EXECUTION IN E Page 11

  “You’ve known me for the better part of a year. Do you really think I can leave the job half-done? Especially if Frankie’s girlfriend played a role in his death?”

  “No. But you can’t blame a ghost for trying.”

  She wasted no time getting to the Garda station as soon as the sun rose. She arrived before Niall and waited under a tree next to his usual parking space.

  Several minutes later, Niall pulled into the parking space. He exited his car but stopped when he spied Gethsemane. The brim of his hat, a small-brimmed fedora he’d inherited from his father, didn’t hide his frown. He approached her. Gethsemane left her bike by the tree and met him halfway.

  “Before you ask,” he said, “no, I haven’t spoken to the coroner. Nor have I taken a closer look at her report. Because the office opened,” he looked at his watch, “about three-and-a-half minutes ago. D’you know what time it is?”

  “You keep asking me that.” She tapped her own watch. “I have a watch and I know what time it is. But I—”

  “Am convinced something sinister is happening and am overly eager to prove it. I know. I should be used to it by now.”

  “I am not overly anything. I—” She held her hands up in the shape of a “T.” “Truce. I’m going over to the coffee shop. I will wait there patiently—”

  Niall rolled his eyes.

  “Okay, I will wait impatiently. But I will wait until you call me.”

  “And I’ll speak to the coroner first thing, I promise.” He readjusted his hat and walked toward the station.

  Gethsemane crossed the street to Roasted, the village coffee house, and joined the short line at the counter.

  “Your usual large caramel latte?” the barista asked.

  “I think I’ll change it up today. How about a hazelnut cappuccino? Large.”

  She scanned the room while the barista rang up her order. The crowd, somewhat thin at this hour—summer being the time when many villagers, students and educators among them, chose sleep over caffeine—filled about half the tables. A familiar figure sat at one near a window—Agnes Haywood, Sunny’s other maid of honor.

  “That’s five twenty-four.”

  “What?” Gethsemane turned back to the barista.

  “Five twenty-four. The cappuccino.”

  Gethsemane paid for her coffee and headed toward Agnes. She hadn’t taken much notice of her when she first saw her with Sunny at the lighthouse, so she looked at her more closely now. Thick braids crowned smooth, dark skin, darker than Gethsemane’s. She rested her head on a slim hand, elbow propped on the table. She turned pages in a book with the other hand. A coffee mug sat nearby.

  “Hello,” Gethsemane said, “May I join you?”

  The woman didn’t answer right away. She finished reading the page she was on, pulled a bookmark from beneath the book cover, marked her place, then pushed the book aside a few inches before she acknowledged Gethsemane. She gestured toward the empty seat opposite her.

  “I’m Gethsem—”

  “Gethsemane Brown.” The woman sipped her coffee and watched Gethsemane over the mug’s rim. “I remember you from the lighthouse.” Her accent put her origin somewhere in New York.

  Gethsemane took a long sip of her own drink. “I don’t remember Sunny introducing you.”

  “She didn’t. She wouldn’t. I’m Agnes Haywood.”

  “Rosalie mentioned your name. How are you doing?”

  Agnes raised an eyebrow.

  “Holding up, I mean. Ty Lismore’s death. It must’ve hit you pretty hard. It was—unexpected?” She made it a question.

  “Yeah.” Agnes set her mug down. “I still can’t wrap my head around it. Ty seemed like—Ty. Like his usual self. I’ve known him for years. Knew him for years. I didn’t see any signs to make me think he planned to kill himself. His death doesn’t seem real to me. It’ll probably hit me when I get back home.” She gave a brief, sardonic laugh. “I’ll save my emotional meltdown until I’m safe on my home turf. Won’t do to show vulnerability around Sunny. Jackals go for the weakest gazelles, don’t they?”

  “You were close to Ty? Good friends?”

  “That’s hard to believe?”

  “I assumed,” Gethsemane said, “you were more Sunny’s friend. Since you’re one of her maids of honor. At least that’s what Rosalie said.”

  “Rosalie talks too much. I knew Ty first. Long before he met Sunny. I wanted to be one of his groomsmen, but I didn’t look good in a morning coat.” A smile flickered across her lips. “That was a joke. Not a good one. I’m terrible at jokes. Ty always said so.”

  “You’re from New York?”

  “Manhattan born and bred.”

  “How did you meet Ty? He spent time in New York? Or you spent time in the UK?”

  “Why do you care? You’ve only just met us, and you don’t like us.” She cut off Gethsemane’s protests. “Most people dislike us, especially at first acquaintance. We’re clique-y and vain and high-maintenance and suffer no illusions about ourselves. I think that’s why we were drawn to each other, Ty, Brian, Theo, and me. Rare breeds flock together. Well,” she toyed with her coffee mug, seemingly lost in a memory, “less so, Theo. He’s the ‘nice one’ of the bunch. He mediates between us and ordinary people.” She snapped back from wherever she’d been and frowned at Gethsemane. “So, why do you care?”

  Why did she care? Because she suspected one of these rare birds might be a murderer? Or because she feared her friend’s girlfriend might, however justifiably so, be one? Gethsemane sipped her cappuccino. It was cold. “Ty was found hanging from my lighthouse. Every time I look out my windows, I see the place where a man died. I feel compelled to find out more about him. Especially since, from what little I’ve heard about him, his suicide surprised everyone, his fiancée the most.”

  “Sunny notices Sunny. Brian, Theo, and I were the ones who—you’re right, suicide was something we never saw coming. To answer your question, I met Ty in New Orleans. He, Theo, Brian, and his girlfriend at the time, Verna, were there for Mardi Gras. You know Verna, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know her.” Another past acquaintance Verna had failed to mention. “We both teach at the same school.”

  “And she dates your red-headed friend. The rumors about small towns being gossip hotbeds are true. I’ve picked up more dirt on people in my two weeks here than I get in a year back home. If I had this intelligence network in New York, I’d be invincible.”

  Gethsemane swigged coffee, disguising her distaste for Agnes as a reaction to the undrinkable liquid. “You traveled solo to Mardi Gras? I’m a fan of solo travel. You’re not beholden to anyone else’s sightseeing plans.”

  “I was there with—” Agnes stopped.

  “With?”

  “Just some guy I’d met. Anyway, we ran into Ty and his crew at a bar and ended up hanging out for the rest of the week.”

  Just some guy. She couldn’t remember her date’s name but she remembered Ty, Theo, Brian, and Verna. Either the date had been a loser or the others had been the life of the party. “Must’ve been a great week, you remained friends this long.”

  “It was a,” Agnes looked down at the table, “memorable week.”

  “As memorable as time spent with Sunny? How’d you become friends with her, anyway?”

  “Since Rosalie talked to you, I’m sure she explained that Sunny Markham doesn’t have friends. Hangers-on, lackeys, and obstacles to be overcome, but not friends. I tolerate her for Ty’s sake.”

  “‘Tolerate’ is a far cry from ‘maid of honor.’”

  Agnes shrugged. “I’m a good actress. I pretend Sunny’s particular brand of toxic doesn’t bother me. Anything for Ty.”

  “So he introduced you?”

  “No, Rosalie’s to blame for that. She introduced Sunny to Ty and the rest of us. She once joked—half-joked—s
he needed to throw Sunny some fresh meat to stop her from gnawing on her bones.”

  “I don’t understand. No one seems to like Sunny—not her maids of honor, not her fiancé’s groomsmen, not even her fiancé. Granted, it’s not hard to see why. Five minutes in her company is four minutes of your life you’ll never get back. She’s dreadful, personified. But why put up with her? No one has that much money. Do they?”

  “Her family has that much money. And influence. And power. They used to have more but their ‘fortunes turned for the worse,’ as her mother puts it to anyone within earshot, during the Depression. They’ve resented it ever since. They feel entitled to be in the top one percent of the one percent and have been clawing and manipulating and maneuvering their way back to the top for the past eighty years. Sunny’s like that woman who founded that sham medical device company, Theta. What was her name, Becky Harris? Based on the strength of some dead relatives’ names on buildings and an absolute conviction that she’s entitled to whatever she desires, she gets people to go along with her—or give in to her. She keeps secrets, she lies when it serves her, she plays sides against each other. She surrounds herself with chaos, which keeps everyone in her orbit off guard and on their toes. And, on the rare occasion someone works up enough courage to challenge her openly, she turns to Mommy and Daddy for the kill.”

  “Rosalie did mention something about losing jobs and apartments if you crossed her.”

  “You’re blacklisted. A social outcast, untouchable. People have literally changed their names and moved out of the city to start over. And she can count at least one person’s suicide to her—credit, if you can call it that.” Agnes dropped her gaze. “Maybe two, if you count Ty.”

  “Sounds like you’d get a better deal selling your soul to the devil.”

  Agnes looked up and crossed herself, then blushed. “You must think I’m superstitious, crossing myself when someone mentions the devil.”

  Once upon a time she might have but now… “No.”

  “Well, I am superstitious. Ty used to tease me about it. Sunny mocks me for it. Rosalie keeps me supplied with talismans.”

  “She offered to read the tarot cards for me.”

  “You should let her. She’s good. She has some sort of gift. I can’t explain it, but I can’t deny it, either. Did she tell you she studied hoodoo? Her grandmother taught her.”

  “African-American folk magic? But Rosalie’s—”

  “White? Yeah, but her great-great-great grandmother was as Black as you and I. Folks whose ancestors hail from the River Road area are likely to be at least a little bit of everything. Rosalie descends from a long line of conjure women. I wondered why she never put a hex on Sunny.”

  “Did you ever ask her?”

  “Yeah. She said, what did I think Ty was?” Agnes leaned back in her chair. “I know some people, maybe most, find Ty—found Ty—difficult to deal with. He was arrogant, he had a mean streak, he’d do anything for money, even marry Sunny. But he was also funny and charming, full of energy. You were guaranteed a good time in his company. He treated me all right.”

  “You said he teased you.”

  “Don’t your friends tease you?”

  All. The. Time. “Yeah, a bit.”

  “He was dangerous, but in an exciting, daring way. Not an anxiety-provoking way, like Sunny. I liked him.” Agnes shrugged. “Who knows why some friendships form? But Ty was my friend, a true friend, and, like I said, I’d have done anything for him.”

  “Even serve as one of his fiancée’s maids of honor.”

  “Could’ve been worse. He could’ve asked me to put my eyes out with hot pokers. And being one of the special, chosen ones, comes with a few perks. That’s why Rosalie and I got to come along on this all-expense paid pre-wedding promotional trip. I know we’re mostly here as backdrop for Sunny’s photos, but a free trip to Ireland is still a free trip to Ireland. Ty made a good call on this one.”

  “Ty?”

  “Dunmullach was his idea. Sunny wanted to have her wedding in Paris but Ty convinced her it was overdone. He talked her into a wedding in Ireland because it ‘went with her looks,’ and in a small, picturesque village because it would complement her instead of compete with her the way a big city would. You must admit, this place looks good on film.”

  So, Ty had chosen Dunmullach, not Sunny. Maybe not so much of a coincidence that his ex-fiancée lived here after all. “You mentioned Ty was with Verna when you met him.”

  “Verna was two engagements and three ‘serious’ relationships before Sunny. As serious as any relationship could be for Ty. He craved women more than he craved nicotine. Verna didn’t tolerate Ty’s proclivities the way Sunny does. Their relationship didn’t work out.”

  Understatement of the century. And no mention of abandoning Verna at the altar. Undoubtedly, Ty’s spin on events. She started to ask about Verna’s brother but Agnes spoke first.

  “Ty cheated chronically. And enthusiastically. Full disclosure, a few times with me. More than a few times.”

  “Friends with benefits? Sunny put up with it? Or didn’t she know?”

  “Preferred it, I think, as long as we were discreet. At least with me, she knew Ty was with someone who had no long-term designs on him. A harmless diversion, not a serious threat.”

  “Sunny doesn’t strike me as the sharing type.”

  “Unfaithful husbands are a Markham family tradition. They make the Kennedy men seem like altar boys. In fact, family legend has it her great-grandfather and Joe Kennedy, Sr. shared mistresses as well as a bootlegging business. And an uncle was rumored to have had an affair with Marilyn Monroe at the same time as JFK.”

  “Was it only Ty’s infidelity that ended his relationship with Verna or did her brother’s death factor into it? Ty’s involvement must’ve put a strain on—”

  “It was an accident. A tragic accident, yes, but still an accident. Accidents happen, you know. People die sometimes but it’s no one’s fault. That’s the definition of accident.” Agnes stood. “I have to go.” She stared out the window past Gethsemane’s shoulder.

  Gethsemane turned to see where she looked. Rosalie Baraquin stood across the street.

  “Sunny’s put together a memorial for Ty at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. For show, mostly. I’m walking over with Rosalie. Later, Theo, Brian, and I will get together for a real memorial. At the pub or up at the lighthouse with a bottle.” She added an afterthought. “You wouldn’t mind, would you? If we went up to Carrick Point to say goodbye?”

  “No, I wouldn’t mind.” Eamon might, but she wouldn’t.

  Agnes pulled out her phone and sent a quick text. Gethsemane watched as Rosalie across the street reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. She read the screen then looked up and waved at the coffee house.

  Agnes dropped her phone back into her purse. “No one ever accused Ty of being a saint. No one’s ever accused me of that, either. But Ty was my friend and I miss him, and I think he deserved better than what he got.”

  Gethsemane watched as Agnes left Roasted and crossed the street to Rosalie. The two bridesmaids walked together in the direction of the village center. Gethsemane pulled out her phone and checked for messages. No missed calls or texts from Niall. She debated calling Frankie. He’d probably be with Verna. She needed time to digest Verna’s selective memory—her lies, to be blunt—before she talked to him. How much did he know? Maybe Verna had been more honest with him. She doubted it. Damn. Frankie had already had his heart broken by one deceitful woman. Ty wasn’t the only one who deserved better.

  Fifteen

  “Wait patiently.” Her two least favorite words. Her phone rang just as she decided to go back to the Garda station instead of continue to wait for Niall’s call.

  She answered on the first notes of Beethoven’s “Fifth Symphony,” her ringtone. “Niall?”

  “Tim,�
� the priest answered. “Can you come to the rectory?”

  “I’ll be right there,” she said, glad to have something to occupy her.

  Father Tim met her at the rectory door.

  “Must be serious,” she said as he ushered her inside. “You aren’t conducting Ty’s memorial service?”

  “Miss Markham asked to use the nave, however, my services weren’t needed. I got the impression the event is to be non-denominational. I will, of course, continue to offer prayers for the repose of Mr. Lismore’s soul. And, yes, it is serious.”

  She followed Father Tim into his study. Saoirse sat on the sofa, surrounded by stacks of ancient, leather-bound books. “Hello, Miss.” She lifted a tome the size of a prayer book from the pile nearest her and flipped it open.

  “Hello, Saoirse. You found something?”

  “My brother’s books contained any number of banishing spells.” Father Tim held up a few books from one of the piles. “But we did locate an ancient prayer that will prevent Mr. Lismore from becoming a ghost in the first place.” He held up a small, battered, leather-bound book the size of an index card. “Then there’ll be no need to banish him.”

  “You didn’t call me over here because of Ty, did you?”

  Tim glanced at Saoirse. “Step into the kitchen with me,” he said to Gethsemane.

  “Saoirse knows everything, anyway. Don’t you, Saoirse?”

  The girl didn’t look up from her book. “Yes, Miss.”

  “Humor me,” Tim said. “Prescient or not, she’s still a child and I’m old fashioned that way.” He led the way to the rear of the rectory.

  “Tea?” he asked when they reached the kitchen. He turned the kettle on without waiting for an answer.

  Gethsemane took a tea pot, teacups, and Bewley’s from cabinets. “What did you find? Considering Saoirse’s in there,” she jerked her head toward the study, “happily reading incantations to banish ghosts, find one’s fortune, clear up acne, and who knows what else, I’m nervous about something you don’t want to discuss in front of her.”