A cold winter wind snaked beneath Gethsemane’s collar as she stood in front of a Vodafone store window still bedecked with Christmas decorations. She’d paused on her way to Arcana Arcanora, Dunmullach’s occult bookshop and New Age store. If she was going to bring Eamon back from beyond the veil, she’d need to do more than mope around and shout at empty rooms. She pulled her Helly Hansen trench coat tighter and stooped for a closer look at the smartphones. She needed to replace hers, stolen in her luggage along with almost everything she owned the day she arrived in Dunmullach. Stranded with her violin and the dress on her back, she’d made do with Orla’s old clothes until her first paycheck afforded her a shopping trip to Cork. Not that she could complain. The late Mrs. McCarthy had excellent taste. A twenty-five-year-old Chanel suit was still a Chanel suit.
“Apple or Android?” asked a voice behind her.
Gethsemane recognized the baritone and greeted An Garda Síochána Inspector Iollan O’Reilly. His trademark stingy-brimmed fedora, pulled low against the wind, obscured his salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes shone smoke gray this morning, not the thunderstorm-dark gray they’d often appeared while she investigated the McCarthy murders. A red scarf insulated his neck above his black wool car coat. He wore black leather chukka boots, Cole Haan, she guessed. The inspector had a thing for quality footwear, a tip he’d picked up, like his hat, from his policeman father.
“How go the cold cases, Inspector O’Reilly?” she asked the head—and sole member—of the Dunmullach garda’s cold case unit.
“Still on ice, a fair number. I’m following up leads on one or two. And call me Niall.”
“Your name’s Iollan.”
“My name’s Iollan to my ma and my ex-girlfriend. And to my baby sis when she wants to borrow money. Everyone else calls me by my middle name.”
“Niall, then. I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for calling me Gethsemane.”
“No nickname?”
“What? Get? Simi?” She made a face. Her paternal grandmother had insisted all the grandchildren receive Biblical names. She’d been the only one of the five siblings christened with a name not easily shortened. Close family called her by a pet name, Sissy, bestowed on her as a child when her younger siblings struggled to pronounce Gethsemane. She’d rather hear fingers on a chalkboard than have anyone outside the family use it.
“What’s your middle name?”
“Anna.”
O’Reilly cocked his head and studied her. “Nah, Gethsemane it is.”
“Halloo!” The call sounded across the village square. The postmistress waved an envelope from the porch of the century-old red brick post office. “You’ve a letter, Dr. Brown. Had it nearly a fortnight.”
Mail delivery didn’t extend up to Carraigfaire Cottage and Gethsemane hadn’t thought to stop by the post office and check.
“It’s from America,” added the postmistress.
“No trouble, I hope,” O’Reilly said.
Gethsemane listened. Tchaikovsky’s “Pathétique,” her internal early warning system, didn’t sound off in her head. Probably an offer for a credit card or car insurance. Junk mail tracked her down no matter where she traveled. “One way to find out. Excuse me.” She crossed the green.
Neat, almost calligraphic, script graced the front of the envelope and told her who sent it even before she read the return address. Her brother-in-law, Jackson Applethwaite. She opened the envelope and extracted several pages covered in the same precise handwriting. She read to the end of the letter’s first page before she noticed the spicy scent of sandalwood and clove wafting near her cheek. Her forehead caught the brim of the inspector’s hat as she turned to face him reading over her shoulder.
“Sorry.” He kept reading. “Nosy habit. Occupational.”
“Here.” She handed him the letter. “Make it easy on yourself.”
“Who’s Jackson?”
“My brother-in-law.”
“He’s coming for a visit.” He handed her the letter.
“Strictly speaking, he’s coming for an auction. In someplace called,” she referred to the letter, “Ballytuam. Where’s Ballytuam?”
“Not far. About twenty kilometers from here. Brilliant town with a class art museum. Is brother Jack an art collector?”
“Museum curator. He’s head of the Bayview Museum of Textile and Design. He specializes in early American embroidery, schoolgirl samplers in particular.”
“Makes sense, then, his coming to Ballytuam. Olivia McCarthy-Boyle lives there. She’s an important collector, some paintings and antiques but mostly textiles. Some of her pieces are like hen’s teeth. She owns a chasuble rumored to’ve been worn by Thomas Aquinas. She’s put a few pieces up for auction in recent months. Bet she’s got a lot or two on offer at this auction your brother-in-law’s coming to.”
“McCarthy-Boyle? Any relation to the Dunmullach McCarthys?”
O’Reilly explained, “Cousins. Half the county’s McCarthy. Olivia and her late sister were the black sheep of the family on account of their marrying Anglo-Irish landowners.”
“Which is some sort of problem?”
“It is if the English stole your Roman Catholic ancestors’ lands during the Plantations.”
“How do you know so much about this woman?” Gethsemane raised an eyebrow. “Either she’s cute or you arrested her.”
“She’s old enough to be my grandma—at least my ma—and she’s out of my jurisdiction.” O’Reilly’s smile brought out the dimple in his right cheek. “I studied art history at college. Dated a beure in the textile conservation program and she sparked my interest in collecting. But my interest in Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle is professional. The old girl’s become a philanthropist since her husband died. Hosts loads of charity fundraisers and benefit galas and whatnot. Sometimes we Dunmullach guards help the fellas in Ballytuam with security for the hooleys. Big bash coming up at week’s end. Benefits Children’s Hospital, I think. Rare artwork means big money, which means crime risk. Scuttlebutt has it an art theft ring’s active in the area. We’re on alert.”
“You think thieves are going to strike the charity ball?”
“More likely one of the auction houses,” he said. “Items turned up missing at three so far: one in Dublin, one in Shannon, and one in Limerick. Ballytuam is lousy with auction houses. But we’re not taking any chances. We’re watching the party, too.”
“I’m trying to picture a gang in ski masks ambushing an auction.”
“Nothing that dramatic. No one even noticed the thefts until the auctioneers started the bidding. They called for the lots, but the lots weren’t there.”
“Sounds like inside jobs,” she said.
“Listen to you. You’ve been watching too many gangster films.”
“How else would someone be able to steal an item from an auction without anyone noticing until show time? Shoplift? It’s not like people can wander in off the street and paw the merchandise.”
“No, but the public can attend auction previews and get a good look at what’s being sold.”
“I’ve been to some,” Gethsemane said. “I could look, but I couldn’t touch.”
“We suspect the thieves case the venue at the preview then pose as buyers at the auction. They wait for an opportune moment during a bidding frenzy, then poof.” O’Reilly made a vanishing gesture with his hands. “Auction houses have been warned to be dog wide and several gardaí will be undercover at the events.” He paused. “You understand what I told you isn’t public knowledge?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to sell the story to the Dunmullach Dispatch.” O’Reilly opened his mouth, but she continued before he could say anything. “Or mention it to anyone at the Rabbit. Speaking of auctions, if Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle can afford to host fancy dress balls, why’s she selling off the family silver?”
O’Reilly shrugged. “She’s onl
y recently started selling. It’s expensive maintaining those estates Oliver Cromwell handed her husband’s ancestors.”
“So she auctions a Vermeer from time to time to pay the light bill.” She turned pages of the letter. “Jackson doesn’t say anything about attending any fundraisers. He only mentions the auction. Doesn’t say what he plans to bid on. Not that he would.” She adopted a melodramatic tone. “In case the letter fell into the wrong hands. Curators are both paranoid and competitive.” Her eyes fell on a line on the last page. She spewed a string of Virginia-accented Irish swear words.
“Good mastery of the language. Brogue needs work.”
Eamon used to tease her about her accent. Sadness crept into her chest.
It must’ve shown on her face because O’Reilly apologized. “I was only coddin’.”
“It’s not that, it’s—never mind. Jackson arrives the day after tomorrow. I haven’t cleaned, there’s no food in the house—”
“He’s family. He’s coming to see you, not the house.”
“He’s Southern family.” She swore again. “Advanced warning would’ve been nice.”
“Letter’s been waiting a fortnight.”
“Ten days. Thanks for pointing out it’s my fault.”
“You need a mobile phone. Then people can text or email. You know, like people do in the twenty-first century.”
“Jackson would’ve written anyway. He’s an antiquarian. He’s got one foot in the nineteenth century and the other in the eighteenth. Except when it comes to art fraud. He’s pretty cutting edge when it comes to new methods to detect forgeries. He wrote several papers on antique textile fraud and acted as a consultant to the FBI’s art crimes unit once or twice.”
“A fellow crime fighter. I’d like to meet him. A couple of forgeries recently found their way onto the local antiques market, sold through legit galleries. It reminds me of a high-profile case out of New York a decade ago. I bet your brother’s familiar with it. I’d love to compare notes. Tell you what, when he arrives, I’ll keep him occupied down at the Rabbit long enough for you to spruce up the cottage.”
The sudden blast of Tchaikovsky in her head made Gethsemane wince. Why did O’Reilly’s offer to talk shop with Jackson set off alarms?
“Something wrong?”
“No, just, um, a cold blast of wind hit me in the ear. Look, I’ve got some things to do.”
“So I should stop jawing and saunter on so you can get to them?” He tipped his hat and winked. “Even a thick guard can take a hint. You’ll let me know if you’re needing anything?”
Got a ghost handy?
“Thanks, I’ll do that.”
“Guard! Guard!” A woman’s harsh shouts torpedoed Gethsemane and O’Reilly.
Gethsemane, startled, spun around. The inspector’s head snapped in the direction of the noise. Gethsemane saw from the corner of her eye how he’d tensed like a wound spring.
A large woman, shoulders hunched, fists clenched, stormed toward them across the green. O’Reilly stepped in front of Gethsemane. The woman stopped in front of O’Reilly, her bright red boots an inch from his toes.
“Guard!”
“Please stop shouting, ma’am. I’m standing right here.”
The woman relaxed a bit and stepped back. She didn’t look as big without the hunched shoulders.
“What’s the trouble?” O’Reilly asked.
“My shop’s been burgled, that’s the trouble.” She pointed at the shop selling stationery and art supplies. She turned back to O’Reilly and wagged her finger under his nose. “And don’t you go telling me burglary’s not your unit. I want you to come look at my shop right now. See what they’ve done.”
“Of course, ma’am. But first, is anyone injured?”
The woman shook her head. “No. The shop was empty when it happened. I open late, half days only, when school’s out. I unlocked the door and found half my stock missing.”
“Any idea of what, exactly, they took?”
“You’ll have to come see, won’t you?”
“If you could give me a hint, ma’am.” A muscle twitched in O’Reilly’s jaw and his eyes darkened to storm gray. “So I know what I might be getting into.”
The woman ticked items off on her fingers. “Paper, ink, and pens.”
“Anything missing from the till?” the inspector asked.
The woman cocked her head and said nothing for a moment. Then she replied, “I don’t think so. I didn’t go all the way inside the shop, mind you. As soon as I saw the empty shelves I went for help, so I can’t say for certain. But I don’t remember seeing the cash drawer open.”
Gethsemane stepped out from behind O’Reilly. “What kind of burglar steals paper and ink but leaves money? Someone planning to print their own?”
The woman puffed up like an offended peacock. “Well, the shelves are easier to get to, aren’t they, than the till?” She lowered her voice and leaned toward Gethsemane. “You’re that new teacher. This wouldn’t be some of your students pulling a prank?”
“No, ma’am.” Gethsemane assured her the St. Brennan’s roster of acceptable pranks did not include felonies.
“Are you coming, then?” the woman said to O’Reilly. She grabbed him by the elbow.
O’Reilly opened his mouth to say something to Gethsemane, but she waved away his unspoken comment. “You have to go.”
“I have to go,” he agreed.
She watched the shopkeeper drag O’Reilly toward the other side of the green, then continued to the occult shop.
Two
Arcana Arcanora was one of several shops that occupied the ground floor of a multi-story brick building a few blocks from the pub. A haberdasher hemmed in its door, the same shade of bright blue as Carraigfaire’s, on one side, a solicitor’s office on the other. The jangle of temple bells announced Gethsemane’s arrival as she opened the door. She threaded her way through narrow aisles packed with tarot cards, scrying mirrors, and incense to a wall of books at the back of the store. She scanned the shelves for titles related to summoning ghosts.
“May I help you?” a voice asked. The speaker, a college-aged girl, wore several layers of clothing, the top layer being a flowy chiffon dress. She sported piercings in her lip, ears, and nose and adorned her hair with a variety of ribbons and colorful strings. Tattoos peeked from her neckline and cuffs. Gethsemane felt underdressed in her silk tweed skirt and cardigan.
“Do you, um, have anything on conjuring spirits?” she asked.
The girl stepped around Gethsemane and stopped in front of a bookcase a few feet from the one she had chosen. “All of our selections dealing with ghostly encounters are on these shelves.”
“I was looking for something more along the lines of how to summon a ghost.”
“You mean like a how-to manual? A grimoire?” The girl’s expression remained as mundane as a grocery store clerk answering which aisle the butter was on. “We don’t have anything like that at the moment, I’m afraid. We could order something, or if you need it now, you might want to talk to Father Keating, the parish priest, over at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. He owns a nice collection of occult books, some of them first editions.”
Gethsemane masked her surprise. She knew about the books. Father Tim Keating had shown them to her when he’d loaned her his bicycle. His late brother, also a priest, had served the Catholic church as an exorcist. Father Tim had inherited the books from him. Did the whole village know about the collection? No information was secret from Dunmullach’s gossip wheel. She thanked the girl for the advice.
Back outside, she retrieved her Pashley Parabike from the rack where she’d secured it and faced the imposing Gothic structure whose spires towered over the village. Time to see a priest about a ghost.
Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows’ rectory stood within the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the chu
rchyard, on the yard’s far side, separated from the massive Gothic church by formal gardens and a cemetery. Evergreen topiaries and ornamental grasses provided the priest’s two-story Tudor residence a sense of privacy without hiding it from view.
Gethsemane leaned her bike against a statue at the end of the path leading to the front door and rehearsed her speech. Father Timothy Keating knew Eamon’s ghost had haunted Carraigfaire cottage, but she wasn’t sure he’d approve of her trying to call his spirit back from its eternal rest to stop a real estate deal. Even if it was a deal made in hell.
She climbed the steps and raised her hand to knock when the door swung open and Father Tim rushed out. She jumped back, avoiding collision by an inch.
“Gethsemane,” the gray-haired cleric said. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Just on my way out for a walk.” He patted the tiny paunch not quite disguised by his Georgetown University hoodie. “Doctor says I need more exercise.”
“I’ve come at a bad time.”
“Never a bad time for good company.” Father Tim stepped back inside. “The walk will wait. Come in, I’ll wet the tea.”
Gethsemane followed him to the kitchen and watched as he brewed a pot of Bewley’s. “Plenty of sugar, the way you like it,” he said as he handed her a cup. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”
She sipped the steaming sweet liquid and tried not to remember what almost happened the last time she had tea at the rectory. “Is it that obvious?”
“You get a sense for these things in my line of work.”
She bagged the rehearsed speech. “Bottom line up front, if I can’t conjure Eamon’s ghost to scare off a hotel developer, Carraigfaire cottage ceases to exist.”
Death in D Minor Page 2