EXECUTION IN E Read online

  Not this time. “Your wedding is in October. Michaelmas term will be in full swing then. As music director at St. Brennan’s, I oversee the entire department as well as carry primary responsibility for the Honors Orchestra. We’ve got a heavy performance schedule and we have to defend our title in the All-County. I wouldn’t have time or energy to devote the attention to delivering the high-caliber performance that your wedding deserves. You still have time to find someone else. Perhaps Andrea Bocelli is available.”

  Sunny pouted. “Ty, make her change her mind.” She pushed him forward toward Gethsemane.

  Ty grinned, superficial charm radiating from him like summer heat shimmering on hot asphalt. “We would, of course, make your participation in our wedding worth your while. Although, I’m sure a music directorship at a,” his oily smile grew wider, “boys’ school pays quite well, Sunny and I could do you a bit better.” He sounded like a BBC reporter. Had he and Sunny attended the same school of elocution?

  Gethsemane dialed up the wattage on her own smile. “Thank you for your generosity but, no.”

  Sunny narrowed her eyes and her voice grew colder. “Nothing is more important than my wedding.”

  Her attendants and the groomsmen stepped back. The women huddled closer together as if sheltering against a storm. Ty cleared his throat.

  The photographer stepped between Sunny and Gethsemane. “Sunny, sweet, if you want these photos to be hashtag-no filter, we really need to get on with the shoot before the light changes. Think of your sponsors.” He put an arm around Sunny’s shoulder and steered her toward the lighthouse. “Excuse us, won’t you?” he said over his shoulder to Gethsemane.

  Sunny looked from Gethsemane to the photographer then giggled. The little-girl voice returned. “My wedding will be the event of the century,” she said as the photographer led her away. “Everyone who matters will be there. You wouldn’t want to miss it.”

  “I’d rather have appendicitis,” Gethsemane whispered.

  “Why don’t we get out of here and leave them to their picture-taking,” Eamon said. “Or to the devil.”

  “Gladly,” Gethsemane said.

  Three

  A drink felt in order after her face-off with the happy couple from hell. Gethsemane extracted a half-hearted promise from Eamon not to blast Sunny, Ty, or their entourage with orbs, grabbed her vintage Pashley Parabike, and pedaled to the Mad Rabbit. She spied Frankie Grennan sitting with Verna and her younger sister, Vivian, in a booth at the back. Frankie waved her over.

  “I haven’t seen much of you this past week,” he said.

  “I haven’t seen much of you this past week.” She winked at Verna. Frankie blushed as red as his hair.

  “Frankie’s been teaching me about roses,” Verna said. Frankie, a keen amateur rosarian, had recently won a gold medal in the International Rose Hybridizers’ Association’s Thirteenth Annual Rose and Garden Show for his hybrid rose, ‘Sandra Sechrest.’ “You should see what he’s done with the old rose garden up at Carnock. You wouldn’t recognize it. It looks like a spread from Irish Garden magazine.”

  Gethsemane’s hand moved unconsciously to touch the scar on her forehead. Carnock, a desolate hill, better known by the locals as Golgotha, housed the remains of an abandoned insane asylum. Gethsemane’s first mystery had nearly been her last when the killer attacked her and set the asylum on fire with Gethsemane in it. The scar was a souvenir of the encounter. She never imagined the tangled brambles that covered the hill could ever be anything but an unredeemable mess of twisted canes and dangerous thorns, but Frankie uncovered the remnants of the rose garden planted when the asylum first opened and had used his award-winning horticultural skills to rehabilitate it. He gave Gethsemane a sneak peek of the work in its early stages, but she hadn’t yet seen the finished garden.

  “‘Fearless Brown’ is doing well,” Frankie said. “Not that I’d expect anything less from a rambler named for Dunmullach’s most intrepid transplant.”

  “Thank you for naming a rose after me, Frankie,” Gethsemane said. “By the way, ‘Fearless’ is a much better nickname than ‘Sissy.’” She made a face at the ridiculous sobriquet her family saddled her with decades ago and her friends in Dunmullach insisted on using to tease her, “so if you want to start calling me ‘Fearless’ instead…”

  “And miss seeing you cringe every time someone calls you ‘Sissy’? Not a chance.” Frankie winked.

  A waitress came over to take their orders. Their drinks arrived and they enjoyed them while chatting about the upcoming school term and about Vivian’s, a flutist, doctoral program at University College Cork.

  Gethsemane, Bushmills 21 in hand, glanced up from the conversation as the pub door opened. She paused mid-sip as the wedding photographer stepped inside.

  Frankie noticed her stare. “You know him?”

  “We’ve met.” She turned back to the sisters and tried to resume the conversation.

  Too late. Verna had noticed him, too. She paled and her hand shook as she set her drink on the table.

  Frankie put an arm around her shoulders. “Vern?”

  Vivian swore and jumped up. Her purse spilled to the floor. Its contents rattled and clattered as they rolled under the table. “He’s with them. D’you want me to ask him to go?”

  Verna motioned her back into her seat. “Please don’t cause a scene, Viv.”

  “Who is he?” Frankie asked.

  “The photographer,” Gethsemane said, “for, you know…”

  “Ty Lismore,” Verna said. “You can say his name.”

  Vivian mimed spitting. “I’ll say he can burn in hell. As can the rest of that bunch.”

  “You know I’d never pressure you, Vern,” Frankie said. “Lord knows there are a few names from my past that won’t cross my lips except under duress. But the way you reacted when you saw him here a couple of weeks ago—”

  “Who was Ty Lismore to me?” Verna stifled a sob. Vivian reached across the table and laid a hand on hers. “The love of my life, the man I wanted to father my children, the gobshite who ripped out my heart and stomped on it.” Tears tracked down her cheeks.

  “He left her at the altar,” Vivian said. “And now he’s come to Dunmullach, of all places, to marry someone else. The bastard.”

  “Heads up.” Gethsemane nodded toward the photographer. “He’s coming over.”

  “Dr. Brown,” he greeted Gethsemane when he reached their booth, “allow me to apologize for not calling off Sunny Markham sooner than I did. She’s rather much to take. That must have been unpleasant for you.” His voice retained hints of the deep South, maybe New Orleans, beneath a general American accent that reminded her of Sunny’s. What was the point of flattening out your accent so that no one could tell where you’d come from? To make yourself more marketable? Or to hide from your origins?

  Gethsemane shrugged off his apology. “I’ve dealt with worse.” Murderers, vengeful spirits, curses…

  “You’re gracious. Which is not a word I can use in connection with Sunny. I’m afraid her parents’ money bought her a bad attitude.”

  She craned her neck to get a better look at him than she had at the lighthouse. With his green eyes and boyish face, he appeared younger than he probably was. The resemblance to Eamon struck her again. “Mr…?”

  “Malcolm Amott.” He shook Gethsemane’s hand. His rolled shirt sleeves revealed well-muscled forearms densely inked with finely-detailed tattoos. Vines intertwined with clock faces, eyes, angel wings, and flowers. A vibrant red and orange tattoo depicting a man’s hand clasped in a handshake with a monstrous clawed hand disappeared beneath his shirt just above his elbow. He noticed her stare and tugged at the fabric to cover it further. “Youthful mistake. I plan to get a cover-up.”

  “It’s, er, beautiful in a frightening sort of way.”

  “Are you a fan of body art, Dr. Brown? Maybe yo
u have a violin tattooed in some discrete place?”

  Gethsemane laughed. “Not me. My mother would never let me hear the end of it if I got a tattoo, even at my age.”

  “Vivian’s got a thing for tattoos, don’t you Viv?” Verna, tears dried, elbowed her sister. The strain in her voice belied the jocular nature of the gesture.

  “There’s no shame in that, Vern. Everyone’s got their kink.” Vivian squeezed Verna’s elbow and smiled up at Malcolm. “I admire ink on others, Mr. Amott, although I don’t actually have any tattoos myself.”

  Gethsemane gestured to her companions. “Meet Frankie Grennan and Verna and Vivian Cunningham.”

  “Hello, all.” Malcom nodded around the table.

  “Haven’t I seen you around the village, Mr. Amott—” Gethsemane began.

  “Mal, please. They call my father Mr. Amott.”

  “I think I’ve seen you around the village, Mal. Before the photo shoot, I mean. You were walking around Our Lady’s yard.”

  “Your lady?” Mal asked.

  “Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. The large, gothic church in the center of the village.”

  “Is that what it’s called? Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows? Catholic churches have such creative names. The ones not simply named for saints, that is. I grew up in a non-denominational charismatic church. I worshipped in places with names like Ark of Safety and Holiness Tabernacle.”

  Frankie leaned closer to Gethsemane and whispered, “Charismatic church?”

  Mal overheard. “Sometimes referred to, by non-adherents, as the holy rollers.”

  Gethsemane nodded at his tattoos. “They didn’t have an issue with those?”

  “These came much later. My church-going, er, lapsed. I found solutions to my problems outside the church.”

  “You’re an atheist?” Vivian asked.

  “Worse,” Malcolm said. “I’m a heathen.”

  “If you’ve no use for church,” Frankie asked, “what were you doing at Our Lady?”

  “Scouting locations for Sunny’s photo shoots.”

  Vivian leaned her chin on her hand and her smile broadened. “Did you find a spot? I’d be happy to help you look.”

  “Thank you for your offer, Miss Cunningham—”

  “Viv.” Her voice dropped to a sultry octave and her eyes narrowed.

  Malcolm bowed his head toward her. “Thank you, Viv. But your Lady, as lovely as she is, won’t work. The only area of the garden I could get a good angle on without also getting the cemetery in the shots was the poison garden. A cemetery would be an ill omen for a wedding, and I don’t think Sunny would appreciate the humor in me posing her in front of poisonous plants.”

  “How about inside the church?” Gethsemane asked. “The nave and narthex are lovely. Father Tim wouldn’t mind you taking a few photos.” The lighthouse decorations came to mind. “Provided you skipped the chiffon.”

  “I agree with you about the beauty of the church’s interior, Dr. Brown—”

  “Call her Sissy,” Frankie interrupted.

  “Call me Gethsemane,” Gethsemane corrected.

  Malcolm laughed. “I agree, Gethsemane. But Sunny doesn’t grasp the concept of a ‘few’ photos. She insists I take three times as many as I think she needs so she’ll have more to choose from as she curates her feed. And the church has a lot of foot traffic. I’d hate for there to be a scene if a parishioner photobombed Sunny while coming to say their prayers.”

  “Sorry.” Gethsemane giggled. “I have an image in my head of a group of church ladies throwing down with Bridezill—with Sunny. The ladies with their leather matron handbags versus Sunny with her designer clutch.”

  “There’s an older part of the church,” Verna said. “The subbasement. It’s what’s left of the original church. Not many people go down there.”

  Vivian raised an eyebrow. “Wedding snaps in a subbasement? You have a low opinion of weddings?” She winked at Frankie.

  Verna countered the wink with an eye roll. “I just thought it would be an out-of-the-way place to take pictures. It would add a gothic flare to the photos.”

  A flare that symbolized her low opinion of Ty, no doubt. Gethsemane smothered a giggle.

  “Thank you for the suggestion, Ms. Verna,” Malcolm said. “I did see the subbasement; I found my way down there through a side entrance someone neglected to lock. I’d have no trouble running some electricity down there for lighting and that old baptismal pool would make a good prop, but Sunny’s not big on the gothic look.”

  “If Sunny Markham is as bad as you say,” Vivian asked, “if she’s prone to acting the maggot, why put up with her?”

  Malcolm frowned. “Acting the maggot?”

  “Acting like a jerk,” Gethsemane explained. “If you stick around Dunmullach long enough, you pick up a lot of colorful expressions.”

  “Not that we’re suggesting you stick around,” Frankie muttered under his breath.

  If Malcolm heard, he didn’t let on. He addressed Vivian. “Ms. Markham’s parents’ money buys a great deal of tolerance of Ms. Markham. The pay is phenomenal. And I’ve convinced myself that running interference between Sunny and the rest of the world is my penance for past sins.”

  “Mal!”

  Everyone turned to see who’d shouted. Ty, flanked by his groomsmen, stood in the center of the pub. They had changed out of the gray linen suits. Ty wore slim-fit navy trousers and a cream linen shirt. A bulge in the trouser pocket betrayed a flask. Waitresses with laden trays shot the group dirty looks as they jockeyed past them.

  Verna tensed and buried her face in Frankie’s shoulder. Vivian rose from her seat again.

  Malcolm looked from the sisters, to Ty, to the sisters. “If you’ll excuse me.” He made a brief bow. “Apologies.”

  He joined Ty, Theophilus, and Brian. After a brief, whispered discussion, the four men left the pub.

  “They’re gone,” Vivian said. “Are you all right, Vern?”

  Verna closed her eyes for a moment. “I guess I’ll have to be all right, won’t I? I can’t go into hiding until he leaves Dunmullach and I can’t have a breakdown every time I see him.” She wiped tears with one hand and balled the other into a fist. “I won’t let him get into my head again. Not this time. I’d rather…” She closed her eyes again.

  Frankie kissed her on the temple. “Dunmullach’s not so small that you have to go to ground to avoid him. I’ll be your Mal Amott and run interference for you.”

  “Ty’s bridezilla will probably keep him occupied up at Carrick Point posing for ‘Insta-perfect’ pre-wedding pictures or thinking of musicians to bully into playing the ‘Wedding March.’ They’ll likely be too busy finagling social media sponsorship deals to darken anyone’s doorstep.” Gethsemane pulled out her phone. “Tell you what. I’ll text you when he shows up at the lighthouse and when he leaves so he won’t be able to take you by surprise.”

  Thank you, Frankie mouthed as Gethsemane entered Verna’s number into her phone.

  Vivian raised her drink and mumbled around her glass. “Text me when he’s up there so I can come push him and his horrideous fiancée off the cliff.”

  Gethsemane’s foot hit something. Vivian’s wallet. “Your purse.”

  “Damn.” Vivian leaned down to collect her bag and its contents.

  “Let me help.” Gethsemane motioned to Verna to stay put, wrapped in Frankie’s arms, and reached for the items near her feet. She set them on the table as she retrieved them: a comb, a small planner, a silver pen, and a pill bottle, half-full of capsules, their color distorted by the bottle’s amber plastic. The prescription label read, “dextroamphetamine.” She set the bottle on the table.

  Vivian scooped the bottle into her purse. “For ADHD. I also take nortriptyline. I hate taking the pills but it’s the only way I can concentrate on my studies. Sometimes I joke
with Vern about giving up on the PhD, chucking the pills, and starting a career as a lifestyle blogger or digital nomad. How much concentration could it require if the future Mrs.—,” she glanced at Verna, “if Sunny Markham can manage it?”

  “Don’t underestimate that one,” Frankie said. “I’ve known women like her. They come across as flighty, fragile hothouse flowers, but really, they notice everything that’s going on and they take notes on who said what and when they said it. Then they file the information away as ammunition for future attacks.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Gethsemane said.

  “Forewarned is forearmed.” Frankie raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  Four

  Gethsemane made good on her promise to warn Verna later that afternoon.

  Eamon materialized next to her on the sofa in the study where she sat reading a biography of Verdi. His aura shone a mischievous celadon. “Company calls. Lismore.” He vanished.

  Loud pounding on the cottage’s front door prompted a profanity-laced expression of her low opinion of ill-mannered pretty boys who didn’t know how to knock. Eamon’s disembodied laughter followed her into the entryway. The pounding continued as she sent Verna a text alerting her that Ty was at the cottage.

  She opened the door to find Ty lighting a cigarette with a weather-beaten silver lighter. The antique seemed out of place with the modern, pale gray linen suit and Italian loafers that had replaced the navy trousers from the pub. He hadn’t included his flask in his wardrobe change. Its tarnished silver top protruded slightly from his jacket pocket. He noticed her looking and slipped the lighter into the same pocket, pushing the flask out of sight as he did so.

  “A set,” he said. “They photograph well for the social media feed.”

  “Is that what prompts the frequent costume changes?” She gestured at his suit. “Photo ops?”

  “Costume changes?” Ty’s eyes widened and his hand flew to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me. My meticulously curated display of sartorial splendor can hardly be dismissed as mere costume changes, as though I were a bit player in some flea bag, itinerant theater troupe.”