Killing in C Sharp

by Alexia Gordon

  “Resurrect.”

  She ignored him. “—his career. A fresh start. Everyone deserves a second chance.”

  Two

  Gethsemane twirled a pen back and forth between her fingers and tried not to watch the clock in Headmaster Riordan’s office. She needed to get back to Carraigfaire before the ghost hunting crew arrived. The gray-haired, youthful-faced man seated near her in front of the headmaster’s desk, Aed Devlin, perused his planner. Headmaster Riordan stood near the display case, home to the trophy Gethsemane and the honors orchestra won in the recent All-County competition, on the opposite side of the room. Riordan and Devlin, both St. Brennan’s “Oul Boys,” had attended school together. Gethsemane knew this loyalty had prompted Riordan to pull strings and call in favors to let Devlin premiere his new opera at the Athaneum, the village opera house. It had also prompted his suggestion that she include Devlin in her lesson plans. Not that he’d twisted her arm. Having a talented opera composer, even a disgraced one, available provided a rare opportunity for the boys.

  A minute ticked by. Riordan coughed. Devlin looked up from his planner. “Sorry, Rick, Dr. Brown. I’m going ninety getting this opera ready. My schedule’s pure murder. How about Thursday, first period after lunch? Does that work for you, Dr. Brown?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Perfect. A master class will keep the boys engaged, help them refocus after indulging in their tasty, nutritious midday meal.”

  Devlin addressed Riordan. “School lunch must have improved a helluva lot since we were here. I remember noon meal smelling like a bog and tasting half as good as peat.”

  “Dr. Brown’s being facetious, Aed. Sorry to say lunch hasn’t improved over the years. But the quality of the musicians has.” Riordan pressed a hand against the display case’s glass.

  “Yes, congratulations, Dr. Brown. Your win is legendary.” He nodded at the center shelf, crowded with Gethsemane’s golden piano-shaped trophy. “About time St. Brennan’s rare pearl had some company in there.” His gaze dropped to the lower shelf, home to the only other trophy St. Brennan’s ever won in the All County, seventy-five years prior.

  “How many boys will you have time for in the master class, Mr. Devlin?” she asked.

  “Five, if they limit their pieces to short ones.” He consulted his planner again. “I could give two more master classes the following week as well as a lecture Friday and one the Monday after, if that’s all right. I know I’m disrupting your schedule. And call me Aed.”

  “No disruption at all, Aed.” She meant it. Artists of Aed’s caliber seldom held master classes at the secondary-school level. He was a brilliant instrumentalist and a compositional genius. Almost as good as Eamon. And not everyone thought the review that did him in was deserved. Many, herself included, thought it was a hatchet job.

  “That’s settled, then.” Riordan crossed the room and sat at his desk. “I’ll have my assistant formally add you to the calendar, Aed, and give you a copy of the schedule so you don’t forget. I know how single-minded you can be when you’re working on a new piece.”

  Sounded like a ghost she knew. When they were alive, Eamon so engrossed himself in each new work that his wife, Orla, had to remind him to eat.

  “You know me too well, Rick.” Aed clapped his hands and relaxed back into his chair.

  Gethsemane glanced at the clock. She hesitated. Yes, the ghost hunters were on the way, but…“May we have a preview, Aed?” She couldn’t resist this chance. “No one’s in the music room now. We could head over there and—”

  Aed interrupted the suggestion with a wave. “No need for a music room.” He closed his eyes and whistled. A soft adagio, notes so low that Gethsemane strained to hear them, intensified into an eerie allegro, reminiscent of a danse macabre. Gooseflesh pimpled her arms. She shivered and tried to convince herself the faint strains of Tchaikovsky’s “Pathétique” that played somewhere deep in her head weren’t warning her of impending disaster as they competed with Aed’s ominous melody.

  Aed shifted back to the bone-chilling adagio, then stopped. “The overture.”

  “Good Lord, Aed.” Riordan, pale, pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his forehead. “If the overture’s that unnerving, the rest of the opera must be positively demonic.” His voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat and readjusted his jacket.

  ‘Thank you, Rick,” Aed said. “I aim to discomfit, if not outright terrify. After all, I am writing about a savage murder. Now,” he clapped his hands, “how about we discuss something almost as important as music?” He paused. Gethsemane and Riordan remained silent. “Food. I haven’t eaten in donkey’s years, and the swill I ate on the plane makes the St. Brennan’s menu seem gourmet.”

  “You’ll dine with us, of course, Aed,” Riordan said. “Maeve’s dying to see you.” The headmaster turned to Gethsemane. “You’ll join my wife, Aed, and me for dinner?”

  “Thank you for the invitation, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t.” She glanced at the clock again.

  “A previous engagement?” Riordan asked.

  “Not exactly.” Leftover shepherd’s pie from the pub did not count as a dinner engagement. “Some, er, inspectors are coming to look at the cottage.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope,” Riordan said. “Leaky roof, dodgy pipes.”

  “Nothing disastrous.” She rose. “But you know old houses. The inspectors might find all sorts of things if they look hard enough.”

  Aed rose as well.

  Gethsemane waved him back into his seat. “One thing before I go. I wonder if I might convince you to squeeze one or two extra lectures into your already-bursting schedule. I’d love to show some of the less musically inclined boys that opera is so much more than fat women singing in a language they can’t understand.”

  Aed laughed. “Plenty of grown folks think as much of opera. Or should I say, think so little of opera?”

  Gethsemane, caught up in her idea, sat again. “That’s wrong. So wrong.” She slapped the back of one hand into the palm of the other. “Opera is passion, intrigue, love, death, betrayal, despair. It’s, it’s,” she searched for the word, “fundamental.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, professor,” Aed said.

  Riordan cleared his throat. “You make it sound rather intense for impressionable schoolboys.”

  “Bollocks, Rick,” Aed said. “Hardly worse than the penny dreadfuls, potboilers, and pulp fiction lads have been reading under the covers late at night since St. Brennan’s opened its doors.”

  “And not half as bad as what they stream from the internet these days,” Gethsemane added.

  “You’ve sold me, professor,” Aed said. “You pick the class and I’ll make the time.”

  “How about Introduction to Music History? That’s Friday, right before Advanced Music Theory, which you’re already scheduled for.”

  “Perfect.” Aed clapped his hands. “I’ll regale the young skeptics with the tale of murder and revenge I used as the basis of my new work. Dark Hungarian legends are always a hit with the tween set.”

  “Aed…” Riordan cautioned.

  “Don’t be an old woman, Rick. I’ll keep it suitable for daytime viewing. You won’t be deluged with angry letters from parents complaining of bills for therapy to treat the wee ones’ nightmares.”

  “Perfect.” Gethsemane stood again and shook Aed’s hand. “I really do have to run. Maybe we can meet later at the pub and discuss specifics about lesson plans?”

  “Or we could drink ’til we’re fluthered and piss the night away singing randy pub songs.” Aed winked at Headmaster Riordan’s blushing discomfort. “Ladies’ choice.”

  Riordan, red to his hairline, fiddled with papers on his desk. Gethsemane managed to hold back her laughter until she reached the hall. She leaned against a wall, doubled over with mirth, and ignored perplexed stares from the custod
ian at the opposite end of the corridor.

  The custodian looked away from her and sniffed. “D’ya smell that?”

  Ending the laughter required some effort. “Smell what?” She wiped the back of her hands across her eyes.

  The custodian inhaled deeply. “Grease. Pepper.” He frowned. “They fixing slop in the dining hall today?”

  A loud creak from the ceiling and a blast of Tchaikovsky in her head preempted her reply. “Look out!” she shouted.

  The custodian jumped back seconds before an overhead light fixture crashed to the floor where he’d been standing.

  Aed and the headmaster came into the hall.

  “What the bloody hell happened?” Aed asked, stepping around broken glass, tangled wire, and shattered light bulbs.

  Riordan studied the section of ceiling where the fixture had hung. He spoke to the custodian. “Call the safety manager and the electrician right away. And clean up this mess.”

  “Are you all right?” Gethsemane asked the custodian.

  “Aye.” He rubbed his cheek where a piece of flying glass had caught him. “I’m fine. Thanks for the warning.” He said to Riordan, “I’ll get right on it, Headmaster.” He pulled a phone from his pocket and walked towards the exit.

  “What happened?” Riordan asked Gethsemane.

  She shook her head. “The light fell without warning.” Except the Tchaikovsky, which only she’d heard. “Bam.” She slapped her hands together to mimic the light’s descent. “All of a sudden.”

  “Lucky no one got hurt,” Aed said.

  “Yes.” Riordan shifted his gaze between ceiling and wreckage. “This could have been a disaster if students had been here.”

  The custodian returned with yellow plastic “caution” signs and set them up on both ends of the destroyed light. “Safety’s on the way. Couldn’t reach the electrician. I’ll try him again later.”

  Riordan straightened his tie. “I leave this in your hands, then. Notify my secretary as soon as the hall’s clear.” He gestured toward his office and nodded at Gethsemane. “Please excuse Aed and me, Dr. Brown. And hadn’t you better hurry? You’ll be late for those inspectors.”

  Gethsemane swore and looked at her watch. She’d have to rush to make it. She wished she had a car instead of the Pashley Parabike on indefinite loan from the parish priest. Or that she had Eamon’s ability to vanish from one spot and reappear instantly in another. She said goodbye to the custodian, eased past the wreckage, and hurried for the door.

  Kent Danger filled Carraigfaire’s doorway as he smiled down at Gethsemane. He towered over her five-foot-three frame by a foot. His quarterback build, wavy blond hair, and blue eyes numbered him among the beautiful people. He flashed perfect white teeth and extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Kent.” His voice sounded higher pitched in person than on TV, closer to tenor than baritone. “May I call you Gethsemane?”

  “Sure, Kent.”

  Gethsemane ushered him inside and counted as his entourage filed in behind him. She’d reached twenty-two by the time she closed the door after the last one. Who were all these people? “I recognize a few of you.” She nodded at the faces familiar from the television program.

  Kent laughed. “We’re window dressing. Everyone else you see actually makes the show happen.” He introduced the collection of tech people, stylists, researchers, and other behind-the-scenes types who formed the show’s crew.

  “How does this work?” Gethsemane asked. “I’ve never been the subject of a ghost hunt before.”

  “First, relax. You don’t need to do anything other than answer some questions. I hope you’ll answer them. Our investigations aren’t meant to stress you or trick you. We try to minimize the disruption to your life.”

  “I’ve watched your show once or twice.” No need to let them know she watched regularly. “Some pretty stressful and frightening things happened.” Ghost Hunting Adventures reigned notorious for both its physicality and the amount of profanity that had to be bleeped out. Eamon swore like a choirboy in comparison.

  “A lot happens in the editing room after the investigation wraps. The actual onsite part involves hours of sitting and waiting. Nothing anyone wants to see in today’s one-hundred-forty-character world. It ranks somewhere below reconciling your bank statements on the excitement scale. So we cut out all the mundane stuff, add in some creepy graphics and spooky music, and voila, a nonstop, amped up, in-your-face ghost hunt.”

  “You guys get pretty amped up when you find evidence of a paranormal entity.” She shoved her hands in her pockets to conceal the air quotes she put around the word “evidence.” A light flashing, or an alarm sounding on a meter, an indecipherable noise captured on a digital audio recorder, an orb, or a shadow captured on camera counted as proof of the paranormal and triggered apoplectic excitement and shouts of vindication against innumerable skeptics. Who knew what the ghost hunters would do if they actually encountered Eamon in all his full-bodied, blue-auraed glory. Speaking of which—she sniffed. No hint of leather and soap, Eamon’s telltale scent. Good. He’d taken her advice to lay low. At least she hoped he had. “Amped as in out of control.”

  Kent flashed the perfect teeth again. “I confess to kind of losing it when we capture evidence we can’t debunk. After all, that’s why we do this—travel the world, spend time away from family, put ourselves in dangerous situations—to capture irrefutable evidence of life after death. So,” he encompassed the room with a sweep of his arm, “why don’t we get started? The sooner we set up, the sooner we can get some of these people out of your way.”

  For the next hour, Gethsemane hung back as Kent’s team tramped through the cottage with meters and recorders and cameras. They measured temperatures and electromagnetic fields, photographed empty corners, and recorded silent rooms. Gethsemane sniffed the air from time to time. No trace of Eamon. She said a mental thank you. She also listened. Whenever danger threatened, Tchaikovsky’s “Pathétique” played in her head. She seldom heeded the warning, but it always sounded. Now, only silence.

  She relaxed on the couch in the study with a glass of Waddell and Dobb bourbon—twelve-year-old, double-oaked single barrel reserve, Eamon’s favorite libation—and a book on Hungarian folklore. Since Aed based his new opera on a Hungarian legend, familiarity with the subject would help bring context to lesson plans she developed as tie-ins with the composition.

  “Magyar Moon,” a male voice said behind her.

  She swore and dropped the book.

  The speaker, a young man in a t-shirt and jeans, with long dark hair in need of washing, picked it up and handed it to her. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Hardy Lewis.” The faintest trace of brogue tinged his New York accent.

  “You’re one of the tech guys,” she said.

  “I’m also a researcher. I wanted to talk to you, ask you a few questions. Kent will do the on-air interview, of course, but I hoped to gather some background on the hauntings.” Her expression must have suggested she wanted to provide background almost as much as she wanted to chew broken glass, because he followed up with, “I don’t mean to pry. Actually, let’s be honest. I do want to pry. But I’ll limit my intrusive, unwelcome questions to your experiences living in a haunted house. Nothing about childhood traumas or secret loves.”

  She’d promised Billy she would cooperate. Her continued shelter depended on her cooperation. She set her book and glass on the coffee table and rearranged herself on the couch. “I’m not sure what I’ll be able to tell you, but go ahead and intrude.” She waved him to a seat.

  “Let’s start with the obvious. Do you believe in ghosts?”

  She hesitated. Did “cooperate” mean “don’t lie”? Would things be worse if she lied and Hardy believed her? Ghost Hunting Adventures delighted in turning skeptics into former skeptics. No point making herself a target. Better to confess. “Yes, I believe in ghosts.” The barest whif
f of leather and soap and a note of laughter rewarded her honesty.

  Hardy’s head jerked around. He glanced into the corners of the room.

  Gethsemane forced her face to remain neutral. “Something wrong?” Please, please, please let the question sound innocent.

  Hardy stared at her for a moment, then smiled. He reached for her book. “Magyar. That’s Hungarian, isn’t it? I thought an Irish ghost haunted this cottage.”

  “That’s homework. Aed Devlin—you’ve probably never heard of him. He’s a composer, opera primarily. He’s based his newest work on a Hungarian—what’s the matter, Hardy?”

  Hardy, frozen and pale, stared straight ahead but looked like he was focusing on something beyond the room. He gripped the mythology book, his knuckles white with the effort. He shook slightly and gave no indication he’d heard her question. Or even realized she sat a couple of feet away from him.

  Gethsemane risked a look around. Nothing in the room explained his reaction. No Eamon hanging out by the window or leaning against the bookcases. The smell of peat drifted in on the wind from the cliffs, untainted by the scents of leather or soap. The only laughter came from the crew in the hall. Had she said something? “Hardy?” she repeated.

  He blinked and snapped back from wherever he’d been. “Sorry. Did you ask me a question?”

  “Have you heard of Aed Devlin?” Stringy hair and a t-shirt didn’t preclude knowledge of classical music. Had Devlin’s name spooked him?

  “I have heard of him, actually. My mother’s a huge opera fan. Devlin’s her particular favorite. She’s obsessed with him, almost a groupie. You should have seen her reaction to the review that blew up his career. Lucky for the reviewer she couldn’t get to him. She’d have ripped his heart out.” Hardy dropped his gaze and picked at a fingernail. “I, um, don’t suppose you could introduce me to Devlin. Mom would be over the moon if I got his autograph.”

  “Sure.” Aed would probably love to meet the son of a devoted fan. Who wouldn’t enjoy meeting someone who kept faith in you, despite prevailing opinion? “I’m meeting him at the Rabbit—that’s the pub—later tonight to talk about some lectures he’s giving to my classes. You’re welcome to join us.”