Killing in C Sharp Page 20

  “After which you cut out the smoking and cut back on the drinking, and you’re trying to make your life right again.”

  “And I begged to get my job back. A job on the team, any job. I wasn’t totally honest about being okay with Kent getting all the camera time. Before I screwed up, I was next in line to become an on-screen investigator. Now, I’m not even sure I want to keep doing paranormal. But when I found out Aed would be in Dunmullach, I couldn’t pass up what might be my only chance to meet him.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded envelope. He handed it to Gethsemane. “Will you do me a favor? If Maja kills me, will you give this to Aed?”

  A reflexive protest died on her lips. The way Hardy looked…“Sure.”

  “You can open it.”

  She shook her head. “It’s between you and Aed.” She hesitated. Hardy looked so weak and ill it was hard to imagine him going for a cup of water, let alone going for Bernard. But she had to ask. “Did you kill Bernard, Hardy? To get even with him for ruining your father’s career?”

  “Risk life in prison for my absentee dad who doesn’t know I’m alive—alive for the time being, anyway?” He chuckled. “No, I didn’t. But thank you for thinking I’m capable of it. Plenty of people take me for granted. Don’t notice me even when I’m standing right in front of them.”

  “Where were you standing when Bernard was killed?”

  “I stayed up in the grand tier the whole time. You’ll see if you watch the video again. It’s shot from high up.”

  “I’m sorry things aren’t working out for you, Hardy.” She squeezed his hand. “May I borrow your phone? Mine’s upstairs.”

  He handed it to her. “Who’re you calling?”

  “A cab. For you. To make sure you make it all the way to the inn.”

  A cab pulled into Carraigfaire’s drive as Hardy’s cab pulled out. Venus climbed from the rear seat then turned to assist someone. “Look who I found wandering in the rain.”

  A bedraggled Saoirse clutched a book to her chest. “I’ve got it.”

  “Come inside before pneumonia gets you,” Gethsemane said.

  Eamon’s voice whispered in her ear. “Once upon a time, a stubborn woman told me weather didn’t cause pneumonia when I tried to convince her to come in out of the rain.”

  She ignored him and led Saoirse to the fireplace.

  Venus followed. “Was that Hardy I saw leaving?”

  “He came to ask me to help clear Aed. He thinks Maja killed Bernard. Is Bernard the eldest?”

  “Bernard has two older brothers.”

  “Not a firstborn. Couldn’t have been one of Maja’s kills.”

  “Why does Hardy care whether Aed goes down for Bernard’s murder?”

  A towel floated in from the hall. Gethsemane handed it to Saoirse. To Venus she said, “He doesn’t want his father to go to prison.”

  “His father?” Venus sank to the couch. “Aed never said—”

  “Aed doesn’t know yet. He hasn’t seen Hardy since he was an infant.”

  “Aed abandoned his son? I have no words.” Venus stared into the fire, her expression far away.

  Saoirse dropped the towel and picked up the book. “I have words.” She blew towel-tangled hair from her face. “Latin ones.”

  Gethsemane took the book—a grimoire—and turned to Eamon, perched on the roll top desk over near a window. “I thought you were ‘digging’ into a way to call up reinforcements. Why is she—” She pointed at Saoirse. “—here with this?” She held up the book.

  “Because that—” Eamon pointed at the book “—belongs to Father Tim’s collection. Housed in the rectory. On church property.”

  And, therefore, off-limits to Eamon. “Sorry. I meant to talk to Father Tim about absolving you.”

  Venus’s head snapped up. “What? Excuse me, I was miles away.”

  “We were discussing Eamon’s dilemma—”

  “Dilemma? A dilemma is which socks to wear, black or navy. A dilemma is red or white with spaghetti.” His aura turned blue. “I can set neither hide nor hair on church grounds because I was buried as a suicide in unhallowed ground. My mortal remains will spend eternity miles apart from my wife’s.”

  “That must be difficult,” Venus said.

  “That must be an understatement.” Eamon vanished.

  “Were you talking to Mr. McCarthy?” Saoirse couldn’t see ghosts.

  Gethsemane smoothed her hair. “Yes. He’s gone now.”

  “He’ll be back, yeah? We need him.”

  Calling Eamon mercurial was like calling a diamond hard. She supposed he’d return, eventually, but when? She handed the book back to Saoirse. “How did you find that? How did you know what to look for?”

  “I went to the library to see if I could find something to help Colm and the others. They keep herbariums in the basement stacks. I hoped I could find a recipe I could use with some of the plants in Our Lady’s poison garden.” Venus made a noise. Saoirse explained. “The plants are medicinal, too.”

  “Saoirse’s studied botany.”

  “Anyway,” Saoirse said, “a book kept falling off the shelf and landing on my foot.”

  “Let me guess, a seventeenth-century treatise on acts of revenge committed by the ghosts of walled-up daughters-in-law,” Gethsemane said. Eamon had found a way to communicate with Saoirse despite her not being able to see him. He’d improved at the haunting business.

  Saoirse nodded. “It explained about two ghosts being able to combine forces and break a curse. So I went through Father Tim’s books and found this.”

  Gethsemane examined the title again. Not the same book she’d used to inadvertently conjure Captain Lochlan when she first tried to bring Eamon back from limbo. Who knew what they might bring across with this one? “We’ll wait for Eamon.” She wanted him there, just in case.

  A leathery, soapy blast interrupted the discussion. “All right.” Eamon materialized in front of the fireplace, his aura a calmer ochre-tinged robin’s egg blue. “Let’s do this. Every minute Maja’s here, the stronger she gets, all the worse for the fellas.”

  Gethsemane looked at Saoirse. “Maybe you should—”

  Saoirse crossed her arms and planted her feet. “I found the book.”

  “Oh, all right.” Gethsemane recognized world-class stubbornness when she saw it.

  “What do we do?” Venus asked.

  “I’ll read the spell,” Saoirse said, “then Dr. Brown will need to play the right song.”

  “What song?” Venus asked. “Why a song?”

  “Ghosts sympathetically vibrate to certain tones,” Gethsemane explained. “A conjuring spell combined with the proper notes will bring one across from the other side.”

  “How do you know what noise to make?”

  Gethsemane shrugged. “You don’t. That’s the problem.”

  “That’s the safety valve,” Eamon said. “Keeps humans from creating havoc by wantonly summoning ghosts back. Imagine the damage you’d do if you knew the key to conjuring a bank robber or mad bomber or axe murderer.”

  “So you don’t know what note will set up the right resonance,” Venus said to Gethsemane.

  She shook her head.

  “Then how will you figure out what to play tonight?”

  “I’ll start with one of Eamon’s pieces and go from there.” She tried to keep her face neutral as she remembered the pain and swelling in her hands after her futile attempt at the piano to guess Eamon’s resonance. She gestured toward the hall. “Shall we retire to the music room?”

  Venus led the way. “Let the ghost music begin.”

  Eighteen

  Eamon, Saoirse, and Venus crowded around Gethsemane. She stared at the Steinway. She’d performed in front of hundreds in packed auditoriums with less anxiety than she felt now. She breathed measured brea
ths in through her nose and out through her mouth. She clenched and unclenched her fists. Stats for the 1938 Atlanta Black Crackers marched through her head. Mel Carter, two thirty-seven, Bill Cooper, three oh four, Felix Evans, three seventy-five. The mathematical precision of the Negro League numbers calmed her down.

  The electric shock of Eamon’s hand on her shoulder zipped down her back. “I have faith in you,” he said.

  With a final deep breath and round of batting averages, she sat at the piano and nodded as Saoirse recited the incantation.

  Gethsemane closed her eyes and concentrated. She imagined a ghost materializing to the notes of Eamon’s “Jewel of Carraigfaire.” Her fingers hovered over the Steinway’s keys then pressed them, gently at first, then with more confidence. The lush romantic tones of the work he’d composed to celebrate his love for Orla filled the music room.

  The music’s last reverberation died away. Gethsemane, Venus, and Saoirse held their breaths. No one moved. Even Eamon seemed frozen. A silence as dreadful as the music was beautiful surrounded them. Audible ticking of the clock penetrated the hush and increased the angst.

  “Try another,” Eamon said after a few minutes.

  She closed her eyes again. What kind of ghost did they need? One willing to help Eamon defeat a dark force. A ghost both willing and strong enough to help. A hero. Play something heroic. She played Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture.”

  Nothing.

  John Williams’s Star Wars theme.

  Nothing.

  Williams’s “The Imperial March.”

  “Darth Vader’s theme?” Venus whispered. “Seriously?”

  Eamon and Saoirse shushed her.

  No ghost.

  Verdi’s “Gloria all’Egitto.” Something as dread-filled as she felt: Barber’s “Adagio for Strings.”

  Nothing again. She slammed the keyboard in frustration.

  “Easy, darlin’,” Eamon said.

  She massaged her fingers. “It could be anything. Literally any sound. You came back in response to some rusted metal twisting in the wind.”

  “We can’t give up,” Saoirse said. “Maybe you should try the violin instead.

  Gethsemane pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and recited another round of baseball stats, then rose and retrieved her violin. “Someone suggest something.”

  Eamon spoke up. “‘The Irish Rover.’”

  Everyone stared.

  Eamon shrugged. “It was Orla’s favorite.”

  Gethsemane shouldered her violin and let the song’s jolly notes fly.

  “Nothing’s hap—” Venus said.

  Gethsemane silenced her with a raised hand. The aroma, the merest trace of white roses and vetiver, drifted in. Eamon’s aura shown bright red.

  The smell intensified to an almost palpable fragrance. A fragrance Gethsemane recognized. The twenty-five-year-old bottle with the gilt script still sat on her dresser. Maywinds.

  “Orla,” she said.

  A flash exploded in a far corner. Gethsemane closed her eyes against the spotty after-image. She opened them and saw an elegant blonde with soulful brown eyes standing at the opposite side of the Steinway’s cabinet. She saw details of pictures hung on the distant wall through the woman’s torso.

  “Orla McCarthy,” she repeated.

  “My heart,” Eamon said. His voice choked.

  “My love,” Orla said to Eamon. She passed through the piano, the black wood bisecting her. Gethsemane jumped from her path as she exited the other side. She embraced her husband. Another flash filled the room. When Gethsemane opened her eyes, both ghosts were gone.

  Gethsemane stretched out on the couch. Her head throbbed and after-images from the flashes in the music room still marred her vision. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Venus had taken Saoirse home in a cab. She planned to try to see Aed at the jail or get drunk at the Rabbit if she couldn’t. She’d promised not to betray Hardy’s secret.

  Tonight’s events stirred emotions Gethsemane struggled to decipher. Shock. King Tut’s appearance would have startled her less than Orla’s. Did not see that coming. Jealousy? She chewed on that. No. She liked Orla or, at least, Eamon’s memory of her. His wife’s loss had gutted her friend, and Gethsemane’s heart ached for his sake. Worry. Worry floated through her mind looking for someplace to attach itself. Why worry? Because, what if…? Eamon must be over the moon about his wife’s return. What if he and Orla were so happy together after so long apart that they forgot why Orla had been called over? Or decided they didn’t care? Maja wasn’t their problem. She couldn’t hurt them, only the living.

  The fragrance struck first. Powder, white roses, vetiver.

  “Hello.” Orla sat in an armchair across from the couch. She appeared as solid as Gethsemane. She leaned back in the chair, long legs crossed at the knee. Her elbow disappeared into the chair’s leather upholstery where she rested it. “Eamon told me about you.” Her voice rang high and clear, as elegant as the rest of her.

  “Slander, I’m sure,” Gethsemane said.

  “He described you as stubborn, willful, hard-headed, sarcastic, and utterly maddening.”

  What a way to endear her to the wife. “Thanks?”

  “High praise coming from my husband. He never could abide weak, wishy-washy gowls. ‘If you won’t stand up for yourself, don’t be surprised when someone knocks you down,’ he used to say. He thought pushovers were unreliable and untrustworthy.”

  Maybe it wasn’t such a backhanded compliment.

  Orla continued. “He also described you as highly intelligent, attractive, dedicated, determined, and one of the most talented musicians he’s ever known. And he said not to call you Sissy because you hate it.”

  “He described you to me,” Gethsemane said.

  “I can imagine. Stubborn, willful, and maddening?”

  “His everything.”

  Silence reigned for a moment. Orla broke it. “Are you in love with him?”

  “In love with Eamon? No. We’re friends. But he’s, you know.”

  Orla shook her head.

  “Well, dead. And he doesn’t have a body. Not a solid one, anyway.”

  Orla laughed. Gethsemane thought of songbirds. “He might be a little bit in love with you. I think I can see why.”

  Gethsemane blushed. “I’ve no intention of trying to come between you. I’m happy, for his sake, you’re back. He missed you the way you’d miss your heart if someone cut it out.”

  Orla’s turn to blush. Her embarrassed pink aura sparkled around its edges. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—really, I just wanted to thank you for looking after him. For being his friend.”

  “You’re welcome. Although I have to admit the ‘looking after’ has been mutual.” Especially when it came to morning coffee. A thought hit her. “You two aren’t one of those married couples who only have married friends, are you? This isn’t, ‘Thanks for playing but we need four for bridge’?”

  “No, we’re not like that. Eamon and I are the old married couple who detests hanging around old married couples.” Orla vanished then rematerialized on the couch. “Something else bothers you.”

  Gethsemane denied it.

  Orla persisted. “I can tell. I see it on you. A faint shimmer, like you see on your southern highways at summer’s peak.”

  The air quivered on hot, sticky days in the thick of Virginia summers. Humidity. Was telling her she shimmered Orla’s nice way of saying she sweat? She checked an armpit.

  Orla leaned closer. Faint outlines of the fire shown through her chest. “What’s wrong?”

  “Will you and Eamon try to stop Maja?”

  Puzzlement distorted Orla’s regular features. “Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Competing priorities. You just reunited with your husband after a quarter-century forced separation. No
one could blame you if you left us mortals to fend for ourselves.”

  “I came back to help my husband defend people he cares about in the village we both love and call home against an invading force. We won’t let Dunmullach down.” Her aura morphed to a joyful red. “Besides, we’ll have eternity to reacquaint ourselves after we send Maja packing back to hell.”

  At the theater, Maja raged.

  Energy had gone from the atmosphere, sucked out like a yolk from a blown egg. A large dose of her strength went with it. A powerful force had entered the equation, one she’d have to deal with. They would try to stop her. They always tried to stop her. But she always won. She only had to bide her time until the dying started. Which one of their sons would succumb first? The one with the hat? The bearded redhead? Better for her if one of the young boys went. The young ones always worked best. Their deaths caused the most grief. The grief on which she fed. The grief that matched her own at being walled up in a desolate tower and left to starve. Her corpse denied a decent burial, left to rot. But she’d taught them a lesson, hadn’t she? She revenged herself on the family who betrayed her. She’d continue to revenge herself upon generation after generation. She would rise from the ashes of despair and make them all rue her murder. She’d wait. Six hundred years taught her patience. A firstborn would die soon enough…

  In the meantime, she needed sustenance. A boost to replace what was taken from her. Luckily, that loud woman with the ridiculous hair left several of her silly gadgets scattered about.

  An EMF pod lit up. It shone as bright as daylight for a few moments then dimmed as Maja fed. She flicked a blue orb at the spent pod. It burst to pieces.

  Gethsemane passed a terrible night. Nightmare followed nightmare. Murderous ghosts chased students through carnival fun house theaters while she played the piano until her fingers bled trying to find the sympathetic vibration to banish the ghost. Music critics bearing plates of rancid truffles lurched about with construction tools protruding from their foreheads.