Killing in C Sharp

by Alexia Gordon

  “And ruined the village.” Murphy pursed his lips as if to spit. He looked around, apparently not finding a suitable place to expectorate, and swore. “I’m glad you stood up to him. I’ve known Billy his whole life, and I’d be first to have his back in a row, but I swear I’d’ve sorted him out if he’d gone through with the sale.” He glanced at the ghost hunters. “I still might teach him a lesson for inviting that bunch of nutters to put on a holy show.”

  “Hey.” Poe muscled her way to stand next to Gethsemane. “Look in the back corner. Is that really her?”

  “Really who?” Gethsemane stood on tiptoe to see over the crowd. An attractive Asian woman sat at a table tucked into the far corner of the pub. Statuesque even while seated, she smiled down at the admirers crowded around her table, like a queen holding court. Her red lips matched those in the headshot on the back cover of the hated book, the hatchet job that twisted the details of the McCarthy murders and painted Eamon as a wife-killing monster. Venus James. The queen of true crime—or the queen of libel, depending on which side of her pen you fell on—and ghost hunters, all in the same night. “Shite,” she muttered. There wasn’t enough Bushmills in the world.

  “Ms. James!” Poe shouted. Heads turned. Gethsemane would have kicked her if not for the press of people surrounding them. “Ms. James,” Poe repeated as she pushed past the stares of patrons and curses of jostled barmaids on her way to Venus’s table. Gethsemane followed her, ignoring the angry faces that blamed her for this disruptive whirlwind. “Excuse mes” and apologies from the other ghost hunters trailed behind them.

  Gethsemane arrived next to Poe in time to see her grab Venus’s hand between both of hers. Poe gushed, “I am so, like, your biggest fan. I’ve read all of your books, I’ve followed you since you were a street reporter at KXBH, I read all of the exposés you wrote for the Tattler.” She paused for breath. “Well, I read the online archived versions, but I read them.”

  Venus spoke in the accent-less tone of an American news anchor. “May I know my biggest fan’s name?”

  “I’m Poe.” She gestured past Gethsemane to her colleagues. “I’m with Ghost Hunting Adventures. We’re staking out an old cottage to capture evidence proving Eamon McCarthy’s ghost haunts the place.”

  The pub erupted in laughter. Gethsemane prayed for a hole to open in the floor and swallow her. No, so she could push Poe into it. The blue-haired girl exhibited the subtlety of a rutting buck.

  Venus flashed Gethsemane a honeysuckle-sweet smile. “Seems as if everyone’s investigating you, Dr. Brown.”

  A familiar male voice chimed in before she could respond. “Evening, Sissy.” Frankie Grennan, St. Brennan’s math teacher and Gethsemane’s sometime co-conspirator in her unorthodox crime-solving escapades, grinned up at her. She’d been so focused on Venus, she hadn’t noticed Frankie seated at the table across from her. He’d replaced his usual too-big tweed jacket with a slim-fit herringbone blazer. Crisp pleats replaced his khakis’ customary wrinkles. A sandalwood aroma wafted from his still damp, swept-back copper waves. He’d been growing a beard since he’d helped her clear her brother-in-law of theft charges, but he’d clipped and shaved the once-scruffy fringe. Now a neat, close-trimmed beard, a shade darker than the hair on his head, framed his face. Its hairs skirted the dimple in his left cheek by an inch. His new wire-rimmed glasses added stereotyped academic flair. Was he putting on a show for Venus, or had the writer, a bona fide fashionista, worked some kind of fashion hoodoo on him?

  “Don’t call me Sissy.” He’d heard her brother-in-law call her by the hated nickname, and he insisted on needling her with it. Could this evening grow worse?

  “Sissy’s a fine nickname,” another familiar male voice said. Gethsemane cringed. Yes, it could grow worse. Garda an Síochana Inspector Iollan Niall O’Reilly, Dunmullach’s only cold case investigator, sat next to Frankie. The handsome inspector vacillated between friendly antagonist and ally. He intermixed warnings about her interference in police business—and about what would happen to her if she persisted in interfering—with valued assistance and, occasionally, appreciation for her efforts. He’d grown his salt-and-pepper hair out some since she last saw him. A gray-flecked dark curl played on his forehead. His trademark stingy-brimmed fedora, an inheritance from his father, rested on the table. He’d also inherited his father’s penchant for designer shoes. This pair of Italian leather double monkstraps looked new. A tailored gray pinstripe that matched the smoky hue of his eyes replaced his usual nondescript cop suit. Venus had enchanted him, too.

  “Nice shoes,” she said. “You must’ve won your weekly poker game. And Sissy’s a perfectly dreadful nickname.” She heard laughter in her ear and caught an unmistakable whiff of leather and soap. Eamon picked now to show up? What happened to lying low? She should have known he’d never be able to resist putting in an appearance, even if only a private showing for her. This evening had officially grown worse than a punishment from the eighth circle of hell. “Someone please get me a drink.”

  Hardy signaled a barmaid. The barmaid ignored him. “I’ll get it,” he said and started toward the bar.

  “Bushmills Twenty-one, neat,” Gethsemane called after him as he disappeared into the crowd.

  Venus offered Kent her hand. “I bet you’re the head ghost hunting adventurer. Tell me your name.”

  Ciara stepped in front of Kent and intercepted the handshake. “He’s Kent Danger, head hunter. I’m Ciara Tierney, lead photographer. You’ve met Poe. Hardy, research and tech, went for drinks.”

  Venus smiled at Ciara as if they were lifelong friends. “Please, join us.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be any room,” Gethsemane said. The table sat four comfortably. Eight chairs crowded around it, filled by half a dozen others in addition to Venus, Frankie, and Niall. In one chair, a young woman Gethsemane recognized from the bookstore sat on the lap of a man Gethsemane didn’t recognize as her boyfriend.

  Frankie nodded at the chair-sharing couple. “You can sit on the inspector’s lap, Sissy.” He winked. People laughed.

  She never knew what mood she’d find Frankie in. Sometimes irascible, sometimes gloomy, sometimes impish. Tonight, she got flirty. Whether he flirted with her or Venus, she wasn’t sure. “Francis William Rowan Grennan, Abaddon holds a special corner reserved for you, your full name carved in stone over the door.”

  “Shh.” Frankie held a finger to his lips and jerked his head toward Father Tim. “The padre’s sitting over there. He might hear you and get ideas.”

  Niall cuffed him on the shoulder. “Be a gent for once in your life, Frankie. Stand up and let the ladies sit.” He offered Gethsemane his chair.

  Frankie offered his to Ciara. “Two chairs, three ladies. We’re one gent short.”

  Poe stood close to one of the other men. “I don’t mind sitting on a lap.”

  The man blushed and gave Poe his chair. Kent and Ciara smothered laughs.

  Hardy returned with a drink-laden tray. Niall rescued his hat as Hardy juggled the tray onto the center of the table.

  “You get a job here, bro?” Kent asked.

  “Nah, just trying to expedite.” Hardy nodded at an exhausted-looking barmaid. “She didn’t seem to mind.” The barmaid smiled back wanly. “I got your usuals,” he said as he handed drinks to Kent, Ciara, and Poe. “And your Bushmills.” Gethsemane accepted the glass of amber liquid. Hardy stepped back from the table, empty-handed, and left the others to sort their own drinks out. “I told the barman same again for everyone else.”

  “Same again?” Poe asked. “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s a colloquialism,” Ciara explained. “It means you’ll have another of whatever was in your glass.”

  Poe raised her pint to her lips and spoke over the rim of the glass. “Since when do you speak Irish colloquialism, Hardy?”

  Hardy stammered, “It’s, uh, something I picked up so
mewhere. Just a phrase I heard.” He found a patch of wall in a corner and pressed himself against it.

  “Not drinking, fella?” the man with the bookstore clerk asked.

  “I’m designated driver.” Hardy shrugged.

  Poe wrinkled her nose and stared into her empty pint glass. “He’s applying for a position as altar boy next week.”

  “Shut up, Poe,” Kent said.

  An embarrassed silence followed Kent’s admonition. Venus jumped into the lull. “Dr. Brown, tell me: you solve murders, you teach music, now you’ve added ‘hunts ghosts’ to your resume. How do you manage it all?”

  Niall, who’d either developed psychic abilities or had gotten to know her well over the past several months, shot a warning look in Gethsemane’s direction.

  Her smile wasn’t as sweet as Venus’. The woman didn’t know how lucky she was she sat within an arm’s reach of a law-enforcement officer. “Mad multitasking skills.”

  “Are you working on a new book, Ms. James?” Ciara asked.

  Gethsemane could have hugged her for changing the direction of the conversation. “Ms. James is revising a previous edition of her last book. It contained several factual errors.”

  “What was the book about?” Ciara inclined her head toward Venus. “Sorry, Ms. James, no offense, but I don’t read true crime. Seems innocents are always being hurt and the criminals always getting away with it. Makes for drama, I suppose, but it upsets me.”

  “She wrote a book,” Gethsemane said, “about the murders of Eamon and Orla McCarthy. Like so many others, she wrongly concluded Eamon murdered his wife then killed himself. Now that Eamon’s been cleared of both false accusations—”

  “Thanks to your clever detective work.” Venus leaned toward Niall. “How did the gardaí feel about an amateur detective taking an active role in a murder investigation?”

  Niall, caught mid-sip, coughed. Frankie patted him on the back. “You all right, Niall? Be careful. The truth can be hard to swallow.”

  Niall elbowed him away. “Dr. Brown provided the guards with valuable assistance.” He mumbled something else. Gethsemane caught the word “stubborn.”

  Gethsemane continued, unfazed by Niall and Frankie’s banter. A boon of growing up with younger brothers. “Ms. James needs to correct a few details before releasing the second edition of her book.”

  “The first edition sold out in record time,” Venus said. “The public clamors for an updated account of events.”

  “Are you going to write about the reported hauntings in the updated version?” Poe asked.

  Venus dismissed the suggestion with a wave. “I’m strictly true crime. I’ll leave the paranormal to your team.”

  “Maybe we could work together—”

  Venus cut Poe off. “I work alone.”

  Poe pouted. “I just thought—”

  “Safety reasons.” Venus flashed a disarming smile. “I’d hate to be responsible for someone being injured while assisting me. I’m sure you know, being a fan, I often run into unsavory characters.”

  “You needn’t fear running into that sort in Dunmullach, Ms. James,” Niall said. “This is a safe village. Not many murderous fiends lurking about.” Frankie choked on his Guinness. Niall patted him on the back hard enough to knock him forward a step. “Not anymore, anyway, thanks to Sissy.”

  That nickname again. Did cussing out a garda violate any local ordinances? Activity near the door spared her the risk of finding out. Aed Devlin stepped into the pub and scanned the room. Gethsemane waved him over. “Everyone, meet Aed Devlin. Aed, meet everyone.”

  A few moments of introductions and chair rearranging ensued. Aed ended up next to Venus, across from Gethsemane.

  Hardy stood behind him and reached down over his shoulder to shake his hand. “Happy to finally meet you, sir.”

  Aed looked up at him, puzzled. “Finally?”

  “Ma’s a big fan. I grew up listening to your works. Meeting you’s—well, Ma will be thrilled when she hears I met her idol.”

  Venus laid French-manicured fingers on Aed’s arm. “You won’t remember me, Mr. Devlin. We met a few years ago.”

  “Of course I remember you, Ms. James. You attended the premiere of one of my operas, ‘Plinth,’ wasn’t it? The music reviewer from the Times escorted you.”

  “You have a remarkable memory, Mr. Devlin.” Venus squeezed his arm. “Call me Venus.”

  “I could never forget such a remarkable face. And it’s Aed. How’s your friend, the music reviewer, these days?”

  “I’ve no idea. I haven’t seen him in ages. Last I heard he married a cellist half his age and moved to Monte Carlo.” Venus leaned closer to the composer and lowered her voice. “And may I say how sorry I am about the—incident—with Classical Music Today magazine. Not that I’d ever shy away from controversy in pursuit of the truth—”

  Gethsemane choked on her Bushmills. She sputtered and tried to say what she thought of Venus’s concept of ‘pursuit of truth,’ when an electric buzz zipped from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. Leather and soap tickled her nose. She shivered.

  “Are you all right, Dr. Brown?” Venus asked.

  “Fine,” Gethsemane said. “I, um, stubbed my toe.”

  “Sittin’ still?” Frankie asked.

  Gethsemane frowned at him. Punching a math teacher would definitely violate local ordinances.

  Venus continued. “Nor would I ever suppress a critical story to spare someone’s feelings. But what Bernard Stoltz did to you crossed the line. Straight up character assassination. I’m amazed you didn’t sue for libel.”

  Frankie nudged Gethsemane. “What’s that about?”

  She whispered, “Bernard Stoltz wrote an article accusing Aed of plagiarism. He claimed Aed stole significant portions of music he composed for a film score from one of his music students. The student committed suicide a few weeks before Aed landed the movie deal. Bernard got his hands on some unfinished pieces from the student’s apartment. They looked a lot like what Aed had done for the movie.”

  “Could have been coincidence. Not uncommon for students and teachers to create similar works.”

  “Not coincidence. But not Aed’s fault. Truth was, the student had used Aed’s work, not the other way ’round. She tried to pass it off as her senior thesis. She killed herself after her ex-boyfriend threatened to turn her in to school officials and have her expelled unless she took him back. He also stalked and harassed her. The police eventually arrested him. The real story came out in the local papers after the arrest, but the damage to Aed’s career was already done. Scandal and notoriety stuck to Aed. The movie’s backers spooked and pulled out of the deal, and the whole project ended up on the shelf. Aed was fired and blackballed. No one wanted anything to do with him.”

  “Didn’t this Stoltz fella print a retraction, an apology?”

  “Nope.” Gethsemane shook her head. “Opposite. He wrote a follow-up piece implying that Aed and the student had a romantic involvement and that Aed was the reason she’d broken up with the stalker boyfriend. He suggested the student might still be alive if Aed hadn’t been a cradle-robber. Only suggested, though. Nothing concrete enough to hang a lawsuit on.”

  Niall leaned in. “What’d Stolz get out of it? Sounds more like a personal vendetta against Aed than,” he glanced at Venus, “purely commercial sensationalism.”

  “No proof,” Gethsemane said “but the rumor at the time went Bernard was running a cash-for-good-reviews scam. He wrote for Classical Music Today, an influential publication. In exchange for hefty payments, he’d write good reviews and squash any negative publicity. He allegedly tried to shake Aed down, but Aed refused to pay. Bernard made an example of him to keep other musicians in line.”

  “Was there nothing Aed could do?”

  “Without proof?” She winked at the inspector. “Who�
��s always reminding me of the necessity of proof?”

  Niall blushed.

  “But you said the true story came out in the local papers,” Frankie said. “Aed could’ve used that as evidence.”

  “True. I guess he didn’t have the heart for the fight. Someone else brought Bernard down later, anyway. He tried his scam on a musician with a hidden camera and an active social media account. They smeared him all over the internet—”

  “And if it’s on the internet, it must be true,” Niall and Frankie said in unison.

  “Bernard lost his position with Classical Music Today magazine and couldn’t get hired writing classifieds for a church newsletter. But Aed never pursued his case.”

  Unaware of Gethsemane’s sidebar with Niall and Frankie, Aed stared down at his hands. “’Twould have been no use. The damage was done. A drawn out legal battle would only have prolonged the pain for my wife.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “Ex-wife.” A headshake and jovial Aed returned. “What’s a fella got to do to get a drink in this place?”

  “Another drink run, Hardy?” Ciara asked.

  Gethsemane couldn’t decipher his expression. “Yeah, sure.” He jostled a few people on his way to the bar. He didn’t apologize.

  “What’s with him?” Gethsemane whispered to Poe.

  Poe shrugged. “I should know? What am I, his mother?”

  “What brings you to Dunmullach, Aed?” Kent asked. “You don’t mind if I call you Aed, do you? Or is that a privilege reserved for beautiful women?”

  Several people laughed. Not Ciara.

  “You can call me Aed, too,” the composer said to Kent. “I’m here to premiere my new opera. I’ve, uh, been out of the music scene for a while. I wanted to stage my return someplace familiar, comforting. I know Dunmullach from my school days, so…”

  “Aren’t you afraid everybody’s going to die?” Poe asked.