“Jesus, Poe,” Kent said. “Where do you come up with this crap?”
“No doubt,” Aed said, “the young lady refers to the curse of Maja Zoltán. I’m impressed, Miss—Poe, is it? Few people are familiar with fourteenth-century Hungarian legends. I don’t believe in curses or magic or the paranormal. I find the deliberate choices of mortals cause most of the evil in the world. No supernatural agency needed. However, some of my cast and crew disdained my skepticism, so I took the precaution of having the production blessed by an obliging Cailleach. There’ll be no trouble from any vengeful noblewomen.”
“I confess to being one of the many unfamiliar with Hungarian legends,” Venus said. “Who’s this Maja Zoltán? Is she fascinating?”
Poe didn’t need further prompting to retell the blood-soaked tale of death, shame, and revenge. She got as far as the Mongol massacre when Hardy returned with another tray of drinks.
“For Christ’s sake, Poe,” he said. “Keep it PG-13. You’ll put everyone off their feed.”
Poe frowned at him but toned down the blood and gore.
“You must agree,” Aed said when she’d finished, “it’s operatic.”
“Speaking of opera,” Gethsemane said, “may I bring the boys in the honors orchestra to the theater on Monday to watch rehearsals? Some of them expressed interest. They’d love the opportunity to talk to musicians about the differences between opera orchestras and symphony orchestras. And, perhaps, hear a sneak peek of your new work?”
“I’d be thrilled to have the lads attend rehearsal. It’ll be good for them to get out of the classroom and hear music performed in its proper setting.” Aed raised his glass to Gethsemane. “Not suggesting you’re not a fine teacher, but I recall my days in the honors orchestra. Nothing but rote memorization and repetition. No wonder we never brought home the All County trophy.”
“Before you go,” Venus asked, “how about a sneak peek for the grownups?”
“Unless you have a piano tucked under your dress, Ms. James…” Ciara paused as Venus ran a hand along the skirt of her gray bodycon dress, cut just tight enough to let everyone know what was underneath without crossing the line into tacky. Definitely no piano. “What’s he going to play on? I don’t see any instruments.”
Gethsemane looked around. Usually, at least one person would have a fiddle or a bodhran, but tonight the only things present in the Rabbit were voices.
“He could hum a few bars.” A whiff of leather and soap accompanied Eamon’s voice in her ear.
“Why don’t you whistle a bit, Aed?” she said. And regretted, as “Pathétique” immediately followed the suggestion.
“Why the hell not?” Aed stretched and draped his arm along the back of Venus’s chair. “I’m among friends.” He closed his eyes and whistled as he’d done in Riordan’s office. All conversation ceased as the notes of the overture filled the room. Fear and foreboding replaced the good cheer in the atmosphere, turning the pub’s packed interior from cozy to claustrophobic. Aed whistled the final adagio. Gethsemane held her breath. The roof didn’t collapse.
“That’s all for this evening,” Aed told the still silent crowd. He rose. “If you want to hear the rest or,” he gestured at Poe, “you missed the young lady’s vivid account of the fate of Maja Zoltán and want to know what became of the poor bure, you’ll have to buy a ticket. On sale now at the Athaneum.”
“If you’re still alive.” Poe’s muttered comment echoed loud in the quiet room.
Hardy poked her in the ribs hard enough to make her yelp. “Shut up, Poe.”
Venus laid a hand on Aed’s arm again. “Would you be kind enough to escort me back to Sweeney’s Inn? I don’t doubt the inspector’s assurances about Dunmullach’s safety, but all this talk of death and curses has me…” She waved her other hand. “Well, you can’t blame a girl for being a bit jumpy.”
Gethsemane heard Eamon’s voice again. “The woman writes about serial killers and mass murders with glee, but ghost stories make her nervous?”
Hardy glanced in Gethsemane’s direction, then turned his attention back to Aed and Venus. “I can walk you back to the inn, Ms. James.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, lad.” Aed hooked Venus’s hand in the crook of his elbow. “I’m headed that way myself. Stay here with your mates and enjoy the craic.” He spoke to Venus. “I place myself at your service, sweet lady. I’ll defend your life against ghoulies, ghosties, and long-leggedy beasties with my own. You’ll not fall into evil hands with Aed Devlin as your protector.”
“I knew I could count on you.” Venus revealed the true magnificence of her stature as she unfolded herself from her chair. She stood a head taller than Aed. Gethsemane stole a glance at her feet. Six-inch stiletto heels, as trademarked as her red lips.
The group watched them go.
“Who’s going to keep Venus from falling into Aed’s hands?” Poe asked.
“I didn’t get the impression she wanted to be kept out of them,” Ciara said.
Gethsemane snapped her fingers. “Hardy, you forgot to get an autograph for your mom.”
“He seemed—preoccupied,” Hardy said, “I didn’t get the sense he’d be in the mood to sign autographs. I’ll catch up with him later.”
“How about rehearsals on Monday?” Gethsemane asked.
Kent spoke up. “Sounds like a plan. While you’re there, Hardy, poke around and see if there’s anything to this Maja curse. Maybe we can turn it into a location shoot in Hungary. But now,” he made a show of looking at his watch, “it’s late, boys and girls. Time for bed. We’ve got work to do tomorrow.”
Ciara slipped her arm through Kent’s. “And tonight. Hardy, if you’ll see Poe gets back safely, Kent and I will walk back to the inn.”
“I can see myself back, thanks,” Poe said. “I’m not afraid of the boogeyman.”
“Fine by me,” Hardy said. “May I give you a ride back to the cottage, Gethsemane?”
“No, thanks, I’m good. You’ve done enough running around for people. Go on back to Sweeney’s. Maybe I’ll see you at church tomorrow.”
Ciara, Kent, Poe, and Hardy filed out of the pub. Niall reclaimed a chair. He leaned back and grinned at Gethsemane, dimple in full force.
“What?” Gethsemane said.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“No, but you’re thinking several.”
Frankie chimed in, his grin as dimpled as Niall’s. “He’s thinking that only you could land in the middle of both a ghost hunt and a true crime exposé.”
“At least there’re no dead bodies this time,” Niall said. “Try to keep it that way.”
“I don’t look for murders, Inspector.” Gethsemane crossed her arms and slumped in her chair. “They just find me.”
“You don’t go out of your way to avoid them, either. I think you enjoy solving the puzzles, sussing out who done it.”
Did she? Was that why she involved herself in criminal investigations despite the exhortations of cooler heads and common sense? The challenge of answering a riddle? Or a desire—a need—to do the right thing, to be on the right side of the battle between order and chaos, good and evil?
“Solving puzzles is in Sissy’s nature, Niall,” Frankie said. “She’s the daughter of a mathematician.”
The urge to tell him to stop using that stupid nickname fought with the urge to thank him for taking her side. She silently recited Negro League baseball statistics until both urges passed.
“You encourage her, Frankie,” Niall said. “Don’t bother denying it. I know who aids and abets Sissy in her escapades. Breaking and entering, theft—”
“You make us sound like the bad guys.” Frankie laughed. The inspector’s allegations didn’t appear to concern him.
“Not bad guys. More like mischievous schoolboys,” Niall looked at Gethsemane, “and girls. Except dead bodies are as f
ar away from childish pranks as Earth is from Neptune. Keep poking your noses into criminals’ business and you might find yourselves listed in a police blotter.”
“Mischievous schoolgirl?” Gethsemane came out of her seat. Niall had no right to reduce her rational, adult decisions—even when they were wrong—to instances of childish naughtiness, friend or no. Before she could unleash her feminist ire, a high-pitched scream outside the pub ripped through the air and silenced all conversation just as Aed’s overture had. No one spoke or moved for several seconds.
Frankie spoke first. “What the bloody hell?”
Niall knocked over his chair as he raced to the door. “Stay here,” he called without looking to see if anyone obeyed.
Gethsemane ran after him, followed by Frankie, the pub staff, and most of the pub patrons. They pushed through the door and stumbled out onto the street.
Deserted. Parked cars lined the curb on either side of the pub, lights snapped on in surrounding buildings, but no living creature, human or otherwise, except for people coming out to investigate the commotion, could be seen on the street.
Gethsemane stood on tiptoe and craned her neck to see over the heads of the growing crowd of spectators. “Where’s Niall?”
A man’s footsteps approached at a run, in answer to her question. Niall appeared around the corner, out of breath. “Did anyone pass by the other way?” he asked between pants.
“No one,” Gethsemane said.
“Not a soul,” Frankie said.
“’Twas a banshee,” someone in the crowd suggested.
“A banshee?” Gethsemane asked. “As in—”
“Portent of impending death,” Frankie finished.
Niall rejoined them, mobile phone in hand. “I’ll call it in, have some uniforms out to help search.”
“Probably someone’s idea of a joke,” an onlooker said.
Gethsemane held her breath and listened. No Tchaikovsky to warn her of danger. She exhaled. “Not a great success as jokes go.”
“Did you hear the one about—” Frankie began.
Niall cut him off. “Shut it, Frankie, I’m not in the mood.” He sniffed. “Do you smell that?”
“I don’t smell anything.” Gethsemane inhaled deeply. “Except the ever-present peat and sea air.” Not even Eamon’s cologne. Where’d he gotten to? Unlike him to skip the excitement.
“I smell it.” Frankie wrinkled his nose. “Grease and peppers. What’s Murphy cooking?”
“I didn’t smell anything inside,” Gethsemane said.
“Nor did I,” Niall said. “But the smell’s definitely out here.” He sniffed the air again. “Maybe one of Murphy’s neighbors.”
An elderly man stood beside Frankie. Gethsemane recognized him from around town, one of a group of elderly men who gathered on benches in front of the grocers on Saturday mornings to compare notes about gossip they heard Friday night at the Rabbit.
“Grease and peppers,” the man said. “Know what that means?”
Gethsemane shook her head.
“It’s a sign a minor demon lurks in the vicinity. Mark my word.”
“Some old wives’ tale,” Niall asked, “or more of your Saturday morning gossip?”
“Old wives often have a point, young fella,” the man said. “You might do well to pay attention.”
“I’ve listened,” Gethsemane said. To her maternal grandparents, born and raised on Virginia and Carolina tobacco farms. They told her stories of omens and portents and manifestations from as early as she could remember until her upwardly mobile mother caught them at it and insisted they stop. “I’ve never heard any such thing.”
The man narrowed an eye. “An expert on old wives’ tales, are you?”
“Not an expert. But I know about haints, boohags, gray men, conjure men,” she ticked names off on her fingers, “bones, stones, and chicken feet. Nothing about demons who smell like pepper and grease. Sulfur, yes. Pepper and grease, no.”
“Maybe pepper and grease’re a local variation.” The man winked. “In areas where sulfur’s hard to come by. I’ll bid you good night and take care.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled up the street, singing in an off-key baritone:
She stood on the rocks of the lonesome shore,
Her tears vain pleas to Dia above.
Suaimhneas hers, nay, never no more.
Bound go síoraí to the taibhse of the manach she loved.
“‘The Taibhsí of Skellig Michael,’” Frankie said. “I hate that song. My ex-wife loved it.”
“My ex-girlfriend loved it, too,” Niall said. “Reminds me of her.”
“You like it, then?” Gethsemane asked.
Niall shook his head. “Hate it like taxes.”
“Which ex-girlfriend?” Frankie asked.
“Shut it, Frankie,” Niall said.
“Gethsemane, gentlemen,” a voice said behind them. They turned to face a waving Father Tim. “An eventful evening. Celebrity authors, ghastly legends, operatic whistling, a scream fit to curdle milk. I may have to rethink Sunday’s sermon.” He looked at each of the three in turn. “I hope I’ll see at least one or two of you in pews.”
“Father,” Niall said, “would you drive Sissy home? I know she’s fearless and fights tigers with her bare hands in between conducting symphonies, teaching school, and catching murderers, but just in case that scream wasn’t a joke—”
“Or a banshee,” Frankie interjected.
Niall continued. “I’d feel better if she didn’t walk all the way back to Carrick Point by herself.”
“I’ve got my car,” Frankie said. “I can take her.”
“No, you can’t,” Niall said. “One: I know how much you’ve had to drink. Two: I know she can talk you into helping her search for the source of that scream instead of taking her home, and three: I need you to help me search until the uniforms arrive.”
Gethsemane swore at the inspector and the math teacher. “No offense, Father Tim.”
“None taken,” he said.
“Your brogue’s improved,” Niall said.
“Who do you think you are that you can just order me to go home and stay there like a good little girl?” She felt her face flush.
“The garda.”
She jerked her head at Frankie. “He’s not. Why does he get to stay? Because he’s a guy?”
“Yes,” Niall said. “You can call me in the morning and remind me what a sexist pig I am.” He clamped a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “You’re with me. Good night, Father. Sissy.” He led Frankie across the street. Gethsemane started after them, but Father Tim put an arm around her shoulder.
“Of all the—” she said.
“Don’t take it personal,” Tim said. “Men occasionally forget their female friends are brave, competent, and capable of taking care of themselves and become overprotective. It’s the combination of night air, testosterone, and alcohol. Prevents synapses from firing. You have to make allowances.”
“That’s a lame excuse, Padre. Niall and Frankie both know I can slay my own dragons. I don’t need a shining knight to come to my rescue. The odd ghost, maybe, but not a knight.”
“I’m afraid that’s the only excuse I’ve got.” They stood for a moment, then Father Tim spoke again. “If you want to search for the source of that scream…”
“Funny thing, I don’t really. With half the gardaí in Dunmullach searching, I’m not likely to find anything they won’t.” She inhaled. “I still don’t smell anything. Do you?”
“Aside from the normal pub-in-a-coastal-village smells? No. Neither pepper nor grease.”
“What about what that man said? About pepper and grease being associated with demonic activity?”
“It’s not a claim I’ve heard anyone make, old wife or otherwise. Doesn’t mean it’s not true. Evil manifests in
more ways than there are hairs on your head.”
“There’s a cheerful thought. Here’s another; the custodian at St. Brennan’s smelled pepper and grease just before a light fixture missed his head by an inch.”
Tim grasped her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. “Blame it on the testosterone and moonlight. My turn to be overprotective. What are you scheming?”
“I’m not scheming. I just wondered if your brother’s books might say something about demonic smells.” Tim’s deceased older brother, a priest and an official Catholic Church exorcist, willed Tim his extensive collection of occult books.
“You want to look.”
“I do.”
“Tonight.”
“Strike while the hellfire is hot. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”
“Not at all.”
“So can we go look?”
“Will you promise to be careful?”
“The light didn’t fall on me.”
“I know,” Tim said. “But you have a talent for turning others’ burdens into your own.”
“Everybody needs a hobby.”
“I’m serious, Gethsemane. Leave the demon-hunting to the experts. If a human murderer gets the upper hand, the worst that can happen is death. The consequences of tangling with a demon are so much worse.”
“I promise, Tim, I will not conjure, summon, call upon, provoke, or otherwise mess with any demonic entities. I’m strictly paranormal-light. Eamon is about as much of the otherworld as I can handle. So can we go look? Just to see if there’s anything to the man’s claim about the smell.”
“All right.” Tim laughed. “Frankie’s not the only one you can talk into things. Come to think of it, Niall’s not as immune to your powers of persuasion as he likes to think he is. Off to Our Lady, then. We’ve got a few hours before I turn into a pumpkin. Let’s see what we can find.”
Gethsemane dropped a stack of books next to the several already on Father Tim’s desk.
“Achoo!” She batted dust away.
“God bless,” Tim said.
She pulled a chair up next to him and peered at the brown-edged pages of the thick leather book spread open in front of him. “I’m sorry I’m not more help. I should learn to read Latin.”
Killing in C Sharp Page 5
