Death in D Minor

by Alexia Gordon

  Father Tim pshawed her. “Billy would never let that happen.”

  Gethsemane explained Billy’s plans to sell to Hank Wayne.

  “The divil…Billy must’ve been ossified to make such a deal. Or maybe he got a bad dose and fever addled his brain. He loves Carraigfaire, has ever since he was a boy.”

  “Whoever said money can’t buy love never dealt with the persuasive power of Hank Wayne’s billions.”

  “What’s Eamon’s ghost got to do with it?”

  “Wayne has a mortal fear of the supernatural. PTSD level. He had a traumatic childhood experience with ghosts.”

  “Exploiting a man’s terror for personal gain is immoral.”

  “Completely. But I’m desperate. And it’s not for personal gain, it’s for the good of the community. You’d be better off letting Ronald Crump turn the lighthouse into one of his towers than letting Hank Wayne so much as remodel a bathroom.” She named a hotel renowned for its generic chain hotel tackiness. “That’s one of Wayne’s.”

  “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph.” Father Tim crossed himself. “But I don’t see what can be done. Eamon’s passed on.”

  Gethsemane hid behind her teacup as she spoke. “Maybe some of your brother’s books have some ghost conjuring spells.”

  “What’s that? I’m not sure I heard you. Did you say something about spells?”

  She put the cup down. “You heard. Your brother left you the biggest collection of occult books I’ve seen outside of a horror movie. Even the clerk at Arcana Arcanora recommended it. Surely at least one of them contains a spell I can use to conjure spirits.”

  “Demons, Gethsemane. My brother was an exorcist. He specialized in demons. And he cast them back into hell, not called them up from it. He collected those books, the grimoires in particular, to keep them out of circulation.”

  “Didn’t he also use them as references to distinguish between human and inhuman spirits?” Finally, all those episodes of Ghost Hunting Adventures paid off. She almost sounded like she knew what she was talking about. “The psychics and mages and demon hunters who wrote the books would have recorded incantations for calling both types of spirits, wouldn’t they? You choose the spell to make sure I don’t accidentally raise any demon hordes, and I promise I will only read that one.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “Tim, please. It’s Carraigfaire.”

  After several more minutes of pleading—and borrowing his smartphone to pull up a photo of a Wayne Resorts International property—Gethsemane wore the priest down. “All right, enough. I confess, I’d rather see Dublin beat Cork in the All-Ireland than see that,” he pointed at the image on the phone’s screen, “anywhere within a thousand miles of this village. I’ll find one spell. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. Give me your word you won’t try any others.”

  She promised. “Will I go to hell if I kiss a priest?”

  “I don’t think so.” He winked. “Though it might be worth the trip.”

  She kissed him on top of his head. “Let’s go save Carraigfaire.”

  Gethsemane hummed Eamon’s “Etude for Piano in G Major” as she pedaled up Carrick Point Road, Father Tim’s grimoire nestled in the Pashley’s basket. A thin brass strip marked a single page, a spell to summon a ghost. A ghost to stop Hank Wayne’s assault on Carraigfaire. So what if she didn’t understand Latin, the spell’s language? She didn’t have to understand the words to recite them.

  Honk!

  Startled by the car horn, Gethsemane swerved and almost lost control of the Pashley. Pebbles struck her as the speeding vehicle sprayed gravel while rounding the blind curve. She pulled over to the side of the road and watched as a taxi sped down the hill. “Feckin’ eejit!” She started back up the road when it hit her. A taxi. Who’d be arriving by taxi? She raced the rest of the way.

  She spied him as she crested the hill: a tall handsome dark-skinned man in a gray fedora, bow tie peeking above the collar of his herringbone overcoat, stood on the porch next to a suitcase and messenger bag.

  “Sissy! Hello!” he called, arm raised in a wave.

  She parked her bike along the side of the cottage. She peeled off her gloves and laid them in the basket on top of the grimoire before running to the porch. Spellcasting would have to wait.

  “Jackson! You’re early,” she said through hugs and kisses. “You’re supposed to arrive tomorrow.”

  “I know. My apologies for turning up on your doorstep without warning,” Jackson said. “I finagled a last-minute invitation to the auction preview tomorrow. It’s a chance to get a look at the Hester Creech miniature sampler before the bidding begins. I hopped on the last train from Cork.”

  “Hester Creech miniature sampler? Is that what you’re bidding on?”

  Jackson nodded.

  “It’s a fine example of work from the Kellogg school. It belongs to the McCarthy-Boyle collection of early American needlework. Rather, it belongs to the collection until after the auctioneer’s hammer drops.”

  O’Reilly guessed right. “You mean Olivia McCarthy-Boyle, the Ballytuam philanthropist.”

  Jackson arched a brow. “How’d you know about Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle?”

  “I have my sources.” She winked. “Seriously, compared to the gossip mill in these parts, Bayview’s rumor vine feels as slow as the Pony Express. By the time anything hits social media out here the news is already three days old down at the pub. Did you finagle an invitation to Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle’s charity ball, too?”

  “No. I’m not going to the party. I hate fundraisers, even when they’re for the museum. I’m not attending any I don’t have to. By the way, I hope I’m not inconveniencing you by showing up a day early.”

  “Of course not. But,” she said as she led the way inside, “no comments about my housekeeping. I didn’t get a chance to clean.”

  “Sissy, I may have married into a Virginia family, but I’m from up north. We don’t check the tops of the china cabinets for dust.”

  “You may not, but I know my sister will ask you when you get home.” She hung her brother-in-law’s coat on the hall rack and ushered him to the study. “I also haven’t done the shopping, so there’s not much food in the house. The bar, however, is well-stocked.”

  “Now that,” Jackson winked, “is something we northerners check for.”

  Settled with drinks—Waddell and Dobb for her, Midleton for him—Jackson filled her in on news from home. Her elder sister and her nephew were in Hawaii, combining a vacation with her sister’s ethnobotanical chemistry research. Gethsemane in her turn updated Jackson on life in an Irish village after solving two twenty-five-year-old murders.

  “You made the news. ‘American woman rights injustice after quarter century.’ The publicity’s prompted the woman who wrote that book—oh, what’s her name, you know, the true-crime author?”

  “I know the one.” Gethsemane detested the book, a piece of bestselling trash based on innuendo and half-truths, full of shoddy writing and assumptions about Eamon’s guilt. Assumptions Gethsemane had disproved.

  “Anyway, she’s releasing a new edition, updated with the results of your investigation.”

  “I’m sure she won’t bother to interview me before she writes more garbage.”

  “Responsible journalism is hardly her style. But if her new book is as popular as her last, you’d better prepare yourself for a mob of tourists thronging your bright blue door. You’ll need to build a hotel.”

  She sputtered as she choked on her bourbon.

  Jackson patted her on the back. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Swallowed wrong. Excuse me for a minute.” She rose and waved Jackson back to his seat. “No, don’t get up. I just forgot something.”

  She grabbed her coat and ran outside where she retrieved the grimoire. Too large to hide in her coat pocket, she cradled it in
her arm and tried to devise a plausible explanation for why she had it as she walked back to the cottage.

  Jackson waited in the doorway. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine.” She set the grimoire on the entryway bench while she removed her coat.

  “What’s this?” Jackson picked up the book.

  She grabbed at it. “Nothing. Just something I borrowed—”

  Jackson, over six feet tall, studied the book at eye level, out of Gethsemane’s five-foot-three reach. “Seventeenth century, gilt spine, intricate head and tail pieces, woodcut page decorations, Latin text. Sissy, this is a rare and valuable book. You were carrying it in a bicycle basket?” He looked mortified.

  “I borrowed it from the parish priest. He has a collection of occul—of books stored in his shed and he loaned me this one.”

  Jackson sank to the bench. “He keeps rare books stored in a garden shed?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “And this.” Jackson held up the bookmark. “The poor spine.”

  “No, no, don’t do—” Gethsemane grabbed at the book. Too late. Jackson closed it. “I’ll never find it.” She fought back tears. Crying never helped. Even if it did, she’d have a hard time explaining why she was so upset over a bookmark.

  “Find what?”

  She took the brass strip. “The page this strip marked.”

  “Oh, Sissy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.” Jackson held the book up and examined its top and bottom edges. “I’ll find it for you.”

  “How? The book’s like a thousand pages long.”

  “One thousand four hundred twenty-seven pages. Between two of which there is a small gap made by that,” he nodded his head toward the bookmark and curled his lip, “thing.” He opened the grimoire. “Here it is.” He recited the spell. “Quondam vos eratis quod nunc ego sum, tu es quod ego erit fio. Invoco te. Levate velum inter regna vivos et mortuos. Erunt cum mihi in hoc loco. Quaeso vestra virtutes facere quae oportet fieri. Ut inveniam gratiam in conspecto tuo, meo obsecro. Why on earth would you need an incantation for summoning spirits?”

  “Because…” What could she tell him? Not the truth. Jackson would think she’d gone mad. He was as skeptical as she used to be about the paranormal. “Because I’m composing a danse macabre based on the incantation.”

  “You’re composing? That’s wonderful,” Jackson said. “You mastered playing the works of others a long time ago. It’s about time you created your own music. Past time. Would you play something? I’d love to hear it.”

  “It’s not finished yet.” How could it be, since the idea only occurred to her half a minute ago?

  “I’d love to hear what you have so far.”

  She hesitated.

  “I’ll make you a deal. If you play for me, I’ll take you to the auction preview. One of the lots is a 1742 Guarneri Del Gesu from an anonymous seller. Wouldn’t you love to see it up close?”

  Asking her if she’d like to see a rare violin by a famous violin maker up close was like asking Elizabeth Taylor if she’d like another diamond. She led the way to the music room and shouldered her own violin, a Vuillaume copy of Stradivari’s Le Messie. “Read the spell again.”

  Jackson read, “Quondam vos eratis quod nunc ego sum, tu es quod ego erit fio. Invoco te. Levate velum inter regna vivos et mortuos. Erunt cum mihi in hoc loco. Quaeso vestra virtutes facere quae oportet fieri. Ut inveniam gratiam in conspecto tuo, meo obsecro.”

  Gethsemane improvised an eerily cheerful dance evocative of the allegorical procession to the grave headed by Death personified.

  Jackson shuddered. “Spooky. Certainly fits the theme. ‘You were what I am now, you are what I will be, lift the veil between the realms of the living and the dead.’”

  “Saint-Saëns has nothing to worry about.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You have the advantage on Saint-Saëns. You’re still alive.” Jackson set the grimoire on the piano bench. “I’ll leave you to your musical magic. I’ve got some catalogs to study before the preview. Which is at two thirty tomorrow afternoon, by the way.”

  “What is it with you art-and-antiquities types and catalogs? Your collection at home’s taken over an entire room. Your wife threatens to wall it off if it spreads farther. And remember the time I made the mistake of pulling one from a stack to read? I narrowly escaped burial in a paper avalanche.”

  “Reference material. Catalogs give you an idea of how much an item’s worth so you don’t over- or under-bid, and they document provenance. I’d hate to blow the museum’s budget on a fake.”

  “I doubt you’ll be taken in by fakes, Mr. Forgery Expert. Which reminds me, I told Niall about your work fighting art crime. He offered to buy you a drink and talk shop.”

  “Niall?”

  “Inspector O’Reilly. He’s with the Dunmullach An Garda Síochana cold case squad. And before that eyebrow of yours inches up past your hairline, no, he’s not my new romance. He’s a friend. Sort of.” When he wasn’t threatening to arrest her. “He has a background in art history.”

  “I’d love to discuss some cold case art crimes. Like the forgery and theft ring that operated out of New York several years ago. Art galleries would sell forged paintings to buyers, then stage thefts so the buyers could file bogus insurance claims. They never caught the most notorious gallery owners. They fled New York and were spotted in Dublin soon after, but they disappeared.”

  A ferocious blast of “Pathétique” roared in Gethsemane’s head. She winced.

  “Are you all right?” Jackson asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Sinuses.” She shook her head to clear it. “You weren’t involved in the investigation, were you?”

  “No, paintings aren’t my specialty. I did provide the agent in charge with copies of my articles on early eighteenth century pigments and their use in paint versus fabric dye.” He excused himself.

  Gethsemane tried to forget about art crime as she picked up the grimoire. No time for premonitions. She only had until Epiphany to call Eamon back from wherever. She read the incantation aloud, then waited and listened. Nothing. She sniffed the air. Nothing. What had she expected? Maybe not an instantaneous full-bodied manifestation but—something. She sat at the piano with a sigh and pecked out a C-scale. Another day closer to Twelfth Night and no closer to bringing Eamon back. Time to stop kidding herself. No way she could keep the cottage out of Hank Wayne’s clutches.

  The C-scale flowed into a melody. She’d always expressed her emotions more easily through music than through open display, so she channeled her frustration and disappointment into the disconsolate notes of Gorecki’s “Symphony No. 3.” Then, remembering how joyful she’d felt a few weeks ago when she joined the trad music session at the Mad Rabbit, she played “The Lilting Banshee” and “Banish Misfortune.” The jigs’ spry notes worked their magic on her mood. Spirits lifted, her eyes drifted to the view through the window. The evening sun glinted off the calm blue-gray water of the bay. A ship’s horn sounded somewhere distant, and a sea chanty, “Captain Heuston’s Lament,” popped into her head. She played the ironically named song about a sea captain who spends his shore leave sampling a variety of ways to mend his broken heart through twice. She closed the piano’s keyboard cover. Where’d that come from? She picked up jigs, reels, and more than a few drinking songs at her favorite pub while an undergrad at Vassar, but ocean-going songs hadn’t been part of the Hudson Valley pub’s repertoire. Maybe she’d heard it during the summer she spent in Connecticut with a friend who worked as a historical reenactor at Mystic Seaport.

  A tremendous thump reverberated from upstairs, followed by heavy footsteps. Gethsemane ran into the hall, where she met Jackson already halfway up the stairs.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  Gethsemane bounded up after her brother-in-law.

  “I thought I told you to—” Jackson s
aid. Footsteps cut him off.

  “The back bedroom.” Gethsemane pushed past him. She stopped short in the doorway. Jackson plowed into her.

  “Empty.” He stepped past Gethsemane and searched the room. “No one.”

  Had the spell worked after all? Disembodied footsteps weren’t Eamon’s style. He tended toward snarky remarks and swear words.

  “Maybe I should search the other rooms,” Jackson said.

  “There’s only the front bedroom, the upstairs parlor, and the bathroom up here. No one could have gotten past us.”

  “Still…”

  Gethsemane waited while her brother-in-law searched the rest of the upstairs. She sniffed. Nothing but sea air and peat. Soap and cologne heralded Eamon’s ghost. What, or who, had they heard?

  Jackson returned. “No one. And not a thing out of place.”

  “Probably just the wind.” She bit back the urge to call out to Eamon.

  “The wind? I’m no meteorologist, but I know the difference between wind and footsteps.”

  “You searched yourself. No one’s here.” She tried to sound nonchalant. “What’s your explanation? Ghosts?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He made a final circuit of the rooms. “Nothing. The wind, like you said.”

  “It does sound pretty bizarre coming off the cliffs. Sometimes I swear I hear voices.”

  Jackson shook his head. “I don’t see how you stand it out here, so isolated. I’ll stick to big cities and college towns. Hell, even the suburbs beat the back of beyond. At least you have neighbors.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The wind doesn’t ruin your view with ill-placed satellite dishes or let its dog go on your lawn.”

  “You are truly fearless, Sissy.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Back to the auction catalogs.” He started downstairs. “Do you want me to sleep on the couch in the study tonight? Between you and the door?”

  “No, Jackson, I don’t want you to be my bodyguard.” He looked hurt, so she softened her tone. “Thanks for the offer, but there’s no one out here to protect me from. Another advantage of not having neighbors. Sleep in the back bedroom and be comfortable.”