FATALITY IN F

by Alexia Gordon

  Why would the killer show up here at the cottage? Unless she’d seen through the Murderphile ruse, guessed Gethsemane planted the message on the website, and come to Carraigfaire to avoid the churchyard trap. “You go check,” she said to Eamon. “Even if someone could see you to drop something on your head, it wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Things passing through me doesn’t feel great. But, you’re right, it’s not fatal.” Eamon vanished, then reappeared seconds later. “It’s a woman. Young, in her twenties maybe. About your height. Dark hair, brown eyes.”

  “Doesn’t sound like anyone I know.” The doorknob jiggled again. “What should I do?” She glanced around the room. “Where’s my shillelagh?”

  “Beat her off with a stick? That’s your plan?”

  “You’ve got a better one? Hide under the bed while you blast her with an orb?”

  A woman’s voice called out. “Gethsemane Brown? Are you there?”

  “I’m going to answer the door,” Gethsemane said to Eamon, “and don’t ask if I’m not the full shilling. I can’t stand here forever, doing nothing.” She started toward the entryway. “But have an orb ready, just in case.”

  She crept toward the door, cringing at a floorboard’s creak. She held her breath and pressed her ear against the door panel.

  Eamon materialized next to her. “What are you listening for? You know she’s out there.”

  She turned to shush him and spied her shillelagh in its hiding place beneath the entryway bench. She dove to retrieve it as the doorknob jiggled again.

  The woman called from the other side of the door. “Dr. Brown? Are you there?”

  Gethsemane mouthed to Eamon, “What do I do?”

  “You said it, you can’t stand here forever doing nothing. You’ve got your stick. Open the door,” he said.

  She took a breath. William Bell, two twenty-four; Rap Dixon, three fifteen; Josh Gibson, three sixty-two. Better. Panic and reason can’t coexist. Would a killer knock politely and call for her by name? Maybe. If, as Eamon suggested, it was a trick to get her to stick her head outside. A victim met a similar end in that Agatha Christie movie she watched a couple of years ago. She whispered to Eamon, “Stick your head out and make sure she’s not armed with a rock. Or a knife. Or a gun. Or—”

  Eamon cut her off with an eye roll and an impolite word. She flinched as his head disappeared through the wall. As long as she’d known him, she couldn’t get use to that. He pulled his head back inside after a moment. “No guns, no knives, no blunt objects, no obvious poisons. Open the damned door.”

  “Do you have an orb ready?”

  Eamon let off a few blue sparks. “Just in case.”

  Another deep breath. Satchel Paige, two-oh-nine; Double Duty Radcliffe, three ninety-six. “On three,” she said to Eamon. “One.” She held up a finger. “Two.” She held up another. She tightened her grip on her shillelagh and grasped the doorknob. “Three!” she shouted as she yanked open the door.

  The woman on the porch gasped and stumbled back, eyes wide, gaze fixed on the club Gethsemane held aloft.

  “Who are you?” Gethsemane asked.

  “Reston Flynn. I saw your message on Murderphile. I’m not crazy and I didn’t kill anyone.”

  Gethsemane lowered the shillelagh but kept a tight grip. The young woman didn’t look threatening in her chiffon maxi-skirt and billowy peasant blouse. Her appearance said “student” or “creative” more than “hired killer.” Still…She positioned the door so she could slam it shut on Reston at the first hint of trouble. “You’re TheFlorist?” she asked.

  Reston nodded. “I left the flowers for Mr. Grennan. But, I swear, I didn’t murder either of those men.”

  “Aren’t you going to invite her in?” Eamon asked. “Such appalling manners. What would your Virginia granny say about your lack of hospitality?”

  Gethsemane didn’t have to see the ghost to know his aura radiated green with snark. She guessed from Reston’s lack of reaction to his voice that the young woman couldn’t hear him. Behind the door, she flipped Eamon the bird.

  “Why don’t we take a walk?” she suggested to Reston. Much easier to escape, or fight, out in the open than in a small cottage if she’d misjudged her. She pulled the door shut behind her as she stepped onto the porch and motioned for Reston to lead the way up to Carrick Point lighthouse. Easier to watch your back if the danger lay ahead of you. The long shillelagh doubled as a walking stick. More secure footing on the mossy slopes and a weapon, should it come to that.

  Reston, a few steps ahead of Gethsemane on the clifftop path, spoke over her shoulder. “I’m not a header.”

  Gethsemane made no effort to catch up to her. The thump of the shillelagh on the gravel path marked cadence as they made their way toward the lighthouse. “You can see how leaving messages disguised as floral bouquets at murder scenes could lead one to doubt that assertion?”

  “But I didn’t know they were murder scenes, did I?” Reston halted and faced Gethsemane. “At least not the first one, in Mr. Grennan’s garden.”

  Gethsemane waited until Reston moved again. “So why all the drama? The flowers, the ridiculous hat, the decoy? Why not just slip a note under Frankie’s door? Or, hey, it’s the twenty-first century. Why not just text him to meet you for a drink at the pub?”

  “Where’s the fun in that? I couldn’t just come right out and admit my crush.”

  “Did you destroy Roderick’s roses, the ‘Lucia di Lammermoor?’”

  Reston hung her head. “I did it to avenge Mr. Grennan. If Jacobi hadn’t been killed, he would have destroyed the ‘Sandra Sechrest’. That would have broken Mr. Grennan’s heart. Besides, Jacobi’s roses didn’t deserve to win top prize. Mr. Grennan’s deserved to win. So I sprayed weed killer on the other roses. I wanted to do something to make Mr. Grennan notice me and remember me.”

  “Congratulations. You succeeded.”

  “I wanted to intrigue Mr. Grennan. I know he helps you solve cases. I thought he’d enjoy solving the flower riddles, what with him being keen on gardening.”

  “How do you know Frankie? I haven’t seen you around campus. Or church.”

  Eamon’s voice sounded in her ear. “When you go.”

  Again, Reston betrayed no sign of having heard anything. “My nephew has him for algebra. He talks about him all the time, what a great teacher he is, how he knows all the best practical jokes. I met him when I visited my nephew on family day last year and I see him in the stationer’s shop when I buy my art supplies. His jazz appreciation group meets upstairs.”

  Art supplies. No wonder the drawings were so good. “You’re an art student.”

  Reston beamed. “I was. I just finished my Master’s in Studio Art.”

  “Is that where you learned about flowers’ secret meanings? In one of your classes?”

  “No. My granny taught me all I know about flowers. She owned the flower shop where the Flower Shop Killer bought the bouquets for Mr. Coyne.”

  “Rosemary Finney was your grandmother?” Gethsemane stopped. “That’s how you know details about the murders.”

  Reston backtracked a few steps to stand next to Gethsemane. “Granny always blamed herself. She believed she should’ve paid more attention, sounded an alarm, or something.”

  “If your grandmother told you about the murders, why’d you join Murderphile? What’s a true crime discussion group got to offer you?”

  “Dunno, exactly.” Reston shrugged. “Help, maybe? Internet detectives have solved cold cases. Not often, I know, but…” She shrugged again. “Mostly, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who doesn’t think I’m morbid. Ma wants no part of it, neither do my brother or sisters. Since Granny passed, the folks on Murderphile are the only ones who seem to understand.”

  The more Reston talked, the less she sounded like a killer. Gethsemane pressed her. �
��How did you know the message on Murderphile was phony?”

  “No offense,” Reston said, “but it was obvious. A new profile appeared out of nowhere and right away suggests a meetup in real life. Of course, it was a set up.”

  So much for a career in cybersleuthing. Eamon’s disembodied laugh tickled the hair at the back of her neck. “How did you know to come to Carraigfaire?” she asked Reston.

  “I knew Mr. Grennan was staying here so I figured this is where you’d come. I saw the men leave without you and guessed they were headed to the village to spring their trap. I saw my chance to talk to you so I knocked.”

  “After throwing pebbles at my window.”

  Reston blushed and scuffed her shoe in the gravel, sending a few pebbles over the cliff’s edge. “That was childish. Sorry.”

  Gethsemane stepped closer to Reston. “If you’re not involved in Roderick Jacobi’s or Murdoch Collins’s deaths, why haven’t you come forward before now? You’re a smart woman. You must have known the situation had progressed way beyond ‘harmless anonymous crush.’ Yet you continued leaving messages and stayed hidden.”

  “I left the messages because I wanted Mr. Grennan to know that I knew he was innocent, but I was afraid to come forward.”

  “Afraid the gardaí would think you murdered Jacobi and Collins?”

  “No. I was afraid the killer would find me. I saw him kill Mr. Jacobi. That’s how I knew Mr. Grennan didn’t do it.”

  “Wait, you actually witnessed Roderick Jacobi’s murder?”

  Reston nodded. “It was awful. I brought a bouquet for Mr. Grennan. I tried to sneak into Erasmus Hall to leave it but the photoshoot was going on and too many people were hanging about. Mr. Grennan and Jacobi got into a dreadful row. He accused Jacobi of being a cheating gobshite and Jacobi called him a perennial loser and goaded him about his ex-wife. They said awful things to each other. I thought Mr. Grennan was going to punch Jacobi right in his mouth. Not that Jacobi wouldn’t have deserved it, if half of what Mr. Grennan accused him of were true. Then that photographer intervened and cooled everybody off and Mr. Grennan went inside Erasmus Hall.”

  “And Jacobi?”

  “He left with the photographer. I found a place to hide and waited for Mr. Grennan to leave the hall. I didn’t want to risk him catching me delivering the flowers. He left about ten minutes later.” Reston broke off and shuddered. She walked toward the lighthouse.

  Gethsemane followed. “What then?”

  “Jacobi came back before I could slip inside the building. At least, I’m pretty sure it was Jacobi. I could only see him from the knees down, from where I hid, but the pants and shoes were the same as those he’d worn at the photoshoot.”

  “Why would Jacobi come back to Frankie’s garden?” Gethsemane spoke more to herself than to Reston.

  Reston answered. “Not for anything good, I’m sure. I could see he picked up hedge shears from under a bush. He stood in one spot and banged the flat of the blades against his leg, kind of absent-minded, like he was thinking of something. Then he let the shears drop and moved where I couldn’t see him.” She stopped at the edge of the path and stared out over the bay. Pieces of gravel dislodged by her foot skittered over the cliff’s edge.

  Gethsemane put a hand on her shoulder. “Careful. Don’t stand so close to the edge. It’s slippery and sometimes strong winds spring up, even in summer.”

  Reston stepped back. “I couldn’t see Mr. Jacobi anymore. Someone else came into the garden and picked up the shears. I never saw his face, only shoes and trouser legs and, for a few seconds when he grabbed the shears, a hand. He wore a gardening glove.”

  “You’re sure it was a man? Did he speak?”

  Reston shook her head. “I assumed. They were men’s shoes and trousers. Different than Mr. Grennan’s.”

  “Would you recognize them again?”

  The question went unanswered. A pop, like a firecracker, sounded and a spray of gravel exploded near Reston’s foot. She jumped and stumbled, nearly losing her footing on the path.

  Gethsemane grabbed her in time to keep her from falling over the edge of the cliff. “What the—” She looked around. Nothing on the cliffs above and below them but moss. The cottage and lighthouse lay quiet on either side of them.

  Another pop. Gravel exploded behind Reston.

  “Gunshots,” Eamon hissed in Gethsemane’s ear.

  “Someone’s shooting,” Reston said.

  A third shot echoed off the rocks. Gravel flew up and hit Reston in the back. She screamed.

  Gethsemane risked another look around. The shots had to be coming from the lighthouse. “Run!” she yelled and took off toward the cottage.

  She heard another shot and a scream behind her. She turned.

  Reston dropped to her knees. She tugged at her shirt sleeve where a jagged rip in the fabric exposed red-streaked skin beneath.

  Gethsemane pulled her to her feet. “Keep going. We’re almost to the cottage.”

  The next shot struck the space where Reston had knelt a second before.

  Eamon materialized between the women and the lighthouse, radiant with blue fury. Sparks sizzled and a wave of energy, like the shockwave after an atomic blast, rippled out from his core. The wave hit Gethsemane in the chest like a fist. She flew backwards, lifted into the air by the force. She sailed over the edge of the cliff and thudded onto a rocky promontory a few feet below the level of the path. Dazed, she dimly registered the sound of another shot above her. Gravel showered down on her head. Another scream snapped her out of her stupor. Her shoulder throbbed and sharp pains shot through her knee in protest as she rolled onto her side and pushed herself up into a half-seated position.

  Eamon materialized beside her. “Stay down.”

  She ducked her head and pressed close to the cliff wall, out of the sightline from the lighthouse. She counted to five. Silence. “Has the shooting stopped?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll check.” Eamon vanished, then immediately reappeared. “For feck’s sake, stay here.”

  About three feet of rock ledge separated her from certain death at the base of the cliff. “Where am I going to go?”

  A worried saffron tinged the cerulean of Eamon’s aura. “Well, just—be careful.” He vanished.

  Gethsemane inventoried aching muscles, flexing each sequentially to ensure it worked. She’d reached her elbows when Eamon reappeared.

  “Lighthouse is empty. Saw someone running.”

  “Why didn’t you stop them?”

  His aura flared blue again. “Because I figured you’d rather I not leave you hanging about on the side of a cliff while I went off playing superhero.” He softened. “I’m sorry. What I meant is, you’re more important.”

  “I’m sorry. You save my life and instead of thanking you, I complain you didn’t catch the bad guy, too. At least,” she raised an eyebrow, “I assume you threw me off a cliff on purpose to get me out of the way of a bullet.”

  He shrugged. “Crude, but I couldn’t think what else to do. The lighthouse was out of orb range.”

  Gethsemane remembered the scream as she forced an imagined image of a fatally wounded young woman crumpled on the gravel from her mind. She looked up toward the path-turned-shooting gallery. “Reston?”

  Eamon pointed in the opposite direction. “Down there.”

  Gethsemane scooted as far as she dared and peered over the ledge. Reston lay, unmoving, on a similar ledge a couple of feet below her own. “Is she…?”

  Eamon translocated to Reston’s side. “She’s breathing,” he called up to Gethsemane before vanishing and reappearing next to her. “Knocked out, but alive. Bleeding like a stuck pig, though. I only see the wound on her arm but she’s lying in a pool of blood. Granted, I’m no gunshot expert but I wouldn’t expect a wound in a bicep to bleed so much.”

  Gethsemane stared d
own at the young woman. “Maybe she was hit more than once. Or maybe the one bullet hit more than her arm. We’ve got to get her some help.”

  “I’d lend a hand, but…” Eamon pushed his hand through the cliff face.

  Gethsemane clawed at the rocks until she’d pulled herself up to standing. She winced as the jagged surfaces cut into her palms and fingertips. She wouldn’t be playing any instruments for a while. She’d climbed about a foot up toward the path when she dislodged a rock and slid back down to the ledge, landing an inch from its edge. She held her breath, afraid the slightest movement might plunge her off her perch.

  “Jaysus.” Eamon glowed full-on terrified purple. “Be wide, would ya? I don’t want you to end up like—” He broke off.

  Orla. His wife had died a quarter century ago at the bottom of these same cliffs. Gethsemane pushed herself back to the wall. “Are you sure you can’t levitate humans?”

  “Coffee pots and bourbon bottles are about all I can manage.”

  “And another blast of energy is just as likely to knock me down there,” she pointed to Reston, “as up top.” She unleashed a few Irish swear words.

  “Your gaeilge’s improved,” Eamon said. “You’ve been practicing.”

  Of all the times to tease her about her language skills. “Not now, Irish, I—” She smacked her forehead. “Duh. My shillelagh. I dropped it on the path when I started running. Send it down to me. I can use it as leverage to climb up.”

  “I’ll send it up to you.” Eamon pointed down at the walking stick a few feet below them. “Blast knocked it over the edge. But it won’t work.” The shillelagh landed at Gethsemane’s feet.

  She grabbed it and searched for a cranny in which to wedge it. Nothing wide enough or deep enough. She slammed the heavy stick against the rock. The vibration shot pain through her bruised and abraded hands.

  “A temper tantrum won’t help.”

  She brightened. “I know what will. My phone. I left it in my bag, back at the cottage. Can you levitate something that far?”

  “Don’t know. Never tried to move anything I can’t see.” He stared at the cottage, his frown and burnt sienna aura betrayed his degree of concentration. After a moment, his aura dissipated and he dimmed to transparent. “Sorry.”