FATALITY IN F

by Alexia Gordon

  Frankie shrugged. “Last I heard she was running around with a London billionaire selling fake documents to smugglers trading looted artifacts out of Syria. We don’t really keep in touch.”

  Sutton edged Gethsemane aside and glared down at Ellen. “So you killed him for his company? Or for his flowers?”

  “I didn’t kill my husband, Inspector.” The ice in Ellen’s voice made Gethsemane shiver. “Nor did I have him killed, to anticipate your next question. I’m not sorry he’s dead but I had nothing to do with him ending up that way.”

  “Can anyone,” Sutton glanced at Glendon, “vouch for your whereabouts at the time of your husband’s murder, Mrs. Jacobi?”

  “More likely than not,” Ellen said. “Tell me precisely when he was killed and I’ll have my assistant check my schedule.”

  Nice dodge. Don’t say where you were because you don’t know when the murder occurred. Gethsemane didn’t envy any prosecutor who ended up questioning Ellen Jacobi on the witness stand.

  “What about Murdoch Colllins?” Sutton asked.

  “Wasn’t poor Murdoch run over in front of the Athaneum this morning? I haven’t been anywhere near the theater today.” Ellen smirked. “I don’t need my assistant to check my schedule to know that.”

  “What reason would she have to kill Collins?” Glendon asked.

  “What reason would your brother have to offer Collins a deal?” Gethsemane asked him.

  Glendon stared, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

  Ellen reddened and turned on her lover. She spoke through clenched teeth, each staccato word an accusation. “Yes, Glen, darling, why would your brother Gerry offer Murdoch a deal?”

  “What kind of deal?” Sutton asked.

  Everyone looked at Gethsemane.

  “I don’t know all the details,” she said. “I overheard Gerrit Byrnes, Murdoch Collins, and Karl Dietrich talking in the hallway at the Athaneum. Gerrit tried to convince Karl and Murdoch to accept some sort of deal, telling them it was the best they’d get. Murdoch complained it wasn’t worth the risk for what he offered.”

  Ellen swung her legs around ninety degrees in her chair to face Glendon. She leaned forward, almost touching him, and glared through narrowed slits of eyes.

  He shrank back and looked up at Niall and Sutton as though begging for rescue. “I, I swear, Ellen,” he said without looking at her, “I don’t know anything about any deals. I have no idea what Gerrit might have been talking about, nor why he’d be talking to Collins or Dietrich. The only deal I know about is the one I made with you.” He glanced at her, then quickly looked away, as though he’d looked directly at a solar eclipse. “I swear I’d never cross you.”

  Niall stepped between the lovers. Ellen swung back around in her chair to face forward. She crossed her arms and fixed her gaze on the far wall of the tent. Her pursed lips suggested she intended to heed Sutton’s advice about exercising her right to remain silent.

  “What deal did you and Mrs. Jacobi make, Mr. Byrnes?” Niall asked.

  Glendon kept his gaze on the floor. “I planned to sell Ellen a controlling interest in Belles Fleurs.”

  “Did your brother agree to this?”

  Glendon shook his head.

  “Did your brother know about this?”

  Glendon shook his head again.

  “You were going to cut your brother out of the business? Make Mrs. Jacobi the senior partner?”

  “No,” Glendon said, “I was going to cut myself out of the business, go out on my own, start my own garden design company. Belles Fleurs is an emotional and financial drag. Jacobi and Fortnum is a much larger company and can manage Belles Fleurs’ assets much more ably than I can.”

  “Meaning Gerrit would either have to sell his part of the business to Jacobi and Fortnum or live with his rival being his new boss.”

  Glendon nodded.

  “What was Mrs. Jacobi’s part of the deal?” Sutton asked. “What was she going to give you?”

  “Patent rights to ‘Lucia di Lammermoor.’”

  Her husband’s rose. “All the more reason to want your husband out of the way,” Gethsemane said. And dead was certainly out of the way.

  “I told you, I had nothing to do with his murder. The idea of selling the patent didn’t even occur to me until after Roderick’s death.”

  “Why should we believe you?” Sutton asked.

  “You can talk to my solicitor in the morning. She’ll tell you that Roderick faced a lawsuit, one he was probably going to lose, over the rights to ‘Lucia di Lammermoor.’ He’d stolen the rose, like nearly every other rose, or medicine, he took credit for developing. You can speak to that, can’t you Mr. Grennan?”

  Frankie grunted.

  Ellen continued. “Anyway, the daughter of the rose grower Roderick stole ‘Lucia di Lammermoor’ from makes me look as timid as a dormouse. She tracked down her father’s former garden assistant at an ashram in Borneo. The assistant gave the daughter copies of plant journals and correspondence with her father that proved he’d developed the hybrid. In addition to suing Roderick for everything he’s worth and, quite possibly, everything I’m worth as well, the daughter interested a blogger or journalist or some such person in the story. They intended to make a podcast or documentary about Roderick’s intellectual thievery and broadcast the premier at next year’s Chelsea Flower Show. No one would believe I wasn’t involved in the theft. Jacobi and Fortnum would have been ruined. We’d never have recovered from the scandal.”

  “And you saw your husband’s death as an opportune time to rid yourself of a liability—’Lucia di Lammermoo.’”

  “You are as smart as you look, Dr. Brown,” Ellen said.

  “You didn’t mention a lawsuit, Ellen,” Glendon said.

  “Of course I didn’t, you horny gobshite. You’d never have agreed to the deal if you’d known it was encumbered.”

  Tears formed in Glendon’s eyes and his lip quivered. “You mean you planned to take control of Belles Fleurs and leave me holding the bag with a ruinous lawsuit?”

  Ellen shrugged.

  No honor among thieves even when the thieves were lovers. Or brothers. “Gerrit didn’t know about the lawsuit, did he?” Gethsemane asked. “I bet the deal he tried to make with Murdoch and Gerrit was for ‘Lucia di Lammermoor.’ He tried to steal the rose for Belles Fleurs, not realizing you were about to sell Belles Fleurs out from under him.”

  “Gerrit and I haven’t seen eye to eye on the business, or anything else, for any number of years,” Glendon said. “I’m sure if he’d gotten his hands on ‘Lucia di Lammermoor,’ he’d have found a way to exclude me from any benefit gained from the acquisition.”

  “None of this proves you didn’t kill your husband, Mrs. Jacobi,” Sutton said. “Get rid of him and his tainted rose all at the same time, why not?”

  “I rather think it’s up to the prosecution counsel to prove I killed Roderick, not to me to prove I didn’t, Inspector.”

  A shouted expletive interrupted the interrogation. A large orchid in a delicate celadon pot teetered on a stand near Frankie’s elbow. He fumbled with the exotic flower balanced on the edge of its perch and managed to right it before it crashed to the floor.

  “Be careful with that,” Ellen said. “It was a gift. One not easily replaced.”

  Something nagged Gethsemane She turned to Ellen. “Mrs. Jacobi, how involved are you with Avar Pharmaceuticals?”

  “I’m not involved in the day-to-day operations. My work with Jacobi and Fortnum occupies most of my time. But, I keep abreast of what’s going on at Avar.”

  “You’ll become more involved now that your husband’s gone.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll be the majority shareholder. But I’ll rely on Avar’s board of directors to keep things operating.”

  “You have plans for the future of Avar?”


  “Plans? What do you mean?”

  “I understand Avar shifted production away from the manufacture of many of its older medicines in favor of the development of new gene therapies.”

  “The company’s in the process of transitioning, yes. Many pharmaceutical firms are making the shift. Gene therapy holds great promise for the future of curing disease and ending suffering.”

  “You sound almost sincere, Mrs. Jacobi,” Sutton said.

  Ellen glared at the garda. “I am sincere, Inspector. I make no claims to sainthood but I’m not a sociopath. We’re talking about human lives, not plants. I’m proud of Avar’s contributions to the improvement of health and well-being.”

  “Who orchestrated the shift from old therapeutics to new?” Gethsemane asked.

  “Lots of people,” Ellen said. “Gene therapy is a major undertaking.”

  “The future of pharma. Was Murdoch Collins involved in the transition?”

  “Of course Murdoch was involved. He championed new technologies. He envisioned Avar as the leader in gene therapeutics.”

  “What about Avar’s scientists? How did they feel? Were they as much in favor of the company’s new direction as Murdoch?”

  “Most of them, yes” Ellen said. “After all, they are scientists. They’re at the forefront of progress.”

  “Most of them. Not all.”

  “Where are you going with this?” Sutton interjected.

  “I heard rumors, Inspector, that not all of Avar’s scientists were enthusiastic about the company’s new focus. Some were unhappy their drugs were being abandoned or sold to other manufacturers.”

  “Change is difficult,” Ellen said. “More difficult for some than others.”

  “More difficult for those who had developed non-profitable, orphan drugs? Drugs expensive to produce because their base compounds are hard to come by? Who decided which drugs got the ax from the Avar formulary?”

  “Several people were involved in those decisions. The board, scientists—”

  “Accountants?”

  Ellen shrugged.

  “Your husband and Murdoch Collins?”

  “Of course the Chief Executive and Chief Operating Officers would have input.”

  Gethsemane walked over to the orchid and ran a finger along one of its fleshy leaves. “Orchids are tropical plants, aren’t they?”

  “Some varieties, yes. Not all of them.”

  “How about this one?”

  “Yes. That particular variety is found in the tropical rainforest. The Amazon Basin, specifically.”

  “You brought it back from the Amazon yourself?”

  “No, as I said, it was a gift. From Karl Dietrich. He found it on one of his ethnobotanical expeditions. Why the interest in my houseplant?”

  “Karl’s a botanist. He developed plant-based pharmaceuticals for Avar. He’s been with the company for a long time, hasn’t he?”

  “Decades.”

  “How does Karl feel about change?”

  Ellen hesitated. “Karl is old school. Skeptical about gene therapy. He’ll remind anyone who will listen that plants have been used to improve human existence almost since human existence began. Gene therapy lacks plant therapy’s track record.”

  “How many of the drugs Karl developed over his decades with Avar were slated to be sold?”

  “A few of them.” Another hesitation. “Many of them.”

  “Your husband was fond of cheating people out of their rights. Did he try to cheat Karl out of his rights to royalties on the drugs he devoted most of his career developing for Avar?”

  Ellen protested. “I had nothing to do with that. Karl’s work, and the work of the other scientists, saved lives. They deserved their share of the profits.”

  So Ellen had limits. She’d cheat someone out of profit for a rose but not for a medication. Roderick, apparently, had no such scruples. “Roderick was cheating Karl.”

  “Wait,” Niall asked, “are you saying Roderick Jacobi and Murdoch Collins were selling off Avar Pharmaceuticals’ assets, including those developed by Karl Dietrich, but were cutting Karl out of the deal?”

  “Dietrich would have lost a fortune,” Sutton said.

  “But with someone new in charge of Avar, someone more sympathetic,” Gethsemane touched the orchid’s leaf again, “Karl’s fortune might have reversed.”

  “Are you suggesting Karl Dietrich killed my husband and Murdoch Collins?”

  “Not suggesting, Mrs. Jacobi, stating. Roderick stabbed Karl in the back, figuratively, so Karl stabbed him in the back literally.”

  “Then used my car to kill Murdoch?” Frankie asked.

  “You were already the prime suspect in Roderick’s murder. Why not frame you for Murdoch’s? He didn’t know you had an alibi. With both Roderick and Murdoch out of the way, and someone sympathetic to his work in control of Avar, he must’ve figured he’d be fairly compensated, even if he couldn’t save his drugs from being sold.”

  “What about Reston?” Frankie asked. “Karl shot at her?”

  Gethsemane nodded. “He must have known he’d been witnessed killing Roderick. He just couldn’t track down who’d seen him. Until the garda station when I showed him the Murderphile website and told him about the set up.”

  “You weren’t to know,” Eamon said. Which didn’t make her feel better.

  “Where is Dietrich?” Sutton asked. No one answered. “When’s the last time anyone saw him? Mrs. Jacobi?”

  “I’m not his mother, his wife, nor his secretary,” Ellen said. “I don’t keep track of his comings and goings. I don’t remember when I last saw him.”

  “The garda station was the last time I saw him,” Gethsemane said.

  “Has he tried to contact you, Mrs. Jacobi?” Sutton asked.

  “No.” She looked at the other faces in the room and repeated her statement. “No, he hasn’t.”

  “You’ll tell us if he does,” Sutton said. “Right away.”

  “I’m sure he won’t,” Ellen said. “But, yes, if by some unlikely chance he contacts me, I’ll let you know right away.”

  “Does this mean we aren’t under arrest?” Glendon asked. “We’re free to go?”

  “For now,” Sutton said. “Some gardaí from the Fraud Squad may want words with you in the near future but that’s not my department.” He allowed Ellen and Glendon to go after extracting their promises not to leave the village then turned his attention to Gethsemane and Frankie. “As for you two…”

  “You’ve no reason to hold us,” Gethsemane said.

  “There’s always protective custody,” Sutton said, “for your own protection.”

  “Please tell me he’s kidding,” she said to Niall.

  “Karl’s not likely to go after Sissy or Frankie,” Niall said. “He’s more likely to try to flee the village.”

  “You have a point. I’d better put some guards at the train and bus stations and along the road between here and Cork. He’ll probably try for the airport.” Sutton ran both hands over his hair. “The Super’s going to love this. Why’d I quit smoking?”

  “For your kids,” Gethsemane offered. She earned a scowl in return.

  “Don’t tease him,” Eamon said. “He’s having a rough night.”

  “I’ll drive them back up to the cottage, Bill,” Niall said.

  Sutton thanked him. He pulled out his phone and began making calls on his way out of the tent.

  “C’mon, you two.” Niall headed in the same direction.

  “You may as well drop me off at Erasmus Hall,” Frankie said. “I don’t need to hide out at Carraigfaire with Reston in the hospital and Karl in Sutton’s sights.”

  “Because being brought home by the garda at night won’t require any explanations in the morning,” Gethsemane said.

  “When you put
it that way,” Frankie said, “one more night at the cottage won’t hurt.” He and Gethsemane followed Niall out to his car.

  Twenty-One

  Silence filled the car on the ride back to Carraigfaire. Gethsemane leaned her head against the cool glass of the window and stared into the darkness. Where was Karl? Was he lurking out there somewhere, hiding, waiting for—what? Another chance to get rid of Reston? She was the only real witness against him. His motive for killing Roderick and Murdoch was clear—money—but what evidence was there? She kicked herself for showing Karl the true crime website. She even let him help her choose a screen name. How stupid.

  “Are you all right?” Niall asked her.

  “Yeah,” she answered without looking away from the window. “Just wondering if he’s out there. Karl, I mean.”

  “If he’s smart, he headed to Cork for the airport as soon as he ran from the lighthouse after shooting at you,” Frankie chimed in from the back seat.

  “No train until day after tomorrow,” Niall reminded him, “and bus service stopped before noon today. Won’t start again until nine in the morning.”

  “He could drive to Cork.”

  “If he stole a car,” Gethsemane said. “I doubt he’d risk calling a taxi.”

  “No stolen cars and we’re watching the road.”

  “Did you check with the taxi dispatch?” Frankie asked. “Criminals aren’t always smart.”

  “We’ve alerted the taxi company,” Niall said.

  “Ellen’s smart. If she’d killed her husband and Murdoch, the prosecutor never would have proved it.” Gethsemane kept her fears about the likelihood of the prosecutor’s success in proving Karl guilty to herself. “I assume someone’s guarding Reston at the hospital.”

  “Of course,” Niall said.

  “Do you really think he’d go after her again?” Frankie asked. “Why risk it?”

  “She’s the only witness against him,” Gethsemane said. “Karl’s well-known, a respected scientist. Where could he hide if he ran? There’s no statute of limitations on murder. He’d spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. As long as Reston lived, she could give evidence against him.”