EXECUTION IN E Read online

  She wandered, preoccupied. She looked up when she tripped over the step leading up to the iron gate surrounding the parish church, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. A sign. She’d talk to Father Tim. Father Tim Keating gave good advice, wise counsel, and the occasional paranormal insight gleaned from the library of occult books he inherited from his late brother, also Father Keating, an official exorcist for the Catholic church.

  She found Father Tim at home in the rectory.

  “Gethsemane, welcome.” He greeted her with a hearty handshake, both of his hands clasped around hers. “Come in, come in. A cuppa tea? Or—” He studied her face.

  “Some advice,” Gethsemane said.

  Father Time ushered her into his study. “Tell me what’s troubling you. No angry spirits or curses, I hope.”

  “A mundane problem this time.” She retold Vivian’s story. “What should I do? Part of me feels telling Frankie would be little more than gossiping but another part of me feels like not telling him would be disloyal, holding out on a friend.”

  “Why don’t you reach out to Verna? Offer her your support and understanding. If she realizes people who care about her won’t judge her, she’ll tell Frankie herself.”

  “You’re right, of course. I knew you’d give me solid advice. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

  “How about that cuppa tea, then?” Father Tim headed toward the kitchen. He soon returned to the study with a loaded tea tray. He served them both and they settled in to enjoy their Bewley’s.

  A knock at the door interrupted them. Father Tim excused himself to answer it and returned with one of Sunny’s attendants. A carnation pink cardigan over a calico sundress had replaced the salmon pink silk gown she’d worn at the lighthouse.

  Father Tim introduced her to Gethsemane. “This is Miss Baraquin.”

  “Rosalie.” She shook Gethsemane’s hand. Away from Sunny, the slim, American, brunette seemed bright and cordial, if a bit nervous, not like the vapid clotheshorse Gethsemane had initially taken her to be. “I know your name, of course. Nice to officially meet you.”

  “Join us for a cup?” Father Tim asked.

  “Not for me, thank you. And if I’ve come at a bad time…” She bit her lip.

  “Something’s troubling you.” Father Tim made it a statement rather than a question.

  “No trouble…” She hesitated and glanced from Father Tim to Gethsemane. She pushed the sleeves of her cardigan up.

  Gethsemane spied an ornate “27” superimposed on a heart shot through with an arrow and surrounded by circles tattooed on Rosalie’s inner forearm. So, Mal wasn’t the only one sporting artist-quality ink. Rosalie must have used makeup to hide hers earlier, up at the lighthouse. The salmon-colored slip dress certainly hadn’t covered it. The skimpy dress hadn’t covered much of anything.

  Rosalie noticed her stare and pushed her sleeves back into place. “I’ll come back later, Father.”

  “Please stay.” Gethsemane drained her teacup and stood. “I’d better run. It’s getting late and I want to ride back to the cottage before it gets dark.”

  “Please don’t let me run you off Dr. Brown,” Rosalie said. “I can come back—” She toyed with the cuff of her sweater.

  Gethsemane waved off the suggestion. If she’d been one of Sunny Markham’s bridesmaids, she’d need spiritual guidance, too. “No. You stay. If something’s troubling you, Father Tim’s the man to see. He’ll get you sorted. And call me Gethsemane.”

  “Will I see you Sunday?” Father Tim asked her.

  “At the late service. You know me and early mornings.” Although an Episcopalian, Gethsemane attended Catholic services at Our Lady. Father Tim delivered the best sermons she’d ever heard and the hospitality committee’s coffee rivaled that of any Episcopalian church.

  Father Tim escorted her to the door.

  Rosalie called after her. An apprehensive expression flickered across the bridesmaid’s face. “Please, be careful,” she said.

  “Going home? Don’t worry, it’s an easy ride. And this is a pretty safe village.” Despite the string of murders that had occurred since her arrival.

  Rosalie didn’t answer right away. Apprehension battled with uncertainty for control of her features. The moment passed and the non-committal, social media-appropriate expression she’d worn at the lighthouse took over. “Yes, going home. That’s what I meant. Be careful going home. Like you said, it’s getting dark. Time for the haints and boo hags to come out. Kidding,” she added when Gethsemane didn’t laugh.

  “They call them taibhse and Cailleach around here. Kidding,” she added when Rosalie didn’t smile.

  Gethsemane bid priest and bridesmaid goodnight then stood on the porch for a moment after Father Tim closed the door behind her. If Rosalie had only meant be careful going home, why had Tchaikovsky’s “Pathétique” gone off in her head like a clarion?

  When she arrived back at the inn, she found Ty holding her bike with one hand, a cigarette in the other.

  She snatched the bike. “Why are you here?”

  He indicated the cigarette. “No smoking in the inn.” His shoulders shook with a coughing spasm.

  “Sounds like you shouldn’t be smoking outside the inn, either. What I meant was, why are you here in Dunmullach? Really? And don’t tell me you’re only here to marry Sunny. You can afford to get married anywhere in the world. You could court sponsors in Paris, London, or Timbuktu as easily as you could in Dunmullach. I doubt your wife-to-be is thrilled by the thought of planning her future with you while your ex hangs about in the background.”

  He dragged on his cigarette and narrowed his eyes at her.

  “What’s that look?”

  “I’m studying you. I can’t suss you out. Not something I say often. I pride myself on knowing everyone’s game.”

  “I’m easy to figure out, Ty. I just want to know. Why. Are. You. Here?”

  He dodged the question. “I’m surprised Vern hooked up with your friend. Redheads were never her type.”

  “Oh, don’t even.” Gethsemane drew herself up to her full five-foot-three and stepped toward Ty. “Don’t go there. You will not interfere in their relationship.”

  “Who’d stop me?” Smoke streamed from his nostrils. Coughs followed.

  She stepped back, fear of contagion outweighing her anger. “I’d stop you. If that foulness in your chest doesn’t stop you first.”

  “Foulness? You mean my cold, shriveled heart?”

  “That, too, but I was talking about your cough.”

  “I’ll pretend your concern for my health is genuine. I’ve got things under control.” He pulled two pill bottles from his pocket and shook them. “Or soon will.”

  “Drugs? Is that how you deal with Sunny? By staying constantly under the influence?” She glanced at his other pocket. Flat. Empty. “Find your flask yet?”

  “You’re a wee snarky one, aren’t you?”

  “I do my best.”

  Ty grinned and shook the bottles again. “It’s medication legitimately prescribed by a licensed health care professional.” He tossed one of the bottles her way. “See for yourself. I’ve nothing to hide.”

  Gethsemane caught the bottle mid-air with an overhand catch, pleased to see Ty’s surprised expression. “High school softball champ,” she explained. “And, as for you having nothing to hide, you’re as rotten a liar as you are a human being.”

  “Ouch.” Ty crushed his cigarette butt under his heel and lit another. “I protest. I’m a much better liar.”

  Gethsemane turned the bottle over in her hand. Through the amber plastic, the capsules looked like Vivian’s ADHD medication. “What are these?”

  Ty held out a hand and Gethsemane tossed the bottle back. “An antibiotic. Evoxil. That and some Benylin,” Ty tapped the other bottle, “and I’ll be right as rain, as they say.”


  “I hope you keep better track of your meds than you do of your flask.”

  “Your concern for my well-being touches me.”

  “Sorry, it was a reflex, basic humanity-level concern for a fellow being. I forgot for a minute you’re inhuman.”

  “Such flattery. I’m surprised you don’t have all the men chasing after you with sweet talk like that.”

  “I’m surprised no one’s pushed you in front of a bus. Tell me how you avoid succumbing to justifiable homicide.”

  “I manage. Tell me, how do you plan to stop me from reminding Verna what she’s losing out on? Let me guess, you’re going to run to your ginger mate and tattle on me. Tell him I’m after his mot.”

  “Since I don’t have time to wait for the cocktail of meds and nicotine and whatever you keep in that mercurial silver flask to do you in, how about I run to your ginger fiancée and tell her that I caught you with your hand up Verna’s skirt?”

  “You mean you’d lie about me.”

  Did she imagine the fleeting look of admiration in Ty’s eyes? “I thought you’d appreciate that.”

  Ty grinned, the closest she’d seen to a genuine smile. “You fight dirty. I admire that in a woman. But you’d better be careful who you take on.”

  “As should you. Push me or my friends too far and—”

  “And?”

  She’d almost said she’d summon the hounds of hell to kill him in his sleep. But, given her recent dealings with ghosts, curses, and vengeful spirits, best not to joke.

  One of the inn’s bellmen approached. “Sorry, to interrupt.” He nodded at Gethsemane and then at Ty. “Someone turned this in at the front desk for you, sir. You left it behind at the bar.” He held out Ty’s flask.

  “The prodigal flask returns. Thank you.” Ty held the silver vessel near his ear and shook it. “Did you top it off for me?”

  “No, sir,” the bellman deadpanned.

  “Anyone slip you a few Euros to drop some poison in it?”

  “No, sir.” The bellman nodded again. “Please excuse me.”

  After the bellman had gone, Gethsemane asked Ty, “You know Vivian was kidding when she—”

  “When she threatened to kill me for the umpteenth time?” Ty yawned. “Vivi does tend to perseverate. She becomes tedious. She was not, however, kidding. Both Cunningham sisters would happily stab me in the heart, given the chance. Luckily, like the man in the movie, my heart is my least vulnerable spot.”

  “Don’t ruin Casablanca for me.” She loathed the thought of sharing anything with Ty, even love of a classic film. “If you really believe Vivian or Verna would kill you, I repeat my previous question. Why are you here?”

  “What’s life when lived without danger?” He added, in response to Gethsemane’s frown, “You don’t believe I’m afraid of either of those two? They’re as much of a threat to me as a mouse is to a ravenous lion.”

  “Don’t underestimate the mouse.”

  A coughing spell cut off his response. Gethsemane turned her back on him and knelt to examine her bike.

  Ty choked down a couple of pills from one of the bottles. “Problem?” Cough subsided, he dragged on his cigarette. A stream of smoke escaped from a corner of his mouth.

  “Checking to make sure you didn’t sabotage anything.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  She climbed onto the Pashley. “Any other stupid questions you want to ask before I go?”

  Ty flicked his cigarette onto the pavement. “Not today. Ride safe.”

  “Evening, Gethsemane, Ty.”

  Gethsemane turned to see Malcolm exiting the inn, headed for the parking lot.

  “Sunny’s looking for you Ty,” the photographer said.

  “That’s my sunshine. Consistently persistent,” Ty said. “Where are you off to?” he asked Mal.

  “No place in particular.” Malcolm addressed Gethsemane. “I thought I’d further explore your charming village. Any suggestions?”

  “Have you walked along the cliffs? The view out over the bay is spectacular,” Gethsemane said. “And St. Brennan’s Boys’ School has some gorgeous gardens. You won’t be able to get into the buildings, but the campus is open. Head down to the boathouse; the dock gives you a great view of the lake.”

  “Lake?” Malcolm’s eyes brightened. “And a boathouse. Can I take a boat out? Nothing better than an evening sail, is there, Ty?”

  Ty shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Or are they shells instead of sailboats? My rowing’s a bit rusty but I think I could manage not to fall in.”

  Ty snorted.

  “Sailboats and shells,” Gethsemane said, “but for students and faculty, only. Sorry.”

  “My luck.” Mal laughed, not seeming upset. “I love being out on the water. Sailing, fishing, rowing…How about you, Ty?”

  “I prefer dry land.”

  “If you’re looking for something more challenging than a stroll along the cliffs or through a garden,” Gethsemane said, “you can hike around the lake and from the lake back to the village by following the stream. It runs under Our Lady and the market square before feeding into the river that goes out to the bay. You can follow the stream as far as the park across from the Garda station.”

  “Any place else in the village where it surfaces?”

  Gethsemane shook her head. “I don’t think so, not now, anyway. It used to come up by the original Our Lady—they used it to fill the old baptismal pool—but it’s been built over.”

  “Mal!” Vivian bounded toward him, arm raised in greeting. She stopped mid-wave when she saw Gethsemane and Ty. Her smile morphed into a scowl. “Oh. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “You’re not,” Malcolm said. “I asked Gethsemane to recommend some local attractions. I’ve opted for the hike around the lake.”

  Vivian glared at Ty, her hands clenched into fists, an engorged vein tracing an angry path from her temple to her neck. Ty smirked and lit another cigarette.

  “You ever consider giving those up, Ty?” Malcolm asked.

  “Nope,” he answered around a stream of smoke. “Something else will kill me before these do, right, Viv?” He winked at her.

  Gethsemane and Malcolm stepped between Ty and Vivian as Vivian lunged forward. Malcolm put a hand on her arm. “Why don’t you join me? I’d enjoy the company.”

  Vivian stepped back and unclenched her hands. She kept her eyes on Ty as she spoke. “Thank you, Mal. I’d love to join you. I need some fresh air.”

  “Have fun,” Ty said.

  “Crawl in a hole and die,” Vivian responded.

  Malcolm gestured toward the parking lot. “Shall we? Best we get started before it gets too late.”

  After a final expletive directed at Ty, Vivian strode away. Malcolm turned to follow her but paused to ask over his shoulder. “By the way, Ty? Did you get your flask back? I found it on the bar and asked the front desk to hold it for you. If I’d known I’d run into you, I’d have given it to you myself.”

  Ty displayed the flask.

  “That’s all right, then,” Malcolm said. “Gethsemane, good evening.”

  “Same to you,” she said.

  He hurried to catch up with Vivian.

  Gethsemane watched Ty for several seconds. He puffed his cigarette and stared back. “You really are the devil incarnate, aren’t you?”

  “Nah,” he said. “The devil’s got nothing on me.”

  “T-y-y-y?” Sunny’s lilt carried from some unseen location. Gethsemane cringed at its irritating, sing-song quality.

  “Where are you, sweetie?” Sunny sounded closer. “I need you. Don’t make me look for you. You know how I hate to have to look for you.” The girlish tone carried an undercurrent of malice.

  “I bet she pulls wings off flies during her downtime,” Gethsemane said.
/>   Ty chuckled and swigged from his returned flask before answering. “Over here, dearest sunshine, heart of my heart.”

  “Bane of my existence,” Gethsemane muttered.

  Ty chuckled again. Sunny appeared around the corner of the inn. A frown creased her brow when she spotted Gethsemane, replaced by an expression of charmed surprise so quickly, Gethsemane wondered if the frown had ever been there.

  “Doc-tor Brown,” Sunny said as she threaded her arm through Ty’s. She pulled him close to her, away from Gethsemane. “Thank you for babysitting my man. I hope he didn’t trouble you too much.”

  Ty smiled down at Sunny. His flask disappeared into a pocket. “I’m not a bit of trouble.” He paused, then added with a sidelong glance at Gethsemane, “Am I, Doctor Brown?”

  Was he daring her to say something about Verna? Or threatening her not to? Either way, he had it coming. “No trouble to me—” she began.

  Sunny cut her off. “Of course, he wasn’t. My Ty’s a peach. A yummy, perfect peach.” She kissed him.

  “An Insta-perfect peach,” Gethsemane said under her breath.

  “Speaking of perfect,” Sunny said, “we’ll be up at the lighthouse later this evening. Just Ty and me, to take some night shots. You won’t mind.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Just you and Ty? You’re taking selfies?”

  “Of course not.” Sunny made a disdainful noise. “We’ll bring Mal. I’m paying him a fortune; I’m going to use him.”

  “Speaking of Mal, where’d you find him? He doesn’t fit my image of a wedding photographer.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Sunny gestured as if nothing Mal did before working for her mattered. “Some gallery. In New York? New Orleans? Where was it, Ty?”