EXECUTION IN E Read online

  “He may have been selective about where and when he indulged. The coroner found a fair bit of alcohol in him. And none in his flask. Maybe Lismore reserved his drinking and drugging for times when no one was around.”

  “Like late at night? Atop an isolated lighthouse?” Verna hadn’t mentioned Ty being under the influence when she confronted him at Carrick Point. Surely, she’d have noticed. And, surely, she’d have said something. Wouldn’t she? Or would she, if she had slipped him something? If she’d agreed to a conciliatory drink and he’d handed her the flask and she’d—

  Niall snapped his fingers. “Hey, where are you?”

  Gethsemane shook her head. “Sorry. I was just trying to picture Ty on PCP. I can buy amphetamines,” she said, “but PCP? In this day and age? It seems so—1980s.”

  “Old fashioned or not, it’s still used.”

  “Is illness a side effect of amphetamines and PCP? I mean illness like you’ve got a sinus infection or pneumonia.”

  “Dunno. Why?”

  “Ty had a nasty cough. I assumed he was ill from smoking. He was taking prescription meds, Evoxil and Benylin.”

  “Those sound familiar. I think one of my sisters took those for a bad dose she had a while back. I’ll check with the coroner. Thanks for the tip.” Niall rose. “I have to run. I’ve got a meeting with the Superintendent.”

  “You know I’m going to tell Frankie about this.”

  “Yeah, I know. You notice I didn’t bother warning you not to. While you’re at it, you might warn Verna and Vivian not to leave the village.”

  “Because?”

  “Don’t play coy. I don’t need to tell you to cop on. If it turns out Lismore had some help getting those drugs into his system, the Cunningham sisters, Verna in particular, jump to the head of the suspect list. Sutton knows about her past relationship with Ty.”

  “Nothing stays secret for long in Dunmullach, does it?”

  Niall tipped his hat and headed back to the station.

  Eamon materialized next to her on the bench. “You can handle it.”

  “Handle what?” Gethsemane asked without looking at him.

  “Handle delivering Grennan the bad news about his bure.”

  “I need to tell him before Sutton gets to him, don’t I?”

  “Remember how Sutton treated him the last time?”

  “I need to tell him before Sutton gets to him. Damn.”

  “He’s a grown man.”

  “Who was betrayed by the woman he loved with the man he was later accused of killing. And he’s fallen hard for Verna. I can tell, even if it doesn’t show through that curmudgeonly façade. Why’d she have to turn out to be a liar?”

  “No one’s perfect.”

  “She may be a murderer.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “She had motive. She hated Ty. She had opportunity. She was at the lighthouse alone with him the night he died, while he was under the influence of hallucinogens. Maybe she convinced him the rope was a necklace and that he could fly.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  Gethsemane sighed and hid her face in her hands. “Yeah. But you have to admit, things don’t look good for our lovely blonde Latin teacher. That’s the conclusion Sutton will jump to as soon as he checks his email.”

  “What about the other one, Vivian?” Eamon asked. “She hated Ty as much as Verna. And she’s the bolder of the two sisters. Maybe Vivian went back to the lighthouse later that night. Maybe she followed her sister up to the catwalk and did what Verna couldn’t. Just because you didn’t see her walking back to the village with Verna doesn’t mean she was tucked up in bed. Maybe Verna is covering for her.”

  “Meaning maybe Verna’s an accessory to murder instead of a murderer. Small consolation for Frankie.”

  “Less prison time for Verna.”

  “Not funny.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Eamon floated closer to her, sending an electric buzz down her arm where her shoulder passed through his. “But you can’t help who you fall for and sometimes that person turns out to be someone other than who you thought they were. If Grennan’s got to hear the news, I’m sure he’d rather hear it from a friend than from a guard.”

  Gethsemane grasped at a thread. “Ty’s death could be no one’s fault but his own. Death by misadventure.”

  “Here’s another ray of hope. One of Ty’s crew could have done him in. Agnes or one of those fellas.”

  “Theophilus or Brian? They’re Ty’s friends.”

  “So they say. But have you noticed how cagey they get whenever someone brings up New Orleans?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Being a ghost makes earwigging easy, darlin’. Just because you don’t see me, doesn’t mean I’m not around.”

  “Are you spying on me?”

  “No, I’m assisting in your investigation. And keeping an eye on you.”

  “How could you eavesdrop on me and Agnes? Roasted wasn’t here when you were alive. I thought you could only go places you’d been before…you know.”

  “Before I was murdered. You can say it. True, there was no posh coffee house while I lived. But the building was there. A pool hall. I got thrown out regularly from the ages of ten through sixteen. By the way, whose idea was it to charge five euros for a cuppa coffee? That’s criminal.” Eamon’s aura shown an energetic tiger orange. Gethsemane jumped as he poked a finger through her knee. “Now quit stalling and get over to Erasmus Hall before Sutton reads his email.” He vanished.

  Seventeen

  Gethsemane stared up at the façade of Erasmus Hall, the bachelor faculty quarters on the east end of St. Brennan’s campus. Her heart pounded. Repeated swallowing failed to relieve her dry mouth. But Eamon was right. Better from her than from the police. She turned to her trick of reciting Negro League baseball stats to steady her nerves. She recited the batting averages of the starting lineup of the 1933 Homestead Grays then climbed the stairs. A quick run through of Josh Gibson’s averages from 1936 to 1938 and she knocked on the door of Frankie’s apartment, 1B.

  Frankie opened the door after the third knock. Miles Davis’s “Enigma” drifted into the hall. “Sissy.”

  “Hi. May I come in?”

  “Is it that bad, then?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You didn’t eat my head off for calling you Sissy. Whatever it is must be brutal. It’s not another body, is it?”

  If only. “No, not another body. News about Ty.”

  Frankie started to speak, then swallowed hard and opened the door wide. “You better come in.”

  Verna rose from the couch as Gethsemane entered the living room. She frowned. “Gethsemane, how are you? You look—”

  “Like you could use a drink.” Frankie switched off the record player. “I know I could.”

  “May I get you something?” Verna asked. “Wine? Tea?”

  “Whiskey?” Frankie pulled a bottle from his liquor cabinet and poured liquid two fingers deep into a double old-fashioned glass. “Tullamore D.E.W.”

  She held up a hand. “Nothing for me thanks.”

  “I guess we should sit.” Frankie crossed back to the couch and sank next to Verna. “Just tell us. It can’t be much worse than what we already know.”

  Gethsemane sat, then stood, then sat again. “Ty may not have killed himself. The coroner found evidence he had hallucinogens, amphetamines, and phencyclidine—PCP—in his system. He may have died by misadventure. Or by—” She took a deep breath. “Homicide. Niall told me.”

  “Shite.” Frankie drained his glass. More expletives followed.

  “Excuse me.” Verna choked back a sob and raced from the room. The reflection from the bathroom light bounced off the ceiling. Retching noises traveled down the hall.

  “I’d bette
r…” Frankie went after her.

  Gethsemane pushed herself up from the armchair and wandered over to a window. She rested her forehead against the glass and closed her eyes. Thoughts of places she’d rather be filled her head—conducting the Reykjavik Philharmonia with the Northern Lights dancing over the concert hall, performing Stravinsky with the Dallas Symphony Orchestra, composing a piano-vocal score for a community chorus, scrubbing a toilet—anywhere other than in her friend’s living room, blowing up his world.

  “She’s lying down.”

  Gethsemane opened her eyes to Frankie coming back into the room. He sank onto the couch. “Let me have the rest.”

  “As soon as Inspector Sutton reads the coroner’s email, he’s going to come looking for Verna and Vivian. He knows about Verna’s past with Ty.”

  “Because this is Dunmullach, where not even the dead’s secrets are safe.” Frankie pressed the palm of his hand into an eye socket. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  “Niall suggested no one leave town.”

  “Vern’s not a murderer.”

  “She hated Ty.”

  “I hated Ty. So did you. So did anyone who spent more than ten minutes in his cursed company.”

  “Verna admits to being alone with Ty the night he died.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours.”

  Frankie sprang from the couch so quickly, Gethsemane stepped back. He paced. “She didn’t do it. How could she have? You said yourself she’s too small—”

  “The drugs. If she slipped Ty hallucinogenic drugs, he might have jumped off the catwalk thinking he was diving into a swimming pool or that he was being chased by, by, by—”

  Frankie cut her off. “Verna doesn’t have any drugs to slip to anyone. She’s a Latin teacher fer chrissake, not a drug pusher. Where would she get amphetamines and PCP? PCP! Who has that nowadays? Verna did not drug Ty Lismore then stand back and watch as he wrapped a rope around his neck and swan-dive off a fecking lighthouse. She didn’t!”

  “But that’s what the guards think happened, isn’t it?” Verna, eyes puffy, nose red, stood in the living room doorway. “That I doped Ty and made him kill himself.”

  “Vern, hon.” Frankie wrapped his arms around her.

  “Isn’t that what they think?” she asked Gethsemane.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s what Sutton will think, anyway. He’s prone to thinking the worst.”

  “Do you think that’s what happened?” Verna asked.

  Gethsemane said nothing.

  “Sissy,” Frankie said, “she asked you a question.”

  Gethsemane shoved her hands in her pockets.

  Frankie pressed her. “I’m asking you that question.”

  She addressed Verna. “What happened in New Orleans?”

  “N-New Orleans?” Verna stuttered.

  Frankie frowned. “New Orleans? What’s New Orleans got to do with anything?”

  “New Orleans,” Gethsemane said to Verna. “When you and Ty met Agnes and Brian and Theophilus. What happened?”

  “Vern?” Frankie pulled back from his girlfriend but kept his arms around her. “What’s she on about? Ty’s the only one of that lot you knew before they turned up here.”

  Verna looked back and forth between Frankie and Gethsemane, then stared at the floor.

  Frankie let his arms fall to his sides. “Verna? What’s Sissy on about?”

  Pounding on the door precluded her answer. No one moved. The pounding repeated. Frankie swore.

  “I’ll get it.” Gethsemane pulled it open. “’Lo, Inspector.”

  Inspector Sutton’s squat frame filled the doorway. His frown melded into the crags in his face as he glared at the apartment’s occupants. “Brown. Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

  “Because misery loves company and I get off on beating you to the punch. Please, come in.”

  Sutton grunted and pushed past her. He stopped in front of Verna. “Miss Cunningham, I’d like to speak with you concerning the death of Ty Lismore. At the station.”

  Frankie slipped an arm around Verna and pulled her close.

  “You, too, Grennan,” Sutton added.

  “Do I need my solicitor?” Verna asked.

  “You tell me, Miss Cunningham,” Sutton said. “Right now, you’re just cooperating with me in my investigation into a suspicious death. Right now, you’re not under arrest. Right now.”

  “Let me get my purse,” Verna said.

  They waited as Verna disappeared in the direction of Frankie’s bedroom. She reappeared, purse in hand.

  Sutton ushered them out. “You,” he said to Gethsemane, “stay here.”

  “This isn’t my apartment, Inspector.”

  “Apologies, Brown, that was guard speak. Let me translate. Stay the hell out of my way.”

  Gethsemane called after them as they started down the hall. “How’s Sunny, Inspector?”

  Sutton stopped short. He answered without turning. “If you and Miss Markham don’t stop aggravating me, I’ll charge you both with interfering with a garda investigation and lock you both in the same cell. Then you can ask after her well-being yourself.”

  Sutton, Frankie, and Verna continued toward Erasmus Hall’s main entrance. Verna called out as they reached the main door. “Gethsemane, would you please remind my sister to pick up her prescription? It’s ready at the pharmacy.”

  Gethsemane stepped back into Frankie’s apartment and closed the door. Prescription ready at the pharmacy? What did that mean? Dunmullach hadn’t had a pharmacy since theirs blew up in an explosion nearly a year ago. So why…

  She circled Frankie’s living room. She placed the Tullamore D.E.W. back in the liquor cabinet and Frankie’s used glass in the kitchen sink. Nothing else seemed out of place. Shelves packed with neat rows of records. Record player on its stand. A biography of John Coltrane on the coffee table. She moved into the bedroom. Everything in place there, too. Bed made, closet doors closed, dresser drawers shut. Comb and brush lined up with mathematical neatness on top, a few coins in a trinket tray.

  She turned to go when she spotted fabric lying in a crumpled heap behind the bedroom door. She picked up a woman’s cardigan, navy blue with yellow trim. Verna had worn it to the pub a few weeks ago. Why was this the only thing in the room not put away? Had it fallen from a hook or hanger?

  Gethsemane pushed the bedroom door closed to see behind it. She kicked it before she spotted it—a pharmacy bag.

  The label read, “Ballytuam Pharmacy, Cunningham, Vivian, dextroamphetamine 10mg.”

  Vivian’s prescription, the one Verna asked her to remind Vivian to pick up. Except it was already picked up. By Verna. Gethsemane stared at the bag, trying to remember something. She reached in and pulled out an amber bottle filled with capsules of indistinct colors. The pub. These were the same pills that had spilled from Vivian’s purse at the Mad Rabbit. The same ones she’d confused with Ty’s Evoxil. Why did Verna have her sister’s medication? And why alert her? Was she asking for help covering for her sister? Or was she throwing her sister under the bus?”

  “Dextroamphetamine for ADHD.” Gethsemane said aloud. “Dextroamphetamine, which sounds a lot like amphetamine. This is one of those times being related to a doctor comes in handy.” She pulled out her phone and dialed her brother, Zebulon.

  “Sis?” Sleep, concern, and a hint of annoyance commingled in her younger brother’s muffled voice.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Caller ID.” The annoyance gained prominence. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, little brother.”

  “Then why—” Annoyance trounced both sleep and concern. “Do you have any idea how late it is? You don’t call someone at this hour unless you’re dying, about to be wheeled into surgery, or need bail money.”

 
She winced. She’d forgotten the five-hour time difference between Cork County and Washington, D.C. Which meant it was—she checked her watch—one o’clock in the morning where her brother was. “Sorry, I forgot. It’s light here until almost ten. I can call back in a couple of hours.”

  “And wake me up again. At,” she heard noises she assumed were from Zebulon checking his own watch, “at three a.m.?”

  “I’m scarlet, Zeb. You’re not on call, are you?”

  “Not tonight, no.” A heavy sighed filled Gethsemane’s ear. “I figured I’d get some sleep tonight.”

  “I’m sorry. You can pay me back by texting me football memes or photos from your dermatology textbook.”

  “You know I love you, Sis, and during daylight hours, I love chatting with you, but—”

  “I have a medical question.”

  “Someone’s bleeding, seizing, complaining of chest pain, unconscious, missing a major body part?”

  “Someone’s dead.”

  Silence. “Oh.” She heard shuffling. “I’m awake. What’s your question?”

  “Is dextroamphetamine used for anything except ADHD?”

  “It treats narcolepsy. It’s not really prescribed for anything else, these days. I assume you mean what is it legally used for.”

  “Would they show up on a drug test for amphetamines?”

  “Yes, because they are amphetamines.”

  “How about PCP? Would they make a test positive for PCP?”

  “What are you up to over there? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “No, amphetamines would not show up as phencyclidine on a tox screen. What’s going on?”

  “A man died a couple of days ago. He had amphetamines and PCP in his system. No one’s sure where he got the drugs.” She turned Vivian’s pill bottle over in her hand. “At least, not the PCP.”

  “Do you live in Cork County or Midsomer County?” Zeb shared her love of the long-running crime show and its fictional locale with a body count higher than most major urban centers.