EXECUTION IN E Page 14

  “Dunmullach would do DCI Barnaby proud. Are you sure amphetamines and PCP don’t cross react?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. That’s knowledge based on fifty-gazillion shifts in the emergency department.”

  “Damn,” she muttered.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what does cross react with phencyclidine?”

  “What does cross react with phencyclidine?”

  “Hang on.” She heard her brother moving around. He returned to the call a moment later. “Had to grab my tablet. PCP, PCP…Here we go. Tramadol, dextromethorphan, alprazolam, clonazepam, carvedilol, diphenhydramine, doxylamine, ibuprofen, and naproxen.”

  “I recognize ibuprofen and naproxen. What are the rest of those? Use regular-people names.”

  “Tramadol is Ultram, a pain med. Diphenhydramine is Benadryl, doxylamine is Unisom. Dextromethorphan is Robitussin or Delsym—”

  “Wait, Robitussin or Delsym? Those are cough meds, right?” Ty had been taking medicines for his cough. “Do they contain the same ingredients as Evoxil? Or Benylin?”

  “Never heard of them. Are they brand names? Regular-people names, I mean?”

  “I think so. Evoxil’s an antibiotic. A doctor prescribed it and the Benylin for someone with a horrid cough.”

  “Let me check. Evoxil—that’s a U.K. brand name for levofloxacin, an antibiotic, like you said. It’s Levaquin over here. Used to treat pneumonia, among other infections. Benylin—that’s a U.K. brand name for dextromethorphan. Robitussin or Delsym over here. Yeah, same ingredients.”

  “And dextromethorphan can show up as PCP on a drug screen.”

  “And can cause hallucinations in high enough doses. It’s available over the counter, but sales are restricted and the packaging, at least over here, includes labeling warning parents about the dangers of kids overdosing on the stuff. Speaking of hallucinations, levofloxacin can cause them, too. It’s not a common side effect but it happens often enough to be reported.”

  “If you combined Evoxil and Benylin in large enough doses you’d probably be lucky if the only thing you saw were pink elephants.” Especially if you added a few capsules of your sister’s ADHD meds to mix.

  “What’s all this got to do with someone dying? Are you thinking they had an allergic reaction?”

  “A, um, lethal reaction. Hey, thanks, Zeb, and I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  “You’re not mixed up in anything you shouldn’t be, are you? Jackson told us about the situation you two landed in when he visited you a while ago.”

  The “situation” she and her brother-in-law had landed in had included art fraud, antiquities, theft, murder, and—almost—a go-directly-to-jail card for Jackson. “No, nothing like that.” Neither art nor antiquities had anything to do with this. “I know someone who knows someone who knew the dead man, is all. He, um, fell off a high platform. The garda—the police—think he may have been under the influence of amphetamines and phencyclidine and may have been hallucinating when he died. I’m just trying to gather information for my friend’s sake.” True enough.

  “Sis?”

  “Yes, little brother?”

  “Be careful.”

  Call ended, Gethsemane clutched the pill bottle. She’d bet a Stradivarius that the amphetamines in Ty’s system came from Vivian’s supply. But how did they get from her bottle into Ty? His flask? He drank alcohol before he died; the coroner found evidence of it. And the empty flask pointed to that being the source of the alcohol. Easy enough to doctor it up. Verna could have hidden her disgust for the man who ruined her life long enough to pretend to join him in a drink, long enough to slip powder she’d emptied out of capsules earlier into the wide mouth of the tarnished silver container. Had she emptied the capsules out on her own? Or had her sister helped her? Or acted alone? Verna getting her hands on Ty’s flask was conjecture. She’d seen the flask in Vivian’s hand. Vivian bragged about swiping it. Maybe she’d added something more than spit to its contents.

  Sunny had access to the flask, of course, but not to the amphetamines. And she didn’t peg Sunny as the type to ruin her own wedding by killing her groom. The bellman who’d returned the flask to Ty after he left it in the inn’s bar? How big of a tip would you have to give him to get him to drug a guest for you? And who, other than the Cunninghams, would do it?

  Gethsemane held the bottle up to the light. They really did look like Ty’s Evoxil. Someone could have swapped the capsules in the bottle. Harder to do. You’d need access to both medicines and Ty would most likely only take the capsules the way they’d been prescribed. Probably not effective for inducing hallucinations. Lacing the alcohol in the flask with dextroamphetamine made the most sense and made one or both of the Cunningham sisters the most likely culprits.

  Gethsemane scrolled through her contacts until she found Niall’s number. Her finger hovered over the “call” icon.

  “Shite.” The dextroamphetamine pointed to one other person. She put down the phone and looked around. Frankie’s closet, Frankie’s dresser, Frankie’s room. She found the pills in Frankie’s room. Verna was Frankie’s girlfriend and her things were at his place, giving him easy access. Verna wouldn’t know if he went into her bag and took her sister’s pills. At least, she could claim she didn’t know. Frankie getting access to Ty’s flask was trickier, but the guards probably wouldn’t consider that a crucial detail. And Frankie admitted he hated Ty, too. The pills implicated him as much as the Cunningham sisters. Maybe Vivian wasn’t the one Verna was throwing under the bus.

  Gethsemane shoved the pill bottle in her pocket. She wouldn’t go to Niall. His friendship didn’t mean he’d stopped being a garda. She couldn’t expect, nor could she ask, him to conceal evidence just because it pointed in a direction she didn’t want it to. She couldn’t get to Verna. No chance of Sutton letting her go before morning. Which meant the other Cunningham sister might have some time on her hands. Maybe Vivian could explain how the same medication prescribed to treat her ADHD had ended up in Ty.

  Eighteen

  Sometimes, culinary ineptitude paid dividends. Gethsemane didn’t count cooking as one of her talents and avoided it as much as feasible. She often dined at Sweeney’s Inn for breakfast on weekends, often enough that she considered herself a regular—as did the front desk clerk who waved her by without question as she headed for Vivian Cunningham’s room.

  She raised her hand to knock. The door swung open and Vivian, clad in one of the inn’s signature plush terry robes, collided with her as she stepped into the hall.

  Behind Vivian, inside the room, Brian sat up in the bed.

  Vivian stumbled over an apology as she pulled the door closed, forcing Gethsemane back into the hall. She left the door open enough to keep from locking herself out. Enough for Gethsemane to see the large, intricate, multi-colored tattoo that covered Brian’s torso, from his collarbones to where his waist disappeared beneath bedsheets.

  “I can explain,” Vivian said.

  “Don’t. What you do and who you do it with isn’t my business. I thought you’d want to know your sister and Frankie were taken down to the Garda station a while ago. The coroner found drugs, amphetamines, in Ty Lismore’s system and now thinks his death may not have been suicide. And I think these,” she pulled the pill bottle from her pocket and shoved it at Vivian, “are yours.”

  Vivian’s eyes widened. She looked ill. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before managing, “Oh, jaysus. Please, let me get dressed.”

  She slipped back into the room and closed the door. Gethsemane pressed her ear against it but the historic hotel’s thick wood dampened sound. She leaned against the wall and waited.

  Several moments passed. The door opened and Brian, fully dressed, brushed past without making eye contact and hurried down the hall.

  “Come in,” Vivian said.

  Gethsemane took the offered chair and waited until Vi
vian settled into the one opposite.

  “What’s happened to Verna?” Vivian asked.

  “Inspector Sutton, of the Dunmullach Garda homicide unit, suspects your sister of involvement in the death of Ty Lismore.”

  “He arrested her?”

  “No, not yet, anyway. Sutton,” Gethsemane made air quotes, “‘invited’ her to come to the station for questioning. Sutton’s invited me to the station for questioning before. It means he thinks Verna’s guilty, he just doesn’t have enough evidence to make an arrest. Yet.”

  “Frankie got the same invitation?”

  Gethsemane nodded.

  “Then Inspector Sutton must suspect him, as well. He hated Ty.”

  “Not as much as Verna did.”

  “Almost as much. Because of what Ty was putting Verna through, the way he made her suffer.”

  “You hated Ty for the same reason, didn’t you? Hated him for a lot longer than Frankie hated him. You also hated him for killing your brother. And you’re the one with the amphetamine prescription.”

  “Does Inspector Sutton know about that?”

  “He will after I tell him. Which would be approximately fifteen seconds after I told him you stole Ty’s flask. Good luck convincing him that spit was the only thing you added to it. And, in case you’re thinking of losing your pills down the toilet, pharmacies keep records.”

  “You’d really turn me in?”

  “Before I’d let you pin this on Frankie? In a heartbeat. Frankie’s my friend. You’re his girlfriend’s sister.”

  Vivian sank back into her chair. “Please, don’t. I swear I didn’t drug Ty. I gave the flask to Mal to give back to him with nothing more in it than spit and whiskey. I had nothing to do with Ty’s death. Neither did Verna.”

  “Nor did Frankie. So help me out and give me some idea of who else might have hated Ty as much as you and your sister.” Gethsemane jerked her head toward the unmade bed. “What about Brian?”

  “Brian? He didn’t hate Ty. They were friends, had been for years. Brian maybe got frustrated with Ty sometimes—fed up with his thoughtlessness and recklessness—but he didn’t hate him.”

  “How long have you and Brian been, whatever?”

  “Hooking up? Isn’t that what you Yanks call it?” Vivian grinned. “Since his first week in Dunmullach. Not smart, I know. Purely physical. You must admit, he’s a fine bit of stuff.”

  “Would Verna approve of her sister hooking up with a long-time friend of the man who ruined her life and ended her brother’s?”

  “Of course, she wouldn’t. Which is why I have no intention of telling her. Just because we’re sisters doesn’t mean we share everything. It’s not as if Brian and I are truly, madly, deeply. As soon as he leaves Dunmullach, it’s over.”

  “Brian, by your own assessment, is Ty’s friend.”

  “He’s not Ty. He’s not cruel, nor selfish.” Vivian shrugged. “A wee bit vain. With good reason. He’s very pretty.”

  No argument on that. Handsome and impeccably dressed, she understood why Vivian was drawn to him. She just questioned her decision to give in to the urge. Was there more to it than physical attraction? Did Brian have something on Vivian, or did Vivian have something on Brian? Something that would point suspicion away from Frankie and the Cunninghams? She looked around the room, as if some object might explain Vivian’s behavior or, at least, provide an opening to dig deeper. A stray sock, gray with an intricate geometric pattern, lay forlorn beneath the bed. She remembered the sigil. And something else.

  “Brian’s impressively inked,” she said.

  “Isn’t his tattoo gorgeous? It wraps around to his back. Countless hours spent in the tattooist’s chair. It’s not finished yet.”

  “Where’d he have it done? New Orleans?”

  Vivian blinked. “New Orleans? Why New Orleans?”

  “That’s where he, Theophilus, Ty, and Verna met Agnes.” Gethsemane shrugged. “I thought the tattoo might be related.”

  “Brian never mentioned New Orleans.”

  “Did Verna?”

  “Why do you ask?” Vivian’s eyes narrowed. “Why should she or Brian mention it? Or anyone else?”

  “Because I get the impression something happened there, something that none of the involved parties wants to talk about. Maybe whatever happened caused someone to hate Ty as much as you and Verna hated him. Maybe enough to load him up with hallucinogens and leave him on top of a lighthouse.”

  “You think one of those three, Theophilus, Agnes, or Brian, might be responsible for what happened to Ty? Or all of them? Maybe they’re in it together?”

  Gethsemane shrugged. “Depends on what happened in New Orleans. If anything did. No one will talk about it. Too bad. I bet Inspector Sutton would be interested.”

  Vivian relaxed into a smile as if she’d just been thrown the last life preserver from a sinking ship. “I can ask Verna. She’d tell me, I’m sure, if I explain why it matters.”

  “So, where did Brian get his tattoos? Or, where does he get them, since you say he’s not finished?”

  “New York, Japan, and London. A trio of artists collaborates. Brian sends them rough sketches and they turn his ideas into the finished design.”

  Gethsemane showed Vivian the photo of the sigil on her phone. “Is this one of Brian’s sketches? Is this design part of his tattoo?”

  Vivian studied the photo. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t recognize it. It doesn’t look like anything Brian would have inked. It’s too crude. His design is so vibrant and life-like, you’d swear it was about to jump from his skin. You should see the dragon on his back. It looks like it could breathe real fire.” She handed Gethsemane’s phone back. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Father Tim found it. The original sketch, I mean. He’d like to return it to its owner, if he can figure out who that is.”

  “Have you asked Theo? He has a bit of ink.”

  Vivian’s phone rang. She picked it up from the bedside table. She read the screen but made no move to answer it. “It’s Verna.”

  The ringing stopped. Vivian remained by the bed.

  Gethsemane took the hint. Time to go. “I’ll see if Theo is in.”

  “Two-fourteen. Top of stairs.” Vivian didn’t move to show her out.

  “I’ll see myself out.” She turned at the door. “I don’t see any need to tell Inspector Sutton about your prescription right now. But you will let me know what Verna says about New Orleans, won’t you?”

  “I will, yeah.”

  Gethsemane had been in Cork County long enough to recognize slang for “when hell freezes over.” She narrowed her eyes at Vivian. “Because if I have to choose between friends and friends of friends, I choose Frankie.”

  She caught Theophilus going into his room.

  “Just out for a walk,” he said. “Felt like the walls were closing in on me.”

  “How’s Agnes?”

  “In tatters. None of us realized Aggie had a glad eye for Ty. We figured the occasional ride is all it was. She kept her true feelings well hid. Not that I blame her. Sunny’s as mad as a box of frogs. Imagine what she’d have done to poor Aggie if she’d known she was pining away for her fella.”

  “What would she have done? Violence?”

  “Not the physical kind, no. Sunny prefers head games. She’ll ring your boss and tell him you’re cheating on your timecard or call your spouse and tell her you weren’t really at the football match with the fellas when you claimed you were. She’s a cute hoor, always manages to engineer things to her advantage by playing one side against the other, sweet-talking some gack with more ego than sense, and, if all that fails, playing the money card. She’ll get Daddy to drop a hint that a donation won’t be made if sweetie doesn’t get her way or have Mummy vote thumbs down when the club’s electing new members. That sort of thing. She
wouldn’t resort to physical violence, though. Might ruin her manicure or spill blood on her designer dress.”

  “You, Agnes, Brian, and Ty sound as if you were a pretty tight crew.”

  “We were tight. We’d been together since last year of uni. Verna, too, until her blow up with Ty.”

  “You mean until Ty stood her up at the altar.”

  “Yeah. Gobshite move on Ty’s part. Couldn’t believe he did that. You find a bure who’ll stick with you after you’ve shot her brother, you hang on to her. You don’t leave her for a header, no matter how rich the header is.”

  “Ty left Verna for Sunny? I thought—”

  “There were others in between, each one richer and more high-maintenance than the last. Ty had some grand plan for marrying into wealth. ‘Trading up,’ he called it.”

  Gethsemane shook her head. “I don’t get it. Ty Lismore was a lousy excuse for a human being. Yet, you lot genuinely liked him. Y’all seem like decent, sane people. What kind of hold did Ty have over you?”

  “Not a hold over, a bond with. After what we went through—” His jaw worked. He held Gethsemane’s gaze for three seconds. Five. Then he turned away and fit his room key into the lock.

  Gethsemane put a hand on his arm. “Theo, please. Tell me what happened. It might explain Ty’s death.”

  Theophilus stared at the floor.

  “New Orleans, right? Something happened in New Orleans. Something bad. What was it? Tell me, Theo.”

  He raised his head and opened his mouth as if to speak.

  “You’re out late this evening, Gethsemane.” Rosalie appeared at the head of the stairs. “Are you and Theo planning a party?”

  Damn Rosalie. Gethsemane swore a silent blue streak that would have made a sailor blush.

  Theophilus dropped his head and opened the door to his room. “I think I’ll have a lie-down. I’ve been with Aggie this whole time and I don’t mind telling you I’m knackered.” He slipped inside before Gethsemane could protest. She heard the deadbolt turn.