Praise for the Gethsemane Brown Mystery Series
“The captivating southwestern Irish countryside adds a delightful element to this paranormal series launch. Gethsemane is an appealing protagonist who is doing the best she can against overwhelming odds.”
– Library Journal (starred review)
“Gordon strikes a harmonious chord in this enchanting spellbinder of a mystery.”
– Susan M. Boyer,
USA Today Bestselling Author of Lowcountry Book Club
“Charming debut.”
– Kirkus Reviews
“A fantastic story with a great ghost, with bad timing. There are parts that are extremely comical, and Gethsemane is a fantastic character that you root for as the pressure continually builds for her to succeed…in more ways than one.”
– Suspense Magazine
“Just when you think you’ve seen everything, here comes Gethsemane Brown, baton in one hand, bourbon in the other….There’s charm to spare in this highly original debut.”
– Catriona McPherson,
Agatha Award-Winning Author of The Reek of Red Herrings
“Gethsemane Brown is a fast-thinking, fast-talking dynamic sleuth (with a great wardrobe) who is more than a match for the unraveling murders and cover-ups, aided by her various–handsome–allies and her irascible ghost.”
– Chloe Green,
Author of the Dallas O’Connor Mysteries
“Gordon’s charming sequel to Murder in G Major finds sassy Virginia-born musician Gethsemane Brown still living in a postcard-perfect 200-year-old Carraigfaire Cottage… near Dunmullach, a village in southwestern Ireland…Gethsemane races between often-failed attempts to raise a ghost and her need to clear her brother-in-law’s name, find a murderer, and thwart an international art scam. This is light entertainment at its best.”
– Publishers Weekly
“Gethsemane Brown is everything an amateur sleuth should be: smart, sassy, talented, and witty even when her back is against the wall.”
– Cate Holahan,
Silver Falchion Award-Nominated Author of The Widower’s Wife
“Erstwhile ghost conjurer and gifted concert violinist Gethsemane Brown returns in this thoroughly enjoyable follow-up to last year’s Murder in G Major….With the help of a spectral sea captain she accidentally summoned, Gethsemane tries to unravel the mystery as the murderer places her squarely in the crosshairs.”
– Daniel J. Hale,
Agatha Award-Winning Author
“A delightful read. But then, how can one go wrong with music, murder, art, and a ghost.”
– Mystery File
“In the latest adventures with Gethsemane, murder is once again thrust upon her and with determination and a goal, she does what needs to be done…The author does a great job in keeping this multi-plot tale intriguing…I like that the narrative put me in the middle of all the action capturing the essence that is Ireland. The character of Eamon adds a touch that makes this engagingly appealing series more endearing.”
– Dru’s Book Musings
The Gethsemane Brown Mystery Series
by Alexia Gordon
MURDER IN G MAJOR (#1)
DEATH IN D MINOR (#2)
KILLING IN C SHARP (#3)
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Copyright
KILLING IN C SHARP
A Gethsemane Brown Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | March 2018
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2018 by Alexia Gordon
Author photograph by Peter Larsen
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-304-4
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-305-1
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-306-8
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-307-5
Printed in the United States of America
To my parents, as always
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to:
Rachel Jackson for bringing order to the chaos of my manuscript drafts;
Kendel Lynn and Art Molinares for believing in Gethsemane;
Paula Munier for being my swell agent;
My blog mates, The Missdemeanors and Femmes Fatales, for the good advice and comradery;
My parents and Aunt Wilhelmina for being my biggest fans;
Lifeworking Coworking for the marketing and promotional support;
Leslie Lipps for the cool graphics on short notice;
The Deerpath Inn for letting me hang out in the Hearth Room, liking my Instagrams, and having the best whiskey menu in Lake Forest;
My friends, readers, book reviewers, and fellow crime writers for the encouragement and support.
One
Gethsemane Brown frowned at her landlord across her kitchen table. “No. Absolutely not. Worst. Idea. Ever. No way.”
Billy McCarthy, the source of her irritation, returned the frown. “’Twasn’t a request, really. More of an ultimatum.” His mellifluous brogue didn’t disguise the seriousness of his statement. “Dredge up some of that legendary Southern hospitality you brought with you from Virginia.”
“Or?”
“Or pack your bags and be gone.”
Damn. Gethsemane glared at the handsome, dark-haired businessman who looked so much like his late uncle, composer Eamon McCarthy. Billy could have evicted her at Epiphany, as he’d threatened, but begging, pleading, and a word from Father Tim Keating, the parish priest, about Christian charity won her a stay. No negotiating room remained. But what he asked her to do—
“Paranormal investigators,” she said. “Seriously? You’re going to let paranormal investigators invade Carraigfaire to try to find proof your uncle’s ghost exists?” She didn’t mention the ghost in question stood scowling in a corner. His aura glowed an infuriated cobalt.
“Paranormal investigators who paid me serious money for access to this cottage and the lighthouse.” His frown deepened. “And your cooperation.”
“You own the property. You don’t own me.”
“But you owe me. After that stunt you and Uncle Eamon pulled, you’re lucky I don’t have the gardaí send you packing straight to the airport and an exorcist send my uncle packing straight to hell. Besides, I thought you watched Ghost Hunting Adventures.”
“I watch it. Doesn’t mean I want to star in it. Nor does Eamon.” Gethsemane looked past Billy. Sparks crackled around his head and an orb hovered near his ear. Gethsemane shook her head slightly and willed him to hold still. Blasting his nephew with a high-speed energy ball wouldn’t help. She turned her attention back to Billy.
“I don’t have to see him to know he’s back there.” Billy, like most, couldn’t see or hear Eamon. Which was go
od, because if he had seen his uncle’s expression, an exorcism would have become a reality instead of a threat. “You tell him—”
“He can hear you,” Gethsemane said.
“Then I’ll tell you both. I stood to earn a fortune selling this place to Hank Wayne, but the two of you ruined that plan. The money from this deal with the TV show doesn’t come close to what I’d have gotten from Mr. Wayne, but it will help pay to keep the lights on and the roof from leaking. If you don’t ruin this, I might forgive you.” Billy paused. “Maybe.”
Eamon’s aura darkened and his orb grew larger. Gethsemane spoke before he could launch it. “Eamon and I saved you from making a terrible, irreversible mistake.” Hank, a slick property developer, had wanted to turn Carraigfaire into a tourist trap. Unlike Billy, he could see ghosts and he feared them. Eamon put on a paranormal horror show and sent Hank running for his life out of Dunmullach and Ireland, hopefully forever. Billy hadn’t appreciated the effort. “You’d have regretted seeing your heritage destroyed and replaced with a tacky motel and a parking lot, regretted it every day for the rest of your life.”
“Well, that cow’s gone to the butcher, so we’ll speak no more about it. But if this cottage wants to be kept, it’ll have to start earning its keep. And if that means selling tours to ghostbusters, then anyone staying in this cottage—” Billy looked back and forth between Gethsemane and Eamon’s corner, “—be they alive or dead, will just have to go with it. Understood?”
Eamon said something she was glad Billy couldn’t hear. “Okay, okay, I’ll accommodate the Ghost Hunting Adventures boys. But what about the other thing?”
Billy crossed his arms.
“Venus James? After the smear job she did on your uncle in that stupid book of hers?” Gethsemane had read enough of Venus’s book about the McCarthy murders before she arrived in Dunmullach to deem it near-libelous trash. Like almost everyone else, the true crime author believed Eamon had murdered his wife and then killed himself. She hadn’t released any official comment after Gethsemane exonerated the composer, but showed up on Carraigfaire’s doorstep three months ago, at the same time as the paranormal crew. But while the ghost hunters had moved on to other haunted houses while their producer hammered out a deal with Billy, Venus had stayed in Dunmullach and sniffed around. And weaseled her way into the community. Helped, no doubt, by her trademark red lipstick and stiletto heels. Gethsemane couldn’t stand her. “All those terrible things she said about him? The insinuations, the outright lies?”
“Stupid book? You mean the international bestseller that’s being re-issued in an updated edition incorporating facts you uncovered when you exonerated Uncle Eamon?” Billy leaned forward and clapped Gethsemane on the shoulder. “Think of it as an opportunity to make sure Ms. James gets her facts straight this time.”
He rose from the table, and Gethsemane followed him to the hall. “If you and Uncle will excuse me, I promised to meet Ms. James at the Rabbit. She’s keen to interview me about my relationship with Eamon and Orla.” He donned his mackintosh and cap. “The ghost fellas will be here in a couple of hours to look around the place and figure out what kind of equipment they’ll be needin’. Be nice. Maybe tell them some stories about Uncle Eamon.”
Gethsemane scuffed her foot against the hall bench. She kept her focus on the floor so Billy wouldn’t see the daggers she shot at him. “I can’t use that type of language on a basic cable program.”
Billy laughed and opened the door.
Gethsemane called after him. “What about school? I’ve got a job, remember? This month’s busy. Aed Devlin’s coming to write his new opera. He’s agreed to give a series of lectures and hold master classes at St. Brennan’s. I’m music director. I have responsibilities.”
“In the eight or nine months you’ve been in Dunmullach, you’ve turned a disaster of an orchestra into championship musicians, convinced a millionaire to donate a new music room to the school and pay for opera house renovations, exonerated two innocent men of unjust accusations, and exposed two murderers. And,” a grin played on Billy’s lips, “saved a historic cottage and lighthouse from a greedy developer despite the owner’s plan to sell them. Juggling a few celebrity ghost hunters, a crime writer, and a has-been composer should be a piece of piss for a woman as driven as you.” He tipped his cap and closed the door behind him.
Gethsemane kicked the door. “Ow.” She hobbled over to the bench and massaged her throbbing toes.
“Careful, darlin’.” Eamon, his aura still an angry blue, materialized next to her. “I’m the one who can pass through doors.”
“I wish I could disappear right about now. What a mess.” She grinned at Eamon. “You handled yourself well. I’m impressed. I thought for certain you’d fire an orb or two, right at Billy’s head.”
“I behaved for your sake, not his. You’d have had a helluva time explaining what happened to the guards. To say nothing of the mess.” He winked.
She elbowed him in the ribs. A buzz shot up her arm as her elbow passed through his ribcage. They both jumped.
“That tickled,” Eamon said.
“Sorry, I keep forgetting you’re not—”
“Real?”
“Solid. You’re about as real as they come.” She chose her next words with care. “So, maybe you should—go.”
Eamon’s aura turned a mixture of sienna and yellow. He dematerialized until she could see the woodgrain of the hall bench through his legs. “You want me to leave? Now I’ve gotten rid of Hank Wayne and Carraigfaire is safe?”
“You know me better than that.” She poked a finger through his knee. “I don’t want you to leave. I’m not trying to get rid of you. I just got you back. But—”
“You’re afraid I’ll make trouble.”
“No. I’m afraid the Ghost Hunting Adventures boys aren’t all show. What if some of those high-tech gadgets really can capture evidence of ghosts? What if they capture proof you exist?”
“So what if they do?”
“Imagine every paranormal investigator, psychical research society, psychic medium, religious zealot, curiosity seeker, and plain ol’ quack lined up from here to Dublin wanting to see for themselves.”
Eamon swore.
“Maybe you could go back where you came from. For a little while. Just until they give up and leave.”
“Go back to limbo? I’d sooner cut off my hands. Limbo’s worse than hell. At least in hell, you’ve someone to talk to.”
“How about heaven? Or won’t they—”
“Don’t say it. Anyway, I can’t go. I don’t know how.” He glowed a thoughtful ochre. “Unless Father Tim can find a spell in one of his brother’s grimoires.”
Father Tim inherited a collection of occult books from his late brother, an exorcist with the Catholic church. Several grimoires numbered among the collection. The priest had loaned Gethsemane the spell book she used to bring Eamon—and, unexpectedly, an eighteenth-century sea captain—back from the other side with the strict admonishment that she’d never ask for another conjuring spell. “I don’t think he’d be open to the suggestion,” she said.
“What about the girl, then? Saoirse Nolan.”
“I’d rather not involve her.” Saoirse, the younger sister of one of Gethsemane’s students, was homeschooled. Both brilliant and prescient, she managed to sneak a few of Father Tim’s spell books among the Latin and Greek texts he gave her to translate. “She’s only twelve.”
“Twelve going on thirty-five,” Eamon said. “Good head on her shoulders.”
Gethsemane waved away the suggestion. “I’m probably worrying about nothing. I’ve watched Ghost Hunting Adventures since its first season. Five seasons later and the boys have yet to turn up any hardcore paranormal proof. They usually just capture a bunch of bleeps and blips and unintelligible white noise. Siobhan turned up more convincing stuff.” After a pause she added, “May sh
e rest in peace.” Siobhan Moloney, Dunmullach’s resident fake psychic and blackmailer, had met an untimely end not long after Gethsemane’s arrival. “Why should this investigation be any different?”
“Because this time there’s a genuine ghost?”
Gethsemane rolled her eyes and stood. “You’re supposed to reassure me, not validate my fears. We’ll see what we’re up against when they get here. Right now, I have to head over to St. B’s.”
“No school today.”
“Aed Devlin wants to meet with Headmaster Riordan and me to plan the schedule. He’s going to give three master classes as well as a couple of lectures.”
“What’s he going to talk about? How to make a right bags of your career?”
“Stop it. Anyone would think you were jealous.”
“Of Aed Devlin?” Eamon laughed.
“Devlin is a gifted composer on a brilliant career trajectory.” She corrected herself. “Who was on a brilliant trajectory.” He’d been tapped to become music director at the Metropolitan Opera.
“Until he crashed and burned. Billy’s right, he’s a has-been.”
“One negative article—”
“One scathing indictment in one of the most influential classical music publications in the world did to him what one bad eruption from Vesuvius did to Pompeii.”
“Granted, the article damaged his career.” The vicious piece had scuttled Devlin’s rise to the top.
“Destroyed, demolished, devastated.”
“Hurt. But one negative write-up, even such an unusually vituperative one, doesn’t equate to a lack of talent. This new opera’s giving him the chance to rebuild—”
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