Death in D Minor

by Alexia Gordon

  Voices called as the train burst into the sunlight on the opposite side of the tunnel. “Sissy! Gethsemane! Dr. Brown! Are you all right?”

  She stared at the gore sprayed across luggage racks. Ray’s lower two-thirds lay motionless on the floor. The tunnel wall had annihilated the upper third. This time, “I’m going to be sick” wasn’t an excuse.

  “How are you?” O’Reilly handed Gethsemane a cup of coffee.

  She shifted in the hard plastic chair in the hallway of the Ballytuam garda station. She and Jackson had given their statements and were waiting for someone to drive them back to Dunmullach. “Better, thanks.” She sipped coffee. “I only see Ray if I close my eyes. If I can find a way to stay awake forever, I’ll be fine.” She drained the cup.

  Jackson put his arm around her. “Come back to Virginia. Start over, forget all this.”

  “I’ve already started over. In Dunmullach. I’m no quitter. Besides, I have too much to do to go to Virginia. School starts soon. I’ve got lesson plans to write, I’ve got to do the music program for Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows’ anniversary concert.” Her throat tightened. “I have to find a new place to live.”

  “Sorry about the cottage,” O’Reilly said. “Too bad we couldn’t connect Hank Wayne to Andrew and Ronan’s scheme. Fraud charges would have distracted him from his real estate ventures.”

  Gethsemane formed a reply but saw someone at the far end of the hall who distracted her.

  “Frankie? What are you doing here?”

  The math teacher ambled over, hands shoved in pockets, tweed jacket seemingly more oversized than usual. He looked almost as miserable as he’d looked the day he announced Yseult’s engagement. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.”

  “You look worse than I do,” Gethsemane said, “and I just saw a man get decapitated. What’s going on?”

  “You tell ’em, Niall. I still can’t bring myself to say her name.”

  “Inspector Mulroney needed to ask Frankie some questions about Yseult’s history. Seems she’s disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Gethsemane and Jackson asked.

  “She and O’Connor went rogue. They worked to bust this crime ring for years with no results, got tired of the crooks slipping through their fingers. Decided the collectors were nothing more than a lot of wealthy gobshites who exacerbated the problem by buying from shady dealers and refusing to cooperate with authorities. They began an affair a few years ago and decided to run away together instead of running after bad guys.”

  Frankie interrupted, “Run away together? Are you telling me O’Connor is her mystery fiancé?”

  O’Reilly nodded. “They kept their relationship secret, of course. They’d have been reassigned different partners if their romance were known. They kept their mouths shut and their hands to themselves when out in public and focused on the Patience Freeman sampler, their ticket to the life they thought they deserved.”

  “I don’t understand,” Gethsemane said. “That sampler’s a fake. It’s not worth anything.”

  “The sampler you saw hanging in Olivia’s office was genuine,” O’Reilly said.

  “Yseult showed me the fake, in the courtyard when we found Olivia’s body. She showed me how the colors had faded the same on the front and back.”

  “One of your officers let me examine the sampler in the evidence room,” Jackson said. “It is a forgery. A good forgery, but still a forgery.”

  “You’re both correct. The sampler in the evidence room, the one Yseult displayed at the scene of Olivia’s murder and claimed she’d found hidden in a bush, is a fake. However, the sampler from Olivia’s office, the one Kenneth stole and left in the bush for their accomplice to retrieve, was genuine.”

  “Accomplice?”

  “Ronan Leary.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Gethsemane said. “Kenneth stole the genuine sampler and hid it in a bush. Ronan swapped it for the bogus sampler and—”

  “Handed the genuine piece over to Yseult.”

  “Kenneth was supposed to take the fake from the bush, place it in the frame, and hang it back on the Olivia’s office wall?”

  “Correct. Of course, neither of them planned on Olivia being murdered. Her death threw a curve into their scheme. Especially after you,” O’Reilly pointed at her, “noticed the fake sampler in its hiding place. Kenneth hadn’t had time to retrieve it. Yseult recognized it right away and had to improvise.”

  “So all that business about the thief murdering Olivia because she interrupted him mid-heist was nonsense? Stuff Yseult made up to throw everyone off the trail of her own crime?”

  Frankie scuffed his shoe against the floor.

  “My ex mastered the arts of improvisation and misdirection when she still wore pigtails. She’d have enjoyed showing off and sending this lot,” he jerked his head in the direction of the registration desk, “down the garden path. She hates the gardaí.”

  “She sent me after that bill of sale because she knew Kenneth wouldn’t have time to search for it and steal the sampler,” Gethsemane said. “And I made a perfect scapegoat if I got caught. She swore me to secrecy. It would have been her word against mine. And we all know how that would have turned out.” She turned to O’Reilly. “When do the gardaí ever believe me?”

  O’Reilly held up his hands.

  “You had a better excuse for being in Olivia’s office if you’d been caught than Kenneth,” Jackson said. “As a party guest, Kenneth had no reason to be in a private area. As an entertainer, you had access to areas off-limits to the public. You could create a plausible reason for being in her office.”

  Which she’d done. Olivia had still been suspicious. How would she have reacted to finding Kenneth in her office? How far would Kenneth have gone to pull off his theft? “Kenneth didn’t expect me at the party. At least he said he didn’t. Part of his act? Yseult was the only one who knew why I was there. If Kenneth hadn’t acted surprised I’d know he talked to Yseult.”

  “His surprise was genuine. Yseult hadn’t clued him in on that part of the plan.”

  “The last-minute opening for a pianist?”

  “Yseult again. She sent the original pianist a gift basket with his favorite sardines. Unfortunately, the tin was a bit—off.”

  “What would have happened if I’d discovered the bill of sale for the sampler and photographed it for Yseult?”

  “One of two things,” O’Reilly said. “Either Kenneth would have slipped into Olivia’s office later and stolen it. He’d have known exactly where to find it, so retrieving it would’ve been a quick in-and-out job. Or Yseult would have used the photographs to phony up a receipt.”

  “Yseult will have a hard time selling the sampler without paperwork, real or forged,” Jackson said. “Even a dealer as unscrupulous as Ronan Leary won’t touch it without paperwork.”

  “Would she have gone to Andrew? If Ray hadn’t stabbed him, I mean. Granted him immunity in exchange for forged documents?”

  “No need for her to outsource.” Frankie slumped into a chair. “She learned how to fake papers long before she heard the term ‘forensic documents examiner.’ She hails from a long line of counterfeiters. Her da’s doing ten years in Limerick Prison for selling the Church phony letters he claimed were written by Pope Pius the Eleventh.”

  “Honestly, Frankie,” Gethsemane nudged him. “Your taste in women.”

  “Keep it up, Sissy, see where it gets ya.”

  Jackson smacked his forehead. “Those curators and dealers Yseult had me contact. She didn’t want to set up the thief or put an alert out on the sampler. She wanted to know who she might sell it to. And I just handed her their names. Was happy to do it.”

  “Don’t worry, Dr. Applethwaite. We’ve been in touch with them. They all agreed to notify us the minute Yseult contacts them.”

  “You thought you were keepi
ng us both out of jail, Jackson.”

  “About that.” O’Reilly wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Neither you nor your brother-in-law were ever under arrest.”

  Gethsemane worked her jaw. “Is it still a crime to punch a cop?”

  “Yes.” O’Reilly moved out of arm’s reach.

  “What do you mean we were never under arrest? I remember Sergeant Heaney saying, ‘You’re under arrest’ and reading me my rights. In painful detail, I remember one of the most frightening, humiliating moments of my life.”

  O’Reilly explained, “All an act for Yseult’s benefit. Sorry you had to go through that. Sergeant Heaney’s not as incompetent and hostile as she appeared. She’s actually a very sweet woman. Bakes brownies for her whole squad on a regular basis. We suspected Yseult of being up to no good for a while now. We tried to give her enough rope to hang herself.”

  “Looks like she slipped the noose,” Frankie said.

  “How’d you get involved in the investigation, anyway, Niall?” Gethsemane asked. “You work in Dunmullach, not Ballytuam.”

  “On loan. I knew Yseult, worked with her back in the day. She trusted me and thought me none too bright. The cold cases weren’t going anywhere, so I volunteered to help with a hot one.”

  Gethsemane leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. “So four people are dead because of an inheritance and a five-hundred-year-old grudge, a local art crime ring is busted up, and Kenneth and Yseult and Ronan slither off into the sunset with an antique textile worth the gross national product of a first-world nation. Which they might or might not be able to sell. Did I miss anything?”

  “Just a couple of details,” O’Reilly said. “Ronan Leary’s the one who ripped off the art supply store in Dunmullach. He figured it was far enough away from Ballytuam no one would connect the theft to the forgery.”

  “Except Jackson.” Gethsemane jerked her thumb at her brother-in-law. “Basic forger’s tool kit. Is the shopkeeper pressing charges?”

  O’Reilly laughed. “After making me put up with her for an hour while she went through every scrap of inventory left in the store, she better. Although, petty theft is the least of Leary’s worries right now. Interpol picked him up at Charles de Gaulle airport thirty minutes ago. Seems someone slipped a GPS device and a few hundred euros’ worth of counterfeit bills in his bag.”

  “My ex is almost as good at math as I am,” Frankie said. “A fortune beyond your wildest dreams divided by two is larger than a fortune beyond your wildest dreams divided by three.”

  “But smaller than the same fortune divided by one. The other detail? Only Yseult’s disappeared. Kenneth is sitting upstairs spilling his guts. Yseult also neglected to clue him in on the part of the plan where she double-crossed him. He’s all piss and vinegar and wants her found as badly as we do.”

  “Look at the bright side, Frankie.” Gethsemane nudged him again.

  “What bright side?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Her wedding’s off.”

  Sixteen

  Gethsemane drew a demoralized “X” through January fifth on her calendar. One day until Epiphany. Twelfth Night. The night Billy turned Carraigfaire Cottage over to Hank Wayne and Eamon and Orla’s home ceased to exist. She’d survived two murder attempts, helped bring down an art forgery and fraud ring and an inheritance swindler, exposed a blackmailer and a multiple murderer, and recovered a will which left her brother-in-law’s museum a fortune in antique textiles. She helped a ghost make peace with his past and cleared both herself and her brother-in-law of suspicion of murder and theft. But she failed to do the one thing she’d set out to do: save Carraigfaire. Tears never helped, but right now they sure felt good.

  “I can’t leave you alone for a moment, can I?”

  No mistaking that voice. Or the smell of leather and soap. “Irish!” She ran with open arms to where Eamon leaned against the kitchen table. His six-foot-three frame, dark tousled mop, and green eyes appeared as solid as her own hand. She threw her arms around him and kept going through him to land with a whump on the table top. Every inch of skin sizzled and buzzed.

  “Careful,” he said.

  “Eamon Padraig McCarthy, I wish you had a body so I could kiss you. Oh, hell, I’ll kiss you anyway.” She placed her hands where the sides of his face would be and planted a kiss into his cheek. Her face tingled.

  “What’s gotten into you, darlin’?” His aura glowed an amused and happy green-red. “I haven’t been gone that long.”

  “You’ve been gone too long. You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you. You’ve no idea what’s happened.” It hit her how much she missed having her friend around. She didn’t care about the calendar, the cottage, Hank, or Billy. She had Eamon back and nothing else mattered. She tried to hug him again.

  “Will ya stop?” His aura turned pink with embarrassment. “That tickles.”

  “Where the hell have you been? Oh, wait, you weren’t, were you? In Hell?”

  “No. Thank you very much for your high opinion of my character. I wasn’t in Hell. I was someplace much worse. Chaos or limbo, I’m not sure what to call it. Nothing but gray fog and silence, and the occasional aroma of fish and chips. No sense of time, no sense of place. Torture.”

  “I am sorry.” She reached for him, but he dematerialized before she could touch him.

  He rematerialized on the other side of the room in front of the kitchen counter. She read the labels on the canisters through his chest: flour, sugar, rice. “I’ll keep my distance until you’re over the shock of seeing my handsome face again.”

  “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Of course I’m glad to see you, darlin’. Beyond glad, over the moon. And not just because I was losing my mind in the middle of all that nothingness. You’re the first friend I’ve had in a quarter century. I hated to give you up so soon after finding you.”

  “Thanks. That’s about the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in the past week and a half.” She didn’t add that almost everyone she met in that time was trying to kill her or charge her with a crime.

  She didn’t have to. “I know what went on,” Eamon said. “Part of it, anyway. I ran into Captain Lochlan on my way back. He filled me in. Did you learn nothing from last time?”

  “The gardaí suspected my brother-in-law of felony theft and art fraud. They suspected me of murder. Art was being forged and stolen, inheritances were being swindled, people were being stabbed and strangled. I had to do something.”

  “I suppose you wouldn’t be the Gethsemane Brown I know and love if you hadn’t.” Eamon blushed and his aura’s pink deepened. “Not love, love. You know what I mean.”

  She winked.

  “By the way, Sissy’s a ridiculous nickname.”

  “We agree on that.”

  “You need a nickname worthy of an Amazon, a superhero, a war correspondent. How about Fearless?”

  “Fearless Brown. Has a certain ring to it.”

  They sat for a while in the comfortable silence that exists between close friends. Then Gethsemane asked, “Why’d you go away?”

  “Had no choice in the matter.”

  “I’m not accusing, I’m asking. I came home one day and you were gone. Guess I didn’t really expect a goodbye note, but, I don’t know, things felt wrong.”

  “I certainly wasn’t resting in peace. I think I was sent away. Banished. I can’t remember the details. I meant it about losing my mind. The longer I stayed in the gray, the fuzzier my memory became. Much longer and I might not have remembered my name, much less my life. Or my life-after-death.”

  “So how’d you get home? I tried to bring you. I found a summoning incantation in one of Father Tim’s books. I recited it, but nothing happened. Well, not nothing. Captain Lochlan happened. Apparently, some music I played created a sympathetic vibration that allowed him to come back to this side o
f the veil.”

  “‘This side of the veil.’ Listen to you. You sound a proper paranormal investigator.”

  “Nothing wrong with using the correct terminology. Anyway, the captain explained the spell only worked if you played the right music. Or, at least, made the right noise. And the ghost you got was the ghost who resonated to the specific sound you made. I had no idea what to play to call you. I tried your compositions, your favorite composers, your least favorite composers, pub songs, children’s songs. Everything. Nothing worked. So how did you get back?”

  He didn’t answer. He looked as embarrassed as his pink aura.

  “Eamon?”

  “You played the right tones.”

  “When?”

  “At the distillery. The caterwauling the catwalk made when it spun ’round like a dervish.”

  “Seriously, Irish? You sympathetically vibrate to creaking metal?”

  “We don’t get to choose. And the tones had a certain musical quality.” Her funeral dirge, she’d called it. “Your tears helped, too.”

  Her turn to blush. “I’m sorry you had to come back to such grim news.”

  “Finding you still among the living is not grim.”

  “But your home being sold to a developer is. By this time tomorrow, Carraigfaire Cottage will no longer be owned by a McCarthy. It will become the latest acquisition of Wayne Resorts, International.”

  “Epiphany, eh? Billy intends to hand my house over to some gombeen like the magi handing gifts to the Christ child. Well, baby Jaysus got three presents, why should Hank Wayne have to settle for one?”

  “Really? You mean it?”

  “’Course I mean it.” His blue aura backed up his statement.

  “This is going to take a full-blown, no-holds-barred, all stops out, party tricks included, full-bodied manifestation. Are you up to it?”

  Eamon hurled a blue orb against a chair. The chair exploded backward. Gethsemane yelped and jumped away from the heat. “I’m up to it,” he said.

  “In that case, let’s take the party to Hank. He’s in town. Billy, too. They’re both staying at Sweeney’s Inn.”