Killing in C Sharp Page 11

  “What?” Venus said.

  “What?” Eamon said.

  They both cocked their heads and stared at her.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Eamon asked.

  “I am one hundred percent rational.” She glanced at the clock. “And I’m going to be late for school. You call your editor, Venus, tell her you’ve seen a ghost and want to write about it. Not that you have any evidence. No photos. No video. Nothing you can put into a box or a bag and slip into your carry-on. Literally nothing you can hold onto. I, of course, will deny everything. I’ll tell them the sea air made you a little, you know.” She rotated her finger near her ear then turned to Eamon. “Not the full shilling, that’s the term, isn’t it?”

  “Among many.” The orb faded.

  “Go ahead and revise your book and include a chapter on how a ghost helped solve his own murder. Then try to get a legit writing assignment. Maybe the Tattler will take you back.”

  Venus stood. Gethsemane craned her neck to maintain eye contact.

  “Bitch,” Venus said. “You’re as bad as Bernard.”

  “Not quite. Bernard is willing to ruin someone for money. I’m willing to ruin someone to save a friend.”

  Venus glared at Gethsemane, then at Eamon, then at Gethsemane again. “Fine,” she said after a moment. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. Not much of a story, anyway. Ghosts are so off-trend.”

  Eight

  Gethsemane rushed to dress for work. Coffee would have to wait until the teacher’s lounge. She ran down the stairs to find Venus waiting by the door.

  “I’m late for work.” She tried to squeeze past her.

  “I’m coming with you,” Venus said.

  “I did mention I’m going to work. School. To teach music classes.”

  “I heard you. I’m sticking with you. Number one, you’re not leaving me here with a ghost.”

  “’Tis my house,” a disembodied Eamon bellowed.

  “Number two, things happen around you, Gethsemane Brown. I’m not letting you out of my sight. The price of my silence.”

  “Fine. If you want to spend the morning learning about music theory with a bunch of male adolescents, suit yourself. But,” she looked at Venus’s stiletto-clad feet, “you might want to put on some flats. It’s a bit of a walk.”

  Venus pulled out her phone. “Call an Uber.”

  “You might find a ghost out here. An Uber…” She shook her head.

  “A cab, then.”

  “Put your phone away.” Gethsemane pulled out her own phone—she’d committed herself to Dunmullach and gotten one with an Irish number—and called Father Tim. A short while later, the two women rode in the back of Tim’s car, headed for St. Brennan’s.

  “How many people can see McCarthy’s ghost?” Venus asked.

  Gethsemane and Venus jerked forward against their seatbelts as the car braked to a sudden stop. Tim swiveled in the driver’s seat to stare at them.

  “She can see him,” Gethsemane said.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” The priest crossed himself and resumed driving.

  Venus leaned forward over the seat and tapped Tim on the shoulder. “Why can’t you see McCarthy’s ghost?” She whispered to Gethsemane, “Why can’t he see McCarthy’s ghost?”

  “I don’t know,” Gethsemane said. “I can’t suss out any patterns or predictors. Some people both see and hear him, some only one or the other, some only sense his presence, and some can’t detect him at all.”

  “That doesn’t bother you?”

  “No. I choose to view the quirks in the system as endearing. And no stranger than my grandparents’ stories.”

  “But those were just stories.”

  “Maybe not.”

  They stopped first at the headmaster’s office, where Gethsemane convinced Riordan that Venus was there to research a book on the role of progressive education methods in a classical educational environment. With Riordan’s blessing, she escorted Venus to class. She soon discovered Venus had a working knowledge of music and an expert knowledge of how to keep a roomful of boys under control. They ate lunch—fish fingers, carrot batons, and steamed rice—which prompted Venus to threaten to write an exposé on cafeteria food. Afterwards, Gethsemane took her to meet the honors orchestra.

  She opened the door to the music room and stopped short. Colm, Feargus, Aengus, Ruairi, and the other boys sat in their assigned seats, hands folded. No one ran, shouted, threw anything, or otherwise acted the maggot. Gethsemane checked the brass name plaque by the door. Yes, she’d come to the right classroom. “Check for snakes, frogs, and booby traps before you sit on anything,” she warned Venus as she surveyed her chair for hazards. Venus took an empty chair near the windows.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Brown,” the boys said in unison.

  “Okay, who are you people and what have you done with my students?” she asked them.

  “Is a TV crew really going to be at the theater this afternoon?” a boy in the back row asked.

  “Can we be on TV?” another asked.

  “Is there really an evil ghost who rips people’s hearts out?” a third asked.

  “Ah.” News of the TV crew and the curse must have gone out on the rumor mill. “Best behavior so you can be on TV or meet a killer ghost.” Both options probably appealed equally to her adolescent charges. She introduced them to Venus. “Ms. James is coming with us this afternoon. I want you to treat her with the respect you’d show to any one of your instructors.” She spotted the grin on Colm’s face and corrected herself. “No, I want you to show her more respect than you’d show to any one of your instructors.”

  “Are you going to write a book about the opera ghost, Ms. James?” Ruairi asked.

  Venus glanced at Gethsemane before answering. “Um, no, ghost stories aren’t my specialty.”

  “Are you going to write about us in the revised edition of your book about the McCarthys, Ms. James?” Colm asked.

  “You know about that?” Venus asked.

  “Of course, Miss,” Colm said. “We all do. We follow the True Crime Writes podcast. We listened to your episode.”

  Gethsemane addressed the class. “All right, guys, time to go. The van should be here to take us to the Athaneum.”

  Monday afternoon’s crowd at the Athaneum threatened to outdo Friday night’s crowd at the Rabbit: Aed, the theater owner, the Ghost Hunting Adventures team, musicians, and dozens of people she didn’t recognize milling about onstage and in the wings—crew, she assumed. If as many people bought a ticket to the premiere as crowded the theater now, the show would be a sell-out performance.

  Gethsemane marveled at the set design. The proscenium stage had been transformed into a menacing forest with an unfinished castle tower to one side. Piles of stones and gleaming steel trowels hinted at Maja’s fate. The familiar rows of blue velvet seats faced an alternate universe convincingly constructed of plywood and canvas to evoke the sense of dread and desperation that would drive a duchess to murder her own daughter-in-law. The orchestra pit yawned between the seats and the set, the audience’s only protection from the forest perils.

  She paused just inside the entrance as Tchaikovsky’s “Pathétique” rushed at her out of nowhere. A couple of boys bumped into her.

  “Are you all right, Dr. Brown?” one asked. “Have you seen a ghost?”

  “What? No, no ghost.” She reassured the two students. “I’m fine.” She ushered the boys inside, then shook her head to clear away the unwanted music. Damn, damn, and damn. Something awful was going to happen. What? When? And why did it have to be when the boys were around?

  Aed separated from the crowd and greeted the new arrivals. “Welcome, welcome, to opening rehearsals for ‘Kastély.’ And Venus, so happy to see you here.” He shook the women’s hands. Venus stepped toward Aed, glanced at the boys, then stepped back.<
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  “Meet the honors orchestra, Aed.” Gethsemane began the introductions. “Colm Nolan, Head Boy and one of the finest young violinists anywhere.”

  “And nephew of the great Peter Nolan. Pleased to meet you, young man.”

  “It’s an honor, sir.”

  “Ruairi O’Brien. Another of the best young violinists around.”

  Aed shook the boy’s hand. “I heard about your virtuoso performance in the All-County. Fair play, lad, fair play.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The twins came next. “Feargus Toibin, deputy head boy, and Aengus Toibin. Both percussion.”

  “Which of you is the oldest?” Aed asked the redheads.

  “I am, sir,” Feargus said. “By fifteen minutes.”

  Gethsemane introduced the rest of the boys, then escorted them to seats in the center orchestra section near the stage. Venus declined Aed’s offer to join him in the wings and sat near Gethsemane. Kent, Hardy, Poe, Ciara, and the rest of the paranormal team claimed the grand tier.

  Hardy stopped as they passed by. “I wanted to show you something.” He pulled a phone from his hip pocket.

  “Is that the new Samsung?” Gethsemane asked. She thought of her own low-end phone with a jealous twinge. She should have let the sales clerk talk her into the upgrade.

  “No. This isn’t available on the market. We,” he gestured to the rest of the investigators, “work with an engineer who custom designs a lot of our equipment. She’s an inventor. She’s come up with a way to combine FLIR, thermal, and full-spectrum technologies in a single smartphone camera.” He lowered his voice. “She also incorporated some space telescope technology developed by MIT.”

  Venus leaned across Gethsemane to get a better look at the phone. “How would your engineer get her hands on MIT technology? I suspect it’s not open source.”

  Hardy smiled and slipped the phone back in his pocket. “That would be telling. But if anything can capture a ghost on camera, this will.”

  A stingy-brimmed fedora, balanced on a knee, connected to a leg that led to a well-shod foot tapping a beat in the right orchestra section caught her eye. Inspector O’Reilly chatted with a brunette in paint-stained overalls seated in a middle row.

  Gethsemane called to him. “Niall?”

  He looked up from his conversation and raised his hat in greeting. “Sissy, good to see you.”

  She sighed. Apparently that stupid nickname had stuck. She’d be “Sissy” as long as she remained in Dunmullach. She’d be sending her brother-in-law a strongly worded note offering the opposite of thanks for revealing it. She made her way across the rows of seats to where Niall introduced his friend. “She’s the set designer. We know each other from our art history days at university.”

  Gethsemane shook the woman’s hand. “You’ve done an amazing job with the stage. I felt the dread all the way to the door.” She wished the creepy set had been the only cause of her unease. But she couldn’t forget the Tchaikovsky.

  She found a redheaded math teacher chatting with Venus and a dozen math students occupying the rows behind her boys when she returned to her seat. “Frankie, what are you doing here?”

  “Teaching, Sissy. School-sanctioned field trip. We’re having class on the relationship between music and mathematics. They are related, you know.”

  “I do know. My father was a mathematician, remember?” She added a reflexive, feeble, “And stop calling me Sissy,” as she accepted the futility of further resistance.

  Three raps on the stage drew everyone’s attention. Aed stepped into the center, arms spread, and welcomed them as they settled into their seats. He sat next to Venus.

  Eamon’s voice spoke near her ear. “About time we get this hooley started.”

  Good thing he couldn’t read minds. He’d launch a blue orb for sure if he knew what she thought right now. So much for staying away.

  Venus glanced at Eamon, then turned back to the stage, slightly pale.

  Aed’s voice boomed. “Friends, colleagues, future performers. Today we begin rehearsals for my new opera, ‘Kastély,’ the tragic story of the sacrifice one woman makes—the daughter she loves for the people she’s sworn to protect. As both librettist and composer, I believe this opera is the piece that will stand as the greatest work of my career.” He swept an arm toward the wings. “Now, please allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Sylvie Babin, world-famous soprano, who will sing the role of Maja.” A smattering of applause greeted a striking, almond-eyed beauty arrayed in layers of iridescent organza that trailed behind her like peacock finery as she crossed the stage to stand next to Aed. “Many of you may remember Mademoiselle Babin from—”

  The theater door banged open. Heads turned. Bernard Stoltz strolled down the aisle to an empty seat in the left orchestra section. The room grew silent. Almost silent. Onstage, Sylvie said, “Merde.” Kent shouted the same thing, in English, from the grand tier.

  “Carry on,” Bernard said. “Far be it from me to interrupt art.”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Bernard?” Venus asked.

  “I’m here by authorization of the theater owner.” Bernard waved at the man, who tried to shrink into the theater wings. “I’m not leaving.”

  Venus gripped the arms of her chair and pushed herself up. Niall also rose, his eyes on Venus. Aed stepped toward the edge of the stage.

  “Children present,” Gethsemane hissed and pulled her back down.

  “As I was saying,” Aed shot an angry glance at Bernard, then resumed his previous position and his speech, “many of you may remember Mademoiselle Babin from her recent performances in ‘Lucia di Lammermoor’ and ‘Ruslan and Lyudmila.’ This afternoon, as a special treat for the lads,” Aed nodded toward the students, “Mademoiselle will perform Maja’s final aria from ‘Kastély.’ Sung in Italian, it describes the moment Maja realizes she’s been tricked and left to die, walled up inside the castle. She expresses her despair, her anger at being given no choice in her fate. It ends with her cursing future generations of the Zoltán family with her dying breath. I, myself, shall perform the ritornello on the piano. Of course,” he again addressed his remarks to the students, “during the actual performance, the ritornello would be performed by the entire orchestra.”

  As Aed made his way down into the orchestra pit, Gethsemane got up and peered over the edge. She first met Saoirse down there. No sign of the girl now. Had she made it to the theater? Gethsemane looked up at the ghost hunters. Cameras and microphones lined the grand tier, all aimed at the stage. Mademoiselle Babin’s aria wasn’t the performance they hoped to record. Gethsemane moved to a seat in an empty row behind the students with a good view of the balconies as well as the stage and the rest of the orchestra. Eamon materialized next to her.

  The music began. Aed played an eerie introduction—dark, moody, desperate notes. Saint-Saëns’s “Danse Macabre” seemed a cheerful nursery rhyme in comparison. Several of the younger boys huddled small in their seats, knees hugged to their chests. The final note of the ritornello became the first note of the sung portion of the aria. The diva sang, in a clear, pure voice, lyrics evocative of the terror and fury of a young woman suffering a miserable, slow death at the hands of people she loved and trusted. Entranced by the performance, Gethsemane forced herself to look away from the stage and scan the theater for Saoirse. Blanched knuckles gripped seats. Frankie comforted a boy who hid his face against the math teacher’s shoulder. Even Niall sat low in his seat, his eyes fixed on the soprano, muscles tense as if ready to spring into action to save her from her fate. Venus and Bernard had disappeared from their seats. Poe bit her thumb and leaned far out over the grand tier’s railing. Hardy pulled her back. No blonde head peeked from behind any curtains or pillars. Gethsemane focused on the stage. The soprano held a high note. Theater windows rattled. Still she held it. Glass cracked. Gethsemane turned to see Kent holding up a damaged
EMF pod. Mademoiselle Babin paused for breath but the note lingered. No one moved. As the note faded, a new sound ripped the air. An ear-splitting scream shot down from the rear balcony. Everyone in the theater turned in unison.

  Saoirse stood in the rear balcony’s front row and pointed to a spot just above the on-stage castle. “She’s there!” the girl screamed, “She’s there! Maja’s ghost, I see her, she’s there.”

  Eamon materialized next to Gethsemane. “The girl may be coddin’ but she’s not wrong. Maja is there and she’s pissed.”

  Gethsemane whispered, hoping Saoirse’s commotion would keep anyone from noticing her talking to what appeared to them to be an empty chair. She squinted in the direction Saoirse pointed. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

  “Not there.” He pointed to a spot at the base of the castle, several feet below where Saoirse pointed.

  “That blue haze? That’s Maja?”

  “Give her a moment,” Eamon said. “It’s been a few centuries since she materialized. This ghost business isn’t as easy as folks think.” He gestured to the balcony. “Girl’s a bit melodramatic. Maybe you ought to give her a signal to stop bogarting the scene.”

  Saoirse kept screaming and pointing at the empty corner. Kent, Hardy, and the other Ghost Hunting Adventures crew jockeyed for space as they focused their cameras on Saoirse, the corner, and the crowd. Colm leapt over seats to get to the balcony stairs with Ruairi not far behind him. Colm took the stairs two at a time, burst onto the balcony, and grabbed his sister.

  “Saoirse, hush, it’s okay.” He held her close and smoothed her hair. “I’m here. It’s all right.”

  “There, in the corner.” Her gestures grew more frantic. “Can’t you see?”

  “See what, Saoirse?” Ruairi asked. “There’s nothing there.”

  “It’s Maja, the ghost, the one who kills the firstborn.”

  “Shh, it’s nothing. Nobody’s there.” Colm tried to hold his sister tighter, but she wriggled from his grasp enough to peer over the balcony rail. Gethsemane caught her eye and drew her index finger across her throat.