Death in D Minor

by Alexia Gordon

  “What are the chances the Creech sampler’s a fake?”

  “Low. Not zero, but close to it.”

  “Less than the chance of it being stolen? I don’t think Ryan’s got the police’s message about beefing up security. I didn’t notice anything more high tech than the front door lock. Unless the little guy who showed us in is a secret ninja.”

  “Notice being the key word. The best way to keep thieves from getting past your security system is to not let the thieves know what type of security system you have.”

  “Good point. How much do you think the sampler will go for?”

  “Given its age and condition, I’d estimate somewhere north of twelve, south of twenty.”

  “Twelve to twenty hundred?”

  “Thousand.”

  “Twenty thousand? For a piece of needlework not much bigger than an index card?”

  “For a fine example of nineteenth-century schoolgirl embroidery. Anyway, twenty thousand is less than that violin you played will fetch by an order of ten, at least, if not a hundred.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t put a violin in my pocket.” She gathered the trash from the table. “Train leaves in about fifteen minutes.”

  She whistled as they walked back to the station.

  “What’s that song?” Jackson asked. “You played it at the cottage and at the auction house.”

  “‘Captain Heuston’s Lament,’ a sea chanty I picked up somewhere. Can’t remember exactly where to save my life. It’s been stuck in my head the past couple of days.”

  “Who’ve you been hanging out with since you moved over here? Besides policemen.”

  “Math teachers.”

  “You probably learned it years ago and forgot it. Living on the bay a few hundred yards from a lighthouse must’ve resurrected the memory.”

  “Dearest Jack, always ready with a logical explanation.”

  “What other type of explanation is there?”

  Something behind her caught her attention. She turned and caught a flash of blond hair ducking down a side street.

  “Sissy, what is it?”

  “I thought—” She shook her head. “Nothing. Let’s go before the train leaves us and we have to walk the twenty kilometers back to Dunmullach.”

  “Walking wouldn’t be necessary. I’ve got money for a taxi.”

  “Jackson, are all antiquarians as humorless as you? C’mon.” She strode toward the station. Her brother-in-law sauntered after her, his long legs easily keeping pace with her quick steps.

  Gethsemane stopped short at the corner. She ignored Jackson’s apology for tripping over her. “Do you smell that?”

  He sniffed.

  “Smell what?”

  “Something spicy and citrusy. Cloves and nutmeg, oranges and—” She inhaled. “Something else. I know what it is, but I can’t think of what it’s called.” Deep breath. Cologne. But not Eamon’s. She stood on tip-toe and sniffed Jackson’s neck. “It’s not you.”

  “Because I don’t walk around smelling like a pumpkin pie. Maybe you smell dessert. Someone’s baking for the holiday. It is almost New Year’s.”

  “Pumpkin pie is not the traditional New Year’s dish, alcohol is. And whatever it is doesn’t smell like pie. It smells like—” She gasped and pointed in the direction they’d come.

  Jackson turned to look.

  “Do you see that man?” A blond man stood in a shop doorway, his back to Gethsemane and Jackson. The flash of blond she spied earlier. “I think he’s following us.”

  “He’s window shopping.” Jackson laid the back of his hand against her forehead the way she saw him do to her nephew whenever the boy sniffled or complained of a sore throat. “Olfactory hallucinations, paranoia. Are you coming down with something?” he asked.

  She swatted his hand away.

  “I’m not sick, nor am I crazy. Forget I said anything.” A train whistle sounded. “Let’s go before we get left.”

  Four

  Back at Carraigfaire, Gethsemane left Jackson to his auction catalogs and returned to the music room. She opened the grimoire to the conjuring spell and read aloud.

  “Quondam vos cratis quod nunc ego sum.” She waited. Silence. “Tu es quod ego erit fio. Invoco te.” Nothing. She snapped the book shut and slammed it on the table. “Why can the Ghost Hunting Adventures boys rile up full-bodied manifestations with their hokey gadgets and I can’t even scare up a lousy orb with a spell from an authentic grimoire? What am I missing?”

  “Sissy?” Jackson called from the study. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Uh, no one. I mean, myself. I was just trying to decide whether to play Paganini or Ravel.” She shouldered her violin and played Paganini’s first three “Violin Caprices,” then bent to place the instrument back in its case. She stiffened at the sound of a footstep behind her.

  “Eamon?” she whispered. “Eamon, if that’s you, answer me.”

  Rattling sounded behind her. She turned in time to see a picture crash from the wall.

  “Sissy?” Jackson stepped into the room. “What fell?”

  She held up the framed print.

  Jackson examined it. “Late nineteenth century—the print, not the brigantine.” He pointed at the double-masted sailing ship tossed by waves. “That’s eighteenth century. The print’s mass-produced, something you might buy at the local bookseller’s. It’s nice, though.”

  “Honestly, Jackson.” She snatched the frame. “Not every item needs an analysis.” She hung the frame back in its previous position.

  “You’d do better to use a proper picture hanger. That nail must not be secure. The glass is likely to break if the picture falls again.”

  “I’ll try to remember to stop by the hardware store next time I’m in the village.”

  “How ’bout tomorrow? Which is my way of asking you to show me around. The auction’s not until evening, so we’ve—I’ve—got the whole day. You may have plans.”

  “Nope. The joy of teaching. School holidays.”

  Jackson grinned. “I thought the joy of teaching came from shaping young minds by imparting wisdom and knowledge.”

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  “On that slightly cynical note, I’ll bid you good evening. I’m going to take my catalogs upstairs and study myself to sleep.”

  Gethsemane glanced at the grimoire. “I’m calling it a night, too. I’ll turn out the lights. See you in the morning.”

  Jackson left her. She checked the downstairs rooms. Everything seemed in order. She flipped the hallway light switch and started up the stairs when she caught a hint of the spicy fragrance she smelled earlier, a hint so faint she couldn’t be sure she really smelled it.

  “Overactive imagination. Wishful thinking.” She sighed and went up to bed.

  The next morning after breakfast she showed Jackson around the village. They stopped by Our Lady. Gethsemane left Jackson to study the altar frontals while she looked for Father Tim to sneak in a word about the grimoire. The sexton informed her the priest had gone to make sick calls and wasn’t expected back soon. A tour with Jackson through the poison garden earned her a lecture on plant-based fabric dyes. They stopped at the library next.

  “Art department’s on the sixth floor,” she said to her brother-in-law. “I’m headed to music.”

  “Meet you in the lobby in an hour.”

  She waited until Jackson disappeared up the stairs then hurried to the information desk. “Do you have an occult section?” she asked the librarian.

  “Basement level,” the man answered without raising his eyes from his computer screen. “Left at the bottom of the stairs.”

  Gethsemane tried to ignore the ominous atmosphere created by the lone flickering lightbulb as she descended the narrow stairs. She turned left into a low-ceilinged claustrophobic room, deserted except for do
zens of rows of crammed bookshelves. She forced thoughts of a similar scene—the records room of the abandoned asylum where she narrowly escaped a fiery death—from her mind and found the occult books in a dust-shrouded row at the back. She reached up for a volume on ghost hunting when a hand landed on her shoulder. She screamed.

  “Jesus, Sissy.” Jackson stood behind her, hand on his chest, looking as frightened as she felt. “It’s just me.”

  “Don’t sneak up on people. What’re you doing down here, anyway? I thought you were up in the art section.”

  “I was. The librarian sent me down here for a book on eighteenth-century embroidery techniques.” His voice slipped into professor tone. “It’s by Malpais. Authoritative but hard to find.”

  Gethsemane held up a hand. “Jackson, I don’t care about rare books on eighteenth-century embroidery.”

  “It’s not actually a rare book. It was published in the last—”

  She stamped her foot and frowned.

  “Sorry.” Jackson examined the shelf behind her head. “Communication Beyond the Veil, Paranormal Invasion—” He looked down at her. “I thought you went to the music section.”

  “I, uh, needed a book about an opera I’ll be teaching next term.” She grabbed the nearest book.

  Jackson read the title. “Hungarian Ghost Stories?”

  “The opera’s based on one of the tales. I’m going to have the boys read the story then study the way the composer adapted it.” She tucked the volume under her arm. “Find your art book and we’ll go. Murphy’s got a Bushmills over at the Rabbit with my name on it.”

  “The Mad Rabbit,” Jackson read from the sign hanging over the door. “Charming name. Pubs have such colorful monikers—The Laughing Pig, The Slate and Thimble.”

  “Let’s go in,” she said before he launched into a tangent. “The drink selection’s more charming than the name.”

  They had their choice of tables at that time of day. She led the way toward one along the far wall, but as she turned to wave at Murphy, the barman, she spied Francis Grennan seated alone at the end of the bar. The mercurial redhead taught math at St. Brennan’s.

  Most days he went about in a curmudgeonly funk, swaddled in an oversized tweed jacket and wrinkled khakis, perpetually miffed at the world. On occasion, an amiable, mischievous Frankie emerged. That Frankie held St. Brennan’s unofficial title of Master Prankster. That Frankie had helped her break into a dead man’s house to search for evidence. That Frankie stayed home today, judging by his hunched shoulders and two-handed grip on his glass.

  Jackson sat on a barstool. Frankie scowled. Walking away would be awkward, so Gethsemane climbed onto the barstool between Jackson and Frankie and greeted him. Frankie grunted a response.

  She tried again. “Meet my brother-in-law, Dr. Jackson Applethwaite. He’s visiting from Virginia.”

  Frankie raised his glass to Jackson in a silent toast, then drained it.

  “Jackson,” Gethsemane swiveled on her barstool, “meet Francis Grennan. His friends call him Frankie. Believe it or not, despite the way he’s acting, he has friends.”

  Jackson leaned across Gethsemane and shook Frankie’s hand. “If we’re disturbing you, Mr. Grennan, we can find other seats.”

  “Stay where you are, Brother Jack. You’re not what’s disturbing me.” He signaled Murphy for a refill. “A few more of these and I’ll be everybody’s friend.”

  “What’s gotten into you?” Gethsemane asked. “You’re more morose than usual. Something wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, fair maestra. I’m celebrating. A wedding has been announced.”

  Gethsemane lost her balance on the barstool. She steadied herself.

  “You’re getting married? When? To whom? In the months I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you go on a date.”

  “Congratulations.” Jackson nudged Gethsemane and frowned at her. “Who’s the lucky woman?”

  “My ex-wife.” Frankie dispatched the contents of his second glass.

  Gethsemane goggled. “You’re remarrying your ex-wife?”

  “No.” He signaled for another round. “My ex-wife is marrying someone else. She didn’t see fit to tell me who. That’s not how she plays the game. She only said, ‘It’s no one you know,’ and left it there. She believes in the importance of maintaining mystery in relationships.” He swigged whiskey. “And in messing with my head.”

  “Sorry,” Gethsemane said. “You hoped for a reconciliation? Or for her to die miserable and alone?”

  Frankie mumbled into his glass, “Yes.”

  Jackson tugged at her sleeve. “Perhaps we should find a table, Sissy. I think we’re intruding on Mr. Grennan.”

  “Sissy?” Frankie perked up. A sly twinkle lit his emerald green eyes. “A heretofore unknown sobriquet.” She’d never live this down.

  “It’s a family nickname. Meaning only family can use it.” A copy of the local newspaper, the Dispatch, laying on the bar offered a change of subject. She reached across Frankie and retrieved it. She pointed to a front page article. “‘American hotel magnate expanding empire,’” she read aloud. “‘Hospitality mogul, Hank Wayne, visits area. Sources report the billionaire is scouting locations for future hotels.’” She swore and tossed the paper onto the bar. “Is there no way to stop that parasite? No local ordinance to invoke against mauling the landscape or destroying the village’s character?” No spell to banish him to hell?

  “I didn’t peg you for a preservationist,” Frankie said.

  “He’s after Carraigfaire.” Gethsemane propped her head on one hand and signaled for a drink with the other. “And I don’t know how to stop him.”

  “Maybe he’ll find something more suitable. Maybe he’ll realize the cottage is isolated and difficult to reach and choose a different location.” Jackson thumped the photo next to the article.

  Gethsemane looked over. “An abandoned factory?”

  “The old distillery,” Frankie said. “On the edge of the village. Sat empty for donkey’s years.”

  Jackson read on. “Says he’s ‘expressed interest’ in purchasing.”

  “That and everything else in a twenty-mile radius.” Gethsemane sipped her drink, Bushmills 21, and waited until the smoky slow burn faded before continuing. “Buying the distillery won’t keep him from buying the cottage. He’s greedy. He’ll snatch up everything.”

  Jackson, gaze fixed on the paper, didn’t respond.

  “Jackson?”

  “What?” He looked up. “Sorry. I saw this.” He pointed to an article on page two. “They’re reopening the investigation.”

  Gethsemane read, “‘New leads in Dublin-New York art fraud ring spurs renewed investigation.’ Is this the case you mentioned?”

  “Looks like it’s not so cold anymore,” Jackson said.

  “This is the third time I’ve heard about this case. First from O’Reilly, then you, now it’s in the paper.”

  “Not superstitious, are you?” Frankie asked. “Think things happening in threes is significant?”

  “No, I am not superstitious.” Conjuring ghosts did not make one superstitious.

  “What did the inspector say about the case?” Jackson asked. “Did he mention what new leads turned up?”

  “Not to me. He said he’d like to discuss the case with you. Are you still in touch with the FBI agent who used your research on historical paint colors to catch the New Haven forger? Maybe you could ask him.”

  “He retired a few years ago. Not that he’d discuss an ongoing case with anyone without a need to know. But I’ve no idea who’s in charge of the investigation now. Not sure if I could be of any assistance. Of course, if they asked me—”

  Gethsemane nudged her brother-in-law. “Look at you. Mild-mannered curator by day, crusading art crime fighter by night.”

  “Art crime is serious, Sissy. Did
you know profits from black market art sales fund—”

  Time to head off lecture mode. “We’d better go, Jackson. Frankie wants to drown his sorrows in peace, and we need to get ready for the auction.”

  “That’s not until this evening.”

  “And if you get to talking about the moral and ethical ramifications of black market art sales, we’ll be here until this evening.” She tossed money on the bar. “Drinks are on me, Frankie, as long as you promise to cut it off after the next one.”

  “You’re my only man, Sissy.”

  “You’re having a bad day, so I’ll let that one slide. That one.” She placed more money on the bar. “Call a cab home.”

  “Hey, Jackson,” Gethsemane shouted from her bedroom. “What do you wear to an auction?”

  “I’m wearing my navy wool gabardine suit.”

  “Let me rephrase. What should I wear to the auction?”

  “Business attire.”

  Gethsemane shifted hangers in her wardrobe and lifted out a navy patterned wrap dress. As she held it up in front of the mirror she heard a footstep and saw the reflection of a shadow pass behind her. She spun. “Jackson?”

  “Almost ready?” Her brother-in-law’s voice carried from the other room.

  “Eamon?” she whispered. She poked her head into the hall.

  Jackson’s head appeared in the back bedroom’s doorway. “Taxi’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  The young man from the previous day escorted them to the top floor of Ryan’s auction house. They stepped from the elevator into an auditorium half-filled with folding chairs. Several people sat thumbing through catalogs, checking their smartphones, or fanning themselves with their numbered paddles. A podium stood at the front of the room, near a wall dominated by a large projection screen. Several employees Gethsemane recognized from the preview manned laptops at tables set up behind the chairs. People chatted in scattered clusters. Someone handed Jackson a catalog and a numbered paddle.