Death in D Minor

by Alexia Gordon

  “Apology accepted. People say all kinds of things when they’re upset, most of which they don’t mean.”

  “By the way, what were you doing in Olivia’s office? Have I asked you?”

  Everyone’s favorite question. She gave her now stock answer. “I wanted to see the Freeman sampler. Such a rarity and from near where I grew up in Virginia. It’s not every day you get the chance to see such a thing. I’m disheartened by its theft.”

  “As are we all. We launched an immediate review of our security system. We can’t imagine how someone got in. Perhaps in all the confusion of the party.”

  “You don’t think it was a member of the household? It took time to study the sampler and make a copy. Hard to imagine a stranger coming in and doing that. Maybe one of the maids? They certainly would have had time alone in the office to study the original while they were cleaning.”

  “Impossible. Every member of Essex House’s staff underwent a vigorous security screening before they were hired. A necessary precaution with so many valuables around. Their backgrounds are impeccable. I’d vouch for every one of them. They are all completely trustworthy.”

  “What’s your explanation for the switch?”

  “I’m not convinced there was one.” Ray slipped his lighter from his pocket and twirled it through his fingers. “Olivia purchased a fake. Unknowingly, of course.”

  “Wouldn’t she have had the piece authenticated?”

  “I must confess we were a bit lax in our due diligence with the Freeman sampler. Olivia was ecstatic when she acquired it. Wanted to put it on display immediately. She bought it from a dealer with an impeccable reputation. The dealer performed the authentication and we accepted his word all was in order. We didn’t have it independently authenticated. We should have.”

  “I can’t believe you’d let anything slide. I see how well this house is run, even now, under horrible circumstances.”

  “Thank you for your vote of confidence in my management skills.”

  “Speaking of which, what happens now? With the will being missing and all. Is everything in a holding pattern until a copy of the will turns up or the estate is probated?”

  “No, things will go on as usual for now. I’ll continue to manage Olivia’s affairs until the court decides otherwise. Or until the will names an executor.”

  “You haven’t found the copy yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Any idea where it might be?”

  “Essex House is a huge house. Lots of places left to search. It’ll turn up.”

  “Well, I don’t want to keep you from your search. I just wanted to pay my respects.” She held up her bag. “And get my things. I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Allow me to walk you to the door.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll see myself out.”

  Ray called after her. “Oh, I’ll be out your way soon.”

  “My way?”

  “Dunmullach. In the next day or two. I’m showing one of Olivia’s properties, the old distillery. An American hotel developer is interested in buying it.”

  He didn’t need to tell her it was Hank Wayne. She knew.

  “Perhaps when I’m out that way we might have a drink at the pub,” he said.

  “I’ll look forward to it.” As she headed for the front hall, her gaze landed on a small painting tucked into a corner. She stopped to admire it. The five-by-seven canvas depicted a tropical beach scene. “Where’s this?”

  “Ibiza,” Ray said. “Do you know it?”

  “Never been there. Have you?”

  “I used to summer there. Haven’t been in ages.”

  “Looks like a nice place.” She continued out the door. “I’ll hold you to that drink.”

  The scent hit her by the front door. Bay Rum. Captain Lochlan materialized next to her. “Morning, Miss Brown. Paying our respects to the bereaved?”

  “Something like that. And trying to connect Andrew Perryman to someone in this house. Unsuccessfully.”

  “I heard what the gentleman said about having a drink at the pub at a later date. Perhaps you’d rather have one now.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because the pub’s where you’ll find Mr. Curtis Boyle. Charity leads me to say he’s drowning his sorrows. But truth encourages me to say he’s celebrating his fortune.”

  “Seems a shame to have to celebrate alone. I’m kind of an old pro at crashing parties. Maybe we should invite ourselves to share in Mr. Boyle’s good news.”

  Gethsemane walked the short distance from Essex House to the pub. Captain Lochlan walked beside her. None of the people they passed saw him, but a few heads turned in his direction as if they’d heard something or smelled something or caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of their eye. One or two passersby walked through him.

  “Careful, ya blasted beef-head!” he yelled after the second one, a corpulent man with spiked hair and a ring in his nose. He apologized to Gethsemane. “Please forgive my appalling lack of manners. It’s been so long since I’ve been in the company of a lady, I forget myself.”

  “It’s okay, Captain. I don’t mind if a sailor cusses like a sailor.”

  “Don’t mind me saying, but methinks you’d have made a fine captain’s wife.”

  “I noticed you didn’t call out the first person who walked through you.”

  The captain blushed and glowed pink.

  “Well, one makes allowances for ladies.”

  “Especially when the ladies are petite pretty blondes with cornflower blue eyes.”

  “As I said, a fine captain’s wife.”

  “Were you ever married?”

  “Get myself a load of mischief? No. Not for lack of trying. On the ladies’ part, not mine. Constance Freeman came closest.”

  “She had a husband.”

  “Closest to marrying me off, not closest to marrying me herself—although if she had chased me, I’m not sure I would have run. Cicero was a fortunate man. Constance sewed dresses for a wealthy widow with an eye out for husband number four. She tried to make a match between us.”

  “What happened?”

  “I did mention the widow was after husband number four?” He held up four fingers. “I couldn’t keep my mind off of what might have happened to husbands number one through three.”

  “This is it,” Gethsemane said. They stopped in front of the pub and peered through the window. Few patrons filled the seats at that hour. Olivia’s dissolute nephew, Curtis Boyle, numbered among them. His brown hair stood out at the same odd angles it had when he’d been thrown out of Olivia’s party. He wore his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his jacket collar half turned up, and his untied necktie draped around his neck. He leaned back in a chair at a table littered with empty pint glasses. His eyes were closed and his mouth open. “You think he’s asleep?”

  Captain Lochlan curled his lip. “A beau-nasty gundiguts if ever there was one. If a member of my crew conducted himself as shamefully, I’d have him keel-hauled and flogged.”

  “The twenty-first century’s a bit more lax in standards of public deportment.” Gethsemane squinted. “He’s not dead, is he?”

  “When you go in, poke him in the eye and see if he moves.”

  “Can you go in with me?”

  “Nay. This one’s even younger than the Rabbit. I’ll wait out here for you.”

  Gethsemane entered the pub and walked over to Curtis’s table. “Mr. Boyle?” She leaned close to him, but his beer breath drove her back. She tapped his shoulder. “Mr. Boyle, are you all right?”

  Curtis sat bolt upright, eyes wide. “Whooza, whatza? What’s happening?” He looked around the room a few times before fixing his gaze on Gethsemane. “Who’re you?” He gestured to the pint glasses. “Bring me another.”

  “I�
��m not the barmaid, Mr. Boyle.”

  “Who are you then?” He looked past her. “Where’s the barmaid?”

  “She’s on break.” Gethsemane cleared a space on the table as best she could and sat across from Curtis. “I’m Gethsemane Brown. I’m a musician. I played at your aunt’s party the night she—had her accident.”

  “Accident? Was it an accident?”

  “Wasn’t it?” She tried to picture Curtis sneaking up behind his aunt and shoving her over the balcony rail. He’d been this drunk when he tried to crash the party. From the looks of him in his apparently semi-perpetual drunken state, she imagined he’d be more likely to end up falling over the rail himself. Which didn’t mean he couldn’t hire someone to do his dirty work for him. Like a maid. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Loss?” He laughed, a noise somewhere between a snort and a guffaw. “My gain, you mean. Or hadn’t you heard? Dear departed auntie’s will’s gone missing, which means I get everything.” He drained the last few drops from the nearest pint glass.

  “You and your aunt weren’t close?”

  “That stuck-up old bitch? Prancing around Essex House, lording it over everyone. Don’t know why Uncle married her. She’s Irish. Should have found himself a nice English girl.”

  “Didn’t your uncle love her?”

  “Love’s for movies and romance novels. We’re talking about family legacy. Land ownership. That land’s been in the Boyle family, in English hands, going on five hundred years.”

  “Didn’t the land belong to an Irish family before the Boyles owned it? I thought lands that ended up under English ownership had been confiscated from Irish Catholics.”

  Curtis sneered at her. “What are you, some sort of confederate? Whose side are you on?”

  “I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m just expressing my sympathy for your aunt. And for you.”

  “Keep your sympathy. Olivia doesn’t deserve it. With her high and mighty ways, always going on about her precious antiques. She didn’t start that collection; Boyles started it, long before Olivia McCarthy married into it.”

  “But Olivia added to the collection.”

  “Those embroidered things, what do you call ’em, samplers. And some tapestries.” He snorted. “She told me I couldn’t have ’em. Said I didn’t appreciate them. Said I’d sell them off cheap and waste the money on this.” He raised an empty glass. “Well, maybe I would’ve. So what? ’S what she did in the end.”

  “Olivia sold her collection cheap? What do you mean?”

  “Well, not cheap maybe, but sold it. Or was selling it. Bit by bit, so’s it wouldn’t be noticed. All managed by that assistant of hers, Little Lord Foy-de-doy or whatever his name is.”

  “Ray Delaney.”

  “Yeah, Delaney. Moved in on Aunt Olivia like a hungry babe on its ma’s teat. Managing her estate, he says.”

  “He does seem incredibly organized and efficient. The house practically runs itself.”

  “My house. I should be running that house, not that old busted boot Delaney.”

  “If your aunt’s will isn’t found, you will be running Essex House. Unless they can locate the copy your aunt’s supposed to have kept in the house.”

  “Even if they do find it, I’ll challenge it. I’ll get what’s mine. Mine by birthright.” He signaled to the barmaid.

  “One more question. Why was your aunt selling off her collection?”

  Curtis took his time with his fresh pint before answering. “Don’t know for certain. Said she needed to lighten her load. I think she was planning to travel. Some old ladies do that, you know. Hit a certain age, sell off some assets, and spend their last years taking theme cruises with their entourage in tow. Though, from what I hear, Aunt Olivia’s collection might not have been worth the price of a ticket on the Portlaoise ferry. They were all fakes.”

  “All fakes? Where’d you hear that? Finn Conklin?”

  “You said one more question. Now you’re up to four. I’ll answer one. All of ’em fakes, some of ’em.” Curtis shrugged. “Makes no difference. One fake is enough to tarnish that shiny reputation of hers. Silly cow with all of her supposed expertise didn’t recognize the phonies right under her nose.”

  “Did you know Andrew Perryman?”

  “Too many questions. You said one more. You asked about Olivia selling. Now you’re asking about Perryman. That’s the fifth one.”

  “Can you answer it? Did you know Andrew Perryman?”

  “Nah. Poufty Perry wasn’t my type.”

  “So you wouldn’t have had any reason to invite him to visit Essex House.”

  “Didn’t have any reason to get myself invited to visit Essex House. Why the interest?”

  “I found something at Essex House that belonged to him, and I can’t figure out how it got there. Everyone I ask says he’s never been to Essex House.”

  “Maybe he snuck in. Heard he was involved in some dodgy business when he lived in the States, had to hightail it back home. He’s probably good at sneaking around.”

  “I heard he had to leave because of romantic problems. Something to do with a client’s husband.”

  “Maybe he snuck into Essex House to meet a date. Plenty of handsome young men on Aunt Olivia’s staff.” Curtis went back to his drink.

  Gethsemane went back to Captain Lochlan. “What did you think?” he asked.

  “I think Curtis Boyle spends most of his life ossified,” she said. “Can’t picture him putting his clothes on straight without help, much less plotting murder, fraud, and theft.”

  Gethsemane pressed her hand against the perimeter wall and let the cool stone numb her fingers. She looked up at Essex House. Its towers and turrets and chimneys challenged her, dared her to uncover secrets hidden within. She shivered as the house’s shadow fell on her.

  “Cold?” Captain Lochlan started to remove his coat.

  “Thanks, but—”

  “I forgot.”

  She pointed at the house. “What’s going on up there, Captain? Olivia’s death, fake antique textiles, missing wills, an ugly painting worth millions. Andrew’s death, is it connected? Then there’s Ronan Leary, who shows up everywhere and may or may not have had reason to kill Andrew. Maire, who knows more about Andrew’s gallery than she lets on. Why? I doubt she earns enough to buy from Andrew or any other gallery. Maybe her angry maid routine is just an act. And what about Kenneth O’Connor? Calls himself a buyer’s agent but doesn’t know things someone who works in the art world should know. At least he claims not to know. And why does he show up everywhere Leary appears? Are they connected? What about Yseult and her special assignment? I don’t trust her for a minute. Wants everyone to keep her secrets, then demands full disclosure from others. How about Ms. Ryan? Is she part of the fraud ring, using her auction house to move fakes? Was Olivia really auctioning her collection for travel money, or was she selling to unload her fakes before her collection went to a museum? And how do I keep Jackson and myself from landing in prison? Every day I expect O’Reilly to show up at my door and tell us the deal’s off, we’re under arrest, and we’re going to jail.”

  “So many questions. I wish I had some answers.” His aura changed to a deep melancholy yellow.

  “You’re thinking about Patience.”

  Captain Lochlan nodded. “I promised Constance and Cicero I’d keep her safe. I gave them my solemn word. I failed them. I let them down in the most unforgivable manner.” He stared at his boots. “You must think I’m overreacting.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ve got this thing about not ever being a disappointment to anyone. I can relate.”

  “It was such a dangerous time. Constance and Cicero had to flee in the middle of the night with only what they could carry on their backs. I hid Patience onboard the Hesperus. I planned to sail to Mystic, Connecticut, then on to New Bedford, Massachusetts. Const
ance and Cicero would meet us there.” The captain dimmed. Gethsemane saw through him to the stone wall. “We never made it to Connecticut. A storm hit. I told Patience to stay below decks, but she was as headstrong as her mother. As headstrong as you. The Hesperus’s main mast broke.” His voice wavered. “Patience pushed me…” He dematerialized.

  Gethsemane waited to see if he would come back. When he didn’t, she started for the train station.

  He reappeared in front of her on the sidewalk outside Andrew’s gallery. She jumped and swore. “Sorry. I just can’t get used to that.”

  “What’s going on in there?” Captain Lochlan nodded toward the window.

  Gethsemane peered into the well-lit showroom. Several uniformed gardaí and the bald inspector who’d questioned her about Andrew’s murder moved around inside. “Searching for clues, I guess. Maybe Ronan Leary’s name scrawled on a mirror in Andrew’s blood.”

  “He was killed at home, not in his shop. Are your thoughts always so gruesome?”

  “Only when my life’s falling apart. Say, you haven’t seen anything going on inside Essex House, have you? Anything that would answer any of my questions?”

  “I wish I had, but I wasn’t at the house until you called me. And now I seem to be able to manifest only when you’re in the vicinity.”

  “The ghost business is tricky. I remember.”

  “Your other ghost? Eamon McCarthy?”

  She nodded.

  “I promise, if I ever cross back to the other side, I’ll try and find him and tell him you need him.”

  “Thank you, Captain Lochlan. You’re a good man. I don’t think for a minute Constance, Cicero, or Patience blamed you for what happened.”

  The captain dematerialized again. Gethsemane thought she saw a tear fall before he winked out.

  She turned back to the window. Yseult stepped out of the back room and spoke to a garda. She moved and Gethsemane ducked to avoid being seen. Ronan Leary wasn’t the only one who popped up in unexpected places. Why was Yseult involved in a murder investigation unconnected to her case? Or was it connected? Her head hurt trying to figure that woman out. How had Frankie ever married her?