“You take the high road, I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in the car park before you.” Eamon winked out. He re-materialized in the station’s parking lot as Gethsemane pedaled up. “What took you so long?”
She ignored the question and laid the Pashley on the ground. A survey of the lot revealed only a couple of uniformed gardaí going to their cars. No red-haired math teachers.
“There’s your boy,” Eamon said behind her.
“Frankie? Where?” She craned her neck to scan the lot’s periphery.
“Your other boy. The garda.” Eamon pointed toward the building’s entrance. “I’ll let you handle this.” He vanished.
Niall walked out of the station, several file folders tucked under his arm. He saw Gethsemane, readjusted his fedora, and changed course in her direction.
“What are you doing here at the station?” he asked when he reached her. “And what happened to your pants?” He pointed at her torn knee.
She’d forgotten about the tear. “Oh, nothing. Minor, uh—” It hadn’t really been an accident. “—incident. What’s that you’ve got?” She pointed at the folders. She hesitated to ask about Frankie. If he hadn’t called Niall yet, she didn’t want to give him away. Niall’s expression, reserved with a hint of careful-where-you-go-poking-your-nose warning, betrayed nothing.
Niall shifted the folders. “Evidence from the Flower Shop Killer investigation. Witness statements. I thought I’d go over them again and see if there’s anything that could help Frankie.”
Had Frankie called? She chewed her lip for a moment then pushed aside the urge to ask. Instead she said, “Those are slim folders.” None was over an inch thick. “Not much in them.”
“Not much in the way of witnesses.”
“O’Reilly!” The angry shout echoed off the station’s stone walls and carried across the parking lot. Gethsemane and Niall turned toward the source. Inspector Sutton loomed, arms crossed, feet planted wide, in the entrance way. Even from a distance, Gethsemane felt anger radiating from Sutton like heat shimmering on a road on a hot, Virginia summer’s day.
Niall swore. “Something eatin’ ya, Bill?”
Sutton stomped over. “Is the Superintendent merging the cold case unit with homicide?”
“Not that I know of,” Niall said.
“Then why are you sticking your damned nose into my murder case?” A flush spread up Sutton’s neck and along his jawline. He jerked a thumb toward Gethsemane. “She put you up to this?”
“No one put me up to anything,” Niall said. “And I’m not buttin’ in.” He held up the folders. “The Flower Shop Killer case is mine.”
“Your nineteen sixties flower shop killer has eff all to do with Jacobi’s murder. Unless you suspect a geriatric, garden shear-wielding maniac. Maybe I should send some uniforms over to the old folks’ home, round up a few shuffleboard players, and bring ‘em in for questioning?”
“Maybe you should get your head out—” Niall closed his eyes and held his breath for a three-count. “Maybe you should consider all of the possibilities before your laser focus railroads an innocent man.”
“You know for certain he’s innocent, do you? ‘Cuz he’s your friend or because you have some evidence that will stand up in court?”
“I have evidence that adds up to reasonable doubt you’ll be able to pin anything on Frankie and make it stick. I have evidence that a disturbed woman borrowed elements from a notorious unsolved murder, stalked Frankie, and may have killed a man who represented a threat to the object of her obsession.”
“Why? As a love offering? Like that cat of yours leaving dead mice in your fancy shoes?” Sutton eyed Niall’s monkstraps.
Niall shifted his weight and hitched up a pant leg to give Sutton a better view of his designer shoes. “Nero leaves me mice because he thinks he’s earning his keep. Maybe you should try it. Do some actual detective work instead of settling on the first idea that pops into your head.”
Sutton advanced. He held his face inches from Niall’s and lowered his voice to a growl. “Okay, O’Reilly,” he loosened his necktie, “let’s take this—”
Gethsemane stepped between them. “Inspector Sutton, do you have any evidence that refutes Inspector O’Reilly’s theory? Anything that proves a disturbed woman with knowledge of an infamous cold case couldn’t have killed Jacobi?”
Sutton turned his glare on her but stepped back. “You keep out of this. Maybe your boyfriend doesn’t mind you meddling in his moribund cases but this is an active investigation and there’s no tolerance for civilian interference.”
“Inspector O’Reilly isn’t my boyfriend and I’m not interfering in the investigation,” Gethsemane said. “I’m merely pointing out the flaws in your investigative logic in your rush to wrap up this case by pinning it on the first—”
Niall interrupted. His expression suggested pity for the target of Gethsemane’s wrath outweighed his personal animosity toward him. “Why don’t we take it up with Superintendent Feeney?”
“Fine. We’ll take it up with her. I’m sure she’ll see it my way. She’s no fan of goose chases. She likes results.”
“Don’t be too sure the Super will support ignoring leads. She doesn’t like to be made fool of in court.”
Sutton grunted and headed for the station. Niall winked at Gethsemane and followed Sutton.
Eamon rematerialized next to Gethsemane. “How long are you going to wait here?”
“Until they come back.”
“They might be a while. I don’t imagine their chat with their boss will be pleasant or easy. You’re going to stay here all night?”
She kicked the spokes of her bike wheel. “What am I supposed to do? Go home and fiddle? Bake a cake?”
“Oh, please, no baking. You’re a brilliant woman and your skills are legion, but cooking doesn’t number among them.” Eamon pointed at the bike and levitated it to lean against a tree. “And don’t take it out on the Pashley. What’d she ever do to you?”
A small laugh defied Gethsemane’s effort to stifle it. “I’m sorry. I’m just—I hate this. Waiting. Not knowing where Frankie is, if he’s okay, wondering if he’s going to be arrested for murder or if some nut is going to do to him what they did to Jacobi.” She leaned against a tree and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “You know me, I’m a doer, a fixer. Waiting patiently to see what happens is another skill that’s not in my skill set.” She stepped toward the station. “Maybe I should go in—”
Eamon moved in front of her. She passed through him, then stopped short as a charge buzzed through her. She shivered. Eamon paled, leaving the cars in the lot visible through his chest.
“Nothing good ever happens when you go into the garda station,” Eamon said. “I may hate myself later for suggesting this, but why don’t we go look for Grennan? You’re less likely to land in trouble searching for a murder suspect than taking on the guards on their own turf.”
Gethsemane stared through him to the street at a car approaching from the road. “Ask and ye shall receive. That’s Frankie’s car.”
“He’s decided to turn himself in, then.”
“Don’t say it like that. You make it sound like he’s under arrest.”
“He will be if he goes in there. Flower Shop Killer copy cat or no, Sutton’ll have his man.”
“Damn. I hate it when you’re right.”
“Which is always.”
Gethsemane raised an eyebrow.
“Almost,” Eamon added.
Frankie’s car turned into the lot. “I’ve got to stop him,” Gethsemane said.
“Stop him? You told him to call O’Reilly.”
“Call. On the phone. Not show up in person. Besides, I didn’t know how much of a bulldog Sutton was going to be about laying Jacobi’s murder on Frankie when I said that.” She started toward Frankie’s car,
parked at the far end of the row farthest from the station building. “C’mon.”
Eamon shook his head. “I want no part of you interfering in a garda investigation.”
“I’m not interfering. I’m preventing a miscarriage of justice. And since when did you get so prissy?”
Eamon sighed and dematerialized.
Gethsemane reached Frankie’s car as he opened the door. It slammed shut. Eamon materialized next to the car with a grin.
Frankie rattled the handle. The door didn’t budge. He rolled down the window. “What the—? Feckin’ piece of junk.”
Gethsemane leaned against the door, elbows rested in the open window, forcing Frankie back. She cast a glance at Eamon as she spoke to Frankie. “Mechanical malfunction. You need to leave.”
“I just got here.” Frankie rattled the handle again. “Why won’t this open?”
“Humidity. Makes the door stick. Really, you should leave.”
Frankie frowned. “Have you lost the plot? There’s no humidity. Humidity doesn’t make car doors stick shut. And you’re the one who told me to come here.”
“No,” she said, “I told you to call Niall. Call, not come in. And now I’m telling you to leave.”
“What’s happened?” Frankie let go of the door handle. “And don’t tell me nothing. I’ve known you long enough to know better.”
“Sutton has decided you’re it. He’s pretty hell-bent on locking you up for murder.”
“I didn’t murder anyone. I won’t pretend I didn’t hate Jacobi or that I’m sorry he’s dead. But I didn’t make him dead. I’m a curmudgeon, not a murderer.”
“I know you didn’t kill Jacobi, Frankie. Niall knows it, too. But it’s Sutton’s case and Sutton doesn’t want to do any work and you’re the easiest to fix up for the crime. So you should leave. Go hide.”
“Damn, Sutton.” Frankie smacked his steering wheel.
“Why do people take out their frustrations on innocent vehicles?” Eamon asked.
“This from a man who once trashed an innocent hotel room because the chef cooked his eggs wrong,” Gethsemane muttered.
“What?” Frankie frowned up at her.
“Nothing. Talking to myself.” Sometimes she wished more people could see and hear Eamon. “Trying to figure out how to convince you to drive away.”
“Why’s Sutton so sure I did Jacobi?”
“You mean besides his body being found in your garden with your hedge shears sticking out of his back and your obvious dislike of the man?”
“Yeah, besides that.” Frankie slumped in his seat. “I can see it from Sutton’s point of view. Jacobi a renowned horticulturist and pharmaceutical titan, me a humble maths teacher who grows roses for a hobby, robbed of my dreams for a medal by a charismatic egomaniac backed by money and prestige.”
“‘Speaks to motive,’ as they say on the cop shows.”
He seemed lost, as if his thoughts were someplace far away from the present situation. “And then there’s Yseult…”
Yseult? How did his ex-wife figure into this? Gethsemane leaned farther in the window. “Frankie?”
He didn’t answer.
“Frankie?” She snapped her fingers. “Hey, come back.”
Frankie shook his head and returned his attention to Gethsemane. “Sorry.”
“What about Yseult?”
He shook his head again, as if trying to clear it of bad memories. “I’ll tell you later. I’m in a bad way, aren’t I?”
“Yes.”
“I can always count on you to tell it to me plain.” He stared past her, his gaze on the horizon. “I could drive out of here, away from Dunmullach, keep driving to Cork, get a plane ticket—”
“I said, ‘hide,’ Frankie, not flee. If you run, you’ll only make yourself look guilty. More fuel for Sutton’s fire.”
“If I go to ground, how long am I supposed to stay there?”
“Not long,” she hesitated, “hopefully. Niall and Sutton are talking to their boss now. Niall is trying to sell her on his alternate suspect.”
“Alternate suspect?”
“The Flower Shop Killer.”
“Flower Shop Killer? From back in the sixties? The killer wouldn’t still be alive, would they? Or is Niall counting the killer’s ghost as a suspect?”
Eamon made a noise. Gethsemane ignored it. “Not the actual Flower Shop Killer,” she explained. “A copycat. The person who’s been leaving you the flowers.”
Frankie looked doubtful.
Gethsemane persisted. “A copycat killer is more likely than you as the killer. Niall sees that. Sutton would see it, too, if he wasn’t digging in his heels. If Niall can convince the Superintendent to see it, you’ll stay out of jail.”
“Copycat killer.” Frankie massaged his temple. “Forgive me for being a pessimist as well as a curmudgeon. Maybe I should find a solicitor.”
“An excellent idea. You should leave now, get yourself a solicitor, and call Niall later to find out if it’s okay to come out of hiding. Call, as in, on the phone. Not drive unarmed into the lions’ den.”
“All right, all right, I’ll do as you ask.” Frankie started his car. “And, Sissy?”
That name. She bit back her retort. Being under suspicion for murder warranted a pass for using that stupid nickname. “Yes?”
“Thanks. It’s nice to have you in my corner.”
She stood away from the car as he pulled out of the parking space. She watched until he reached the parking lot’s exit then turned her back. “In case anyone finds out he was here,” she said in response to Eamon’s raised eyebrow, “If they ask me which way he went, I can honestly say I don’t know.”
“If you go home and stay there, no one will think to ask you.”
She spied Niall coming out of the station. She risked a look over her shoulder. Frankie’s car was out of sight. She turned back toward Niall. “Maybe there’s an update.”
She headed for the building and met Niall mid-parking lot. “Well? What happened? How’d it go with your boss?”
“Two things. Superintendent Feeney agreed with me about expanding the investigation to include other suspects, such as your stalker.” He fell silent.
“Frankie may be the math teacher but even I can count to two. You only listed one thing. What’s the second.”
Niall sighed. “Second thing. Superintendent Feeney agreed with Sutton that I crossed the line by making a bags of his case without proper authorization. She sentenced me to desk duty for the rest of the week. And warned—or promised—me that further transgression would result in suspension.”
“I’m sorry, Niall. As grateful as I am that you kept Frankie out of a cell, I don’t want you to lose your job.”
Niall waved the concern away with a wan smile. “What’s the point in having friends if you won’t risk getting sacked for them?”
“Really, Niall, I—”
“No more about it. Now, we just need to find Frankie.” Niall raised an eyebrow. “Don’t suppose you know where he is?”
Gethsemane looked past Niall’s shoulder. If she looked him in the eye, he’d know she wasn’t being a hundred percent straight with him. “Nope. No idea where he’s gone.” Which was, technically, true. She ignored Eamon’s laughter. “Maybe he’ll call.”
“We’ll find him. I’ve got a couple of uniforms I trust, and who are no fans of Sutton’s, keeping an eye out for him. Why don’t you go home?” Niall grinned. “In case he turns up at the cottage or the lighthouse.”
“Why would he?”
“Why would someone in trouble turn to the fearless Gethsemane Brown, notorious amateur sleuth with a knack for getting people out of trouble and a habit of defying the gardaí? Hmm, I wonder.”
“Leave the sarcasm to me, Niall.”
“Go home. If Frankie turns up or c
alls you, call me right away. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can’t track down some clues to the identity of your flower girl and leave them under Sutton’s nose like breadcrumbs.”
“Your boss told you to back off.”
“Gethsemane Brown’s not the only hardhead in this village. Desk duty doesn’t mean I can’t sneak in a bit of snooping. Investigating.”
“You’re starting to sound like me.”
Niall’s smile spread to his eyes. “If you repeat this, I’ll deny it, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Nine
“One more parallel between the Flower Shop Killer and Frankie’s admirer. But nothing that puts us closer to figuring out who she is.” Gethsemane slammed The Language of Flowers on the coffee table.
“We know she’s local,” Eamon said.
“How many women are in Dunmullach? We can’t investigate every one of them.” She pulled her phone out. “I should try Niall again. Maybe he found something useful in the files.”
“Maybe you should get some sleep and look at things with fresh eyes in the morning.”
“I don’t know. I—” Her ringtone interrupted her. She didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?” she answered.
“Dr. Brown?”
She did, however, recognize the caller’s voice. She pictured the speaker, a tall, undernourished specimen on the high side of seventy, who lived well-enough off her late husband’s inheritance to devote her time to high-profile prestige events and charitable causes. Like the International Rose Hybridizers’ Association’s Thirteenth Annual Rose and Garden Show.
The caller confirmed her suspicion. “This is Jane McLaren, the president of the Dunmullach Amateur Rose Grower’s Society. How are you holding up during this dreadful tragedy?”
“Okay, I guess. I didn’t know the victim well.”
“I know you’re close to Mr. Grennan and I know the guards have taken him to the station to question him.”
“Mr. Grennan didn’t kill anyone so there’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure the questions are just routine.” No way would she let this woman see past her game face.
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