Praise for the Gethsemane Brown Mystery Series
Books in the Gethsemane Brown Mystery Series
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Copyright
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
About the Author
The Gethsemane Brown Mystery Series
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LOWCOUNTRY BOIL
ARTIFACT
PRACTICAL SINS FOR COLD CLIMATES
Praise for the Gethsemane Brown Mystery Series
MURDER IN G MAJOR (#1)
“Gordon strikes a harmonious chord in this enchanting spellbinder of a mystery.”
– Susan M. Boyer,
USA Today Bestselling Author of Lowcountry Book Club
“Just when you think you’ve seen everything, here comes Gethsemane Brown, baton in one hand, bourbon in the other. Stranded in an Irish village where she knows no one (but they all know her), she’s got just six weeks to turn a rabblesome orchestra into award-winners and solve a decades-old murder to boot. And only a grumpy ghost to help her. There’s charm to spare in this highly original debut.”
– Catriona McPherson,
Agatha Award-Winning Author of The Reek of Red Herrings
“Gordon’s debut is delightful: An Irish village full of characters and secrets, whiskey and music–and a ghost! Gethsemane Brown is a fast-thinking, fast-talking dynamic sleuth (with a great wardrobe) who is more than a match for the unraveling murders and cover-ups, aided by her various–handsome–allies and her irascible ghost. Can’t wait to see what she uncovers next!”
– Chloe Green,
Author of the Dallas O’Connor Mysteries
“A fast-paced drama that kept me engaged in all aspects in the telling of this multi-plot tale that was hard to put down…The windup to the conclusion had me quickly turning the pages as I had to know how this will play out and to the author, I say “bravo” because now I need to read the next book in this captivating series.”
– Dru’s Book Musings
Books in the Gethsemane Brown Mystery Series
by Alexia Gordon
MURDER IN G MAJOR (#1)
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Copyright
MURDER IN G MAJOR
A Gethsemane Brown Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | September 2016
Henery Press, LLC
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2016 by Alexia Gordon
Author photograph by Peter Larsen
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-057-9
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-058-6
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-059-3
Hardcover Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-060-9
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
Dedicated to my parents, who let me have an unrestricted
library card as soon as I was old enough to check out a book,
never said “no” at the bookstore, and let me stay up all night in the summer watching spooky movies on TV.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to The Writer’s Path program at Southern Methodist University, especially to Suzanne Frank and Daniel J. Hale. Without the program, this book would never have been written. Thanks, Dan for asking, “What’s your story about?”
Thanks to Terri, Stephanie, Kim, Kaitlyn, Heather, and all of my other Writer’s Path compatriots for sharing your energy and enthusiasm.
Thanks to Alexia Isaak for telling me to say “percussion” instead of “drums.”
Thanks to Kendel Lynn, Rachel Jackson, and Erin George at Henery Press for taking a chance on an unpublished writer and for helping me turn my manuscript into a book.
Thanks to Paula Munier of Talcott Notch for representing me and helping me understand the business side of this writing business.
Thanks to Dru and to the other hens in the Henery Press Hen House for your support and encouragement.
Thanks to my instructors at Vassar College, especially Nancy Willard, for teaching me the value of good storytelling.
Thanks to Emilie for making me go to that MWA cocktail party and practice my first pitch.
Thanks to Adrienne and Meg for understanding exactly.
Thanks to Chad and Jay for making Fort Leavenworth in January fun.
Thanks to the Dallas Symphony Orchestra for providing the musical inspiration.
Thanks to The Joule, Dallas and Weekend Coffee for letting me occupy your space for countless hours and keeping me caffeinated and fed.
Thanks to Trinity Hall Irish Pub for furthering my whiskey education.
Thanks to Fort Work Dallas for letting a writer hang out with the tech startups.
Thanks to Serj Books for the crayons and the jokes.
Thanks to the Church of the Incarnation for the spiritual inspiration.
And thanks to my parents for always believing I could write.
One
Gethsemane Brown leaned closer to the windshield. She could just make out a thatched cottage through the gray curtain of rain pounding southwestern Ireland’s coast. The whitewashed house perched a few hundred yards from an ominous cliff. Farther up the road a lighthouse stood sentry over the rocky landscape. She rested her head against the window’s cool glass, trying to ignore the sound of tires skidding on wet gravel, and reconsidered her any-job-is-better-than-no-job philosophy. Right now unemployment sounded appealing.
Next to her the car’s driver, Billy McCarthy, kept his eyes on the tortuous road. “I hope you’ll like Carraigfaire Cottage, Dr. Brown.” Gethsemane flinched and held her breath as a rock wall loomed into view. Billy swore and spun the steering wheel hard. Car under control again, he continued. “Sorry about yer luggage.”
One more disaster in a string of disasters. Stolen luggage, stolen money, stolen career. She’d been promised the assistant conductor position with the Cork Philharmonic. A shoo-in. She didn’t even have to interview. She gave up everything for it—her apartment in Dallas, her furniture, her fiancé—and booked a one-way ticket to Ir
eland. To have it snatched by the music director’s mistress…She bit back an expletive. Now look at her, stranded halfway between the airport and the back of beyond, reduced to racing up a suicide hill toward—what? A deserted cottage in some village she’d never heard of. Why not go back? All the way back to the beginning, before the international concert circuit, before moving from place to place and job to job while climbing the ranks of the orchestra. Why not admit her ambitious, workaholic, jet-setting lifestyle ended up a bust and go back to Virginia where she’d grown up? Start over. And face Mother’s disappointment and her eldest sister’s ridicule? Gethsemane clutched her violin case to her chest and shuddered. Could be worse. She could be back in Finland where she’d been the only African American in the orchestra and she hadn’t spoken the language. At least here they spoke English.
The car swerved. Billy wrestled the vehicle and swore again, not in English.
Gethsemane tightened her grip on her case. “What?”
“Nothin’. ’Twas Irish. Gaeilge. Not fit to translate in mixed company.”
So much for speaking the language. To drown out the pounding of her heart she asked, “How long’s it been since anyone lived at Carraigfaire?”
“About twenty-five years. Since my aunt and uncle died. Maybe you know of my uncle?”
“Of course I know Eamon McCarthy. I performed his “Autumn Nocturne” at my first recital. I was devastated when he—I mean, um…”
Billy spared her a glance. “Murdered his wife and then committed suicide? That’s the official story.” He skidded to a stop in front of the cottage. “Unofficially?” He shrugged.
They dashed through the barrage to the front porch. Gethsemane tugged her rain-sodden dress, its navy skirt now more fit than flare, while Billy hunted on his key ring. Two days’ continuous wear and a Second Coming-caliber downpour. How much more could her only outfit take? Even worsted wool had its limits. She silently cursed whoever stole her luggage. Then she cursed herself for having packed her raincoat and umbrella. Who goes to Ireland without keeping raingear handy? She looked wistfully at the car. At least her violin was dry. Billy fumbled a key into the bright blue cottage door. Gethsemane started to grumble then bit her lip. Her new landlord would think her as sullen as the weather. Instead she said, “When I was in New Orleans years ago with the chamber orchestra I heard voodoo priestesses paint their doors bright blue to keep out spirits.”
“We don’t try to keep our spirits outside in Dunmullach.” Billy swung the door open triumphantly. “Wouldn’t be hospitable.”
Gethsemane stepped over the threshold. Mackintoshes and a newsboy cap hung from a coat rack. Two pairs of Wellingtons nestled underneath a bench.
“I thought you said nobody lived here.” Water puddled around her feet.
“No one does.” Billy hung his mackintosh next to the others. “This is a tableau.”
“A tableau?”
“I plan to turn Carraigfaire Cottage into a museum. Arrange everything the way it was when Uncle Eamon and Aunt Orla lived here. It’ll look like they just stepped out for a moment. Let me get you a towel.” He disappeared upstairs.
Gethsemane padded down the hall, trailing wet footprints as she peered into rooms. A Steinway piled with sheet music dominated one to her right. Opposite, a massive roll-top desk shared space with a well-stocked bar cart, a leather sofa, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A lacy afghan draped over the back of the sofa provided the room’s only feminine touch. Gethsemane sniffed. A faint odor, woodsy. Billy hadn’t worn cologne. Had he? She sniffed again. The smell was gone.
Billy returned with a towel. “I think the time’s right to open a museum. Uncle Eamon’s garnered a new legion of fans since that woman’s book came out.”
An American author had recently published an unauthorized biography of Eamon. Trash. Gethsemane had tossed it into the recycle bin after the third chapter. The book reached number eight on the bestseller list the day she quit her job as concertmaster with the Dallas String Ensemble.
Billy offered to start a fire. He talked as he worked. “You’ll have the run of the place. The lighthouse, too, if you like. Be careful on the stairs if you go up. A bit dicey.”
Gethsemane toweled her hair. Let Mother call her nappy-headed. Her natural style held up better in the rain than relaxed tresses. “I appreciate your letting me stay here. You saved me from sleeping in the train station.”
The fire roared to life. “I’m happy to find someone to look after the place. I travel on business. Makes it hard to take proper care of things here.”
Gethsemane dried her feet then grimaced as she slipped them back into her still wet shoes. She backed up to the fire, enjoying the burn on her calves. “Ever think of turning this place into a B&B?”
Billy waved the suggestion away. “I’m no innkeeper. I’d have to hire someone. Even with increased music sales, Uncle’s royalties barely cover restoration and maintenance, never mind a salary.”
“Why not sell?”
“I’ve had a few offers, but none tempting enough to make me give up on the museum.”
Gethsemane felt her skirt. Dry. “How about a tour?”
Billy led her through the rest of the house. Two bedrooms upstairs with a bathroom between. A parlor across the hall. The delicate furniture and gilt accents marked it as the lady of the house’s answer to the downstairs man cave.
Billy gestured to the front bedroom. “Use this one.” Inside, a bureau topped with men’s toiletries and a silver-framed photo of a stunning brown-eyed blonde abutted an armoire. Opposite, a vanity laden with women’s toiletries and a silver-framed photo of a handsome dark-haired man with a strong resemblance to Billy stood near a chifferobe. Gethsemane recognized the man as Eamon McCarthy. His eyes seemed greener in the photo than in magazines.
Gethsemane thanked Billy and followed him downstairs to the kitchen. She caught another whiff of the woodsy cologne.
“What’re you wearing?”
“Wearing?” Billy asked.
“Your cologne.”
Billy looked puzzled. “I’m not wearin’ cologne. I’m allergic.” A worried expression replaced the puzzled one. “And I don’t smell anything.”
“Leather, cedar, pepper, hay.” Gethsemane took a deep breath. “Nice.”
“I smell rain and peat, smoke from the fire.”
“My imagination.” Gethsemane chuckled. “Or a ghost.”
Billy swallowed. “You’re, er, not afraid of ghosts, are you?”
“I can’t be afraid of what doesn’t exist.” Grandma’s stories of the farmhouse door unlocking and swinging open at three a.m. without aid of human or animal notwithstanding.
Billy swallowed again. “It’s only fair to tell ya that folks—not everybody mind ya—report hearing strange noises up here and seeing things out on the cliffs.”
“Optical illusions, misinterpretations of natural phenomena.” Gethsemane pressed her finger against the window and traced the outline of the mist-shrouded lighthouse looming atop the cliff’s head. Forget Grandpa’s account of a gray man materializing from the fog to portend death in the family. “Products of overactive imaginations stimulated by an eerie landscape.”
“That’s what I like about you Americans. Always ready with a rational explanation.”
A recollection from Sunday school poked her in the back, sending a shiver down her spine: King Saul hiring a medium to conjure Samuel’s ghost. She pushed it away.
“The pantry’s stocked, so’s the bar.” Billy wrote on a notepad by the phone. “My number’s here as well as the grocer’s and the guards’. That’s the gardaí, the police. I’ll also leave Teague Connolly’s number. Call him if you need anything while I’m gone.”
“Teague Connolly?”
“A good mate of mine. Orla’s baby brother. Half-brother.” He finished
his notes. “Any questions?”
“How long does it take to walk to St. Brennan’s from here? I have a meeting with the headmaster at five.”
“It’s about a twenty-minute walk. I’ll send Father Keating, the school chaplain, up to give you a ride.”
Billy retrieved Gethsemane’s violin from the car and bid goodbye. The crunch of tires faded away. Time for a shower and nap before her appointment with the headmaster. She needed to be on her A-game if she was going to salvage her disaster of a life.
Upstairs, she studied her reflection in the vanity mirror. Mother was right, her thick hair was nappy. She sighed and examined the items on the vanity top. A sleek perfume bottle labeled Maywinds in gold script held the fragrance of vetiver, powder, roses. She lifted a squat cologne bottle from the bureau, Gaeltacht. A spray released a familiar aroma—leather, cedar, pepper, hay. Odd, Billy hadn’t smelled it.
Remembering why she came upstairs, she found a bathroom cupboard with towels and Mrs. Leary’s Buttermilk soap. Steaming shower water provided solace from disappointment and relief from the niggling unease of mysterious smells and murder-suicide.
Refreshed by her nap and shower, Gethsemane arrived at St. Brennan’s School for Boys a few minutes early for her appointment. Father Tim Keating, parish priest as well as school chaplain, escorted her to the school office, a dim wood-paneled cavern. A few uncomfortable-looking students sat on uncomfortable-looking benches along the near wall. The secretary ushered Gethsemane and the priest to a door affixed with an oversized engraved brass plaque which read, Richard Riordan, Headmaster.
Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1) Page 1
