EXECUTION IN E Read online

  “She’ll also be looking over her shoulder for Mal. Something tells me he’s not the sort to leave a job unfinished.”

  “Speaking of the devil, any idea where Mal is?”

  “Not yet.” Niall adjusted his hat. “No sign of him on the church yard, at the inn, or in the pub. Sutton’s put an all-points out for the train and bus station and the Cork airport. We’ve also got patrols out on the roads. We’ll catch him.”

  Niall excused himself as Sutton beckoned from the ambulance where a sodden Agnes huddled under a blanket on a stretcher as EMTs attached monitors and started an IV. Father Tim bowed his head in prayer near the foot of the stretcher.

  “Don’t count on it,” Gethsemane said.

  “Count on what?” Frankie said.

  “Catching Mal.”

  “Malcolm Amott can go straight to hell.”

  “He will. Eventually.”

  Frankie climbed down from the back of the ambulance. “Time to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “I dunno. Anywhere. Away from here. For a walk.” He started for the church gate. “Come with me? I could use a friend.”

  Gethsemane linked her arm through his and they walked toward the village square.

  Eamon materialized when they came even with the post office. He walked by Gethsemane’s other side. “You know they’ve not a chance in hell of finding Amott? Literally, not a chance in hell.”

  She answered without thinking. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Sissy?” Frankie said.

  She swore under her breath. She’d forgotten Frankie could neither see nor hear ghosts. And, truth be told, she’d forgotten Eamon was a ghost. “What, Frankie?”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “Oops. Sorry.” Eamon laughed, not sounding sorry at all, and dematerialized.

  “Who am I talking to? Besides you?”

  Frankie stopped. “Sissy, I’m the one who got smacked in the head, but you’re the one not making sense. You were just talking to yourself.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then who were you talking to?”

  She tugged his arm and started walking again. “That, my friend, is a long, strange story. How about you come up to the cottage with me, I’ll fix you a cup of tea, and tell it?”

  “I’m going to hear this story and think you’re a header, aren’t I?”

  “Probably. But you’ll still like me because we’re friends.”

  An ambulance drove past. The EMT who’d failed to convince Frankie to go to the hospital leaned from the window and waved at them. They paused to look back at the sun setting over Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. In the yard, gardaí and EMTs and a solitary priest busied themselves restoring order from chaos.

  “Frankie,” Gethsemane said.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t call me Sissy.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Gethsemane stood in the center of Carraigfaire Cottage’s music room with her eyes closed and listened as the metronome atop the piano marked a beat.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  No other sounds intruded. No Tchaikovsky in her head. No shrieking social media influencers. No threatening gardaí. No pleading, no begging, no crying, no lies. Only the low-pitched, slow, echoing tick of the metronome. For the first time in days, she felt at peace.

  A deep breath drew air to the bottom of her lungs. She exhaled fully, feeling the anxiety and tension and fear and worry that had consumed her, since the first notes of “Pathétique” had warned her of the dangers to come, flow from her body like bad humors escaping after a long illness. Her next breath carried with it the freshness of soap overlaid with the aromas of leather, cedar, and pepper.

  She held a finger to her lips. “Ssh. Don’t say anything.”

  She opened her eyes to Eamon seated at the piano. “Now you may speak.”

  “Are you all right?” Eamon asked.

  “At this moment, I’m all right. I’m all right for the first time since I heard the names Ty Lismore and Sunny Markham. At this moment, no one is being murdered, no one is being accused of murder, no one is being lied to, no one is lying to anyone, and no one is having their heart ripped out and stomped on by someone they loved and trusted. This moment is perfect. With my luck, five minutes from now a corpse may turn up on the front porch. But not right now. Right now is good.”

  Eamon turned to the piano. He silenced the metronome with a glance and began to play. His fingers disappeared into the keys as he drew the quick, bright notes of Beethoven’s “Piano Sonata No. 9 in E Major, Op. 14 No. 1” from the instrument. The music surrounded Gethsemane with joy and replaced the darkness of the past few days with a lightness that almost overwhelmed her.

  “Thank you for that,” she said as the notes died away. “I needed it.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve picked up your violin?” Eamon nodded at her Vuillaume in its case on a stand.

  “Too long.” Preoccupied with murder, she’d neglected her music over the summer, and she realized, felt the worse for it. She raised her violin into position and eased into the first movement of Beethoven’s “Violin Sonata No. 9 in A Major, Op. 47.” Her opening adagio gave way to an intense presto as Eamon joined her on the piano, their two instruments combining to create a virtuosic performance that transformed her last, lingering shreds of grief into an indescribable feeling of rapture.

  The movement ended and she collapsed onto the piano bench next to Eamon. “I haven’t felt this good in—when have I felt this good?”

  “Too bad you can’t package some of this feeling and share it with your mate, Frankie.”

  “Frankie.” An arrow of sadness pierced her joy. “Saying I’m worried about him is an understatement. For the second time in his life, love’s hauled off and kicked him in the teeth. Plus, he’s been suspected of murdering the ex-lover of a woman he loved for the second time in less than six months and he watched one of those women die a horrible death, unable to save her even though she was only a few feet away. Then I tell him I live in a haunted house and see dead people and oh, by the way, the man who murdered his girlfriend is in league with the devil, literally.” She plucked the opening measures of the third movement, “Scherzo. Pizzicato ostinato,” of Tchaikovsky’s “Symphony No. 4 in F Minor, Op 36.” “He’s started drinking again. Heavy drinking, I mean.”

  “He’s got a god-awful road ahead of him.”

  “What if I can’t save him?”

  “What if you’re just there for him?”

  Something scuffled at the front door. Gethsemane gasped with a start that sent the Villaume sliding from her hands.

  Eamon’s well-aimed, pointed finger saved it from tragedy. “Careful.” He levitated the priceless instrument back into its case.

  “Did you hear that?” She stood and rushed to the cottage’s entry.

  “Not so fast.” Eamon materialized between her and the door. “Allow me.” He vanished.

  A moment later, the door swung open. Eamon stood on the threshold. An envelope levitated in front of him.

  Gethsemane grabbed it. “Did you see who left it?”

  “Nope. Not a soul in sight. I went all the way to the foot of Carrick Point Road.”

  The thin envelope weighed no more than a single sheet of paper. Gethsemane’s title and last name, “Dr. Brown,” marched in block print across the center front. No other writing, nor marks, nor stamps were present. She held it up to the light.

  “It’d be much easier to read if you opened it,” Eamon said. A letter opener appeared.

  She slit the top and unfolded the contents.

  A line drawn rendition of Malcolm Amott’s devil’s handshake tattoo filled most of the sheet. Below that, the printed words:

  Until next time.

  Gethse
mane gave into an urge she seldom yielded to. She sobbed.

  Thirty

  Gethsemane answered the door a few mornings later to find Agnes on Carraigfaire Cottage’s porch, tote bag slung over a shoulder, roll-aboard at her feet.

  “Agnes, you’re out of the hospital. How are you?”

  “Alive,” Agnes said, “for the time being, anyway.”

  She swung the door wide. “Come in.”

  Agnes chuckled without mirth. “Are you sure you want a known criminal in your home?”

  “Agnes, I—”

  “It’s okay. I know what I’ve done. I know what I am. Thanks for the invitation but I’m not staying. I didn’t want to leave Dunmullach without saying thank you and goodbye. And to ask you to give my thanks to Frankie and Father Tim.”

  “Where are you going? Back to New York?”

  “Back to Sunny’s home turf?” Agnes shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  “Back to New Orleans?”

  “Back to the scene of the crime to ’fess up and throw myself on the mercy of the justice system? What’s the word they use over here? Fecking? Are you fecking kidding?”

  “It’s more like ‘feckin.’ Drop the ‘g.’ Add ‘eejit’ after for the full effect. ‘Cop on, ya feckin’ eejit, what’d I be doin’ that fer?’”

  Eamon’s voice sounded in Gethsemane’s ear. “Not bad, darlin’. The brogue’s improved.”

  “The answer’s no. I’m not going to go back and turn myself in. Agnes Haywood is not a do-the-right-thing type of girl. I’m going to take a page from Sunny’s book—” Agnes laughed. “As if Sunny Markham ever read a book. I’m going to take a post from Sunny’s feed and look after me. You don’t know what to say.”

  “Um, good luck with that?”

  Agnes sighed and her shoulders slumped as if a great weight had just landed on her. The tote bag slid to the ground.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside?” Gethsemane asked.

  “I’m sure.” Agnes shook herself and hoisted her bag. “The real reason I’m not going back to New York or New Orleans—aside from not wanting to risk serving a lengthy prison term in a Louisiana prison—is that those are the first two places Mal will look for me.”

  “You really think Mal will—”

  “Come after me? I heard what Rosalie said in the baptistry. That Mal’s deal with the devil means he lives until I die. And I heard the hatred in Mal’s voice. Yes, I know he will come after me. If he catches me, well, a Louisiana prison would look like heaven in comparison. So, hi ho, hi ho, it’s on the run I go.”

  “You should go to Father Tim. Ask him to—”

  “Pray for my miserable soul? Ask God’s forgiveness on my behalf? Do you believe everyone deserves forgiveness, Gethsemane?”

  She thought for a moment. “I believe everyone deserves a chance at redemption.”

  “You’re a better person than I am. How could I redeem myself for leaving Jared to die? Mal will never forgive me. Mal will kill me if he finds me and he’s got an eternity to spend looking for me. I intend to drag the search out as long as possible.”

  “Good luck with that. I mean it.”

  “You could do me a favor.” Agnes rolled her suitcase toward Gethsemane. “Donate the case and its contents to a local thrift shop.”

  “Won’t you need clothes? Unless you’re planning to hide out from Mal at a nudist colony.”

  Agnes patted her tote bag. “I’m only traveling with what I can carry in here. I’ll buy anything else I need when I get to…wherever I’m going. I need to stay six steps ahead of Mal, which means I need to travel light.” She pushed the case closer to Gethsemane. “They’re quality clothes. They’d earn at least a few bucks for a charity.”

  “A few Euros.” Gethsemane rolled the case inside. “I’ll take it.”

  “Thank you,” Agnes said. “For everything. For saving my life, unworthy as it is.”

  “Everyone’s worth saving.”

  “Even Ty? Sunny?”

  As much as she’d disliked Ty and couldn’t stand Sunny, she didn’t wish either of them dead. “Even Ty and Sunny.”

  “Even Mal?”

  Malcolm Amott, motivated to kill out of pain and anguish over the unpunished death of a cousin who’d been like a brother to him. “Even Mal.” Especially Mal. “But I don’t think he wants saving.”

  “No, he wants retribution. Unholy retribution. He’s waited all these years, he can continue to wait.”

  “How will you get by? Moneywise, I mean.”

  “When I said I was in finance, I meant I’m an expert financial planner. I have money saved. And Rosalie left me a little something. I received a letter from her addressed to me at Sweeney’s Inn yesterday. She’d mailed it before—before what happened at the church.” Agnes shifted her bag to her other shoulder and offered Gethsemane her hand. “My flight leaves Cork airport in a couple of hours. I have to go.”

  “Take care of yourself, Agnes.”

  “Thank you. And say a prayer for me, if you’re so inclined. Every little bit helps. Bye.”

  Gethsemane watched as Agnes disappeared around the bend in the road leading to Carrick Point.

  Eamon materialized next to her, glowing a worried saffron. “You’d do well to take care of yourself, darlin’. Mal’s the vengeful type. You bollixed his plan. I doubt he’s best pleased with you. He’s got an eternity to nurse the grudge.”

  “Forever’s a long time to hold a grudge.”

  “He’s up to the challenge. Be careful. You’re my friend and I’m in no hurry to see you end up the way I am. There’s a limit to my watching over you. I mean, I’d offer to take a bullet for you, but—” He passed his hand through the wall. “I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that.”

  Gethsemane tip-toed to kiss his cheek. A charge zipped from her head to her fingertips as her lips passed through what would have been his skin.

  Eamon’s aura dimmed a bit, then brightened. “That tickled.”

  “Thanks, Irish, for having my back. I don’t show my appreciation as often as I should but I’m glad you chose to stick around.”

  “Aww, shucks.”

  “My brogue’s better than your cowboy accent.”

  “All joking aside, will you go see our favorite priest and ask him for a talisman or a blessing or a spell or something to keep Malcolm Amott from darkening our door?”

  “I will, I promise. This afternoon.”

  “I’m not coddin’, Gethsemane. The wanker sent you a note promising to return.”

  “I promise. What do you want me to do? Pinky swear?”

  “Will you also promise to stay away from dead bodies, dangerous supernatural forces, and murderers?”

  If only. “I don’t go looking for those things, Irish.” She shot the front door’s deadbolt. “They find me.”

  “I mean it about Father Tim.”

  “I mean it about going this afternoon. I have a couple of stops to make first.”

  Thirty-One

  Gethsemane rang the old-fashioned bell perched on the marble top of Sweeney’s Inn’s front desk and waited for the smartly uniformed desk clerk to appear.

  “How may I help you?” the young man asked.

  “I’m here to see Vivian Cunningham. Would you ring her room and see if she’s in?”

  The clerk hesitated. He fiddled with a pen and wouldn’t look at Gethsemane.

  “Vivian Cunningham,” she repeated. “She’s in—”

  “Miss Cunningham checked out.”

  “Checked out? When?”

  “Last night, ma’am.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “She didn’t say, ma’am. But I believe the ambulance took her to hospital.”

  “She left by ambulance?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”
<
br />   Gethsemane sighed. Sweeney’s Inn took discretion seriously. “Would you please just tell me what happened? I’m not a reporter nor a process server. I’m not going to broadcast the news nor where I got it all over town.”

  The clerk chewed his lower lip.

  “Please.” Gethsemane leaned her elbows on the desk and lowered her voice. “Miss Cunningham’s sister was my friend’s girlfriend. Frankie Grennan, do you know him? I’m going to see him later and I’m sure he’d be very concerned about Miss Vivian’s well-being.”

  The clerk hesitated once more, then leaned in toward Gethsemane. He spoke in hushed tones. “Miss Cunningham came down to the lobby late last night, said she couldn’t sleep and wanted to know if she could sit by the fireplace and if someone could bring her some paracetamol. Apparently, Miss Markham had the same problem because she came down to the lobby a few minutes after Miss Cunningham got here.” He paused.

  “Go on,” Gethsemane encouraged.

  “Miss Markham saw Miss Cunningham sitting by the fire, keeping herself to herself, by the way. She saw Miss Cunningham sitting and she went over to her. She lit into Miss Cunningham, calling her names and accusing her of ruining her wedding.”

  “What did Miss Cunningham do?”

  “Nothing, at first. Just tried to ignore Miss Markham. But after a moment or two of non-stop having her head ate off, Miss Cunningham stood up and punched Miss Markham in the mouth.”

  Gethsemane’s mouth fell open. She echoed the clerk. “She punched Miss Markham?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And that’s when the holy show began. A real knockdown, drag out.”

  Gethsemane surveyed the lobby. No disarray. Nothing broken or bent. Everything in its immaculate place.

  “We cleaned up.” The clerk sounded indignant.

  “Then what?” Gethsemane asked. “How’d the fight end?”

  “We called the guards and they came and broke things up. Between you and me, I’d declare Miss Cunningham the winner. No knockout, but I’d award points for technique and form.”