Killing in C Sharp Read online

  “Give it up, darlin’.” Eamon materialized at the foot of her bed. A pillow sailed through his chest and landed against the chifferobe. “Go downstairs and have a drink. Or go for a walk in the night air. That always helped Orla.”

  She pulled the covers up to her chest. “How long have you been watching me?”

  “Not long.” He laughed and glowed green and covered his eyes. “I didn’t see anything.” He dematerialized then rematerialized, seated next to her on the bed. “What’s got you so twisted up, anyway?”

  “You mean besides my friends and my students being horrifically sick with a supernatural illness I don’t know how to fight? Nothing much. Just a dead body, a man I believe to be innocent sitting in jail charged with the crime, and a woman, who isn’t the harpie I thought she was and who I’m starting to like, heartbroken because of it.”

  “Why don’t you do something about it? You’ve a knack for clearing innocent men’s names.” He winked.

  “Do what? I found out Sylvie’s not Sylvie, but I don’t see how that gets me anywhere.”

  “Don’t be so quick to let her off the hook. She lied about her identity, she may be lying about other things.”

  “I just can’t see Ms. Diva stabbing someone in the back and hiding their body under a piano. Breaking a magnum of champagne over someone’s head in a room full of people? That’s dramatic. But a discrete murder deep down in an orchestra pit?” She shrugged.

  “You’ve got the stuff Venus turned up about Bernard’s travel arrangements. Find out who funded him.”

  “Would someone pay all that money and go to all that trouble just to kill him?”

  “Sure. If they needed to lure him someplace where no one knew either of them well enough to connect them to each other.”

  “Why would someone hate him that much?” She drew her knees up to her chest. “What could he have done to earn that level of wrath?”

  “Some people hold tight to grudges. Look at Maja.”

  “Yeah, she does elevate that whole ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’ thing to a new level.”

  “At least with Bernard you won’t have to go back five hundred years to find a motive. Twenty or thirty should do.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got a knack for investigating, too.”

  “Comes from hanging around you.”

  “Say, how’d you know about Sylvie’s alias and Bernard’s secret travel agent? You weren’t there when—”

  He disappeared. “Just because you can’t see me,” his disembodied voice said, “doesn’t mean I’m not there.”

  “I can smell you. Gaeltacht, Mrs. Leary’s. Your cologne and soap.”

  He materialized. “You only smell me when I’m as close as I am now.”

  “Thank goodness you don’t smell like grease and peppers.” She wrinkled her nose. “Speaking of Maja, have you uncovered a way to get rid of her? Soon?” Poe’s gory details of the wasting sickness’s end state flashed through her head. “Before Niall, Frankie, and the boys slip past the point of no return?”

  “I may be on to something.” He radiated a hopeful salmon pink. “I popped into that bookstore, the one run by the bure who stepped out on her fella at the pub the other night.”

  “Arcana Arcanora.” The occult shop.

  “I found a lad visiting from uni over in Cork browsing the shelves. He got to chatting with the clerk. Turns out he’s studying folklore, Eastern European folklore, specifically.”

  Gethsemane gasped. “Did he say something about Maja?”

  “Well, no, he didn’t come right out and mention her by name or state he had a surefire way to defeat evil ghosts. He did let slip his plans to head over to the library tomorrow.” He glanced at the bedside clock. “Today. Turns out the library owns several volumes on Eastern European folklore and legend. A St. Brennan’s alum married a Ukrainian anthropologist way back when. They willed their private library to the public library. I’ll head over there as soon as it opens.”

  “Eamon McCarthy, I’m impressed. You can investigate with me anytime.”

  He blushed and affected an American accent. “Aw shucks, ma’am.”

  She read the clock. “A few hours until daylight. I think I can get to sleep, thanks to you helping me sort things out. No school since Riordan’s quarantined the place. I’ll talk to Venus and we’ll hammer out a plan of attack. Kent, Poe, and Bernard’s past.”

  “And Sylvie’s,” Eamon added.

  “And Sylvie’s.” She stretched out a hand. “Hand me my pillow, please.”

  A pillow levitated across the room and landed on her head.

  She snatched it away. “Hand it to me. This—” she waved a hand under his nose, “is my hand.”

  He kissed it, sending tingles up her arm as his lips passed through her skin. “And a lovely hand it is. Get some sleep. And be wide while you’re out snooping—”

  “Investigating,” she interjected.

  “Whoever stabbed Bernard is probably a pretty nasty piece of work.”

  “You be careful, too. Maja is definitely a nasty piece of work.”

  Thirteen

  Gethsemane briefed Venus over breakfast on her conversation with Eamon.

  Venus frowned. “How come he didn’t wake me up to tell me any of this himself? I can see him, too.”

  Her stomach tightened. Why should Eamon wake Venus? He was her ghost. “Maybe he figured you needed your sleep.”

  Venus raised an eyebrow then hid a smile behind her coffee cup. Gethsemane forced the pout from her face.

  Venus sipped coffee, winced, and reached for the sugar bowl. “You made the coffee this morning?”

  “I make it a little stronger than Eamon. I like strong coffee.”

  “I’ve met arms dealers who don’t take their coffee this strong.”

  “Speaking of criminals—potential criminals—we need a plan if we’re going to look into Bernard’s murder. Divide and conquer. I’ll take Kent and Poe. You tackle Sylvie. We can meet at the library after and see if we can dig up some of Bernard’s old reviews. They’ve got back issues of some American newspapers on microfiche. We know he wrote about Aed. Let’s see if he wrote anything about Poe or Kent or someone connected to them.” She added, “Or if he wrote about Sylvie.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I pay a visit to the local paper and give them my ‘I’m a journalist, you’re a journalist, let’s help each other’ routine and see if I can’t get access to their WorldNews Archive database?”

  “What’s a WorldNews Archive database and why would the Dispatch have one?”

  “It’s what it sounds like, an electronic archive of newspapers from all over the world dating back to about 1850. Almost every newspaper subscribes to it. Much cheaper than having to fly reporters and fact checkers to Timbuktu or Outer Mongolia to research a piece.”

  “I’ll search with you. We can meet at the newspaper office after we finish with Kent, Poe, and Sylvie.”

  Doubt played across Venus’s face.

  “Two sets of eyes are better than one,” Gethsemane said. “Besides, you need a better cover story than Brotherhood of the Fourth Estate. Tell them that I’ve decided to cooperate so you’re going to include more about me in the book revision—Please don’t, by the way, this is just for cover—and you need some reviews from the Dallas Morning News from my time with the orchestra there. Or articles from the Poughkeepsie Journal about the youth orchestra I volunteered with when I was at Vassar. Then you’ll have a reason to look at New York papers. They get my vote for most likely to contain Bernard’s old reviews.”

  Venus clattered her cup against the table. “Most people would love a chance to be in one of my books.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  Venus harrumphed.

  Gethsemane held out her hand. “Okay, truce. Sniping at each o
ther won’t accomplish anything.”

  “Truce.” Venus accepted the handshake.

  “Then we have a plan?”

  “We have a plan. See you at the Dispatch.”

  Gethsemane reviewed her options as she rode her bike down to the village. Poe, seldom cooperative, even when not being accused of murder, would be the tougher interview. Would she talk about anything other than Maja’s ghost? Would she talk at all? Buying her a drink or three might help, but it was still a bit early in the day for the pub. She’d pay Kent a visit first.

  She slowed as she pedaled past the Athaneum. Gardaí posted at the door meant the theater was still off-limits. Poe argued in the parking lot with a garda. Probably demanding to be let in so she could commune with Maja. Why did Poe idolize a ghost devoted to killing innocent people? Maybe she championed Maja because she saw something of herself in the tragic Hungarian. Maybe Maja’s terrorism gave Poe vicarious satisfaction. Or maybe Maja inspired her to stab Bernard.

  The parking lot argument turned against Poe. She flipped the garda her middle finger and stormed off. She wouldn’t be in any mood to cooperate. Best save her for last. Gethsemane turned the Pashley toward Sweeney’s. Maybe Kent hadn’t gone out yet.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the Athaneum. A faint blue glow surrounded the theater.

  Sweeney’s Inn, constructed in 1902, prided its status as a historic luxury small hotel. Flower arrangements as big as a toddler graced the lobby. Uniformed employees manned the registration desk and front door. Tasteful furniture arranged in seating clusters invited guests to linger and read one of the English or Irish papers displayed on a sideboard. Silver candy dishes offered an assortment of hard candies. Gethsemane helped herself to a strawberry-flavored treat.

  “Good morning,” the chipper young woman at the registration desk greeted her. “How may I assist you?”

  “Kent Danger’s room, please.”

  The clerk consulted something hidden below eye level behind the desk. Gethsemane slid an oversized guest book to one side and, on tiptoe, peered over the marble and brass countertop. A computer.

  Lists of names scrolled by as the clerk navigated the screen. “I’m sorry, no one’s registered under that name.”

  Could the room be listed under Ciara? This was the twenty-first century. Maybe she paid. “Ciara Tierney, then.”

  More names scrolled by. “I’m sorry.”

  “They’re two of the paranormal investigators. The good-looking blond man, the lead investigator, and the photographer with silver hair.”

  She stopped scrolling and looked up. “Oh, yes, I know who you mean. They’re hard to miss.” She reflexively glanced at her computer.

  Gethsemane followed her gaze. The clerk’s finger obscured most of a name about a third of the way from the top of the screen. Gethsemane strained to read upside down without tipping off the clerk. She deciphered Konra—Konrad? Who was Konrad? A pseudonym Kent used to travel? Or, more likely, his real name? “Kent Danger” was the stagiest of stage names. Aliases seemed to be the order of the day.

  “They’re out,” the clerk said. “I saw them leave a while ago. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Can you tell me what room they’re in? I’d like to go up.”

  The clerk lowered her eyes and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I really can’t say.”

  A perk of staying at an exclusive hotel—discretion. She’d have to wait in the lobby until Kent came back from wherever.

  “What’s it like?” the clerk asked in a lowered voice.

  “What’s what like?”

  “Living in a haunted house.” The clerk giggled at Gethsemane’s surprise. “I recognize you. I’ve seen you at the Rabbit. And my cousin’s in your music theory class.” Good old Dunmullach, where everybody knows everybody’s face by sight and everybody’s business by heart. Just like her hometown, Bayview.

  “Is it scary?” the clerk continued. “I’d be scared, but I’m a coward. Anyone will tell you.”

  Gethsemane lowered her voice to match the clerk’s. “There are worse things than ghosts.” Murderers, for example. “Can’t you give me a teeny hint about what room they’re in? Just tell me which floor.”

  “I shouldn’t, but…” The clerk looked from side to side then leaned closer and whispered. “You’re not just anyone. Room twenty-eight. Second floor.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Boo.” The clerk giggled again.

  Gethsemane excused herself from the desk. She jogged up two flights of stairs and walked the entire length of the corridor. All the room numbers began with three. Then she remembered the ground floor counted as the first. She turned back and ran into Ciara on the landing, coffee cup in hand.

  “Good morning,” Ciara said.

  Gethsemane returned the greeting. The rich aroma of coffee coming off the steam wafting from Ciara’s cup reminded her a refill was due. The morning’s first cup would wear off soon. “Not a tea drinker? I thought all Irish liked Bewley’s.”

  Ciara sipped black liquid. “I picked up the coffee habit during my travels. Haven’t been able to shake it.”

  “Being a paranormal photographer must take you to exotic places. Do you feel like a nomad, traveling from town to town, country to country, chasing the next assignment?”

  “No more so than I imagine a concert musician would.”

  “I do miss interacting with a wide variety of people and the rush you feel stepping off the airplane after landing in a new city,” Gethsemane said. “Although, some of my trips lasted barely long enough for me to pick up a souvenir magnet in the airport gift shop. No time to sightsee. I don’t miss bad hotels and worse food. Sweeney’s is top notch. Your team sleeps in style.”

  “Not always. We stay at our fair share of ratty hotels with banjaxed plumbing and paper-thin walls. It helped that Dunmullach lacks another hotel. We were able to justify the budget to the producers.”

  An opening. “I thought Kent owned the production company.”

  If her knowing this information surprised Ciara, Ciara didn’t show it. “Co-owns. He answers to others. Poe, for example. She owns a share of the company. Imagine negotiating with her.”

  No secret about the company’s management. Kent’s and Poe’s business partnership was public knowledge. Or known among the show’s crew. Or known by Kent’s girlfriend. Best not to assume. Who else knew? Enough people to create difficulties for someone buying secret plane tickets and hotels? They had been put on a separate card.

  Ciara’s laugh brought Gethsemane back to the present. “Congratulations,” Ciara said.

  “I’m sorry, what? My mind went someplace else.” What had she done to prompt the outburst?

  “You’ve broken the record.” Ciara showed Gethsemane her watch. “Longest conversation held without asking me where I met Kent in a moderately judgmental tone.”

  “Where did you meet him?” Since she brought it up.

  “Tone kept neutral. Nice job. A routine question asked in the course of chatting. Fair play. I always feel like yelling, ‘Of course I know he’s young enough to be my son, you wish you were so lucky,’ when people ask the question in that certain way they ask to telegraph their disapproval of my life choices.”

  “You’re both grown and neither of you are related to me, so it’s none of my business.” Southern code for “but if you want to talk about it…”

  “Thank you for that. Kent and I met in New York. I photographed people then, not ghosts.”

  “You’re not a native New Yorker.”

  “My accent give me away, did it?” Ciara winked. “I don’t consider myself native of any place. I drifted around, among continents, among jobs. Until I stumbled into a photography class in a university extension program. I turned out to be good at it and it suited my, what was your term, nomadic lifestyle.”

  “You�
��ve no family ties? Regardless of how far I travel or how long I’m gone, I know I’ve got a big old family tree rooted in Virginia, keeping me connected to home. Sometimes I’d like to shake the tree and several of the nuts are cracked, but I wouldn’t ever cut the tree down.”

  “Not me.” Ciara sipped her coffee and kept her eyes on her cup when she answered. “Family tree got chopped for firewood eons ago. I’ve learned it’s best not to stick with any particular tribe for too long. Seldom ends well.”

  Was Kent in for a letdown? Or brush off? “Speaking of your tribe, where is Kent? I wanted to speak with him.” Gethsemane pointed to the steps. “Got off on the wrong floor.”

  “That ground floor-first floor thing does seem to trip you Americans up. Kent’s always getting off at the wrong place,” Ciara said. “He’s still down at breakfast.”

  “Back to the, wait, don’t tell me, ground floor again.” She paused at the lower landing and spoke to Ciara still on the landing above her. “Were any of your pre-photography jobs in the music field?”

  “Nah. Have a tin ear. Why?”

  “No reason.” No reason to have run across Bernard. “Another question. How well do you know Hardy and Poe?”

  “You sound a right regular detective.”

  “I was Nancy Drew in a past life. Can’t help it.”

  Ciara shrugged. “No matter. I told the guards, I’ll tell you. I met both of them through Kent. Poe hates me because Kent made me lead photographer. Because of my talent. I’m demonstrably better than Poe. She, of course, won’t accept that.”

  “You’re also more stable than Poe. She gets a little, uh…”

  “You noticed. How could you not? Everybody notices. I’m not sure what Poe’s issues are, but they run deep. Hardy, on the other hand…” Ciara shrugged again. “Not much to see or say.”

  “You’re closer to him than to Poe.”

  “Not close, exactly. Cordial. Hardy’s all right. Too young for a true friendship. The younger generation is fun at night, but what do you have to talk about during the day?”