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

by Alexia Gordon

  “There’s nothin’ trivial about shame, darlin’. One of the deadliest weapons in the human armamentarium. Shame’s been used to control entire cultures for centuries. Ever hear of honor suicide?”

  “My family’s not that bad. You’re not expected to commit seppuku or throw yourself in front of a train if you screw up or, worse, quit. You only have to put up with constant reminders about how you disappointed everyone by failing to live up to the family’s standards.”

  “Which may be worse than ritual disembowelment.”

  Gethsemane laughed.

  Eamon’s aura morphed into a red halo. “That’s the spirit.”

  “Pun intended.”

  “I’ll pour the bourbon, friend.” Eamon levitated bottle and glass. “Meanwhile, why don’t you open that?” He inclined his chin toward a plain envelope propped on the desk.

  Gethsemane examined it. The front bore only her name and the cottage’s address, both typewritten, and a Cork postmark. “Who’d send me mail here?”

  “Open it and see.”

  Her drink and a letter opener set themselves in front of her. She sliced the envelope’s flap and held up a yellowed newspaper clipping. “No note.”

  Eamon materialized next to her.

  “Why can’t you just walk?”

  “Why be a ghost if you don’t take advantage of the perks.” He leaned over her shoulder. “Read.”

  The article, from the English-language Cork Guardian, detailed the sudden death of university student, Oisin Ardmore, found dead in his dorm room. No signs of trauma were evident. Several pill bottles lay scattered around the room. Cause of death was ruled cardiac arrest due to accidental drug overdose. It was dated more than forty years ago.

  “I know that name,” she said. “From the pharmacist, Aoife Fitzgerald. He was in some photographs I asked about. The pharmacist told me he died. She didn’t seem to want to talk about it.”

  “Don’t suppose she did. Aoife had a terrible crush on Oisin. Her father treated him like a son. His death devastated the old man.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Well enough to buy him a pint. He dated Pegeen Sullivan for a short while in college. Orla and I double-dated with them once or twice. We didn’t care for him. Peg seemed besotted.”

  “Who’d send this to me? Why send this to me?”

  “You asked about him. Maybe one of the librarians thought you’d be interested.”

  “I didn’t ask about him at the library. I didn’t hear of Oisin Ardmore until after I’d already been there. Anyway, a librarian wouldn’t mail me the original article. She’d make a photocopy and leave it for me to pick up.” Gethsemane refolded the clipping. “Another mystery.” She couldn’t deal with this one right now. Her head hurt. “The line forms on the right.” She started towards the hallway.

  “Where’re you going?” Eamon asked.

  “For a walk.”

  “It’s fixing to rain.”

  Gethsemane called over her shoulder as she opened the door. “It’s always fixing to rain around here.”

  The rain held off for an hour as Gethsemane roamed along the Carrick Point Cliffs. She whistled as she battled the wind, the notes lost in the lonesome howl. Her father had whistled the same tune whenever he worked on a complicated math problem. He’d always solved the problem by the end of the song. Twice through and she hadn’t solved anything. She didn’t know who killed the McCarthys, she had no idea how she’d convince O’Reilly to take her seriously, and now she had a mystery pen pal.

  Every so often Gethsemane stopped and peered over the edge of the cliffs at the waves breaking over the rocks below. She imagined Orla standing in the same spot. She imagined someone—male? Female?—coming up behind her and—hitting her over the head? Pushing her? Struggling with her?

  Gethsemane gasped as a gust pushed her back from the cliff’s edge, almost knocking her over. Maybe O’Reilly was right, it was an accident. Orla had been blown to her death. Too bad you couldn’t arrest the wind. Gethsemane shivered and looked over the edge again. What possessed Orla to come out here at midnight on Halloween?

  A raindrop hit Gethsemane in the ear. She looked skyward. Another drop hit her in the eye. She looked at her bootless feet, then toward the cottage, a dot in the distance. How’d she walked so far without realizing it? The path back would be mud before she got halfway home. The thought of slogging through ankle-deep muck in a bone-chilling tempest turned her toward the lighthouse standing watch at the summit of Carrick Point. Closer than the cottage and over a rockier path. If she dashed she might make it before the storm hit full force. She took off at a run.

  She arrived at the lighthouse at the same time as the deluge. She ran to the tower and, with a sigh of relief, pushed the heavy door inward. She navigated around the ground floor’s boxes—some of them seemed out of place since she’d last been to Carrick Point—with care to avoid bruised shins. She shook the staircase’s handrail. No falling plaster. Kieran must have tightened the screws. She circled up toward the lantern, hoping to find the warmth that escaped her downstairs. She reached the first landing and pushed the door open—and found Teague Connolly and Aoife Fitzgerald braced against the clockworks in the center of the room, entwined in each other’s arms.

  Aoife saw Gethsemane first. She screamed. Teague made a noise and flushed crimson. They untangled themselves and jumped apart, staring at the floor as they smoothed clothes and hair.

  “Sorry,” Gethsemane said. “Just looking to get out of the rain.”

  “Us too,” Teague said.

  “I, um, twisted my ankle coming up the stairs,” Aoife said. “I couldn’t put weight on it. Teague was just helping me.”

  “Oh, sure.” Gethsemane nodded. “That’s what I figured.” She crept into the room and inched her way along the wall. “I’m just going to go sit over there in that corner—no, not a corner, the tower’s cylindrical, no corners. I’m just going to go sit on that side of the room.” She pointed to the wall farthest from the door. “I’m babbling. Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m just going to go sit. Over there. Where it’s dry. Sort of. Just until the rain stops, then I’ll be on my way. Don’t mean to disturb you. Just ignore me. I’m still babbling.”

  Teague and Aoife moved to opposite sides of the room. Teague smacked a gear shaft as he walked by it.

  When Gethsemane, huddled beneath a window, tired of pretending to study the derelict clockworks, she stood on tiptoe and looked out. After a moment, she said, “Teague?”

  Teague grunted.

  “Are you expecting company?”

  “You mean besides yourself?”

  “Yeah. I mean someone driving your car.”

  Teague and Aoife rushed to the window, jostling Gethsemane out of the way.

  “Oh, God, it’s her,” Aoife said. “How’d she find us here?”

  “She’s a damned witch,” Teague said.

  “Mrs. Connolly, I take it?” Gethsemane asked.

  Gethsemane, Aoife, and Teague retreated to their positions and waited. The lower door slammed hard enough to carry over the wind. Heels, stilettos by their sound, clanged on the iron staircase, closer and closer. The smell hit—a blend of berries, coconut, and vanilla. The door flew open, shaking as it banged against the stone wall.

  The woman framed in the doorway seemed to block out all light. Her pose—arms and legs outstretched, palms pressed against the doorjambs as if to keep them from collapsing in on her—made her appear larger than she was, like some jungle creature puffing its fur or its feathers to frighten an enemy. Scarlet fingernails stood in for bloody claws.

  Gethsemane tuned out the torrent of invective the woman shouted at Teague and Aoife and studied her. She was shorter than Aoife but taller than Gethsemane. Her red hair complemented her green eyes and her flaming temper. She
appeared a few years younger than Aoife, thanks to the assistance of a surgeon. Her short skirt and cropped top showed off toned muscles. She wore twice as much makeup and jewelry as Aoife, almost as much as Siobhan. But where Siobhan had seemed garish, this woman looked as if she’d just come from the salon.

  Eventually, she noticed Gethsemane. “Who the bloody feck are you?”

  Teague answered. “Dr. Gethsemane Brown, you’ve not met my wife, Eileen Connolly.”

  “The new school marm?” Eileen sneered. She looked as though she smelled something dead.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Connolly?” Gethsemane asked. She didn’t add, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Lies shouldn’t be obvious.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Eileen’s gaze shifted to her husband. “Havin’ a threesome?”

  “Don’t be disgusting, Eileen,” Teague said.

  “Me disgusting?” Eileen launched into another profanity-filled tirade.

  After a minute or so, Aoife clamped her hands over her ears and yelled, “Stop it! Stop it! I can’t do this anymore.”

  Eileen rushed Aoife. Teague grabbed his wife.

  “Actually, Mrs. Connolly,” Gethsemane positioned herself between wife and lover, “Ms. Fitzgerald and I were out for a walk and got caught in the storm. We came here to wait it out and ran into Mr. Connolly. I guess he had the same idea.”

  “You?” Eileen sneered and jerked her head toward Aoife. “Out with her? Do you think I’m thick?”

  “Of course I don’t think you’re thick,” Gethsemane said. “I don’t even know you. But Ms. Fitzgerald and I were out for a walk. I asked her about native plants that might be toxic and she graciously agreed to point some out.”

  “A nature tour?” Eileen asked. The sneer remained.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Gethsemane sniffed. “That fragrance you’re wearing. Is it Vainglory?”

  Eileen tossed her hair. “Yes, it is.”

  “I thought so.” Gethsemane hated Vainglory. Her rival at Vassar wore it. It cost two hundred dollars an ounce. “You have refined tastes, Mrs. Connolly.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Brown.” Eileen ran her hands over her skirt and patted her hair, her composure returned. “Not everyone appreciates such an exclusive perfume.” She looked at Teague.

  Aoife slowly exhaled.

  Gethsemane offered Eileen her hand. “Please, call me Gethsemane.”

  “Storm’s over,” Teague said. “They’re like that around here. Blow in fast and unexpected, rage like the coming apocalypse, then blow over quick as hell can scorch a feather.” He took his wife’s arm. “You take the car and go on home. I’ll follow along on foot.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear.” Eileen extricated her arm. “We’re going to the same place, we’ll ride together.” She looked at Gethsemane and Aoife. “I’m sure the ladies can make their way back.”

  Teague frowned. “I don’t know, Eileen. I think I ought to—”

  Eileen’s lips pursed.

  “That’s kind of you, Mr. Connolly,” Gethsemane said, “but Ms. Fitzgerald and I will be fine. The cottage isn’t too far and she can call a cab from there.”

  Eileen relaxed. “You see, no need to be gallant. You come home with me.”

  “Well—” Teague hesitated.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Connolly,” Aoife said. “Dr. Brown and I will finish our nature walk. I want to show her two of my favorite poisonous wild flowers—Housewife’s Tongue and Widower’s Joy.”

  Eileen lunged. Teague grabbed her again, throwing her off balance, then half-steered, half-dragged her from the room. Gethsemane and Aoife listened as the new volley of venom faded away down the stairs.

  Aoife threw her arms around Gethsemane and hugged her. “Thank you.”

  “Aw, shucks,” Gethsemane said in her best mock cowboy voice. “’T weren’t nothing.”

  “It took guts, stepping between Eileen Connolly and the target of her wrath. She’s the most stylish woman in town with the dirtiest mouth and the foulest temper. She’s sometimes violent.”

  “Lucky I didn’t know that.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.” Aoife clapped Gethsemane on the back. “I’ll bet you’d keep calm faced with a fire-breathing dragon.”

  Aoife and Gethsemane walked together as far as Carraigfaire Cottage. The just-rained scent of wildflowers and wet earth clung to the air. The women didn’t speak much as they picked their way around puddles, trying to avoid the deepest mud. Aoife did point out the names of a few wildflowers along the way and explained their traditional uses.

  “For veracity’s sake,” Aoife said with a laugh.

  The cottage came into view around a curve. Lights shone in the windows and peaty smoke rose from the chimney.

  “Charming place,” Aoife said. “Do you like it?”

  “I do.” Gethsemane nodded. “Now. It took some getting used to.”

  “Seems strange to see the cottage all lit up and inviting again. It sat dark for so long after Eamon and Orla died.”

  “Did you know the McCarthys well?”

  “Well enough to say hello and chat a bit. Mostly Orla. She came by the pharmacy quite often. Dad sold stationery supplies then. Orla swore he stocked the best pens in the county. Said her poems flowed as smooth as their ink when she wrote with them.”

  “What do you think happened to Eamon and Orla?”

  “Eamon pushed Orla over the cliff and then poisoned himself.”

  “You really think that?”

  Aoife remained silent for a long while. “Not really, no. I think they met with foul play.” She looked at her feet. “Not that I’m one to go about saying such things.”

  “What if I told you that I found evidence—irrefutable evidence—proving Eamon couldn’t have murdered Orla?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “As tax season. And what if I told you I’d given the evidence to the police?”

  “I’d tell you to be careful, Dr. Brown.”

  “Gethsemane.”

  “Be careful, Gethsemane. The cliffs aren’t the only treacherous things in Dunmullach. There’s some who would go to great lengths to keep their secrets secret.”

  Gethsemane invited Aoife in to use the phone.

  She declined. “I’ve got my mobile and my car’s parked farther down the road. Thanks again for running interference with Eileen.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Aoife took a step, then stopped. “May I—” She hesitated. “May I tell you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Remember at the pharmacy you were looking at photos and you asked me what happened to Oisin Ardmore?”

  “You told me he died.” Had Aoife mailed her the article from the Guardian? “You seemed reluctant to talk about it.”

  Aoife nodded.

  “It still hurts, even after all this time. Not just because of my feelings for Oisin, but because of the effect his death had on Dad. Oisin truly was like a son to him. Dad shut down. Couldn’t function. We were afraid he’d lose the pharmacy.”

  “He recovered?”

  “Eventually. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.” Aoife paused, tears in her blue-green eyes. Gethsemane waited. The pharmacist continued, “The guards said he died of a heart attack.”

  Eamon had told her as much.

  “Oisin started doing drugs when he went to university. The pressures of class, the wrong crowd of friends, you know the story.”

  “You think Oisin died of an overdose?”

  “I think drugs killed Oisin.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Oisin wasn’t a kind person when he was using. Cruel, even. He hurt people, badly. More than one grew to hate him. Hate him enough to feed him
drugs he didn’t intend to take. Hurt breeds vengeance.”

  “You think someone poisoned Oisin to get revenge? Someone he’d hurt. Did he hurt you, Aoife?”

  Aoife gasped. “Oh, God, no. Not me and not Dad, I swear. Oisin left the drugs alone when he was with us. When he was with others…I’m talking crazy, aren’t I? What’re the odds of another unsolved murder written off as something else? Too much coincidence.”

  “Something must have aroused your suspicions. Me asking questions about Eamon and Orla?”

  “No, not you. How well do you know Siobhan Moloney?”

  “Not well,” Gethsemane said. “Enough to suspect I wouldn’t want to tick her off.”

  “Siobhan stopped in the pharmacy asking about Dad’s old inventory records. She wouldn’t say why and I was afraid to ask. You didn’t push Siobhan Moloney. She may have looked like a carnival fortuneteller in those get-ups of hers, but beneath the caftan beat a cold, mercenary heart.”

  “You wouldn’t have records from that long ago. Would you?”

  “I have records from the day the pharmacy opened. We Fitzgeralds are packrats. That’s not what I told Siobhan, though. When she left, I started looking through the old logbooks. I noticed discrepancies in inventory around the time Oisin died. Discrepancies in the amount of drugs ordered from suppliers and the amounts actually on the shelves in the stockroom.”

  “What kind of discrepancies?”

  “Dad didn’t record specifically which customers bought which drugs but he, or one of his assistants, did note in the inventory logs when a drug was sold or was returned to the supplier. He and his assistants also did a bi-weekly count of the stockroom supply. According to the books, around the time of Oisin’s death some drugs were unaccounted for. They weren’t sold or returned and they weren’t on the shelves. I think the drugs were stolen and used to murder Oisin.”