FATALITY IN F
Page 21
“Sometimes, Frankie,” Niall brushed himself off, “I’m glad no one listens to me.”
Gethsemane approached the two men. “Someone please listen to me.” She pointed to the roof. “Ellen Jacobi needs help.”
“Hey, Bill,” Niall said, “It’s your case. You want to handle that?”
Sutton looked where Gethsemane pointed. He alternated swear words with names of uniformed gardaí. Some ran to aid Ellen while one called for an ambulance.
Niall squinted at Gethsemane. “That holy show you put on about men telling women to go sit the corner…”
“A classic American amateur sleuthing technique, Niall—stalling.” She picked up the hoe and handed it to Frankie. “Your garden tool, sir.”
Sutton snatched it. “That’s evidence.”
“I want a receipt,” Frankie said.
Sutton grunted.
Hints of sunrise glimmered on the horizon. Details of Frankie’s roses began to emerge from the lessening gloom. Bushes and vines and tree-forms filled a space Gethsemane remembered as a patch of snarled brambles.
“Hey, Frankie,” she said, “maybe later today when the sun’s up you can show me around the garden. It’s hard to tell in this light but I think it might be beautiful.”
“How’s this afternoon sound? There’s one in particular I want to show you. It’s a hearty rambler, quite strong. It repeat flowers, even in poor soil, no matter how rough you treat it. It has gorgeous fully double blooms so deep red they’re almost black. It refuses to be tamed and is taking over the side wall. I dubbed it, ‘Fearless Brown.’”
The aroma of coffee greeted her when she stumbled into Carraigfaire a couple of hours later. “Where’s my favorite ghost?” she called out as she followed the fragrance to the kitchen.
“Where I always am.” Eamon sent a steaming mug of caffeinated goodness sliding across the table. “At your service.”
“Irish, have I told you lately how—”
“How much I aggravate you?”
“How happy I am that I was cheated out of a dream gig, had my bags stolen, accepted a make-ends-meet job, moved into a haunted house, and ended up with you as a roommate?”
Eamon’s aura glowed pink with embarrassment. “Aw, shucks, Ma’am,” he said in his best American cowboy accent.
Gethsemane saluted him with her coffee mug. “Cheers.”
Twenty-Three
Two weeks after the Director of Public Prosecutions agreed to prosecute Karl Dietrich for murder, attempted murder, and kidnapping, Gethsemane walked into the Mad Rabbit. She ordered a Bushmills 21 at the bar and made her way through the early evening crowd toward the tables at the back.
“Gethsemane, hi!” A cheerful voice stopped her halfway there. Reston waved her cast-free arm.
“How are you?” Gethsemane asked. “Glad to see you’ve been freed from your plaster prison. Or do they only use fiberglass now? How’s the wrist?”
“Great. No pain, a wee bit of stiffness. But Brian says if I complete my rehab, that will go away. This is Brian.” She introduced Gethsemane to the tall, handsome, red-head who stood with his arm around Reston’s waist.
“Pleased to meet you Brian,” Gethsemane said. “Why do you look familiar?”
“You probably saw me at the hospital.”
“Brian is one of the fierce orthopedists who put my wrist back together.”
The young man blushed. “Not full-fledged yet. Doing my internship.”
“He’s already brilliant, though.” Reston kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, guess what? I’ve got an art show opening in Dublin in three months.
“That’s wonderful, Reston. Your own show. How exciting. That’s such an honor.”
“Well, not just mine. It’s a group show with two other women. ‘Floral Illusions.’ Abstract still lifes, mostly. You’re invited, of course.”
“A group show in Dublin’s still a big deal. I look forward to it.” She spied Frankie and Niall at a rear table. “Found my party. Excuse me.”
Frankie sat next to Verna Cunningham, the Latin teacher, who laughed at something he said. Niall sat across from them, his arm draped over the back of the chair of a pretty blonde who looked very much like Verna, minus a few years.
“Room for one more?” Gethsemane asked. The others slid over to make room for her chair. “Good to see you off desk duty, Niall.”
“Good to be back in the Superintendent’s good graces. And Sutton’s back on speaking terms. And I beat them both at last night’s poker game.”
She high-fived Frankie. “Congratulations. I just heard the news. The International Rose Hybridizers awarded ‘Sandra Sechrest’ best in show. A well-deserved gold medal, my friend.”
“I just wish there had been a show,” Verna said. “They should have handed Frankie that gold medal up on stage in front of the whole village. And they should have let you play your solo, Gethsemane.”
The blonde next to Niall spoke up. “Vern, after what happened, they could hardly have gone through with the garden show. That would have been…” She waved her hand in the air.
“Gethsemane,” Verna said, “have you met my sister, Vivian?”
The women shook hands.
“Vivi’s just enrolled at University College Cork, in the PhD program in performance. She’s a savage flutist, aren’t you Vivi?”
“Not nearly as talented as you, Dr. Brown. When Vern told me you were in Dunmullach, so close to Cork, of course I had to get myself invited down to meet you.”
“Please,” Gethsemane said, “call me—”
“Sissy,” Frankie interjected. “We all do.”
She made a face. She’d have kicked him under the table if she could have been certain of not kicking Verna.
Verna elbowed Frankie in the ribs. “Stop it. You know she hates that name.”
“Let me make it up to you.” Frankie reached under the table and brought up a small pot containing a miniature rose full of tiny pink blooms and lush green leaves.
“My rose.” Gethsemane pulled the pot to her and buried her nose in a blossom. The delicate sweet scent filled her nostrils. “You resurrected it. You’re deadly, Frankie. An effing genius.”
“Ten points for decent use of Irish slang,” Niall said.
A gasp from Verna cut off the table’s laughter. She stared toward the Rabbit’s front door, a pained expression on her face.
“Vern?” Vivian laid her hand over her sister’s.
Verna, her gaze fixed on the pub’s entrance, stifled a sob.
Gethsemane and the others turned to see what had upset the Latin teacher.
Three men, a thin brunet with a square jaw and unkind eyes, flanked by a tall, burly blond with a florid scar down his cheek and a handsome Asian wearing trousers so well-cut they looked as if they’d been sewn directly onto him and Italian leather Oxfords Niall must have envied, had entered the pub. The three stood in the doorway, surveying the crowd.
Vivian rose from her chair. “I’ll get rid of him.”
Verna grabbed her sister’s wrist and pulled her back down. “No, don’t. Don’t cause a scene.”
“You know those fellas?” Frankie asked.
“Not the two on the ends,” Verna said. “But I know the one in the middle, the brunet. I’d hoped he was dead.” She gave in to the sobs and fled the table.
About the Author
A writer since childhood, Alexia Gordon won her first writing prize in the 6th grade. She continued writing through college but put literary endeavors on hold to finish medical school and Family Medicine residency training. She established her medical career then returned to writing fiction.
Raised in the southeast, schooled in the northeast, she relocated to the west where she completed Southern Methodist University’s Writer’s Path program. She admits Texas brisket is as good as Carolina pulled p
ork. She practices medicine in North Chicago, IL. She enjoys the symphony, art collecting, embroidery, and ghost stories.
The Gethsemane Brown Mystery Series
by Alexia Gordon
MURDER IN G MAJOR (#1)
DEATH IN D MINOR (#2)
KILLING IN C SHARP (#3)
FATALITY IN F (#4)
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