Death in D Minor

by Alexia Gordon

  “They mentioned one name. Ronan Leary. He has connections in the art world and a criminal record. Apparently, he spent time in D.C. They think I met him there.”

  “Ronan Leary? The guy with the scar from the auction? He’s here at the party. I tried to catch up with him, but he gave me the slip. I’ll find him—”

  “No,” Jackson cut her off with a hand on her arm, “you won’t. Did I mention he has a criminal record?”

  “Yes, you did. Jackson, you worry more than my sister. I’m at a fancy party with hundreds of people around. What could happen?”

  “You’re at a fancy party in a big house with lots of nooks and crannies. Anything could happen. Leave the investigation to the police.”

  “Because they’re doing such a bang-up job? Jackson, they’re trying to pin a crime on you.”

  “Which they can’t do, because I’m innocent.”

  Famous last words. At least it wasn’t a murder case. “Look, Jackson, I don’t want to argue with you. You’re beat and you need to go back to the cottage and rest. You also don’t need the police to find out you’ve been hanging around Essex House.”

  “All right, you win. Why don’t you come with me? Forget about this party. I don’t like the idea of you being here with this Leary character.”

  “I can’t skip out on a performance, Jackson.”

  He sighed the weight of the world.

  “I promise I won’t get poisoned, shot, knocked over the head, or set on fire. I’ll be careful. Go home, call your wife and son, and then get some sleep.”

  Jackson kissed Gethsemane on top of her head, then started for the courtyard exit. Gethsemane called after him. “You could do one thing for me. Not now, after you’ve had some rest.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Find out when the original New York-Dublin fraud investigation went cold.”

  “I don’t have to find out. I remember. It’s been about nine or ten years.”

  “Could you find out when someone bought a painting and who they bought it from?”

  “Sissy, what are you up to?”

  “I’m not up to anything.”

  Jackson crossed his arms and stared down at her.

  “Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle has this big ugly Jasper Koors teddy bear painting hanging on one of her walls.”

  “Odd. She doesn’t collect contemporary art.”

  “What if she isn’t collecting it? What if she’s sitting on it? Waiting to sell it because she knows it’s a fraud?”

  “Olivia McCarthy-Boyle involved in art fraud? Never.”

  “Why never?”

  “She’s one of the world’s most important collectors. She’d never stoop to such, such…” he sputtered.

  “Isn’t that how the ring operated? By convincing major collectors to buy fakes cheap, then resell them as genuine? Or allow them to be stolen and claim the insurance?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  Oops. From Yseult.

  “Just around. You wouldn’t believe the gossip going on in there.”

  “Sissy, I’m not going to help you get mixed up in something—”

  “Something dangerous, something I know nothing about, something over my head. I’m not trying to be a hero, Jackson; I’m just trying to throw the guards a bone so they get off their duffs, find the real criminals, and leave us both alone. I have no confidence in their willingness to do the right thing over the expedient thing. They only care about closing the case, not about finding the truth.”

  He hugged her again.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess.”

  His coat muffled her voice. “I could do the research myself, but it would save time if you’d do it since you know art people.”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “All right, I’ll find out when she bought a Jasper Koors and who sold it to her. What’s the painting called?”

  “Hideous bear? I don’t know, it didn’t have a label. How many ugly teddy bear paintings could there be?”

  “I see you’re unfamiliar with Koors’ oeuvre. Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out. Tell me one thing before I go.” He looked up at Essex House. “Did you see it?”

  “See what?”

  “The Freeman sampler.”

  “For a moment. Until I got caught.”

  “Is it beautiful?”

  “More than you can imagine.”

  Gethsemane put her brother-in-law in a cab, then tried to clear her mind—of worries about Jackson, doubts about Olivia, suspicions about Andrew and about Yseult. Time to concentrate on music.

  The party began with cocktails promptly at six. Olivia swept into the great hall in a cloud of iridescent silver chiffon. Opalescent nail lacquer replaced the red and a diamond solitaire the size of a grape replaced the ruby and diamond rings. The diamond sparkled against her crystal champagne flute. A diamond collar encircled her graceful neck, its center stone a twin of the ring’s. Party guests flocked around her like butterflies around Queen Anne’s lace. Elbows jostled as guests vied to press her hand. Her laughter bubbled like the fizz in her champagne.

  The band opened with Saint-Saëns’ “Carnival of the Animals” as uniformed staff served champagne and pink concoctions garnished with colorful plastic monkeys and giraffes, hors d’oeuvres designed to look like lions and elephants, and business card-sized pictures of circus animals drawn, the cellist told her, by the hospitalized children the fundraiser hoped to benefit. Picnic food miniaturized to finger food size accompanied “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic,” and “The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” came with sugared plums.

  “What are they going to serve with ‘Peter and the Wolf’?” Gethsemane whispered to the harpist seated next to her. “Fresh kill?”

  “Dinner,” came the reply.

  The first violin, leading the orchestra in the absence of a maestro, announced a short intermission between Tchaikovsky and Prokofiev. Gethsemane hoped her haste wasn’t too obvious as she jumped up from the piano. This could be her only chance to search for the receipt. She reached the stairs to Olivia’s office and crashed into Kenneth O’Connor.

  He caught her before she fell over. “Apologies. Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” She straightened her dress and readjusted her shoe. “No harm done.” Kenneth had positioned himself between her and the stairs. On purpose? Or was she being paranoid?

  “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

  “Last minute thing. The pianist canceled. I figured this was the only way I’d get into this party. Pretty impressive, huh? I love the elephant-shaped hors d’oeuvres.”

  “No, you don’t. You think they’re as ridiculous as I do. You don’t like the plastic monkey doo-dads on the drinks either.”

  Either Kenneth was psychic or she needed to brush up her poker face. “Are you here for the children, or did you just want to get a close up of Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle’s art? Shopping for a client?”

  “A bit of both. Mrs. M-B has been selling pieces off little by little. Figured I’d get a preview of what might be coming on the market while I’m helping the wee ones.”

  Gethsemane noticed his wristwatch. A Patek Philippe. Personal art shopping paid well. She brought up the one excuse no man ever questioned. “I’d love to chat more, but intermission’s short and I need to find a ladies’ room. There’s a line at the one on this level.”

  Almost no man. “Ladies’ room?”

  “What do you call it over here? The jacks? The toilet? I have to pee.”

  He had the decency to blush as he stepped out of her way. She ran up the stairs. She thanked her luck no one else appeared on her way to Olivia’s office as she slipped inside and pulled the door shut after her. No more surprise visits. She tried the file cabinets. Locked. All of them. Shelves came next
. Nothing but catalogs. She flipped through some of the catalogs. They formed a travel guide to the world of auctions—New York, London, Paris, Geneva, Hong Kong, Milan. None listed the Patience Freeman sampler as one of their lots. She shook a few. No receipts fluttered to the floor. The desk then. Cubbyholes were ideal places to stuff receipts.

  “What’re you doing?”

  Gethsemane spun with a yelp. She faced a strange man, tall, redheaded, clean-shaven, his brogue a baritone, his expression more puzzled than angry. Staff? Security? “I was looking for, um…” Not the bathroom this time. He’d never believe she’d mistaken the office for the toilet. “I mean, I, uh, I lost…” She stopped. What seemed wrong? She scrutinized the man’s clothes. Not the unremarkable suit of a plainclothes security guard or the uniform of a staff member. Not the tuxedo of one of the party guests. Knee breeches. He wore ivory knee breeches. And white hose, a pale quilted vest—silk, it looked like—a white cravat, and a dark blue frock coat. He carried a cocked hat tucked under an arm. His copper-red hair swooped back from his forehead into a ponytail tied with a black ribbon. She knew those clothes. She’d visited Colonial Williamsburg and Mount Vernon often growing up in Virginia. Costumed interpreters in both places wore the same style of dress. So did the male cast of Hamilton. Eighteenth century. The man wore eighteenth-century attire. A faint sienna glow surrounded him. She hadn’t noticed it at first, in her shock at being discovered. She sniffed. Citrus, cinnamon. Spicy with a hint of sweetness. It reminded her of her grandpa, her mother’s father. Bay Rum.

  “What is it you’ve lost, madam?” the man asked. “May I be of assistance?”

  At first glance, the man had appeared as solid as the desk she’d been rifling through. On closer look, she discerned the outline of the bookcases near the door through his chest. She squinted. She could almost read the titles on some of the larger books. A ghost. Damn it. She finally found a ghost. In someone else’s house, in the middle of a fundraiser, while she was busy snooping. But he wasn’t the ghost she wanted. He wasn’t Eamon. So much for conjuring spells.

  “It’s miss, not madam. Miss Brown. Doctor Brown, if you want to get technical.” She resumed rifling. “I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but you’re the wrong ghost and I’m kind of busy right now. So, if you could just, you know, go haunt someone else, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Wrong ghost?” The man frowned. “What do you mean, wrong ghost?”

  “You’re not the ghost I ordered.”

  “Ordered? I am not a pint of ale, Miss Brown. You recited the conjuring spell. Quite a few times, if memory serves.”

  He’d heard the spell? But she’d recited the incantation back in Dunmullach, not here in Ballytuam. The footsteps and the shadow in the mirror. She groaned inwardly. How had she screwed things up? Conjuring ghosts was like trying to bake a cake using a recipe where the chef left out an ingredient or two. “I meant I intended to bring a different ghost, Eamon McCarthy, back, not you. No offense.”

  “If you wanted this McCarthy gentleman, why didn’t you summon him?”

  “I did.” She mimicked the redhead. “Quite a few times, if memory serves.”

  “You did not. You summoned me specifically.”

  “How could I summon you? I don’t know you. By the way, who are you?”

  “I beg your pardon for my lack of manners. I so seldom talk to humans these days, I’ve become somewhat neglectful of the niceties of polite conversation. Since there’s no one to introduce us, allow me to introduce myself.” The ghost bowed. “I’m Daniel Lochlan, Captain of the Hesperus. At your service.”

  “The Hesperus?”

  “The finest brigantine ever to sail the Atlantic.”

  “Brigantine? Some kind of ship?”

  The man’s glow changed from an apologetic magenta to a brilliant blue. Judging by his expression, his blue aura meant the same thing Eamon’s blue meant. Anger. “Some kind of ship?” He repeated himself. “Some kind of ship? You say that like ’twas no more than an old pair of shoes or last night’s meal. The Hesperus wasn’t merely ‘some kind’ of ship. Seventy-five feet, one hundred fifty tons, the finest rigging on two continents. She carried twelve guns and fifty men and could make eleven knots in fair winds. Some kind of ship, indeed.”

  “Sorry.” She’d seen The Ghost and Mrs. Muir often enough to know better than to belittle a captain’s ship. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m sure the Hesperus was as fine as you say.” The blue dimmed. “But you’re still the wrong ghost. Why would I summon an eighteenth-century ship’s captain?”

  “I don’t know, Miss. ’Tis my question for you.”

  “But I didn’t call you. I called Eamon McCarthy, a twentieth-century composer. At least I thought I did.”

  “I don’t like to disagree with a woman, but you didn’t summon this McCarthy fella. You summoned me. You recited the summoning incantation and played my harmonic likeness and here I am.”

  “Your harmonic likeness?” She knew about sympathetic resonance in music—passive objects made sounds in response to external vibrations created by other objects with which they shared a harmonic relation. Undamped piano strings vibrated in response to notes played on main strings, windows rattled in response to loud notes played on an organ, sopranos shattered wine glasses when they sang certain notes. None of which had anything to do with ghosts. Did it? “What harmonic likeness?”

  “The tune you played. ‘Captain Heuston’s Lament.’”

  Gethsemane’s eyes widened. “A sea chanty? You sympathetically resonate to a sea chanty? Seriously?” Captain Lochlan raised an eyebrow. She continued. “Sure, why not? You’re a sea captain, so of course you resonate to a song of the seas.” The chanty’s bawdy lyrics popped into her head. “I hope it’s the music and not the words that brought you back.”

  The captain blushed and his aura turned an embarrassed pink.

  “So what song makes Eamon vibrate?”

  “I’m sorry, but as I don’t know the gentleman, I can’t tell you that. It doesn’t have to be a song. Could be any sound.”

  Gethsemane threw up her hands.

  “Didn’t you ask for his key before you started conjuring?”

  “I didn’t know I needed to ask. The grimoire left out that tidbit. I’m kind of new at this whole ghost thing. By the way, at the cottage, the footsteps and shadow. You?”

  “Aye. I tried to manifest but couldn’t manage more. I never entered the cottage while I lived. I was ten years in the grave before ’twas built.”

  Eamon couldn’t appear anywhere he hadn’t appeared while he lived either. “So how’d you manage anything?”

  “I roamed the cliffs of Dunmullach many a time. No sight’s lovelier than the sun rising over the bay. ’Cept for a blue-eyed Dunmullach lass named Molly—”

  Gethsemane stopped him with a hand. “Stories about sailors and blue-eyed lasses are seldom fit for mixed company.” Maybe he had responded to the lyrics.

  The pink aura glowed brighter. “I’ll grant you that, Miss.”

  “How can you materialize here at Essex House? You’ve been here before?”

  “Aye, numerous times. Cornelius Boyle owned an interest in an import-export business in Cork. He brought tobacco from Virginia and linseed from the West Indies and sent linen to Maryland. I sailed as first mate on two of his ships before becoming master of the Hesperus. His fourth daughter—”

  Another hand. “Stop there.”

  “My apologies again. I forget myself. I must say, you’re quite easy to talk to, and you’re handling yourself remarkably well, being face to face with a ghost and all.”

  “What’d you expect me to do? Scream? Swoon?”

  “I’ve seen grown men do worse.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve gotten used to your type. Ghosts, I mean.” She looked at her watch. “Anyway, I don’t have time to freak out right now. If you’ll excus
e me…” She turned back to the desk and opened drawers.

  Captain Lochlan rematerialized without warning on the other side of the desk. Gethsemane jumped. Two ghosts or twenty, she’d never get used to that. “May I ask what you’re looking for?”

  “A bill of sale.” She slammed a drawer and cursed. The captain stepped back, wide-eyed. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Captain, where women swear like sailors.”

  He stiffened. “I’m no hobnail. I’ve heard such beer-garden jaw used by females.” He lowered his gaze and muttered, “Though usually not outside of a fish market.”

  Gethsemane glanced at her watch again. “I’m aware it’s not every day one gets to see a ghost, much less chat with one, and on any other occasion I’d be suitably impressed. However, as fascinating as this conversation is—and I’m not being sarcastic—I’ve only got a few minutes before we start playing again, and I haven’t found anything.” She held up a handful of brochures she pulled from a cubby. “Except Orlando, Florida real estate ads. Please, please, please, go haunt somebody else.”

  “I’m sorry, lass, but you summoned me, so you’re stuck with me until my task is complete. If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for…”

  “I told you, I’m looking for a bill of sale.”

  “I can assist with the search.” Captain Lochlan pointed at a file cabinet. A soft click of the lock and the top drawer slid open.

  “That is so cool.” Gethsemane abandoned the desk and thumbed through files.

  “What’s this bill of sale for? Tea? Cloth?” He eyed her dress. “If all female attire is so scantily made in this century, a bill for cloth is likely to be a small one.”

  “This is modest. It goes past my knees. Do that thing with the lock again.”

  The captain pointed and another cabinet opened.

  “I’m looking for a bill of sale for a sampler, eighteenth-century schoolgirl embroidery.” She looked at the captain. “You probably know more about it than I do.”