’Reilly rose from his seat. He clapped once, twice, three times. He clapped faster. The violin’s owner joined him. Then Murphy, then one waitress, then another. Soon everyone except Hurley clapped and whistled and stomped their feet. Gethsemane flourished the bow and bowed.
The pub’s door banged open and Francis stepped in. “Havin’ a hooley are we?”
“Careful with the door, Frankie,” Murphy said. “Them walls ain’t made o’ steel.”
“Don’t be an old woman, Murph.” Francis found a seat at the bar. “What’d I miss?”