“I’m careful. Anyway,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as Eamon, “I don’t think I’m in real danger.”
“Are you daft or are you just trying to provoke me?”
“Six victims. What did you all have in common?”
“We never saw it coming.”
“Exclude Orla. She died first so let’s say she was the real target. The murderer feared the rest of you could expose him. He killed you as damage control.”
“Which puts you squarely in the crosshairs.”
“Or not. ’Cause, let’s face it, I have no idea who our killer is.”
“I doubt such a fine point will trouble him as he’s dispatching you from this life to the next.”
“If he took me seriously as a threat, wouldn’t he have come after me already?”
“Just because no one’s come after you yet doesn’t mean they won’t.”
“Thank you for worrying about me—”
“But you’ve no intention of acting like you’ve got some sense and dropping this before you get hurt.”
“That’s not exactly how I’d have put it.”
“Well, it is exactly how I put it.” Leather and soap filled the room as Eamon glowed bright orange-yellow. “And damned if I’m going to stick around to watch you get your fool-self killed. Damned stubborn.” Eamon vanished. As the leather and soap aroma faded, his faint, disembodied voice cautioned, “Be dog wide. Please.”
Gethsemane’s usual ability to rationalize a situation away failed her by lunchtime, forcing her to admit Eamon was right. A serial killer—six victims certainly qualified one as a serial killer—would sooner add her to the hit list than risk exposure. Her best hope of avoiding the victims’ fate, short of high-tailing it out of Ireland, was to get conclusive evidence of Orla’s murder to O’Reilly before the killer got to her. Which meant she had to find some conclusive evidence. Fast.
She needed a clue. From one of the villagers? Nuala Sullivan? Too unstable. Deirdre Lynch? Too much risk of a run-in with her sociopathic brother. Father Keating didn’t gossip and Kieran didn’t talk at all. Mrs. Toibin had gone out of town for the rest of the week. Pegeen Sullivan didn’t like to talk about the past. Who could blame her? She had a hunch. Thinking of the Stinney case, she rode to the library to take a stab at back issues of the paper.
An hour spent scrolling through microfilmed copies of the Dunmullach Dispatch reminded Gethsemane why facts beat hunches. Four decades’ worth of reading turned up nothing more interesting than a photo of Headmaster Riordan and a man she didn’t recognize holding archery trophies won at the annual Michaelmas Festival and Field Day Games. She fast-forwarded the microfilm, tuning out the blurred images zipping past on the screen and the whir of the spindles as film unwound from one reel onto another. She pulled out pen and paper and wrote down what she knew—someone murdered Orla and Eamon twenty-five years ago and the same person recently murdered four more people to keep from being exposed for the original murders. She wrote one word about what she could prove to O’Reilly’s satisfaction—nothing.
The thwap, thwap of the end of the film pulled Gethsemane back to the room. As she pulled the reel from the spindle she noticed the label on the film box—Please rewind. She swore loudly, drawing a dirty look from the man in the next carrel. She apologized then swore again, under her breath, as she reloaded the film and flipped the machine’s lever to reverse. An image scrolling across the screen caught her eye. She pressed pause. How had she missed it? Eamon’s wedding photo, claiming half of the March twenty-fifth issue’s front page. Orla and Eamon beamed in each other’s arms. A wreath of flowers crowned Orla’s flowing hair. A matching boutonniere graced Eamon’s lapel. The accompanying article—an adulatory ode to the ripped-from-the-fairytales romance between world-renowned composer and acclaimed poet—took up the rest of the front page and most of the second. She judged from the percentage of the Dispatch’s front section given over to the wedding coverage and the number of people in the photos, the McCarthy nuptials rated as Dunmullach’s event of the year. Everyone in town seemed to appear in at least one photo, many alongside international celebrities. Gethsemane leaned closer to the screen. Almost everyone in town. Pegeen Sullivan wasn’t in any of them. She and Orla and Eamon were the oldest of friends. Odd to miss an old friend’s wedding, especially when the barman and the postmistress managed to make it.
The closing chime interrupted further speculation about Pegeen’s absence. Gethsemane returned the microfilm and went upstairs. She reached the first landing as Inspector O’Reilly descended. He zig-zagged to avoid a collision and dropped the overstuffed file folder he carried.
“Sorry, Dr. Brown.” He tucked his hat under his arm as he bent to collect the fallen papers.
Gethsemane stooped to help. She glanced at the papers as she handed them back. “None of these seem to be about the McCarthy case.”
“Because,” O’Reilly stuffed papers back into the file, “there is no McCarthy case. As I’ve explained. Repeatedly.”
“You still say that? After all that’s happened? You’ve admitted Eamon McCarthy couldn’t have pushed his wife off a cliff. Why can’t you admit someone else did?”
“After all that’s happened, I still have no evidence Orla McCarthy didn’t jump or accidentally fall.”
“You have proof Eamon and Oisin were poisoned with the same drug.”
“But none that McCarthy didn’t spike his own whiskey.”
“What about Aoife’s evidence of drug theft?”
“Evidence that no longer exists.” O’Reilly, hat in one hand, files in the other, tried to move past her.
Gethsemane stepped in front of him. “So Eamon’s death remains a suicide and the case remains closed.”
“A succinct summary of the situation, Dr. Brown.” He spoke in the tone St. Brennan’s schoolmasters reserved for boys in the lower school who tried their patience. “While I appreciate your interest in Dunmullach’s crimes, please understand the cold case unit consists of one man—me—and these,” he held up the expandable file, “are the cases my superiors want me to close. Expeditiously.” He stepped past her on the opposite side. “Again, please excuse me.”
Gethsemane blocked him a second time. She ignored the muscle twitching in his jaw. “What about the recent murders?”
“What about them?”
“You will concede those were murders? At least Hurley and Siobhan. You can’t accidentally bash your head in with a cricket bat or commit suicide by shooting yourself in the chest with an arrow.”
“Not only will I admit Hurley and Miss Moloney were murdered, I’ll concede Connolly and Miss Fitzgerald were murdered too. However, none of those murders are cold cases. Therefore, they’re not my concern. They’re active investigations being conducted by the homicide unit. Once again, excuse me.”
Gethsemane shifted a foot.
“If you step in front of me, I’ll arrest you for hindering an officer.”
Gethsemane let him pass. When he reached the bottom of the stairs she called after him. “You know they’re all connected.”
O’Reilly paused, but didn’t turn around.
“The murders,” Gethsemane said. “One person committed all of them. Whoever killed Eamon and Orla McCarthy twenty-five years ago killed Hurley, Siobhan, Teague, and Aoife this month. Solve one murder, you’ve solved them all.”
O’Reilly looked up at Gethsemane and tipped his hat. “I’ll pass that along to my colleagues in homicide.”
“Don’t patronize me, Inspector. A serial killer is running loose in Dunmullach and one of us is worried about it.”
Gethsemane grabbed her bike, her renewed determination fueled by frustration, annoyance, and anger. Damned if she’d let O’Reilly put her off, damned if she’d let a murderer keep killing, and double damned if she’d let Eamon down.
She pedaled for the Rabbit with a new plan—turn the tables and use Dunmullach’s gossip wheel against the murderer.
The Rabbit held a thinner crowd than usual. Francis sat at the far end of the bar, drink in hand, empty glass at his elbow. The Sullivan sisters sat at a table near the door. Deirdre Lynch sat alone in a booth, surrounded by books, head bent, pen flying across paper. No Jimmy Lynch.
“Evening, Grennan.” She took the barstool next to Francis and signaled Murphy.
“Same to you,” Francis said.
“Bushmills Twenty-one?” Murphy asked.
Gethsemane nodded. She cleared her throat, raised her voice, and said to Francis, “I need to ask you something.”
“Ask.” Francis motioned for a refill.
Certain she had at least one barmaid’s attention, Gethsemane asked, “Who murdered Orla McCarthy?”
All pub chatter ceased at once, as if someone had flipped a switch.
Francis, caught mid-sip, choked. He looked around the room and then back at Gethsemane. “I love the way Americans get right to the point.”
“I know she was murdered. I can’t prove it—” she glanced around the bar “—yet, but I know it. I don’t know why she was murdered. Motive points to suspect. But everywhere I dig for a motive, I hit a dead end.”
Francis signaled for refills. “Name the most common motives for murder.”
Gethsemane counted on her fingers. “Love, money, revenge, honor.”
Francis sipped his drink. “Consider love. People have killed in its name as often as they’ve killed in the name of religion. The gardaí, and everyone else in town, assumed Eamon murdered his wife after a lovers’ quarrel then killed himself in a fit of remorse. You’ve debunked that theory.
“Money.”
“The McCarthys had plenty, Eamon from fame and Orla from family.”
“Revenge.”
Francis leaned against the bar. “My auntie was at school with Orla. To hear her talk, Orla was sweetness and light incarnate, adored by all. Doubt anyone had a vendetta against her. Eamon, on the other hand…I recall something about a brouhaha between him and a rival composer. Name-calling, lawsuits, that sort of thing. I think Eamon’s the one who came out on top. Would being on the losing end drive a man to murder? You’d know more about the evil that lurks in the hearts of musicians than I.”
“Not in this case. The rival died three years ago, car accident in Berlin. And we’re looking for a motive for killing Orla, not Eamon.”
“What better way to avenge a wrong than by destroying what your target loves? And the McCarthys died twenty-five years ago which is longer ago than three. Trust me, I’m a maths teacher.”
“But four more people have been murdered within the past few weeks.”
“A single killer?” Francis arched an eyebrow.
“You prefer a multitude of homicidal maniacs roaming Dunmullach?”
“Single killer it is.” Francis drained his glass. “So far, we’ve ruled out love, money, and revenge. What does that leave us?”
“Honor,” Gethsemane said. “Kind of old-fashioned. Anyway, there were no angry male relatives or cuckolded husbands in Eamon’s past. He was that rarest of rarities, a man one hundred percent devoted to the wife he loved more than his own life. He never cheated. So cross honor off the list and we’re back where we started. Nowhere.”
“But haven’t we slighted perhaps the most important motive of all?”
“What?”
“Jealousy, of course. Jealousy encompasses crimes professional, romantic, and pecuniary. So who was jealous of Eamon and Orla? Willing to kill the Joneses rather than try to keep up with them? Any scorned lovers lurking in the wings?”
“Enough!” Pegeen Sullivan slammed her glass on the bar. Amber liquid sloshed onto Gethsemane’s arm and lap. “This isn’t a game, some academic exercise for your amusement.” Pegeen swung her arm, missing Gethsemane by an inch and knocking Gethsemane’s glass to the floor. She shouted, “We’ve had nothing but grief since you came to town. Four dead in fewer weeks. ’Tis your doing.”
Gethsemane leaned away from the shrieking woman. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“You’ve brought a curse to this village, poking your nose where it don’t belong. Digging up the dead instead of letting ’em rest. Stirring up ghosts.”
“Do you mean ghosts in the metaphorical sense, Peg,” Francis asked, “or is another Sullivan sister seeing things?”
“Shut yer hole, Frankie,” Pegeen said. “These murders are her fault sure as if she’d swung the bat or shot the arrow.”
“That’s a bit harsh now, isn’t it Peg?” Murphy said.
Pegeen put her nose an inch from Gethsemane’s. “Eamon’s dead and beyond caring what anyone thinks of him. Leave it alone.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”
Pegeen slammed a fist on the bar and pointed at Gethsemane, Francis, and Murphy. “To the devil with all of you.” She shook a finger at Gethsemane. “You especially. Go to hell or go back to the States, just leave Dunmullach and leave well enough alone.” She stormed out of the pub. The door slammed behind her.
“Wow,” Gethsemane said. “Zero to intense in five seconds.”
“Peg took Eamon’s death pretty hard,” Murphy said, mopping up the mess from the bar.
Gethsemane waved away another drink. She borrowed a towel and dabbed at the wet spots on her blouse and skirt.
“Not as hard as she took his marriage,” Francis said.
Murphy exchanged Francis’ empty glass for a full one. “Don’t you go tellin’ tales out of school, Frankie.”
“’S not a tale if it’s true.”
“What am I missing?” Gethsemane asked
“Pegeen was particularly fond of Eamon,” Murphy said.
“You don’t get sent to St. D’s for being fond of someone,” Francis said.
Gethsemane swiveled on her barstool back and forth between the two men.
“What’s St. D’s?”
“St. Dymphna’s. The old insane asyl—” Murphy corrected himself. “Beg pardon, the old ‘mental health facility’ just outside of town.” He jerked his head southward. “Closed down five, six years ago.”
“Pegeen was committed to a psychiatric hospital?”
“Don’t get too excited. Half this village has been resident at St. D’s at one point or another, including Eamon McCarthy. Mental illness is as common in Dunmullach as Irish eyes a smilin’. I think it’s something in the water.” Francis signaled for another drink. “Which is why I only drink this.” He raised his glass.
“Other folks have to drink water, Frankie,” Murphy said, “because you don’t leave ’em anything else.”
Gethsemane cut in. “Did you say Eamon was committed to a psych hospital?”
“Not committed. Checked himself in. Back before he and Orla married. Nothing much to it. Eamon went through a rough patch and needed a rest is all.”
“Exactly where outside of town is St. Dymphna’s?”
“About half a kilometer south of here,” Murphy said. “Up on Golgotha.”
“Golgotha? The place of the skull? Bizarre name for a place meant to help people recover their mental health.”
Francis snorted. “The only thing ever recovered at St. Dymphna’s was fees from the health authorities.”
Murphy explained. “We call it Golgotha. Carnock’s the place’s real name. A miserable pile o’ rocks up Mulligan Road. Forlorn place to stick an asylum. More likely to turn a man into a header than cure him.”
“About how long would it take to get out there?” Gethsemane asked.
“Why the interest?” Francis asked.
Gethsemane shrugged. “No special reason. Curiosity.”
“Translation, she’s hea
ded up there to poke about.”
“Nothing much up there to poke at,” Murphy said.
“Except patient records.”
Murphy shot Francis a look.
“Don’t you go encouraging her.”
“Dr. Brown needs no encouragement from me,” Francis said. “She’s a woman who knows her own mind.”
“She’s a woman who didn’t suddenly turn invisible. She can hear you,” Gethsemane said. “Go back to the part about the patient records.”
“When they closed St. Dymphna’s they didn’t relocate the patients’ charts. They left ’em behind, down in the basement.”
Gethsemane had seen abandoned hospitals on Ghost Hunting Adventures where everything—charts, equipment, supplies—had been left behind where it lay, as if staff and patients had been taken up in the Rapture or abducted by aliens, dry land versions of the Mary Celeste. She’d only half-believed such places existed. “They left charts out in the open, where anyone could get to them?”
“Who’d be fool enough to go up there after ’em?” Murphy asked.
“They locked the doors,” Francis said.
“Locked the doors. Right.” Gethsemane climbed down from her barstool. “Please excuse me, gentlemen. Thank you for the whiskey.” She nodded at Murphy and placed money on the bar. “And for the information.” She nodded at Francis. “I’ll see you at school, Grennan.” She eyed the three-fourths empty glass in his hand. “I’ll try to keep the orchestra rehearsal volume pianissimo.”
Gethsemane left the pub. She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, eyes closed, and breathed in the smell of coming rain. Eamon neglected to mention his stay at St. Dymphna’s. What else had he neglected to tell her? Was his stay somehow connected to Pegeen’s? Or to the murders? Gethsemane shrugged on her mac and pulled up the hood against the beginning drizzle. She wouldn’t confront Eamon about the psych hospital just yet. She’d go to St. Dymphna’s first and see what the records held. She climbed on her bike and pedaled toward Carraigfaire Cottage. Preoccupied with plans for her escapade, she didn’t notice Kieran watching her from a nearby alley.
Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1) Page 23