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

by Alexia Gordon

  “You kept asking questions, poking your nose into others’ business. When she saw you weren’t letting it go she thought you might be willing to pay for information.”

  “Or that you’d be willing to pay more for her silence.”

  “Siobhan underestimated me.”

  “A mistake.”

  “Her last.” Pegeen nodded at the bourbon. “Enough talk. Drink up.”

  “I’m not thirsty,” Gethsemane said. “I’m not in a hurry either. Satisfy my curiosity. Why’d you wait so long after Eamon and Orla were married to kill them?”

  “I’m a patient woman. I gave Eamon time to come to his senses, to see Orla for what she really was.”

  “An intelligent, beautiful, kind woman, beloved by all?”

  “No!” Pegeen took two steps toward Gethsemane. She took a deep breath and stepped back. “No. Manky slapper. She didn’t deserve Eamon.”

  “But you did.”

  “Yes, I did! I did deserve Eamon. I’m the one who was there for him. I’m the one who was there for all of them. After everything I did for them, I deserved to be loved.” Pegeen wiped away a tear. The gun wavered in her hand.

  “So, what, you figured ten years, long enough to see the light? Time to force the issue?”

  “I had to act, didn’t I? Stupid cow went and got herself pregnant. I ran into Orla in Limerick, coming from a specialist’s office. Didn’t want to see the local GP, sodding useless gobshite he was. She and Eamon had tried so long to start a family. She couldn’t wait to tell me. Went on and on about how happy they’d be. Bitch.”

  “Gee, I can’t imagine why she’d want to share her good news with her lifelong friend.”

  “Not a thought for my feelings. Did she care where I’d fit in?”

  “So you fixed her.”

  Pegeen nodded. “I had to act fast, before she could tell Eamon. He was in Dublin that day so I took my chance. I fixed her good same as I’m going to fix you. Drink up. Your ice is melting.”

  “I take my bourbon neat,” Gethsemane said.

  “You’ll take it now.” Pegeen re-aimed the gun. “Stop stalling.” She laughed, a sound as ugly as her smile. “Or are you hoping Eamon will come along and save you?”

  “What do you mean, ‘save me’?”

  “I know Eamon’s ghost haunted Carraigfaire. I’ve known since the day of his funeral.”

  “You knew Eamon’s ghost was stuck here, thanks to you, and you never let on, not even when Siobhan was doing her psychic hotline routine?”

  “Did you really think you were the only one in Dunmullach who could see him?” Pegeen spat. “You’re nothing special. Nuala and I both have the gift.”

  Gethsemane wiped spit from her cheek. “Funny, Eamon never mentioned your being able to see him. You certainly couldn’t converse with him. He would’ve told me. Sad, really. Even in death he took no notice of you. Pathetic. Or maybe he noticed you but just didn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Shut. Up.” Pegeen cocked the revolver again. “And drink up.”

  “Are you thick and a header or just a header? I’m not drinking anything. I won’t make this easy for you.”

  “Drink or I’ll—”

  “Shoot? Won’t that pooch your suicide scenario?”

  “People have been known to shoot themselves.”

  “Not from a distance of three feet.”

  Pegeen stepped closer. Gethsemane rose slightly from the bench. Pegeen stopped. She shook her head and stepped back. Gethsemane sat back down.

  “Makes no difference if it’s suicide or homicide,” Pegeen said. “You’ll be dead, either way.”

  “And you’ll be in need of a really good lawyer. They’ll know it was you.”

  “Not after I get rid of Frankie.”

  Gethsemane snapped her fingers. “When I mentioned Inspector O’Reilly, did I forget to mention I left him a note at the garda station? Given your penchant for torching evidence and killing witnesses, I took Grennan’s—and Eamon’s—advice and told O’Reilly all about you. In writing. And I signed that note. I’m sure it will stand up as evidence.”

  Pegeen clenched her jaw again. She pressed the heel of her free hand against her brow.

  “Shut up and drink the bourbon.”

  “You really are crazy if you think I’m going to help you kill me.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “What, that you’re crazy? Isn’t that what they called you while you were locked up at St. Dymphna’s?”

  “Shut up about that.”

  “Crazy just like your mother. Well, maybe not just like her. Your mother at least had the balls to go after your father out in the open. No sneaking around for her, faking suicide notes and drug overdoses. When she got kicked to the curb she—”

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

  “Keep it together, Peggy. I know it’s difficult, you being from a long line of crazy. Your mother, your sister, your cousins. What was it that cop at the hospital said about your family tree?”

  “Stop it!” Pegeen pointed the gun directly at Gethsemane’s forehead.

  “You’re losing it, Peggy. That’s what they’ll say, you know, that you’re daft. But, hey, that should help you in court. They do have the insanity defense in Ireland, don’t they?”

  “Shut up!”

  “Off your nut. Touched. Not the full shilling.”

  “If you say one more word, I swear I’ll—”

  Gethsemane chanted a sing-song, “Crazy Peggy, looney Peggy. Peggy heads the ball. Crazy Peggy can’t keep a man so crazy Peggy kills them all.”

  For an instant, Gethsemane was back in high school in the bottom of the ninth in the final game of the state championship. She picked up a grounder then dove as she hurled the ball to the catcher to tag the runner out at home. Then she was back in the choir stall, the lead crystal whiskey glass flying from her hand toward Pegeen as she dove under the bench. Ice and bourbon splashed her as she hit the floor.

  Instead of the sound of a bullet crashing through wood into her flesh, the opening chords of “St. Brennan’s Ascendant” blared from the pipe organ in the loft above the chancel. Pegeen’s shot went wild as the whiskey glass hit her in the arm. Her gun skittered to a stop just out of reach of both women. Gethsemane scrambled under the bench as Pegeen leapt forward, both grabbing the gun. Gethsemane bit Pegeen. Pegeen slammed Gethsemane’s head against the choir stall. Gethsemane kicked, sending the gun clattering down the chancel steps onto the marble floor of the nave. Pegeen punched Gethsemane then grabbed the bottle of Waddell and Dobb Double-oaked. Bourbon poured down her arm as she raised the bottle above her head.

  A shot echoed as the rood screen exploded inward. Pegeen flinched and dropped the heavy bottle. Gethsemane tumbled her to the floor as the shrill of police sirens rose in the distance. Ruairi stood in the aisle, still holding the revolver.

  Gethsemane yelled. “Ruairi, run!”

  Pegeen broke free. She kicked Gethsemane and ran down the chancel steps toward Ruairi, who dove between pews. Saoirse, Feargus, Aengus, and Colm popped up from between other pews and hurled prayer books at Pegeen.

  Gethsemane jumped onto Pegeen’s back as the church’s doors flew open. O’Reilly and a squad of uniformed officers burst into the nave. Pegeen wriggled out from under a startled Gethsemane and ran out the south transept exit, guards in close pursuit.

  The children helped Gethsemane to her feet.

  “What are you all doing here? How did you—”

  Colm threw his arms around her. “I’m sorry, Miss, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what, Colm?”

  “I heard you and Mr. Grennan talking about luring Miss Sullivan to the theater. I was sneaking a fag in the bushes and I heard what you said. Part of what you said. I
thought you were planning to prank her. I was so mad, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Tell her what you did, Colm,” Saoirse said.

  Colm stared at his feet and fingered the torn spot on his lapel where his Head Boy pin used to be. “I told her. I was furious about Ruairi getting the solo so I told Miss Sullivan you were planning to trick her. I didn’t know she’d killed anyone.” His voice cracked and tears flowed. A frightened teen replaced the arrogant bully.

  “Kieran was at the theater,” Saoirse put an arm around her older brother. “He heard what you said about the murders. He told me and I told Colm. I wanted Colm to tell our parents. They listen to him.”

  “Then I realized what I’d done,” Colm said, “and I couldn’t tell them.”

  Ruairi stepped forward. “So he told us. We called the guards and came here as fast as we could. We just ran out of school.”

  “You should have seen the teachers’ faces,” Aengus said.

  “They thought we’d all gone mad,” Feargus added.

  Colm sniffled. “It was all Ruairi’s idea, coming here. He’s the hero.”

  Gethsemane put one arm around Colm’s shoulders and the other around Ruairi’s. She smiled at all the boys. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re all heroes. And you all get an A.”

  Away from the church Pegeen kept running—from the gardaí, from Gethsemane, from her past, from her ghosts.

  The gardaí would follow but they’d waste time getting in their cars. She knew short cuts up the cliffs. She’d make it to the lighthouse. She’d have time.

  Seventeen

  The green chiffon with the train? The beaded navy? Gethsemane went through Orla’s evening gowns. Custom dictated a plain black suit for the podium but she wanted to make an impression at the All-County, not blend in with the boys. The backless silk brocade. Guaranteed to keep all eyes on her.

  “If they’ve got my back for the whole performance, might as well give ’em something to look at, right, Irish?”

  No comment. No aroma. No ghost. She’d forgotten. Eamon was gone. She hadn’t seen, heard, or smelled him in weeks. She returned home from her showdown with Pegeen to an unfinished concerto and a sense of oppressive gloom. She’d recounted the details—except the news about Orla’s pregnancy, no need to push the knife deeper—about Pegeen’s confession, eighth murder attempt, and suicide, repeatedly, without effect. No orbs, no cologne. She was talking to furniture.

  What happened to him? Where had he gone? She wanted to believe Eamon had crossed over once the murders were solved and was enjoying a celestial bourbon with Orla in paradise. But she couldn’t shake the feeling something sinister underpinned his disappearance.

  Gethsemane held the silk brocade in front of the mirror and examined her reflection. “I wish you were here, Irish. I’d trade the trophy and a case of Waddell and Dobb for a bit of your snark.”

  The auditorium lights dimmed in concert with the stage lights rising. The boys quieted in their seats as Feargus took his place near the conductor’s podium. At his signal the boys tuned their instruments. Polite applause greeted Gethsemane as she stepped on stage, followed by a confident Ruairi. Gethsemane raised her baton. All fell silent. She held the gaze of each boy for a moment, telegraphing trust. Nods for Ruairi, Colm, and the Toibin twins conveyed encouragement and thanks. Then the downbeat. Strings and flutes sounded, joined by the rest of the orchestra and then Ruairi, tempo increasing as Gethsemane led them in a dance of hope and struggle, frustration and defeat. The melody crescendoed into Ruairi’s solo. He bowed the cadenza, filling the Athaneum with the anguish of generations of St. Brennan’s. Tears dampened many cheeks.

  Gethsemane raised her baton again. The boys played the coda, flowing without pause into the andante second movement. Gethsemane guided them through the nuances of the theme and variations, the notes surrogates for the sacrifice and determination to re-form, phoenix-like, and surge onward to restore St. Brennan’s pride.

  The final movement. Allegretto. Gethsemane coaxed the boys into pouring all of their dreams, desires, wishes, and ambitions into the rondo, evoking the passion of St. Brennan’s triumphal ascent from the nadir of shame to the summit of victory.

  The last notes faded. Gethsemane held her breath. Silence. Two seconds, five, ten. Applause thundered, accompanied by calls of “bravo!” and “maestra!” Gethsemane turned to accept the standing ovation from audience and judges. Eamon should have been there to share it.

  A distant rumble. Thunder? Did it rain in—wherever this was? Eamon pivoted slowly. Nothing but gray fog all around. He seemed to be standing on gray linoleum. More gray above him. Where the hell had Pegeen sent him? Homicidal bitch. And how long had he been here? Not a clock or calendar in sight—in wherever here was.

  The noise increased. Not thunder. Applause. The All-County? Either that or a rugby match. Dunmullach hadn’t won a rugby match since before the last time it won the All-County. Who’d earned the applause? St. Brennan’s? True he’d composed his most brilliant concerto. But Gethsemane’d only had a few weeks to pull the boys into competitive shape. Assuming she’d survived Pegeen. She must have. He’d have run into her if she hadn’t. Wouldn’t he? Would she have been sent here? Eamon looked around for something to put his fist through. Or throw. Or kick. Or—anything. Was this Hell, a vast nothingness? Couldn’t be Heaven. Damn Pegeen. Eamon hoped this wasn’t Hell. He hoped fires raged in Hell and that Pegeen Sullivan burned in one of them.

  “Congratulations, Dr. Brown.”

  Gethsemane excused herself from the group of congratulatory parents. Peter Nolan stood behind her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The tall, slim man smiled at her, his teeth as perfect as his blonde hair. “Grand prize. I confess, I didn’t think you could do it. When I heard a new teacher planned to prepare an orchestra and premier a new composition in only six weeks I thought, impossible.”

  Gethsemane shook the executive director’s hand. “I confess I’m happy I proved you wrong.”

  “Bit of luck, finding an Eamon McCarthy concerto under the floorboards.”

  “You never know what you’ll find when you open yourself to all possibilities.”

  Richard Riordan and Hieronymus Dunleavy stood with a man and woman Gethsemane didn’t recognize. Riordan cradled a golden trophy as tall as a junior school boy. He clapped Gethsemane’s shoulder with his free hand. “The heroine of St. Brennan’s.” He introduced the two people as members of the school board.

  “My pleasure and privilege to meet you, Dr. Brown,” the man said. “Congratulations on your victory.”

  “Thank you,” Gethsemane said, “but it’s St. Brennan’s victory, not mine.”

  “You’re too modest, Dr. Brown,” the woman said. “Hieronymus and Richard told us how hard you worked. St. Brennan’s owes you a great deal.”

  Dunleavy shook her hand. “I hope I can count on you for input into the design of St. Brennan’s new auditorium and music room, lend your technical expertise on matters of acoustics and space.”

  Headmaster Riordan shifted the trophy. “Please come see me in my office Monday morning. I want to discuss something with you.”

  Gethsemane agreed to the meeting then headed to the lobby for canapés and wine. Ruairi, Colm, and the Toibin twins intercepted her.

  “You guys were fantastic,” Gethsemane said.

  “We couldn’t have done it without you, Miss,” Ruairi said.

  Gethsemane laughed. “I was about to say the same thing.”

  “Ruairi’s violin solo put us over the top,” Colm said.

  Ruairi blushed. “You’d have been better.”

  “I wouldn’t have. I mean it. Even Uncle Peter said so.”

  “Well, I think you’re all amazing musicians,” Gethsemane said. “And not half bad as a rescue squad.”

  �
��So we can have Monday off?” Feargus asked.

  “No,” Gethsemane said, “you may not.”

  Peter Nolan interrupted. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Call me Peter.” They moved to a quieter area. “My nephew, Colm, speaks highly of you. He says you’re an excellent teacher. Do you enjoy teaching?”

  “Yes, I—”

  He cut her off. “Would you enjoy life in Boston more? I’m sure you’ve heard I’m looking for a new music director for the Philharmonia.”

  “Someone mentioned it.”

  “Watching you conduct, it occurred to me a maestra was who I’m looking for.” He inclined his head toward the parking lot. “May I drive you home?”

  Gethsemane’s heart skipped a beat. Boston. The States. Musical directorship of the Philharmonia. Hers for the asking. She’d dreamed of this. So why did the feeling in the pit of her stomach feel like dread instead of joy?

  “Gethsemane?”

  “What? Oh.” She snapped back to the present. “Actually, I have my bike.”

  “In that dress? You’re joking. I have my Mercedes.” He offered her his arm. “We’ll send someone back for the bike.”

  Eamon paced. He longed for a piano. Or pen and paper. Or a book. Laundry. Garbage to take out. Anything, as long as it was something to do. He didn’t mind the quiet. The nothingness drove him crazy. Burning in Hell sounded like the better deal. Not that eternal torment was a hooley, but it beat being bored to death. If he could’ve found a wall he’d have punched it.

  Eighteen

  Moe Franklin, four thirty-six. George Washington, four twenty-six. Neal Arlett, Four twenty-five. James Milner, four oh-six.