Gethsemane knocked a half-dozen times before giving up. Aoife wasn’t home. She wasn’t at the pharmacy either. Gethsemane checked there first. The assistant on duty would only tell her the pharmacist was out and wasn’t expected back soon. Had Aoife been frightened into hiding?
She heard the stilettos on the driveway before she saw Eileen striding to the porch, as bejeweled as the night of the lighthouse confrontation. Skin-tight leopard print pants took the place of the miniskirt. A cloud of Vainglory surrounded her. Gethsemane steeled herself.
“Where is she? Where’s the slag?” The only difference between Eileen and a dragon was a lack of smoke billowing from her nostrils.
“Where’s who, Mrs. Connolly?”
“Don’t play innocent with me. You’re standing on her bloody porch, ain’t ya?”
“I’ve no more idea where Aoife Fitzgerald is than you.”
“Oh, I’ve a feckin’ brilliant idea where she is and who she’s with. It’s no coincidence my Teague’s out of town at the same time that slut’s nowhere to be found. Away on business, he says. I’ll give him the business.” She shoved a vermillion-tipped finger under Gethsemane’s nose. “And if you’re a part of this—this conspiracy—to keep a man away from his wife…”
Time to end this. The best defense…“Mrs. Connolly, you’ve got me all wrong. I would never dream of interfering with the sacred bonds of marriage. Especially yours. You and Teague inspire me. I can only hope someday to have a marriage half as vital as yours. Maybe we could get together and you could share your secrets for keeping your marriage vibrant. You could invite your friend. Is he single? Dating anyone seriously?”
Eileen’s eyes narrowed and she stepped back. “What friend?”
“The guy I saw you with near the pizza parlor the other day. It looked like you were helping him get his zipper unstuck. So sweet of you. But hey, if you can’t count on a friend to help you with a stuck zipper who can you count on? Am I right?”
“So help me, if you tell anyone—”
“I do need to speak with Aoife, but about more important things than your social connections. But since Aoife’s not home, we should probably leave. You should leave. Come back some other time.”
“I’ll do that. And I’ll see you some other time too.”
“I’ll look forward to it. You, me, Teague, dinner. Invite your buddy, make it a foursome.”
Eileen walked away without a word. Her scent lingered. Gethsemane sneezed. God, she hated Vainglory.
Twelve
“The boy’s chronically late.” Gethsemane played Saint-Saens’ “Danse Macabre in G Minor.” The day had not gone well. Riordan had reminded her that her continued employment depended on his, meaning Dunleavy’s, continued faith in her ability to lead St. Brennan’s to victory. He’d hinted replacing Colm as soloist would be a sign warranting that continued faith.
“Maybe his watch is slow.” Eamon joined her at the piano, his hands melding with hers as their fingers flew over the keys.
Static shocks coursed up Gethsemane’s arms. “He wears a Rolex. Rolexes don’t run slow.”
“Maybe he has bladder control problems.”
“At sixteen? Maybe he’s just arrogant and inconsiderate and thinks the universe owes him.” Maybe Dunleavy was right. Damn.
“No worse than any other teen lad. Trust me, I used to be one.”
Their fingers reached for a chord. “Did you ever let being a teenager interfere with music?”
“Of course. I was fourteen, thought I knew more than my parents, my instructors, everyone. I went about my lessons arseways, generally acted the maggot. You know how it feels, wanting to live normal like the other kids. You resent music for taking over your life, for separating you from the crowd, making you stand out, alone. It’s why you played softball, a team sport.”
“Yeah, but I quit music to play ball. I knew it was one or the other. I didn’t try to do a half-assed job of both.”
“Boys aren’t as logical as girls. I think the testosterone surge damages brain cells.”
“What brought you back to your senses?”
“Orla threatened to never speak to me again unless I got straight. Peg threatened to toss me off Carrick Point Lighthouse.”
Gethsemane dropped her hands to her lap. “I have to demote Colm. Give the solo to Ruairi and make Feargus concertmaster.”
“You’re afraid Peter Nolan won’t be happy about his nephew not headlining the show?”
“I am not.” Her elbow shot through Eamon’s ribs. “This is my orchestra. I decide who plays. Not the judges.”
“But?”
“If I do what’s best for the orchestra, Dunleavy and Riordan will think I caved to them. I don’t cave.”
“I noticed.”
Gethsemane played Mogwai’s “Kill Jester,” channeling her misgivings to the keyboard.
“What’s Dunleavy got against Colm? The boy aggravates me, but I’d drag him from a burning building if it came to it. I suspect Dunleavy’d let him burn.”
“Perceptive of you. Has nothing to do with the lad, per se. Dunleavy’s have hated Nolan’s for three, four hundred years. Family disputes over money and property. Part and parcel of being the two wealthiest families in the village.”
“It’s personal with Dunleavy. More immediate than a four-century-old grudge.”
“Colm’s ma broke her engagement to Dunleavy to elope with Colm’s da. Didn’t help the whole village thought she got the better deal in Nolan. Young, handsome, and rich instead of old, dry, and rich.”
“Now I get it. Brutal enough being thrown over halfway to the altar. Having to deal with the offspring of a union you desperately never wanted to happen, downright diabolical. Dunleavy denies Colm the solo, he gets some measure of revenge on the woman who he believes wronged him.”
“Your dilemma: keep Colm as soloist and pacify Peter Nolan or dump Colm as soloist and pacify Dunleavy and Riordan.”
“My solution: drop Colm to first violins because he doesn’t possess the maturity to handle the responsibility of soloist and don’t worry about Dunleavy, Riordan, or Peter Nolan.”
“Spoken like a true maestra.”
“Thank you.”
“Be careful. You’re claiming ownership of the St. Brennan’s orchestra. You risk finding it hard to give up once you win your job back in the States.”
Colm sauntered into the music room ten minutes late for his appointment. Gethsemane let him wait until she finished grading a student quiz, one of several stacked on her desk. “Have a seat.”
Colm nodded at the pile. “Too bad you don’t have an assistant. The senior instructors get a boy to help mark papers.”
“I’ll manage. You’re late.” As usual.
“Sorry.” Colm crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.
“Do you mind telling me where you were when you were supposed to be here?”
Colm shrugged. “Mr. Jameson wanted to see me after practice today. He’s going to start me in the game against St. Michael’s.”
“And all the other times you showed up late?”
“Mr. Jameson.”
“Soccer.”
“Football,” Colm emphasized the word, “is important, Dr. Brown.”
“So’s orchestra, except, apparently, to you.” Gethsemane pushed aside memories of her own year of high school sports. She’d given up music, made a choice. She hadn’t tried to juggle both. “You can’t be a football star and a violin virtuoso at the same time. Which is why I’m giving the solo to Ruairi.”
“Ruairi? You’re coddin’?”
“No, I’m not.”
Colm knocked over his chair. “You can’t do that. I deserve the solo. I’m better than Ruairi.”
“Colm, you have the gift of trans
forming beautiful music into transcendent music. You lack discipline and dedication. Your attitude, frankly, stinks.”
“But Ruairi? He sits like a mouse staring at his shoes, not saying a word unless you speak to him.”
“He’s shy. I can work with shy. He plays almost as well as you. I can work with almost as good. I can’t work with indifferent brat.”
“If I can’t be soloist, I quit the orchestra.”
“I hope you don’t mean that, Colm, but it’s your decision.”
“You won’t win without me.”
“We’ll try.”
“Dunleavy’s put you up to this.”
“This is my decision. I’m the maestra.”
“So that’s it, then?”
Gethsemane slid an exam from the top of the stack. “Pick up your chair.”
Colm righted the chair and stomped to the door, jostling several other chairs on the way. He paused at the threshold. “We’ll see what happens.”
Gethsemane braked her bicycle at the junction of the road to town and the road to Carrick Point. She looked out over the village as she ran through the meager contents of her pantry. Guinness stew at the pub sounded better than peanut butter and jelly on stale crackers at home. Gethsemane turned her bicycle toward town. She hummed “I’ll Tell My Ma” as she pedaled to the Mad Rabbit, admiring the red and gold fall foliage she passed. She had just reached Bunratty’s Off License when a tremendous boom tore through the air. Gethsemane nearly fell off her bicycle. At the far end of the street flames and black smoke shot into the air. The pharmacy. Gethsemane raced to the scene. Dozens of townspeople gathered on the sidewalk, talking excitedly, gesturing, and shouting for help. A few people tried to get near the burning building, but the flames drove them back. Soon the shriek of sirens drowned out the voices of the onlookers. Firefighters and police officers took over the sidewalk, pushing spectators farther down the street. Something caught Gethsemane’s eye as she moved back—Teague’s car parked in the pharmacy parking lot. Shards of glass glittered on the car’s roof. A chunk of smoldering masonry protruded through the smashed windshield.
Thirteen
“It’s a damned shame about Teague.” Eamon shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against a bookcase. Gethsemane read the titles through his chest. “He was a good man. Orla adored him.” His aura glowed a sad yellow.
“I’m sorry,” Gethsemane said. “I liked Teague and Aoife.”
“Eileen’s havin’ a hooley, I bet. Shed of a husband without the bother of annulment or scandal of divorce. She’ll play the sympathy card and wear widow’s weeds for a week or three then bring that boyfriend of hers out in the open.”
“You knew about that?”
“Everyone except Teague knew about that.”
Gethsemane picked up the newspaper from a console table under the window. The explosion at Fitzgerald’s Apothecary dominated the Dunmullach Dispatch’s front page: Explosion Kills Two, Gas Leak Suspected. “At least Teague and Aoife were the only ones in the pharmacy when it blew up,” she said. “Things could’ve been worse. What if it had been one of the gas lines at St. Brennan’s instead?”
“Hmm,” Eamon said.
“What’s hmm mean?”
“It’s Irish for ‘I wonder.’”
“About…?”
“You noted it yourself. There’ve been an awful lot of violent deaths in Dunmullach this past few weeks.”
“This is different. Someone murdered Hurley and Siobhan. The explosion was an accident.”
“So says the Dispatch.”
“You disagree?” Gethsemane folded the newspaper. “Bashing a guy’s head in and shooting a woman with an arrow take plenty of chutzpah but minimal skill. Blowing up a building—at least without blowing up yourself and half the neighborhood—requires some technical know-how.”
“Eileen knows how. Her father owned a demolition company and her eldest brother disposes ordinance in the army.”
Gethsemane smelled the faint aroma of leather and soap. “You think Eileen murdered two people?”
“The two people being her husband and his lover.” Hints of blue surrounded Eamon. “You’ve met Eileen. She’s capable of murder.”
“Capable of spontaneous violence, maybe. But of a well-planned murder? One that required patience and precision timing?”
The fragrance and the blue glow dissipated. “You’re right, it’s not really Eileen’s style. She’d prefer ripping your eyeballs out to long-distance killing.” Eamon moved closer to her. Her cheek buzzed as his fingers brushed it. “I’ve been thinking. You’ve been working nonstop between getting ready for the All-County and trying to light a fire under O’Reilly.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s hmm?”
“It’s American for ‘he’s getting ready to sugar me off.’”
“No sugar coating. Forget about murder. Focus on the All-County.”
“Forget about proving you didn’t kill your wife? Forget the one thing that’s kept you from resting in peace for a quarter of a century?”
“But you did prove I didn’t murder Orla. You put O’Reilly on to that videotape.”
“I haven’t proved she didn’t commit suicide. Or fall accidentally. And I haven’t proved that you didn’t poison yourself.”
“Let it wait. At least until after the All-County.”
“I expect to be on my way back to the States after the All-County. Peter Nolan? The Boston Philharmonic? Remember?”
Eamon stared at his shoes.
“I remember.”
Gethsemane passed a hand through Eamon’s shoulder. “Why the change of heart?”
“When we started the body count held at two—Orla and me. Truthfully, I thought our murderer had escaped human justice and was dead and rotting in hell. But now—” Eamon paced. “God, I hate admitting I’m wrong.”
“But now you think one person killed Teague, Aoife, Hurley, and Siobhan, the same person who killed Orla and you.”
“Aye.”
“When I suggested a connection between—”
“I said I was wrong, didn’t I?”
“As much as I enjoy hearing those words from your mouth, let me play Devil’s Advocate. No one knew Aoife’s plans except me. Aoife wouldn’t have told anyone. Well, maybe Teague but he died with her. Why kill Aoife if you didn’t know she could prove you were a murderer?”
“Who did you tell?”
“No one. Well, you. O’Reilly. But that’s it. And I don’t peg O’Reilly as the murderer.”
“Where did you tell O’Reilly? At the garda station?”
“At the Rabbit.”
Eamon groaned.
“What? I didn’t stand on top of the bar and make a general announcement. We sat in a booth near the back. No one came near us other than the waitress and she only stayed long enough to take our order and bring our drinks.”
“The barmaids at the Mad Rabbit have ears like parabolic microphones. They’re the grease that keeps the Dunmullach gossip wheel turning.”
“Wait.” Gethsemane gasped. “Are you saying the waitress overheard me then told the killer?”
“Told the killer, the killer’s uncle, the postman, the butcher…” Eamon sat next to Gethsemane on the piano bench. She shivered as his hand passed through hers. “I’m not blaming you, mind. You weren’t to know.”
She pulled her hand away and hugged her shoulders. “I could’ve guessed. I grew up in a small town. I’ve lived away so long I forgot how gossip spreads.”
“It’s not your fault.” A blue halo framed Eamon’s head and sparks popped. “Damned busybodies ought to have their tongues cut out and their lips sewn shut.”
Neither Gethsemane nor ghost spoke for several moments. Eamon broke the silence. “Quit.�
�
“I can’t. I told you.”
“Sure you can. Quitting’s easy. Don’t ask any more questions, don’t dig up any more clues. Stick to orchestra business. Quit snooping. Better disgraced than dead.”
“You sound like O’Reilly.”
“O’Reilly’s got sense under that stupid hat.”
“I don’t get why you want me to stop. I’m helping you.”
“Do you really not know I don’t want to see you harmed? A bloody maniac’s on the loose with six murders to his credit. A seventh murder would be easier than slipping on ice. I’d rather you not be number seven.”
“When did you start to care?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t mark the date on the calendar. But I do care, a great deal. Which is why I’m telling you—begging you—stop.”
“Quitting’s not who I am. It’s not in my DNA. My father’s father was a brilliant cellist who couldn’t land a gig with a professional orchestra because he was black and it was the nineteen-twenties. He didn’t quit the cello and go back to tailoring, he started his own orchestra. My mother’s parents were sharecroppers. When she was born the plantation owner’s wife congratulated Grandma on the birth of ‘another little cotton picker.’ Everyone told Mother poor, black, country girls don’t get to be doctors, so she became a doctor. My father battled mental illness, hiding it so he could attend lectures in college instead of group therapy in an institution. Everyone thought he’d do well just to stay out of a padded cell, so he became dean of the mathematics department. Succeeding despite everything being against you, beating the odds, is a family tradition.” She moved to the window and stared out at the threatening clouds hanging low over the cliffs. “I don’t look good with my tail between my legs.”
“Your tail’s going to wind up six feet under if you’re not careful.”
Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1) Page 22