Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1)

by Alexia Gordon

  “How’d you not end up in the hospital or jail or worse?”

  “I had Orla and Pegeen Sullivan to keep me from going too far astray. I think Ma paid them.”

  “Who’s Pegeen Sullivan? Your governess?”

  “Governess? Ya think we were minted? She’s an old friend. Grew up together, Peg, Orla, and me.”

  Gethsemane sipped her drink, savoring the bourbon’s warm spicy finish.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Microscopically.” She emptied her glass. “I need to win the All-County.”

  “Wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain judge from Boston?”

  “How do you know about Peter Nolan?”

  “In Dunmullach, even the ghosts are in on the gossip. Allow me.” Eamon waved a finger at the bar cart. The bottle of Waddell and Dobb Double-oaked floated to Gethsemane and poured a refill. Eamon waved his finger again, returning the bottle to its previous position.

  “Neat trick,” Gethsemane said. “You must be a hoot at cocktail parties.”

  “That’s nothing. You should see me pull a rabbit out of—”

  Gethsemane shot him a warning look.

  “A hat.”

  “So what can you do? Besides cleaning up spills, pouring drinks, and vanishing into thin air. Read minds?”

  “If I could, I’d know who killed Orla and me.”

  “Point taken.”

  “I can go pretty much anywhere I went while I was alive.” He sat up straight. “Except Our Lady.”

  “Our Lady?”

  “Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. Father Keating’s church.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m labeled a suicide. Erroneously, but labeled nonetheless. I’m buried in unhallowed ground, so I’m eternally banned from the church and church yard. Can only go as far as the front gate.”

  “Where’s your wife buried?”

  A blue aura framed Eamon’s head. “At Our Lady.”

  “Where you can’t visit her.”

  The blue deepened.

  Even after all these years, her mother visited her father’s grave once a week.

  “Can’t you contact her on the other side?”

  “The ‘other side’ is devoid of mobile phone technology and social media.”

  Blue sparks popped.

  “Snippiness is not attractive in grown man nor ghost. You can materialize all over town, listen to gossip, levitate objects, and smash pictures with glowing blue orbs. Why can’t you go find your wife?” Eamon’s expression prompted an apology. “I don’t mean to sound flip. I want to know.”

  Gethsemane strained to hear Eamon’s whispered reply. “I have tried to find Orla. Over and over I’ve tried. Sometimes I hear her or glimpse her hair or catch a hint of her perfume. I call her, she raises a hand or starts to speak but then a gray fog appears and I’ve lost her.”

  “What’s blocking you?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “My over-the-top rational, psychiatrist mother swears she still feels my father’s presence in the house they shared.”

  “It’s worse here than anywhere. I can’t sense her at Carraigfaire at all.” The blue aura faded to yellow. “I’d have thought if I could reach Orla any place it would be here. Carraigfaire meant the world to us, ever since we discovered it together as kids. It’d sat abandoned for a century, a ruin unfit for habitation, but as soon as we found it Orla and I both knew we’d live here someday.” Eamon laughed sadly. He leaned close to Gethsemane and laid his hand through hers. She shivered as a buzz zipped up her spine. The cologne fragrance enveloped her. “I think injustice keeps Orla and me apart as sure as Pyramus and Thisbe’s brick wall. I have to believe finding our killer will set things right, cosmically speaking. Then maybe I can find my wife. But I can’t do it without your help.”

  “Why me? I know music, math, baseball, and old movies. I don’t know anything about murder investigations.”

  “You arrive on my doorstep a few weeks before the twenty-fifth anniversary of my wife’s murder and you can see and hear me. It’s a sign. I’m not asking you to solve the crimes yourself. Just find enough evidence to convince the guards to reopen the case and do the job right this time.”

  “I still say contact a psychic. They help police solve cold cases all the time.”

  “You don’t believe in psychics any more than you believe in vampires or alien abductions.”

  “Or ghosts, until yesterday.”

  “Touché. I don’t believe in psychics. Teague hired one soon after I died. Took Teague’s money and gave him nothing but mumbo jumbo that could have applied to half the village. I stood right next to the whacker, even poked my finger in his eye, and he never knew it. Could have gone after him with a cricket bat and he wouldn’t have noticed. A rank con man.”

  Gethsemane went to the hall for a coat. “I still think you’ve got the wrong girl. I don’t see how I can help you.”

  “Where’re you going at this hour?” Eamon appeared beside her.

  “For a walk.”

  “Are you bolloxed? It’s getting dark out and fixin’ to lash.” On cue, raindrops hit the porch.

  “Do you control the weather or merely predict it?”

  “Neither. You don’t have to be a ghost or a psychic to know it’s fixin’ to rain in Dunmullach. You just have to live here for more than ten minutes.”

  Gethsemane buttoned her mac and grabbed the newsboy cap.

  “You’re not really going out there? If you don’t fall off the cliff, you’ll catch your death from pneumonia.”

  “I’ll stay away from the cliff’s edge. And bacteria and viruses cause pneumonia, not rain. Trust me, my mother’s a doctor.”

  “Have it your way, but don’t expect me to come running if you go tumbling down the mountainside.” Eamon vanished.

  “I don’t need your help.” Gethsemane slammed the front door and started up the road to the lighthouse. “You need mine.”

  She ruminated as she walked, ignoring the rain’s sting. Her orderly, safe life had devolved into a mess. Her star had tarnished; she’d disappointed her mother. She wasn’t used to failure. A job in Boston—not ghosts and murders—was her ticket back to normalcy, to golden-girl status. How to get there? She tried to ignore the tiny voice in her head echoing Francis Grennan’s sarcastic suggestion: enlist the help of the greatest composer of the late twentieth century.

  Three

  Gethsemane arrived at St. Brennan’s with the morning bell, mood lifted by a night’s sleep. Ireland had wrapped its spell around her in her dreams.

  Her good mood lasted the time it took Headmaster Riordan to cross the quad. “Dr. Brown.” He gestured to the lanky, gray-haired, expensively suited man accompanying him. “Meet Hieronymus Dunleavy, a good friend to St. Brennan’s for many years.”

  Good friend. Code for major donor. Gethsemane greeted the duo.

  “An honor to meet you, Dr. Brown,” Dunleavy said. “I’m a fan. I had the pleasure of hearing you perform in New Orleans.”

  “Mr. Dunleavy is a true music lover and patron of the arts.”

  Gethsemane didn’t need Tchaikovsky to warn her what came next. She’d heard it enough throughout her career.

  “Richard told me you were marshaling the troops, so to speak, gearing up the orchestra for the All-County.”

  Riordan placed hands on both their shoulders. “With Dr. Brown at the helm, I’ve no doubt about the outcome of this year’s competition. Her leadership virtually guarantees a trophy for St. Brennan’s.”

  Wait for it.

  Riordan stage-whispered to Gethsemane. “Mr. Dunleavy is considering a generous donation to St. Brennan’s music program.”

  Bam.

  Dunleavy stood taller and puf
fed out his chest. “A complete overhaul of the music room, sound-proofed practice rooms, new instruments, and an acoustically-engineered auditorium. St. Brennan’s deserves a music space that reflects the potential of its music program.”

  Riordan grasped his lapels and rocked back and forth on his heels, the kid who won the Golden Ticket to Willy Wonka’s factory. “Mr. Dunleavy showed me the plans for the new auditorium. They include a lovely trophy display case.”

  Translation: win the All-County, St. Brennan’s “good friend” donates enough money to the school to feed a non-industrialized nation for a month. Gethsemane flashed her best professional musician smile. “Thank you both for your confidence in me. I’ll do my best to give St. Brennan’s an orchestra it can be proud of.” Thus ensuring Mr. Dunleavy’s continued friendship and generosity.

  After handshakes all around, the men went their way. Gethsemane closed her eyes in silent prayer. Winning the All-County to convince Peter Nolan to offer her a job was big. Winning to convince Hieronymus Dunleavy to donate a fortune to the school was huge. Her reputation would never recover from the hit of losing a major donor. She’d be poison, lucky to land a gig conducting a prison orchestra in Outer Mongolia. And she’d be labeled as the one who cost St. Brennan’s its auditorium, disappointed the village, a stigma she’d carry in her heart long after she left Dunmullach behind. She’d disappoint them.

  The spell was broken.

  The day’s lunch menu—chicken supreme, creamed potatoes, beetroot, sweet corn—sounded even less appetizing than the previous day’s. Hunger quelled by thoughts of chicken chunks swimming in bland sauce, Gethsemane opted for a walk in the Shakespeare Garden. She half hoped to run into Inspector O’Reilly again—only to ask him to reconsider opening the McCarthy case, not because his eyes reminded her of gathering thunderclouds on a sultry day—then dismissed the thought. Of course he wouldn’t be there. Having been dumped, he’d have no reason to be on school grounds. Regardless, a stroll in the brisk autumn air surrounded by a Bard-inspired landscape would cheer her up.

  She retrieved her mac from the faculty cloak room and headed out. A display case in the hallway near the exit, filled with newspaper clippings, photos, letters, and small artifacts, caught her eye. A card identified the case as being dedicated to the notable achievements of St. Brennan’s alumni. One newspaper headline stood out: Three Generations of Morrises Choose Life of Missionary Service. The photo accompanying the article showed two couples, one elderly, one middle aged, and twin boys who looked to be in their early twenties. One twin posed with a video camera. All of the males shared a family resemblance.

  Gethsemane scanned the article. The senior Morris headed the Road to Emmaus Missionary Society, dedicated to building schools and spreading the Gospel in central and eastern African nations. His entire family—wife, son, daughter-in-law, and grandsons—had joined him in his work. The Society held a fundraiser—Gethsemane caught her breath—to send the Morris family to a permanent mission in Sudan where they planned to start a school and a church. The yellowed clipping was dated a few months before Eamon gave his departing missionary friends the gift of a house concert.

  The garden walk would have to wait.

  Gethsemane surveyed the school library. Deserted except for her. A sign on the desk admonished students to stay away until after lunch. She hesitated. Even if the Morrises were the friends Eamon performed for, the chances of contacting them to give a statement about the time Eamon left their home were slim after all these years. They could be anywhere in the world. And what if she did contact them? Would they remember the details of a night so long ago? And wasn’t searching for them getting deeper involved in Eamon’s problem, which she’d vowed not to do?

  She shook her head. Just checking wouldn’t hurt. It would only take a little while and she could hand anything she found over to O’Reilly. Let the police do the leg work. It’s not like she had to track them to Africa or wherever herself.

  Bypassing the newspaper stacks in favor of more modern technology, Gethsemane sat at a computer terminal. An internet search on “Morris,” “Road to Emmaus mission,” and “Africa” soon yielded the information she wanted.

  Or didn’t want. There’d be no statement from the Morrises. They’d all died in Sudan, victims of that country’s civil war.

  Skipping tea in the faculty lounge after school in favor of whiskey at the Mad Rabbit, Gethsemane found the crowd of regulars already gathered. They ignored her as she claimed an empty seat at the bar.

  “What’ll ya have, miss?” Murphy, the stocky barman, asked. He set a whiskey glass in front of Gethsemane. “We do have wine if you prefer.”

  An urge struck her. “How about bourbon? Waddell and Dobb Double-oaked Twelve year-old Reserve.”

  “Sorry, haven’t got it. Eamon McCarthy’s only one who ever drank it. The Off License used to special order it for him. Billy McCarthy still gets a case from time to time. ‘For verisimilitude,’ he says. Wants the cottage kept the way his uncle kept it. Between you and me and the lamppost, if it’s just for decoration, why’s he need replenishments? Who’s drinkin’ it? Eamon’s ghost?”

  Gethsemane stifled a laugh and chose again, her usual. “How about Bushmill’s Twenty-one? Neat.”

  “I admire a woman who appreciates a fine whiskey,” Murphy said as he poured. “And, might I add, Orla McCarthy’s dress looks good on ya.”

  Gethsemane recognized a few faces from St. Brennan’s in the crowd. Still no one noticed her. A woman drinking hard liquor alone in a pub in the late afternoon didn’t seem to be occasion for excitement in Dunmullach.

  A newspaper lay abandoned on the bar. Gethsemane slid it over then slid it back. The words had been gibberish, not the fault of the whiskey.

  Murphy handed her another. “That one’s Irish,” he explained. “Try this one, the Dunmullach Dispatch. It’s English.”

  Gethsemane flipped through the pages, skimming articles about the upcoming Michaelmas Festival and the rugby team’s chances for next year. An ad on page three jumped out at her:

  Village Psychic

  Sister Siobhan

  Helps in All Areas of Life

  Contacts the Departed, Answers All Questions

  Reunites Lovers, 10 Euro Special

  065 555 4070

  Gethsemane traced the ad with her finger. A sign? Twenty-four hours after telling Eamon to contact a psychic an ad for one practically falls in her lap. She asked Murphy for a pen.

  “Thinking of hiring her?” he asked.

  “Just writing the number down for future reference. In case the cottage turns out to be haunted or something.”

  “Wouldn’t be a proper Irish cottage if it didn’t. No need to waste ink, though.” Murphy gestured to the rear of the pub. “Sister Siobhan’s sitting over there.”

  Gethsemane swiveled. A pudgy female face sandwiched between a multicolored turban and matching scarf hunched in a corner booth. The tips of her chandelier earrings grazed the rims of empty pint glasses as her head bent over a smartphone. A red caftan hid everything below the scarf. “That’s Sister Siobhan?”

  Murphy nodded. “The one and only.” Under his breath he added, “Thank God.” He refilled Gethsemane’s Bushmills. “Take it. You’ll need it.”

  Thus armed, Gethsemane made her way across the pub. As she neared the corner booth she took in the rest of Siobhan: Aladdin slippers protruded beneath the caftan’s hem, ring-encrusted fingers grasped the smartphone, red rouge and lipstick tinted cheeks and lips. Gethsemane waited for Siobhan to look up. Fifteen seconds, twenty. Gethsemane cleared her throat.

  “What?” Siobhan kept texting.

  Gethsemane slid onto the bench opposite. “My name is—”

  “I know who you are. Whole village knows.”

  “Your ad says—”

  “I know what my own ad says, d
on’t I? If ya want me to find your stolen luggage, I don’t do that sort of thing.”

  Gethsemane took a deep breath and a gulp of Bushmills. “What about ghosts. Do you do that sort of thing?”

  Siobhan’s thumbs slowed, but she kept her eyes on her phone’s screen. “Mebbe.”

  “You know I’m staying at Carraigfaire.”

  “What of it?”

  “You know it’s rumored haunted.”

  Siobhan snorted. “This is Ireland, dearie. Every place is rumored haunted.” Her thumbs sped up.

  Gethsemane drained her glass and congratulated herself on not bouncing it off the turban. “What if something—What if I…had a dream, an incredibly realistic dream? And in this dream Eamon McCarthy tried to tell me something important?”

  “Like what? Where to find his secret fortune? Or more of his wife’s clothes?”

  Gethsemane made a mental note: Never shop resale in Dunmullach. “Like he and his wife were murdered and he wants to know who did it.”

  Siobhan put down her phone and grinned, revealing a silver tooth and a mercenary gleam. “Pathétique” fired off in Gethsemane’s brain. She should have listened to Eamon.

  Siobhan pushed aside the pint glasses. “How may Sister Siobhan assist you?” She reached for Gethsemane’s hand. Gethsemane evaded her by raising her whiskey glass to signal for a refill. Siobhan’s grin disappeared. Her gleam did not. “Sometimes a dream is just a dream, not a communication from the other side.”

  Gethsemane leaned forward. “But this was different. Eamon’s presence was almost physical. Like I could have reached out and touched him.” Or put a hand right through him.

  “Here’s your drink, miss.” A barmaid replaced Gethsemane’s empty glass. “And another for you.” She set a pint in front of Siobhan.

  “Well? Off with ya, then.” Siobhan waved her hand. The barmaid frowned and spun on her heel. “Nosy girl,” Siobhan said when the barmaid was not quite out of hearing.