“Scholarly interest. Orla was Eamon’s muse.”
“She was a genius in her own right.”
Gethsemane’s throbbing head couldn’t take anymore. She beat it back to the sidewalk where she’d left Father Keating’s bicycle.
Head still throbbing, she detoured to Fitzgerald’s Apothecary. No acetaminophen. Three strikes. Time to go home and curl into a ball on the sofa.
Halfway down the aisle, a voice called, “May I help you?”
Gethsemane explained her dilemma to the woman, some years older than her, who had appeared through a door marked “Private.”
“Acetaminophen’s called paracetamol over here.” The nametag pinned to the woman’s white coat proclaimed her Aoife Fitzgerald, Pharmacist. Her one blue eye and one green eye matched the colors in the turquoise pendant around her neck. She took a bottle from a shelf and handed it to Gethsemane.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure. It can be a bit confusing with brand names and generic names changing from country to country.”
Gethsemane agreed and followed Aoife to the counter to pay for the medicine. She looked around as Aoife rang up the sale. A large collection of framed photographs hung on a wall near the counter.
“The history of Fitzgerald’s Apothecary captured on film,” Aoife said.
Every photo featured the same scene—a group of people posed in front of the pharmacy’s display window. Changes in styles of dress and vehicles parked nearby marked the passage of years. Gethsemane guessed the earliest photographs dated to the early 1900s. The most recent could have been taken yesterday. Gethsemane recognized Aoife in several pictures, ranging in age from pre-teen to adult. Aoife often posed standing between two males, her arms linked through theirs. On her right, the older of the two men wore a white coat and shared Aoife’s one blue-one green eye color combination. Gray-haired and stoop-shouldered in later photos, he stood next to Aoife long into her adult years. The younger male, a teenager when first seen, disappeared from the photographs by the time Aoife reached her late teens.
“Your father and brother?” Gethsemane asked.
“My father, yes,” Aoife said. “The boy’s Oisin Ardmore. He started working here as a delivery boy when I was a girl. Dad taught him everything about the business, even helped send him to university. Planned to take him on as a partner, eventually. Probably would’ve left the business to him. The son he never had.” Aoife laughed. “Not that I minded. I had a terrible crush on Oisin. Fancied myself Mrs. Ardmore someday.”
“What happened?”
Aoife looked away. “Oisin died.” She handed Gethsemane her change and wished her a good day, obviously not wanting to speak more of it.
Gethsemane turned at the door. “One more question. Kind of random. What poisons taste bitter and slightly spicy?”
“Bitter and spicy?” The pharmacist thought for a moment. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say. Most poisons are bitter. It’s genetic, kept our ancestors from accidentally eating poisonous plants. Bittering agents are added to medicines for the same reason. Why on earth do you want to know that?”
“Oh, one of my students asked about it for a research paper. No big deal. Thanks for the aceta—I mean, paracetamol.”
Outside, Gethsemane cursed as she fought to open the medicine bottle, her headache worsening. Half a dozen attempts later, she pried off the cap and shook two tablets into her hand. She jumped at the sound of a voice behind her. Siobhan Moloney. The tablets slid from her hand and rolled into a nearby storm drain.
“They really should sell children with those child-proof caps since children seem to be the only ones who can open them.”
Gethsemane closed her eyes and counted three. She arranged her lips into a smile. “Being a psychic must be convenient. People can’t sneak up behind you.”
“Didn’t mean to startle ya,” Siobhan didn’t look apologetic. “I saw ya standin’ here and I thought I might speak with ya for a moment.”
“If this is about contacting spirits—”
“It’s about your investigation. You are investigating the McCarthy deaths?”
Gethsemane shrugged. “More like bringing some inconsistencies to police attention.”
“You’ve found many of these—inconsistencies?”
“A few.” Gethsemane shifted her weight. Why did Siobhan care? Looking for an angle for a new con?
“Why don’t you tell me what you found? I know this town as well as the Guards.”
Gethsemane rattled her medicine bottle. All the paracetamol in the world wouldn’t cure this headache. “Maybe some other time, thanks. I ought to be headed home now.” She moved toward her bicycle. “Excuse me.”
Siobhan grabbed Gethsemane’s arm with a force that surprised Gethsemane.
“I’m just trying to help. I’ve noticed a few—inconsistencies—myself. Big ones.”
“Why don’t you go to the police?” Gethsemane pulled her arm free.
Siobhan snorted. “Blue bottles. What good are they? They write a report, stick it in some cabinet, and forget about it. They don’t take you seriously.”
Gethsemane looked Siobhan over. Today’s caftan was fluorescent orange with purple trim. She doubted anyone took Siobhan seriously. She rubbed her arm where Siobhan had grabbed her. Not taking Siobhan seriously was probably a mistake.
Siobhan continued. “You’re bright. I’ll wager you’d appreciate the significance of what I know.”
“Tell me now,” Gethsemane said.
“Ah,” Siobhan said. “I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that. These inconsistencies are the sort the individuals concerned wouldn’t want brought to light.”
“Hmmm,” Gethsemane said.
“The nature of these inconsistencies is such that the individuals concerned might be willing to make an investment to ensure that no one ever pointed them out.”
“Hmmm,” Gethsemane repeated.
“On the other hand, someone else might be willing to make an investment to ensure these inconsistencies didn’t stay buried forever.”
“An investment in the furtherance of justice.”
Siobhan displayed the silver tooth. The hair on Gethsemane’s arms stood up.
“I knew you’d understand,” Siobhan said. “You are a bright one.”
“You’ve certainly given me something to think about.” Gethsemane stepped around Siobhan. “And that’s just what I’ll do,” she said as she mounted her bicycle. “Think about it.”
“I’ll be in touch, then.”
“You do that.” Gethsemane maneuvered the bicycle around Siobhan. “You know where to find me,” she said as she pedaled away.
Gethsemane arrived back at Carraigfaire Cottage to find a large man with sunken eyes, expressionless face, and thatch of straw-colored hair sitting on the porch next to a crate. An Irish Boo Radley. He stood as she approached, his movements surprisingly graceful.
“Hello,” she said. “You must be Kieran Ross.”
The man nodded.
Gethsemane pointed to the crate. “Is that Billy’s order from the Off License?”
Kieran nodded again. Gethsemane waited for him to say something. He remained silent.
“All righty then.” Gethsemane led the way inside.
Kieran followed her to the kitchen. He set the case of bourbon in a corner, pulled out a pocket knife, and pried off the lid. Gethsemane hummed the opening measures of “Requiem for a Fallen Angel” while he worked.
A voice behind her called, “’Lo, Kieran.”
Kieran smiled at a spot past Gethsemane.
Gethsemane turned. Eamon perched on the kitchen table. Kieran stared just above Eamon’s head.
“Good seein’ ya again,” Eamon said.
Kieran smiled wider.
&nbs
p; Gethsemane looked back and forth between the two men. “Kieran, what are you looking at?”
Kieran blushed and ducked his head.
“’S all right, Kieran,” Eamon said. “Dr. Brown can hear me too.”
Gethsemane raised an eyebrow.
“Kieran can hear me,” Eamon said. “Don’t think he can see me, though.” He shrugged. “Hard to tell since he doesn’t speak.”
Gethsemane walked over to Kieran and tapped him on the shoulder. “Did you hear a man’s voice?”
Kieran shrank away from her.
Gethsemane persisted. “Did you hear Eamon McCarthy say hello to you?”
Kieran kept his head down but glanced up at Gethsemane from beneath lowered lids.
“I heard him too. And I can see him.” She pointed at Eamon. “He’s sitting on the table with his legs crossed. He’s wearing a green cardigan, dark brown tweed blazer, and light brown tweed pants. He needs to comb his hair.”
“Don’t point,” Eamon said. “It’s rude.”
Kieran giggled. He blushed deeper and rushed from the kitchen. After a moment, the front door latch clicked.
Gethsemane crossed her arms. “You said I was the first person you’d talked to since you died.”
“That’s not exactly what I said. You’re the first person I’ve come across who could help me. Even if Kieran spoke, no one would listen to him.”
“Why can’t he talk?”
“Don’t know that he can’t. He doesn’t. Good listener. He used to sit with Orla for hours and listen to her read her poetry.” Eamon squatted and pointed at the crate. A bottle of Waddell and Dobb Double-oaked rose from its slot and levitated over to Gethsemane. “Have a glass?”
Gethsemane grabbed the bottle and set it on the table. “It’s a bit early.”
Eamon shrugged and stood up. “It’s after noon.”
“I’m not thirsty.” Gethsemane pulled a chair out from the table and plopped into it. “I’m frustrated.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “This morning was a bust.”
“I do appreciate what you’re doing but don’t stir yourself into a frenzy. Let O’Reilly handle the heavy digging. That’s what the garda pays him for.”
“But O’Reilly won’t go to work on your case unless I convince him he’s dealing with a double homicide.” Gethsemane sighed. “I think I’ll cycle back to town. Maybe Father Keating can put me on to something.”
“Maybe you should try the Rabbit. You’ll find as much truth in a bar as in church.”
“Eamon McCarthy, if you ever do cross over it will be straight to Hell.”
“I hear that’s where they’ve got the best tunes.”
Headache eradicated by a dose of paracetamol, Gethsemane returned to the village and stopped at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. She waved to Saoirse, who sat with a stack of books on a bench near the poison garden. She met Father Keating coming out of the garden shed. He couldn’t tell her who might have wanted Orla and Eamon dead. She asked about Saoirse.
“She’s reading Ovid. She’s translating the Latin.”
“At twelve?”
Father Keating nodded. “She translated Homer when she was only ten. Saoirse takes to literature and languages as readily as she does to science. Next year her parents hope to find her chemistry and calculus tutors.”
The phone rang in the rectory. Father Keating excused himself. Gethsemane walked over to Saoirse. “May I sit?”
Saoirse moved books to make room on the bench.
Gethsemane shuffled a few. “Ovid, huh? Nothing like a little Ovid in the original Latin to make the day go by.”
Saoirse stared.
“Well,” Gethsemane said, standing. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Don’t let Colm bully you.”
“What?” Gethsemane sat again.
“Colm. He’s a bully. He thinks just because he’s Head Boy he can do whatever he wants. Don’t let him. He’s only Head Boy because our parents donated a soccer field to St. Brennan’s.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Gethsemane spied something in the pile of books. She pushed aside a copy of Metamorphoses. “What’s this?” Her hand rested on a worn, brown, leather-bound volume she’d seen before—in the garden shed when she borrowed Father Keating’s bicycle. “Since when are occult books on the recommended school reading list?”
Saoirse dropped her head and slipped the spell book under her sweater. “You’ll tell Father.”
“I won’t if you promise to use your powers for the forces of good and not evil.”
Saoirse remained solemn. “I promise.”
“I’m kidding.” Gethsemane raised a hand to stroke Saoirse’s hair. She caught herself and dropped her hand to her lap. “It’s none of my business if you read occult books and learn about poisonous plants.”
“Murder’s your business. Murder and music.”
“What do you know about murder?”
Saoirse bent her head.
“Saoirse, answer me. What do you know about murder?”
“He won’t find her. She fixed it that way.”
“Who fixed what? Who won’t find whom? Give me a straight answer, Saoirse. Crypticism is not attractive in a twelve-year-old.”
“Love is an idiot drug.” Saoirse pulled out the spell book and read silently.
Gethsemane sighed and stood. “Are you at least reading Latin spells?”
“Yes, Miss,” Saoirse said. She looked past Gethsemane and waved. “Hello, Kieran.”
Gethsemane jumped. The big man had come up behind her without a sound. He reached past her to hand Saoirse a book. Gethsemane read the title. “That’s one of Orla’s.”
“From the lighthouse. This one’s got the poem about the boy who gives the girl a leaf as a promise to wait for her until she’s old enough.”
“The lighthouse?” Gethsemane looked back and forth between Kieran and Saoirse. “You take things from the lighthouse?”
“Just books. Kieran said Mr. McCarthy said it was okay. And we put them back. Not like her.”
“Not like who, Saoirse? Who takes things from the lighthouse and doesn’t put them back?”
“Miss Sullivan’s acting up again.”
Gethsemane followed Saoirse’s gaze to a commotion in the cemetery. Pegeen held Nuala by the arm and tried to snatch a bouquet from her. Nuala, several inches taller than her sister, held the flowers out of reach.
“Those are not appropriate for Ma’s grave.” Pegeen shouted. “They’re toxic. What if an animal or a child got hold of them?”
“They’re your favorites, anyway,” Nuala said.
Pegeen glanced toward the poison garden. She let go of her sister. Nuala laid the flowers by a headstone. Pegeen snatched them up. “You always do this to me, Nu. If it wasn’t for Da…” She buried her face in her hand. Nuala smiled at Gethsemane then ran toward the front of the church.
Gethsemane turned away from Pegeen. Kieran had disappeared and Saoirse sat absorbed in a book. Gethsemane decided to take Eamon’s advice. Maybe she would find more answers at the pub.
Or not. Two Bushmills and forty-five minutes of eavesdropping on gossip yielded no leads. Gethsemane flung the door open as she left the pub. A thud, accompanied by a loud “Ow!” from the other side, stopped it halfway through its arc.
Gethsemane stepped out into the early evening light to find the thin, pale woman from the post office bench rubbing her elbow. Deidre Lynch. Orla’s number one fan and possibly her killer. Books lay scattered at her feet.
“I am so, so sorry.” Gethsemane scrambled to pick up the volumes. Moon Shadow, Silver Dust. Nightsong of the Garden. Fire in the Moon. All by Orla McCarthy. She handed them back to the woman. “I see you’re an Orla McCarthy devotee.”
The woman beamed as she cradled the books. “Her most devoted. I own everything she’s ever written. I can recite all of her poems by heart. Try me. Go ahead. Any poem.” Deirdre made her selection before Gethsemane could answer. “‘Fire in the Moon.’ That’s an easy one.” She closed her eyes and recited a sonnet. “How about something harder? ‘The Wife of Silence.’ Deirdre closed her eyes again and recited a lengthy ode in free verse.
“An impressive performance. We haven’t been introduced. I’m—”
Deirdre shifted her books and shook Gethsemane’s hand. “I know who you are. You’re Dr. Gethsemane Brown from America and you’ve come to help St. Brennan’s win the All-County and you’re living in Orla’s cottage. I’m Deirdre Lynch. What’s it like? Living in Orla’s house?”
“It’s—” Gethsemane hunted for a word “—haunting.”
“You must sense her presence everywhere. She must permeate the cottage.”
“She’s never far from my mind,” Gethsemane said.
“You love her, too?” Deirdre grabbed Gethsemane’s hand. “Oh, we will be friends. Come over for tea. We can talk about Orla.”
Gethsemane winced. What did Dunmullach mothers feed their babies to grow such deceptively delicate women? She had no desire to spend the evening chatting about poetry with a murder suspect. She did, however, want to ask Deidre where she and Nuala were at the times of Eamon and Orla’s deaths. She agreed to accompany Deirdre home.
Gethsemane stepped through the door of Deirdre and Jimmy Lynch’s house into an Orla McCarthy shrine. Posters advertising Orla’s appearances at bookstores and lecture halls hung on every wall. Framed publicity stills crowded the fireplace mantle. Gethsemane sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
Deirdre frowned. “Don’t you know? Anyone who loved Orla would recognize—”
Murder in G Major (A Gethsemane Brown Mystery Book 1) Page 17
