Killing in C Sharp

by Alexia Gordon

  Donovan stuck his head into the office.

  “Five more minutes,” Venus said. “Maybe ten.”

  “What is it you’re searching for?” he asked.

  “Off the record or on?” Venus countered.

  “Depends on what you tell me,” he said.

  Venus looked at Gethsemane, who shrugged. Her suggested cover story of finding old articles about her career suddenly seemed unnecessarily complicated and somewhat unbelievable.

  “Background on Bernard Stoltz,” Venus said. “His past reviews.”

  “Stoltz? The murdered man? From the Athaneum?”

  “You have another murdered man?”

  “Not this week.” Donovan leaned against a file cabinet. His eyes darted back and forth between the two women with an alertness that suggested his casual pose was anything but casual. “What are you working on? A book?”

  Venus demurred. “Still at the poking around stage.”

  “C’mon, I won’t scoop you.”

  “A book,” Gethsemane said. “She’s looking into the, er, rumors that Stoltz may have accepted bribes to write good reviews.” Just in case Donovan did decide to “scoop” Venus, better to have that end up on the front page of the Dispatch than the fact they were investigating Bernard’s murder.

  Donovan glanced at his watch. “I can give you ten more minutes. Someone has dibs on the office after that.”

  Gethsemane and Venus thanked him. He lingered by the cabinets. The two women stared at him without saying anything. Seconds passed. Donovan finally left. Gethsemane shut the door behind him.

  “Thought he’d never take the hint.” Venus pulled up Bernard’s search results again.

  Gethsemane pointed to a hyperlink at the end of the list. “‘See similar articles.’ What’s that?”

  “Let’s find out.” Venus clicked the link. Another list popped up. “Sato’s Sashimi Scores. Sarah’s Sabayon Success. More of the same.”

  “Except for that.” Gethsemane pointed. “Look at the byline. ‘Ben Schlossberg.’ Who’s Ben Schlossberg and why are his headlines as execrable as Bernard’s? Could he be a protégé? Bernard’s attempt to keep his toxic legacy alive?”

  Venus pulled up the sabayon article. “Look at the date of the review.”

  “Three years before Bernard’s first. Almost twenty years ago. Could Bernard be the protégé?”

  “Ben’s writing style is the same as Bernard’s.” Venus scanned more Schlossberg articles. “Same with these. The style’s identical.”

  “Identical, meaning the same person wrote all of them?”

  Venus did another search. “The bylines don’t overlap. Ben Schlossberg disappeared after Sarah succeeded with her sabayon, and Bernard Stoltz didn’t appear until Marco marveled with his mashup.”

  “So Schlossberg and Stolz are the same person. Were the same person. Why the name change? I could understand if he used a pen name to write novels or something, but these are all reviews. I’d think a name change would be detrimental to a reviewer. Gimmicky headlines and mean-spiritedness aside, Bernard—Ben—showed real writing talent. The kind that would generate name recognition. Change your name, lose your clout.”

  “People change their names for lots of reasons,” Venus said. “Reasons that have nothing to do with writing. People change their names when they want to escape their lives, reinvent themselves, hide from someone…”

  “Avoid arrest. Hence, Sadie becomes Sylvie. Think Ben had a warrant? For pandering?”

  “He’d be more likely to have a warrant for selling himself than for selling someone else.”

  “How do we find out? I could ask Niall—” Gethsemane stopped. She couldn’t ask Niall to use his law enforcement contacts to see if Bernard had any criminal charges. And she couldn’t ask Frankie to help her break into Bernard’s hotel room to do another search. She sat on the edge of the desk and adjusted a skirt pleat.

  “What is it?” Venus asked.

  “Just thinking of my friends.”

  “Niall and Frankie? I’m sorry about them. They’re a couple of the good ones. I hope they get better.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  No one spoke. Gethsemane said a silent prayer for Niall, Frankie, and her students.

  Venus smacked her forehead. “Duh. I’m an idiot. Of course we can find out if criminal charges prompted Ben Schlossberg’s name change.”

  “How?”

  “You’re not the only one with contacts in law enforcement.” Venus pulled out her smart phone. “Back in the day when I reported hard news I met a CI—”

  “CI?”

  “Confidential informant who has extensive, let’s call it ‘experience,’ in the field of disappearance and reappearance of people and objects.”

  “Someone in law enforcement?”

  “Technically anti-law enforcement but why split hairs?” Her thumbs flew across her phone’s virtual keyboard. “He’s based in Dublin now, but he’s got a multinational resource network.”

  “I would love to see your Rolodex from back in the day.”

  “I burned it.” She put the phone away. “I’ll let you know when I hear something.”

  “Let’s take one more look at the reviews,” Gethsemane glanced at the wall clock, “before Donovan boots us for real. Can we print these to study later?”

  “I think so.” Venus clicked the mouse a few times and a printer underneath the desk whirred to life. The machine ejected a sheet a moment later. She yielded the mouse to Gethsemane. “Click away.”

  Gethsemane made her way through the links. She printed Bernard’s negative music reviews and his restaurant reviews. She started on the reviews published under Ben Schlossberg’s byline. Two headlines jumped out at her. “Take a look at these. Hexacomp Recalls Infant Sleepwear. Concerns about Ponyfield Food’s Safety Record Overblown.”

  Venus leaned closer. “Those sound like consumer safety reports. I’ve never heard of Hexacomp, but Ponyfield I know. They defended themselves in a class action lawsuit in Manhattan after several families sued them, alleging their children suffered lead poisoning after eating green beans imported by Ponyfield. Turns out, the cans Ponyfield’s supplier used contained unsafe levels of lead, and Ponyfield knew it. They settled out of court for an undisclosed sum. A year later, the feds investigated Ponyfield for trying to re-export those same tainted canned goods overseas. They donated them to charities that provide food for children in underdeveloped countries. 60 Minutes did a segment on it.”

  “Guess the concerns weren’t so overblown after all.” Gethsemane read some of the article while waiting for the printer to finish spitting out sheets. “Same writing style as the reviews, dated earlier than the flowery headlines. Why’d Schlossberg switch from consumer safety to restaurant reviews?”

  Venus tapped the computer screen. “Maybe because he was a crap judge of product safety.”

  “Or maybe chefs pay higher rates for positive reviews than import-export companies. Who’s to say Ben or Bernard or whatever his name is didn’t cut his crooked teeth on Ponyfield? He probably cost less than the lawsuit settlement.”

  “Yeah, but Bernard’s article didn’t help. They still got sued.”

  “They settled. They came through the storm well enough to be able to dump their poisonous cans on unsuspecting consumers outside the U.S. Maybe without Bernard’s article they would have out and out lost. Or faced criminal charges.”

  “True. He might have helped mitigate their damages. And then switched to restaurants because complaints were less likely to end up in court.”

  Donovan appeared in the doorway. “Sorry, ladies…”

  Gethsemane grabbed the articles off the printer. “Just leaving.”

  She and Venus waited in the Dispatch lobby for a cab. The rain had picked up.

  “Why don’t you get a car?” Venus
asked. “Since you’re sticking around.”

  “Because getting an Irish driver’s license is a serious pain. Wait twelve months, then go through the full licensing procedure, including taking driving lessons, the written test, and the road test. Never mind actually buying a car and getting it insured. The Pashley’s easier.”

  “Except when it rains.”

  “Nothing’s perfect.”

  The Addams Family theme chirped from Venus’s purse. She checked the messages. “My Dublin buddy wants to talk to me. By phone, not by text.”

  “Because if it’s not in writing it didn’t happen?”

  Venus pointed from her nose to Gethsemane. “Something like that. No offense, but I’ll take this in private.” A cab pulled up in front of the building. “You can take this one. I’ll call another.”

  A cab dropped Gethsemane and her Pashley in front of Carraigfaire as the dim, cloud-covered daylight gave way to dim, cloud-covered twilight. The rain had increased in intensity and she dripped by the time Eamon opened the door. A towel hovered for her near the hall bench.

  She snatched it from the air and toweled her face.

  “Where’ve you been all day?” Eamon, a bright yellow-orange, scolded her as she hung up her coat and took off her wet shoes. “Folks, meaning me, worry. Why’d you even get a mobile phone if you’re not going to use it?”

  “Am I hearing this? You’re kidding, right? You can’t talk on the phone. Can you?”

  “You could leave a message. I can hear the machine.”

  “I’m sorry I worried you.” She looked up at him, six feet of brown curls, green eyes, and angst. “You’re not usually like this.” A poke set his saffron aura shimmying. “What can I do to make this turn green?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not you. This Maja business has me on edge. You haven’t had any ‘Pathétique’ warnings, have you?”

  “No,” she shook her head, “Tchaikovsky’s been strangely quiet.”

  ‘‘I’m frustrated as well as worried.”

  “No fruit born from your snooping?”

  “Ghosts don’t snoop.” He bristled an offended burnt umber.

  “Who said to whom,” she mimicked his brogue, “‘You’re not the only one who knows how to conduct an investigation’?”

  “Ghosts investigate. They do not snoop.”

  “Well, I snoop. I spent the day snooping into Bernard’s past and uncovered some interesting evidence.”

  “‘Interesting’ being code for ‘I should hand it over to the guards straight away, but I’m going to hang onto it for my own reasons.’”

  “Have you been talking to Inspector O’Reilly?”

  “You’re being facetious, but I’ll answer you anyway. Your inspector is well and truly a skeptic. No room in that logical head for ghosts and goblins. I can’t talk to him. He’ll never see or hear me. I checked on him, by the way. He’s stable. Frankie Grennan, too.”

  “You checked on them how?”

  Eamon chuckled. “You may not be able to get past gardaí and school nurses, but I can.”

  She smiled. “Thank you for the status update. Stable is hopeful. And thank you for the towel.” She passed him into the study and opened the roll top desk, where she removed the contents of one of the small drawers and replaced them with the photos of Poe’s sister and the letter luring Bernard to Dunmullach. She’d hardly closed the drawer behind them when it flew open and the items floated out.

  “Would these be pieces of your interesting evidence?” Eamon asked. “What is it?”

  “Bernard’s killer set him up. He, or she, sent that bogus letter inviting Bernard to review Aed’s opera. And Poe has a once-removed connection to Bernard. Through her twin sister.”

  “Twins? A double portion of strangeness or is sister the normal one?”

  “Sister’s in love with Bernard. You decide if that’s normal. Put those back.”

  The items nestled themselves back in the drawer and the drawer shut.

  “As I said, you don’t have to fret over Bernard’s murder. Venus and I have it covered.”

  “What if Venus did it?”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “I’ve been wrong.” He paused. “Once or twice.”

  “If she’d murdered Bernard, she would have tried to kill me already.”

  “That is why I worry. And why you need me to look after you.”

  “I’m nearly forty. I’m a big girl. I can tie my shoes and cross the street all by myself.”

  “Don’t forget coshed on the head, nearly burned alive, almost shot, almost drowned, poisoned—”

  She held up a hand. “Stop. I’m not backing off this investigation.”

  “I’m not telling you to stop. You wouldn’t listen if I did. I’m only telling you to be wide.”

  “What happened today to get you so worked up? No luck with your Eastern European scholar?”

  “Plenty of luck. With a side order of dread. I spent the day reading over his shoulder about murder and revenge. I underestimated Maja. I shouldn’t have. You know those hazardous weather alerts you Americans broadcast on your weather channels? Between a tornado watch and a tornado warning, Maja is a tornado ripping off the roof of your house and sending your bathtub into the neighbor’s front yard.”

  Not what she wanted to hear from Mr. “Send a ghost to do a ghost’s job.”

  “Don’t look that way, darlin’,” Eamon said. “We’re not down and out yet. I haven’t given up. I’ve learned a few things from you about persistence.” He vanished.

  A hot shower and change of clothes buoyed her mood a fraction. She resolved the debate between whiskey in the study or coffee in the kitchen by the time she hit the stairs lower landing. Sharp knocking at the front door halted her progress through the entry way.

  “Who is it?” She kept a hand on the shillelagh by the door.

  “Open up,” the reply came. “It’s life or death.”

  Seventeen

  Hardy shivered on the porch. The rain plastered his stringy hair to his skull and his t-shirt to his thin frame. His fair complexion had turned sallow and taken on a translucent quality. He looked even worse than he had when she’d run into him at Sweeney’s. No drowned rat ever looked as pitiful.

  “Hardy, what’s wrong?” Gethsemane showed him inside. “I told you before you looked awful. I take it back. Death warmed over would be an improvement. No coat? No umbrella? If you’re trying to prove you’re macho enough to brave Ireland’s elements—”

  He cut her off. “You have to help Aed. He didn’t kill anyone.”

  “I’m going to attribute the randomness of that statement to delirium.” She pulled him into the study. “Stand by the fire and try to reverse the hypothermia. I’ll bring you a towel.”

  She paused on a stair on her way up to the linen cabinet. Had it really been almost a year since she was the one who stood soaking wet in front of a peat fire waiting for someone to bring her a towel?

  She returned with the towel and offered Hardy a drink.

  “No, thanks,” he said as he sopped up drips and rivulets. After a few moments’ work, he pronounced himself as dry as he was going to get and sat on the hearth. “Don’t want to wreck your couch.”

  “Hardy, what’s going on?” He still shivered, despite sitting only inches from the fire.

  “I told you. You have to help Aed.”

  “You need to see a doctor. I’ll call—”

  Hardy sprang from the hearth and grabbed her arm before she could move from where she stood by the bar cart. For a guy apparently one step ahead of the grim reaper, he moved fast. And still had strength in his grip. He released her arm. “I’m sorry. I—Please just listen.”

  Gethsemane sat on the couch.

  Hardy resumed his spot on the hearth across from her. “Aed Devlin didn’t ki
ll Bernard Stoltz.”

  She didn’t believe Aed was a murderer, either, because she liked him and didn’t think him capable, and a bunch of other people had just as much reason to want Bernard dead. But Hardy’s claim sounded more like a statement of fact than of faith in the composer’s character. “How do you know he didn’t?”

  “Because I know who did kill him. Maja Zoltán.”

  That clinched it. Delirium. She’d get Hardy to a doctor even if she had to knock him out to do it. She stood.

  Hardy held up a shaky hand. “Did you build this fire or did Eamon?”

  Gethsemane gawped. Words refused to order themselves in any fashion that resembled English.

  “Yes, I can see him. But you already knew that. You caught me looking at him over your shoulder a few times.”

  She sat down again. She had noticed some strange glances. “I suspected—something. I knew you weren’t just an easy-going tech guy. The day you snapped a photo of me near the cottage…”

  “Saw the ghost with my eyes but got nothing on camera. That’s usually how it works. Ghosts are so unpredictable. Ordinary technology’s seldom up to the task of capturing documentation solid enough to convince skeptics. Despite Kent’s show time histrionics, no one’s really excited about a light anomaly or a blur in the background. Too easily dismissed as dust or bugs.”

  “Hence the mad scientist with the secret MIT technology cooking up exotic toys for you to test.”

  Hardy’s laugh disintegrated into a coughing spasm. When he could speak again, he said, “She’s not mad. Maybe a little eccentric as far as middle-aged mom’s go. Brilliant, definitely. Turned down jobs at NASA and Stanford after she left MIT so she could open her own lab.”

  “With MIT’s blessing, no doubt, since she’s using their stuff.”

  Hardy smiled. “What MIT can’t prove won’t hurt her. Besides, MIT can’t honestly lay claim to having invented any of it. The ancient alchemists were on to this stuff ages ago.”

  “Yeah, the historical record’s chock-a-block full of ancient smartphones and handy-cams.” Her sarcasm was palpable.