Killing in C Sharp Page 24

  “Ciara,” Venus said.

  “And no sign of Aed—Wait. Yes, there is. Over by the stage. You can just see him.”

  “Ciara’s near the body and Aed’s not. How did Hardy not notice this?”

  “Maybe he was so hung up on capturing a ghost on video he didn’t register two humans on the periphery. Honestly,” Gethsemane handed Venus the phone, “if you’d filmed this, which would you have paid most attention to?”

  “The ghost. But I might have realized later, while I was lying around sick and wondering if I was dying, what else I’d recorded.”

  “And asked the person in the video what they were doing in the vicinity of a murdered man. Especially if that person was about to flee to New Zealand.”

  “Prompting the person to stab me in the heart and try to find the evidence.”

  Both women rose and said, in unison, “Back to the hotel.”

  Twenty-Two

  Gethsemane and Venus burst into the lobby of Sweeney’s Inn. Gethsemane grabbed Poe coming down the stairs.

  “Where’s Ciara? Have you seen her?”

  Poe shook her head and brushed off Gethsemane’s hand. “No. Why would I have? She’s not my mother. I didn’t check in with her when I got back from the pub.”

  “I saw her,” Kent said. “Last night. She told me about the theater. Thank you for helping her.”

  Thanks for helping a murderer. Had anyone told them about Hardy? “I’m sorry about, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Kent said. “Me, too. Hardy and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but I liked him. He deserved better than what he got.”

  “We all did.” Poe hefted her bag onto her shoulder.

  Kent turned on her. “Shut up, Poe. For eff’s sake. Nothing’s about you. Nobody’s wronged you. You didn’t get sick, you didn’t get murdered.”

  “I didn’t get my evidence. And Maja got shafted.”

  Kent leaned close to Poe. His breath made her blue bangs flicker. “Do me a favor. Change your flight. I don’t want to be trapped in a metal tube thirty thousand feet in the air with a sociopathic, what’s the word?”

  “Gobshite,” Gethsemane offered.

  “Gobshite, who cares more about a toxic ghost who damned near wiped out half a village than she does about a decent human she worked with for two years. So please do me, and the flight crew who will have to keep me from choking you, a favor and book a different flight. And you’re fired, in case you hadn’t figured that out.”

  “You can’t fire me. I’m your partner. I own part of your production company.”

  “I can fire, and am firing, you from my television crew. Check the contract, I have that right. And while you’re at it, read the terms for buying me out of the production side of the house. Or let me buy you out. Doesn’t matter.”

  Poe gawped then started to speak. She looked at Kent, and instead, wiped a sniffle on her sleeve and stomped out of the hotel.

  “I’m glad I got a chance to say goodbye to you,” Kent said. “I know you’ll be glad to see the back of me. You’ll also be happy to know this episode will probably never air. Out of respect for Hardy and because the cops confiscated most of our footage.”

  “The gardaí are letting you go?” Gethsemane asked.

  “Some of us, the ones whose alibis they verified.”

  “Ciara, did they give her permission to leave?”

  Kent shrugged. “They must have. She cleared out early.” He teared up. “She left without saying goodbye.”

  Venus glanced at her watch. “Should we try the airport?”

  “Do you think she could have made it to Cork already?” Gethsemane asked. She turned to Kent. “The SUV? Is it still here?”

  “Yeah, the car, too. We’ll return them to the rental place at the airport. Why?”

  “Ciara couldn’t have gone to the airport yet,” Gethsemane said. “The train doesn’t leave until this afternoon and she wouldn’t have gone on foot.”

  “Cab?” Venus suggested.

  Gethsemane hooked her fingers in her hair and pressed her palms against her temples. What to do? These days, the airline wasn’t likely to give out information about a passenger over the phone. Nor the cab company. How much time would they waste if they went to the airport and Ciara wasn’t there? If they guessed wrong, she’d have time to go to ground. She could be halfway to New Zealand, or wherever she was really going, before anyone noticed. They could go to the gardaí, show the video to Sutton—but he’d see Eamon. Probably. Maybe. Could someone unable to see ghosts in person see them on camera? Isn’t that why the Ghost Hunting Adventures boys did what they did? No time to find out for certain. She grabbed Venus’s phone.

  “Hey, I’m making a call.”

  “You can have it back.” She opened the media player and advanced to the portion of the recording that featured Eamon.

  Kent peered over her shoulder. “Hey, is that—”

  “Nope.” Gethsemane used the editing functions to crop and delete frames so only images of Ciara and Aed remained. “Not anymore, it’s not.”

  She removed the SD card and took it to the desk clerk. “Miss, call the guards. Tell them Gethsemane Brown—trust me, they’ll know the name—has proof Ciara Tierney murdered Bernard Stoltz. Tell them I don’t know where Ciara is, but I’m trying to find her. Ask for Inspector Bill Sutton.” She pressed the card into the clerk’s hand. “Give that to Inspector Sutton. No one else. Hand it to him personally, understand?”

  The clerk nodded.

  Kent had followed her to the desk. “What are you talking about? What do you mean, Ciara killed Bernard? Are you nuts?”

  “I’m serious,” Gethsemane said. “She probably killed Hardy, too. I’m sorry. I wish I had time to explain.”

  “You’re wrong. Ciara loves life. She’d never take one.”

  “I don’t have time to convince you—”

  “Ciara went through some health challenges recently, but she’d turned a corner. She made plans, decided to start checking items off her bucket list. She actually wrote it out, showed it to me. Murder wasn’t on it.”

  Was revenge? Did anyone start working their way through their bucket list unless they thought they were…“Did Ciara take any meds, Kent?”

  “A few.”

  “A powerful narcotic pain medication? Sufentanil?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw them. She kept them in her bag.”

  “You never peeked?”

  “I trusted Ciara.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you know what was wrong with her?”

  “Something to do with her bones.”

  “Like bone cancer?”

  “No. Not cancer. She would have told me.” He hesitated. “At least, I’m pretty sure she would have told me.” His shoulders slumped. “I would have hoped she would have told me. Trusted me. Maybe I didn’t know her as well as I thought.”

  Venus tapped Gethsemane on the shoulder. “I know where Ciara is. At least I’ve narrowed it down to two places. She’s either at the school’s boathouse or the abandoned asylum.”

  “You know this how?” Gethsemane asked.

  “I just hung up with my Dublin informant. One of his, er, associates, a guy who specializes in customized travel and identity documents—”

  “You mean a forger.”

  “A service provider. Anyway, this guy’s meeting a client here in Dunmullach. A client who wants to buy a new identity. The meeting’s either at the asylum or the boathouse. My informant didn’t know which. Seems his associate likes to surround himself with a bit of mystery. He had to promise him three referrals for future business and a bottle of Barry Crockett to get as much out of him as he did.”

  “Ciara’s the Dunmullach client. She has to be. How many people can there be in this village who need to become someone else?”

  “What a
bout Sylvie?” Kent asked. “Or Sadie, or whatever her name is? Maybe she’s the one you’re after. I’m telling you, there’s no way Cee would—”

  Gethsemane interrupted. “I’m sorry, Kent, but Ciara’s the one Hardy’s camera caught near Bernard’s body.” She turned to Venus. “Didn’t your informant give you a description of the buyer or any other details? No names?”

  Venus shrugged. “He’s an informant, not WikiLeaks.”

  “It’s Ciara,” Gethsemane said. “We both know it’s Ciara.”

  Kent scuffed his shoe at the floor and swiped at his eye with the back of his hand. A damp trail glistened on his cheek.

  “We all know it’s Ciara,” Gethsemane whispered.

  “One way to find out for sure,” Venus said. “School or asylum? Home team gets first choice.”

  St. Dymphna’s. Gethsemane’s head throbbed just thinking of the place. She touched the small scar above her eyebrow. Not even Hank Wayne’s entire fortune could get her to go there again. “I’ll take the boathouse.” She grabbed Kent’s arm. “Don’t leave. Wait here. When the police arrive, tell them what you just heard.”

  She didn’t want to place odds on whose rescue the guards would rush to.

  Gethsemane pressed herself against the wall of the boathouse. She peered around the corner at the empty dock. Normally full of students and faculty celebrating the arrival of spring, the entire lake area had been put off-limits during the quarantine. The only noise came from metal cleats banging against empty flag poles in a sudden chill wind. She shuddered. “Eerie” would have been an atmospheric improvement.

  She pulled her jacket tighter and inched toward the boathouse door. She peered into a window but saw only nondescript shapes hulking in the darkness. Ciara must not be here. Wouldn’t you need to turn on a light to buy a new passport?

  Gethsemane tried the door. Unlocked. She slipped her arm inside and found a light switch. The bright overheads revealed the shapes to be racing sculls, suspended on racks, and sailboats. Water lapped on the sides of the sailboats open to the lake. No sign of anyone. She crept in, pausing to grab an oar from a rack near the door.

  Should she call Venus? Warn her that Ciara was most likely there? What if Venus was hiding, waiting for Ciara to show? A ringing phone would give her away. What if Ciara was coming to the boathouse but Gethsemane had gotten there first? Where was Tchaikovsky to warn her when she really needed him? She’d wait until the police showed. Oh, please let Kent be trusted to tell the guards where she and Venus had gone.

  A noise made her catch her breath. It came from the rear of the boathouse, behind the sailboats that had been pulled out of the water. She gripped the oar tight like a bat. Her usual trick of reciting Negro League baseball stats failed to slow her heart rate or quiet her nerves. With the oar held high and her back to the boats, she crept toward the noise.

  She heard it again, louder this time. A moan. She stooped and saw a pair of legs splayed on the ground. A boat obscured the legs’ owner. She crept closer. A man lay crumpled in a corner. His head lolled and blood trickled from his mouth. A fishing spear extended from his chest. She guessed Ciara had come and gone.

  “Don’t move, sir. I’m calling for an ambulance now.” She set the oar down and pulled out her phone. It might be crap in terms of memory card capacity, but it worked well enough to call 999.

  The man moaned again. His eyes darted to something behind her.

  She turned and saw Ciara bringing an oar down on her head. She managed to move enough to keep the bludgeon from cracking her skull. It landed on her arm and sent her phone skittering under a boat. Pain shot up to her shoulder. She tried to grab her oar with her uninjured arm, but Ciara kicked it out of the way as she swung again. Gethsemane rolled and the oar glanced off her ankle. She waited until the stars faded and warded off tunnel vision while she wriggled far enough beneath sailboats to be out of target range. She saw her phone. Ciara saw it, too, and kicked it hard enough to send it splashing into the water.

  Ciara ran. Gethsemane heard her shoes against the tile floor moving away from her toward the door. Then the lights went out. She saw a slice of natural light for a few seconds as the door opened. She heard a motor start, then the door slammed, leaving her and the injured man in darkness.

  It took her a minute to sort it out. Ciara had left them in the boathouse with a running motor to suffocate. Gethsemane rolled until she could hold her head over the water. The boathouse wasn’t completely closed off—Ciara hadn’t had time to think her plan through—but who knew if the ratio of fresh air to carbon monoxide was enough to prevent her demise? She didn’t intend to wait to find out. She cursed Ciara for knocking her phone in the water and half dragged herself, half limped to the crumpled man.

  Not that he’d last until an ambulance came. Probably wouldn’t last until she dialed the emergency number’s second nine. Ciara had claimed her third victim; damned if she’d be the fourth. She tried to stand up, but the man grabbed her wrist with the last of his strength. He made a faint gesture toward his breast pocket. Gethsemane reached around the spear. She felt small plastic cards and what must have been a passport. Ciara hadn’t had time to collect her spoils. Gethsemane pulled the documents from the man’s pocket. He had passed the point of noticing. She rummaged and found his phone in a pants pocket. For all the good it did. Password protected and no emergency call option. Because why would a forger want to call the cops or let anyone use his phone? She tossed it aside and groped her way to the door. The pain in her arm and ankle had subsided to a dull throb. She could still use them, so no broken bones. She’d have some godawful bruises though. She tried the door. Jammed. The window framed the tip of the oar Ciara had wedged through the door handle. She followed the chug, chug, chug to find the motor in a corner and shut it off, then found a light switch. She guessed Ciara hadn’t gone far; she still needed the identity documents now in Gethsemane’s pocket. If she stayed put, would Ciara come back, hoping she was dead, or near enough, to claim the keys to her new life? Gethsemane grabbed an oar and hid behind the door.

  Minutes passed like eons. Something scraped and slid across the wooden deck outside the boathouse. The door inched open.

  Gethsemane sprang, back in action to her softball days. This former star pitcher had been none too shabby at bat. She went for the home run and swung the oar as hard as she could.

  The door created an awkward angle, and the brunt of the blow landed on the door jamb. Ciara jumped backward. As she fell, she grabbed the oar she’d used to block the door and thrust it into the boathouse. Gethsemane deflected it with her own oar. She kicked Ciara in the shin which knocked Ciara away from the door but set her ankle throbbing again. She struggled to put weight on it as Ciara geared up for another oar strike.

  Gethsemane braced herself—

  No blow. Ciara made a muffled noise and fell sideways. Gethsemane waited. Seconds passed with only incoherent sounds coming from the other side of the door. She poked her head outside. Venus stood over Ciara’s moaning, fetal-positioned form, shaking her hand in the air and massaging her knuckles. Blood streamed from Ciara’s nose.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t see that.” Inspector Sutton stepped into view.

  “Defense of a life, Inspector,” Venus said. “It’s allowed.”

  The inspector grinned and knelt by Ciara. He advised her of her rights.

  Cuffed and on her feet, Ciara asked Gethsemane, “Why couldn’t you just let me go? Ben Schlossberg deserved to die. He killed my daughter.” Efforts to press her nose to her shoulder failed to stop the crimson liquid dripping onto her lip. Sutton fished in his pocket, then pressed a handkerchief against her face.

  “Did Aed deserve to take the blame for it?” Venus asked

  Ciara tilted her head back to speak under Sutton’s hand. “Aed abandoned his son.”

  “Who you killed,” Gethsemane said.

  Ciara hung he
r head. A uniformed garda led her away.

  “There’s another body inside,” Gethsemane said to the Inspector.

  “Three’s about your average, isn’t it?” He squeezed past her and disappeared into the depths of the boathouse.

  “It’s not like I do this on purpose,” Gethsemane called after him. “It’s your informant’s associate,” she said to Venus. She pulled Ciara’s identity documents from her pocket.

  “Passport, New Zealand driver’s license, credit cards, social,” Venus called out as Gethsemane went through them. “Guess Ciara was serious about the Kiwi thing.”

  “Look at the name she was going to travel under.” Gethsemane held up the passport. “Karen Rourke.”

  “Why’d she do it?” Venus asked. “I mean why now? After all these years?”

  “You said it. Sufentanil’s prescribed to people who are dying. The text I sent Mother about those meds in Ciara’s dopp kit? She answered. Mother’s bridge partner is an oncologist. They share some patients; Mother treats their depression and anxiety so she has to keep up with the oncology meds. Prednisone, ondansetron, iron supplements, and powerful narcotics? They’re used for cancer, for palliative care. Ciara’s dying. Guess murder was on the version of her bucket list she didn’t show Kent.”

  Twenty-Three

  “Are you sure you’re up to this, Frankie?” Gethsemane held the hospital door as he navigated an over-sized floral-balloon display through and into the lobby.

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” She retrieved an errant balloon.

  “Don’t fuss. I’m fine, completely recovered.” He smothered a yawn against his shoulder. “Almost completely.”

  His color and irascible nature had returned to normal since his release from the infirmary two days prior. “You’re recovered enough to be a grump. And I’m not fussing. I’m expressing concern for your well-being. You and Niall are the ones who fuss whenever I plan to do something unladylike.” She pushed the elevator “up” button.

  “Get out of here with that. Neither the inspector nor I have ever suggested you limit your pursuits to those suited for the fairer sex. Niall may have recommended you avoid situations liable to get you killed or arrested. I, on the other hand, have allowed you to goad me into joining you in your not-strictly-legal endeavors.”