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

by Alexia Gordon

  “I do know,” Gethsemane said. “Powder, roses, vetiver. May Winds. Her perfume.”

  Deirdre laughed. “I scent the cushions and the curtains with it. I feel as if Orla is all around me.” Deirdre laughed again. “Jimmy hates it.”

  Gethsemane walked around the parlor. Books packed every shelf of a glass-front bookcase. She moved closer for a better look.

  “First editions,” Deirdre said.

  “Quite an investment,” Gethsemane said. How did she afford them? Or was Deirdre the “she” Saoirse said took books without returning them?

  Deirdre frowned. “A labor of love.”

  “Much nicer than the library’s collection.” She wandered over to the mantle. “I was at the library. They own Orla’s correspondence. A donation from her brother.”

  “Only her business papers. They don’t have her personal correspondence.”

  They used to.

  “Do you have any of Orla’s personal papers?”

  Deirdre grinned to shame the Cheshire Cat. “I have letters she wrote to me.”

  “May I see them?”

  “I don’t know.” Deirdre frowned again. “They’re meant just for me.”

  “I understand,” Gethsemane said. No point pushing it. “Maybe another time. After we’ve gotten to know each other better.”

  “We’ll be good friends, won’t we?”

  Gethsemane bobbed her head. Time to ask what she really wanted to know. “The night Orla died. That must have been traumatic for you.”

  Deirdre’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “I wondered if you remembered where you were that night. You must. People always remember where they were when traumatic events happened. Kennedy’s assassination, the Challenger explosion, the—”

  “I said. I don’t. Want. To. Talk. About it.” Deirdre’s voice rose a few decibels.

  “I meant no offense.” Gethsemane toyed with the photos on the mantle. “I just—” She lifted a frame. A statuette about yay big sat tucked in a corner.

  On cue, the rear door slammed open. Jimmy’s, “Deirdre, who’s here?” reverberated through the house.

  Gethsemane suspected Jimmy Lynch would be almost as thrilled to find her in his parlor as he was about the parlor smelling like May Winds.

  Deirdre yelled, “I’m entertaining company, Jimmy. Stop shouting. It’s impolite.”

  Gethsemane escaped out the front door before Jimmy could show her how impolite he could be.

  Deirdre followed. “Wait, you haven’t had your tea.”

  “Maybe another time.” Jimmy stood in the doorway behind his sister. “I just had an inspiration for the competition. I want to get it down on paper before I forget.” She mounted her bicycle, glad she’d brought it with her from the pub.

  “Do come back,” Deirdre said.

  Gethsemane answered Jimmy’s glare with a nod and pedaled away.

  Deirdre’s “You will come back, won’t you?” followed her down the street.

  A late day drizzle punctuated Gethsemane’s thoughts about Deirdre’s fixation. She’d never be able to question her with Jimmy around. She needed to get her alone.

  The drizzle kicked up into a steady rain. No chance of reaching Carraigfaire before getting soaked. An excellent excuse to pop into Roasted, Dunmullach’s new coffee house. As she pedaled into the parking lot she spotted a familiar tweed stingy-brimmed fedora going inside. A bonus. She’d ask the inspector his thoughts on creepy poetry fanatics.

  She walked up to the counter in time to hear O’Reilly ask the barista, “What’s the difference, again, between a ristretto and a macchiato?”

  Gethsemane jumped in before the twenty-something brunette with long dark hair and Warby Parker glasses could answer. “A ristretto is a concentrated espresso shot whereas a macchiato is one or two shots of espresso with a dollop of foamed milk.” Dating a coffee snob in grad school sometimes proved useful.

  “You need a PhD to understand this,” O’Reilly said.

  “We have regular coffee, if you prefer, sir.” The barista pointed to the menu chalked on an oversized blackboard suspended behind the counter. “Ethiopian yirgacheffe, Ugandan gumutindo peaberry, and Honduran opalaca. We can do pour over, French press, aeropress, or cold brew.”

  “I feel old all of a sudden.”

  The barista beamed. “You’re not old, sir. Bet you’ve got no more ’n a few years on me Da.”

  Gethsemane bit back a laugh as O’Reilly reddened. That almost made up for his treatment at the garda station. “The yirgacheffe in a large French press with two cups.” She led O’Reilly to a table near a window.

  “I’m surprised you’re speaking to me,” he said. “You slammed the door.”

  “You were patronizing and dismissive.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be.”

  “Apology accepted.” Gethsemane studied the inspector. His eyes suggested calm, gray seas, a smile revealed a dimple in his right cheek. Bringing up Deirdre would spoil the good mood.

  “What is it?” O’Reilly asked as the barista delivered their coffee.

  “What’s what?”

  “Something to do with the McCarthys?”

  Gethsemane depressed the coffeemaker’s plunger. Best stick to coffee talk. “I was just wondering why a guy who sports Italian leather shoes and rushes home after a long day at work to a dinner of osso buco and ruffino isn’t expert on gourmet coffee.”

  “Seldom drink the stuff. I prefer tea. Bewley’s Original Blend.”

  “Why? Is that what they served Sunday breakfast at the police academy?”

  “It’s what Ma served every evening when Da came home from work. Didn’t matter how late. A pot of Bewley’s Original and a plate of chocolate Hob Nobs and we’d sit ’round the kitchen table and tell Da about our day.”

  “Sounds nice. Childhood traditions have a habit of following us into adulthood.”

  The jingle of bracelets interrupted them. Siobhan, clad in a silver caftan and matching turban, pulled up a chair. “Forgive the interruption.” She flashed a smile as bright as her dress. “I was hoping to borrow the inspector for a moment.”

  O’Reilly’s dimple vanished and his eyes darkened. “How may I be of service, Miss Moloney?”

  “About poor, murdered Declan. Azul, my spirit guide, shared information with me germane to the investigation. I felt duty-bound as a law-abiding citizen to pass the information along to the proper authorities.”

  Gethsemane gulped coffee to drown a snicker.

  O’Reilly nudged her under the table. “What sort of information?” he asked.

  Siobhan glanced at Gethsemane. “Perhaps the garda station—”

  “I’m sure Dr. Brown can be trusted not to go spreading the details of Azul’s communication all over the village.”

  Gethsemane gulped more coffee. O’Reilly stepped on her foot.

  Siobhan hesitated, then leaned in. “Azul said—Aren’t you going to write this down?”

  “I’ve an excellent memory,” O’Reilly said.

  Siobhan frowned but went on. “Azul says a vital clue is hidden in the dearly departed inspector’s home.”

  “What clue?”

  “Well.” Siobhan leaned back and laced her fingers. “Kind of hard to say exactly, right now.”

  “Message kind of hazy, was it?”

  “Hazy, yes. Course, I’d be willing to reach out to Azul again, try to get some clarity. If the garda think I might be of some use to their investigation, that is.”

  “For the usual and customary consultant’s fee.”

  “One has to make a livin’, Inspector.”

  “You’ll want to speak to someone in homicide, Miss Moloney. I’m sure they’ll be happy to
take statements from you and, uh, Azul as well as discuss remuneration for performing your civic duty.” O’Reilly looked at his watch. “If you hurry you can make it to the station before shift change.”

  Siobhan stood. “Excuse me, Inspector. I forgot you only concern yourself with old cases.” She glared down at Gethsemane. “Speaking of which, have you given any further thought to my offer?”

  “Still thinking,” Gethsemane said. “One mustn’t rush into these things.”

  “Nor wait too long.”

  Siobhan swirled, the hem of her caftan brushing Gethsemane’s face, and stormed out.

  “What offer?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Nothing. She hinted she had some information to sell about the McCarthy case. She didn’t say whether it came from Azul. By the way, no one in homicide is seriously going to pay her for clues from beyond the veil, are they?”

  “No, the boys in homicide are more skeptical than I am. Miss Moloney’ll be lucky if they don’t lock her up for wasting gardaí time.” The dimple returned. His phone rang. He excused himself to take the call. “I’m afraid I have to run,” he said when he returned and laid money on the table. “I can drop you by the cottage.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll manage. Rain’s stopped.”

  “So it has. Be wide all the same. The roads can be treacherous.”

  Through the window, O’Reilly steered his car out of the parking lot. Gethsemane spied Deirdre approaching on the sidewalk opposite. Had she followed her? She couldn’t have wanted company for tea that badly. Gethsemane ducked low in her chair as Siobhan sprang out of an alley and waylaid Deirdre. She wished she could overhear their conversation. It appeared intense with heads close together and gesticulations by both women. Gethsemane crept outside and crouched behind a dumpster in time to catch “papers,” “missing,” and “guards.” Deirdre hurried away frowning and Siobhan strolled up the sidewalk wearing a broad, smarmy grin. Gethsemane waited until the two figures receded from view then grabbed her bike.

  Gethsemane had pedaled halfway to St. Brennan’s before she admitted what she was about to do. She’d need help. Who? Not Eamon. He’d never been in Hurley’s house. And he’d try to talk her out of it. Not the boys. This was no business for children. One of the other teachers? She’d only spoken about anything of substance to Francis. Would he help? He seemed to like her. Sometimes. He didn’t hate her. Probably. Anyway, she had no one else. Maybe her plan would appeal to his prankster ethic. She reached campus and, after questioning a few students, located Francis at the boathouse. The math teacher sat with his back against an upside-down boat, red head bent over a paperback book. Which Francis would she get?

  “Evening, Grennan.”

  “Evening, Brown.” He marked his place with a finger between the pages.

  Taciturn. “I need you to help me do something.”

  “I’m busy.” Francis held up his book.

  “This is more important.”

  He opened the book to the page he’d marked.

  “This is almost as good as the Interscholastic Underwater Badminton League.”

  Francis slipped the book into the pocket of his tweed jacket. “I’m listening.”

  “I need help breaking into Hurley’s house so I can search for his old case notebooks.”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Serious as a tax audit. His notebooks weren’t in the evidence room at the garda station. None of the evidence in the McCarthy case was at the garda station.”

  “Because the case is so old, they destroyed it.”

  Gethsemane shook her head. “Because someone stole the evidence box. Recently, according to O’Reilly. He said there was no dust in the space on the shelf where the box was supposed to be.”

  “And you think Hurley relocated it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why come to me?”

  “The only other adults in this village I know well enough to ask for help are a cop and a priest.” She almost added, and a ghost. “You don’t ask cops and priests to help you break in to murder victims’ houses.”

  Francis stood and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “You’re right. This is almost as good as the Underwater Badminton League.”

  Declan Hurley’s house sat at the end of a forlorn street, several yards distant from its few neighbors. A weather-beaten privacy fence surrounded Hurley’s backyard, the only feature that distinguished the murdered man’s rundown lodging from the other equally worn houses dotting the dingy thoroughfare.

  Gethsemane and Francis waited in Francis’s car until dark then crept onto Hurley’s property. The beam from Francis’s flashlight reflected off yellow crime scene tape crisscrossing the front door. The duo tiptoed into the backyard through an unlocked gate. Yellow crime scene tape also barred the rear entrance. The windows were all locked.

  “Any ideas?” Francis said, his voice a whisper.

  “A tire iron,” Gethsemane replied.

  “In the boot of my car at the other end of the street.”

  “Hurley’s car’s parked next to the house.” Gethsemane took the flashlight and led the way to Hurley’s dented sedan parked in a narrow driveway formed by the fence and a side wall of the building.

  “Check the trunk.”

  Francis looked around. “What trunk?”

  “Of the car.”

  “Oh, the boot.” Francis opened a car door and released the trunk latch. Gethsemane lifted the lid and rooted under blankets, old clothes, and empty liquor bottles until she laid her hand on a long, thin metal object.

  “Got it,” she cried, holding up the crowbar.

  Francis shushed her.

  “Got it,” she whispered.

  Francis lowered the trunk lid and they crept back around to the rear of the house. Gethsemane held the flashlight while Francis jimmied open a window.

  “Give me a boost.”

  Francis hoisted her through the window then climbed in himself. She shown the flashlight around. They were in the kitchen.

  “If you’d stolen evidence from a police station, where would you put it?”

  “Careful.” Francis pushed the flashlight beam toward the floor. “Number one rule of creeping around places you’ve no business being: Don’t shine torches through windows. You’ll alert the neighbors.”

  “Do you think any of them will care? Doesn’t look like the type of place with an active Neighborhood Watch program.”

  “Do you want to find out?”

  “Point taken. Shall we try upstairs first?”

  “No. Hurley was old, fat, and out of shape. He wouldn’t have lugged a box upstairs.”

  “Right. Let’s look for a living room or study.”

  Gethsemane and Francis made their way into the hall. The foyer and front door stood at the opposite end. Three doorways opened off the hall: a bathroom, a closet, and—

  “The study,” Gethsemane said, shining the light into a cramped room stuffed with a sofa, big screen television, pool table, and stacks of magazines.

  “More like a den. I doubt Hurley ever studied anything in here.”

  Gethsemane moved farther into the room then stopped suddenly. Francis plowed into her back.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Gethsemane didn’t answer. In a corner, the flashlight illuminated an overturned bar cart. Broken glass littered the floor around it. The light moved to a dark stain on the floor. “This is where it happened.”

  Francis squeezed her shoulder.

  Gethsemane closed her eyes and took a deep breath, held it for a count of five. “I’m okay,” she said when she exhaled. “I’m okay. Let’s look for the box.”

  “Why are you so sure Hurley took it?” Francis asked as they searched the room, careful to avoid the stain.
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  “Because if anyone had examined the evidence they’d have known Hurley, at best, botched the original investigation or, at worst, colluded with a criminal to frame an innocent man. He’s also the most likely to have had access to the evidence room. The police won’t let civilians in, but they might let a former colleague.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “I do.” Gethsemane shone the light on the lid of a cardboard storage box protruding from beneath the sofa.

  “The box could be in another room.”

  “But you know it isn’t. Hurley stole the box from the station and his murderer stole the box from him. Something in the box must have pointed to the real killer and it’s most likely at the bottom of the Atlantic or reduced to ashes by now.”

  “I’m sorry for your disappointment.” Francis took the flashlight. “But don’t you think we’d better get out of here?”

  They started for the hall. Gethsemane paused. “One last look.”

  Francis trained the light in the corner where Hurley died. “Seems our boy died doing what he loved.” The light passed over several liquor bottles on a shelf above where the broken glass lay.

  “He was pretty drunk when he called me. Stop.” Gethsemane put her hand on Francis’s arm, holding the light still. “That bottle in the back of the shelf.”

  Francis retrieved the bottle and held it out to Gethsemane. She recognized the distinctive black and red label. “Waddell and Dobb Double-oaked Twelve-year-old Reserve single barrel bourbon. Special ordered all the way from Kentucky, just for Eamon McCarthy.”

  Francis used the flashlight to examine the bottle more closely. “It’s been opened.” He raked the light over the rest of Hurley’s liquor collection. “The rest of these are strictly bottom shelf. Can’t have cost more than ten Euros a bottle. This,” he hefted the Waddell and Dobb, “isn’t Hurley’s style. But why’s it here?”

  “He must have removed it from the evidence box. Twenty bucks—Euros—says this is the bottle. The one that killed Eamon. Maybe Hurley knew someone would come looking for it. The best place to hide something is in plain sight. How long do you think poison can be detected in whiskey?”