Gethsemane paced until she ran out of baseball stats. Then she roamed the cottage, straightening things that didn’t need to be straightened. Boston was within her reach. Why wasn’t she happier?
She took a deep breath. Nothing but peat and rain. No soap, no cologne. No Eamon. She needed him. He’d sort her out. He’d make her laugh. She missed him.
Music. She picked up her violin. Running through Paganini’s Violin Caprices would calm her. A knock on the door interrupted her halfway through the thirteenth. Tchaikovsky in her head replaced Paganini on the strings.
Two men stood on the porch, bundled against the cold—Billy McCarthy and Hank Wayne.
“Afternoon, Dr. Brown,” Billy said.
“Mr. McCarthy. When’d you get in?”
“Drove in from Dublin this mornin’. Took care of some business in the village, thought I’d come up to see how you were gettin’ on. And call me Billy.”
Gethsemane couldn’t take her eyes off of Hank Wayne. Patent leather wingtips, bold pin-striped pant legs peeking beneath a gray overcoat—cashmere, probably—matching scarf, silver pompadour as perfect as the white teeth displayed in his crocodile smile. Expensive and flashy, like his horrid pink hotels.
“Is this a bad time?” Billy asked.
“What? No. Sorry.” Gethsemane moved aside to let the men in. “I just—you caught me by surprise. And call me Gethsemane.” She took their coats.
Billy nodded at the other man. “Allow me to introduce—”
“Hank Wayne.” Gethsemane shook the hotel magnate’s hand, wincing as his bulky diamond ring dug into her fingers. “I recognize you from your picture in the papers. I’ve stayed at a few of your hotels.”
“Glad to hear it.” Hank spoke with a generic American “news anchor” accent. Coached, Gethsemane suspected. He clapped her on the shoulder. She staggered.
“Gethsemane is a classical violinist, Mr. Wayne, world class. And a conductor.” Billy turned to Gethsemane. “Congratulations on Boston, by the way. Whole village is talking about it.”
Dunmullach’s gossip mill strikes again. “Thank you. But I haven’t accepted the offer yet.”
“Not into music.” Hank puffed out his chest. “Too busy for frivolities. Leave that stuff to the wife and kids.” He brushed past Gethsemane and Billy down the hall, poking his head into rooms. He lingered at the music room. “Say, McCarthy, get rid of this piano and this’d make a fine lobby.” He slapped a hand against the door frame. “Have to knock out a wall.”
Lobby? Wall? Gethsemane turned to Billy. He wouldn’t meet her eye.
She eased past Hank. “Eamon McCarthy and his wife adored this cottage. They restored it from a ruin themselves. They built their lives together here. Eamon composed some of his best work on that piano.” She pointed at the Steinway.
Hank snorted. “They’re twenty-five years past caring.”
Of all the arrogant—Gethsemane frowned. She’d give her right hand to be able to hurl one of Eamon’s blue orbs. Right between Hank’s cold blue eyes. Where was Eamon?
Billy, his cheeks an embarrassed red, chimed in. “Mr. Wayne knows Aunt and Uncle’s legacies form an important part of Carraigfaire’s charm, its allure.”
“’Specially since that nut job serial killer threw herself off a cliff. True crime’s a money maker. The publicity should draw tourist dollars for the next three to five years,” Hank said.
Tourists. Eamon would hate tourists. “So you’re going ahead with plans for the museum?”
Hank snorted again.
“Perhaps not an entire museum. A memorial room. A tie-in to that American woman’s book. Sales have rocketed since the, uh, situation here.” Billy smiled like a school boy explaining how the dog ate his homework. “Thanks to you, Gethsemane. Clearing Uncle’s name, restoring his reputation. Perhaps you’d contribute to the memorial. I’m sure your story of how you stopped a deranged killer would fascinate guests—people.”
“Sure.” Gethsemane didn’t try to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “I could lecture on my adventures as an amateur detective. Or hold séances. Summon Eamon’s ghost to do parlor tricks and sign autographs, pose for a few photos.”
Gethsemane and Billy jumped at a crash. The shattered remains of a vase surrounded Hank’s feet, his face blanched as white as his hair.
“Don’t worry.” Billy hurried to scoop up the pieces. “Only a wedding gift from Amiri Baraka. I’m sure it can be repaired.”
Hank ignored him and pointed at Gethsemane. “You’ve held séances?”
Hank’s reaction reminded her of something. She didn’t answer the developer.
Hank glared at Billy. “You know how I feel about the supernatural, McCarthy.”
Gethsemane snapped her mental fingers.
The Wayne Terror. Hank’s childhood run-in with the dark side of paranormal. Not a hoax, judging by his expression. She tried not to gloat.
“This is Ireland, Mr. Wayne. You can’t spit without hitting a supernatural creature in the eye.”
“She’s exaggerating,” Billy said.
“If you,” the words nearly choked her, “buy a home here and you’re worried, you could paint the doors and window sills blue to keep the spirits out. Works in New Orleans.” She couldn’t resist a pointed look at Billy. “It wouldn’t be hospitable, though.”
“Door’s already blue,” Hank said.
“Gethsemane has quite the sense of humor.” Billy’s eyes begged her to stop. “You Americans.”
“I don’t find humor in the supernatural.”
“Dunmullach’s ghosts are hysterical,” Gethsemane said. Wayne would get a real kick out of Eamon. Right back to Michigan.
“Ghosts, pshh.” Billy’s voice trembled despite his dismissive wave. “Misinterpretations of natural phenomena, isn’t that how you explained it, Gethsemane?”
“I was wrong. But don’t worry, Mr. Wayne. If you experience any paranormal trouble while you’re here, go see Father Keating. He has an extensive collection of occult material he inherited from his brother, a trained exorcist. I’m sure Father’d find something in his books to help you.”
“Exorcist! That means demons.”
“No, no demons in Ireland,” Billy said.
“Not technically demons. Evil spirits.” Gethsemane counted on her fingers. “The Dearg-due, the dullahan, Balor, the Sluagh…Place is lousy with ’em.”
“She’s kidding again, Mr. Wayne.”
“Aren’t you happy to learn the place is haunted?” Gethsemane asked, her tone a model of innocence. “Paranormal tourism is the rage. Draws in lots of tourist dollars.”
Bravado vanished, Hank stormed to the hall and grabbed his coat. He shoved his arms in his sleeves. “McCarthy, we need to talk.” He tore open the door and stomped out to the car.
Billy grabbed his coat and ran after him.
Gethsemane sank to the hall bench and watched Billy’s car pull away, Wayne gesticulating in the passenger seat. That jerk was after this cottage. She had to save Carraigfaire. Eamon had to save Carraigfaire. She had to find him. Fast.
About the Author
A writer since childhood, Alexia Gordon won her first writing prize in the 6th grade. She continued writing through college but put literary endeavors on hold to finish medical school and Family Medicine residency training. She established her medical career then returned to writing fiction.
Raised in the southeast, schooled in the northeast, she relocated to the west where she completed Southern Methodist University’s Writer’s Path program. She admits Texas brisket is as good as Carolina pulled pork. She practices medicine in El Paso. She enjoys the symphony, art collecting, embroidery, and ghost stories.
The Gethsemane Brown Mystery Series
by Alexia Gordon
MURDE
R IN G MAJOR (#1)
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Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1) Page 28