EXECUTION IN E Page 6

  “What are you, um, baking?” She picked up a pan filled with thick, lumpy batter the color of beets.

  “A medieval veal and vegetable pie.”

  “Rephrase. Why are you baking?” One whiff of the pan convinced her to set it down and push it aside. No amount of nose wrinkling could get rid of the smell. “This reminds me why I don’t cook.”

  “Saoirse’s studying the culinary history of the British Isles and Europe. We’ve reached the medieval period. Have you ever tried to convert a sixteenth-century recipe to the metric system?”

  Gethsemane pictured mischievous, blonde, twelve-year-old Saoirse Nolan in the kitchen with Father Tim. The prescient, precocious young genius, privately tutored by the priest since her parents discovered the local schools had run out of subjects to keep her brilliant mind occupied by the time she turned seven, displayed talent, skills, and abilities in broad areas. Cooking, however, was not an area in which she’d shown any interest.

  “Wouldn’t Saoirse rather study medieval weapons?” Gethsemane asked.

  “That’s next month.” Tim closed the cookbook. “’Tis hopeless. I’ve made a right bags of the kitchen.”

  “I’m sorry I stopped by at a bad time. I should have called.”

  “Nonsense. You saved me from,” he waved his hand over the counter, “all this. Care for a cuppa tea?”

  Gethsemane surveyed the culinary detritus. “Let’s skip the Bewley’s this time.”

  She followed Tim into the study. “I apologize for coming by this late, but I’m stuck. I can’t shake this feeling that something bad’s about to happen. I’ve got no evidence, only a feeling—” And Tchaikovsky, she almost added.

  Tim settled in a chair across from her. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped, with no indication he took her anything other than seriously. “What do you think’s going to happen?”

  “These days, my bad feelings usually mean dead bodies. I don’t know what or how. Who? Ty? Sunny?” She hesitated. “Or Rosalie? What did she talk to you about earlier?”

  Tim leaned back in his chair, concern drawing his brow into a frown. “You know I can’t discuss that. Miss Baraquin came to me in confidence. What’s happened to make you think she may be in danger?” A raised eyebrow displaced the frown. “Sadly, I don’t need to ask what concerns you about Mr. Lismore and Miss Markham. Even if they weren’t the hottest topic on the local gossip circuit, their behavior makes it obvious theirs is a union created somewhere south of heaven. But you’re suggesting Miss Baraquin is in danger. You’re afraid some harm might befall her?”

  “Yes. Rosalie received a note from someone that…upset her. Her reaction seemed…” What? Out of proportion? By whose standards? What had Rosalie really done, aside from telegraph the message that her business was none of Gethsemane’s? And consult a priest. And deploy a charm to keep supernatural entities out of her hotel room? “She wasn’t happy about the note, which was a line drawing. I only glimpsed it for a few seconds, but I didn’t see any words. It seemed an odd reaction to a picture. Ea—someone suggested I talk to Niall. But when I hear myself tell the story and lay out the details—well, I don’t have any details. At least not the kind I’d take to law enforcement. So I came to you.” She studied Tim’s face. Not dismissive, not judgmental, not shocked. Did he wear this same inscrutable expression during confession when penitents confided their sins? “Should I go to Niall?”

  “The inspector’s a man who operates on evidence. He knows you well enough not to discount you, but he’d need something tangible to act on.” Tim cocked his head. “You don’t have anything tangible, do you? Like the note?”

  Niall wasn’t the only one who knew her well. “No. I, er, couldn’t figure out a way into Rosalie’s room.”

  Tim drummed his fingers on the chair arm. “I’ll visit Miss Baraquin in the morning to see how she’s doing after our chat. If you don’t mind me mentioning your name, I’ll tell her you noticed she appeared perturbed and offer my assistance. Perhaps she’ll open up to me.”

  “Thank you. You always come up with the most reasonable course of action. You’re impressively level-headed.”

  “Wish my dear aul wan, God rest her soul, could hear you say that. Growing up, my brother was the straight man and I was the one given to acting the maggot.”

  “Your brother, the exorcist, was the strait-laced one, and you, the parish priest, were the wild child?”

  “Sums it up,” Tim said.

  “There’s a concept for me to wrap my head around—the Keating brothers, a study in contrasts.” Gethsemane stood. “Thanks, again, for listening and, in advance, for your help. And for giving me something to ponder besides wedding disasters, social media, and cryptic messages.”

  “Always glad to help.” He escorted her to the door. “I’ll call you after I see Miss Baraquin. I hope I’ll be able to tell you there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Gethsemane pedaled home in semi-darkness, somewhat reassured by Tim’s promise to speak with Rosalie. He stood a good chance of finding out what upset—or frightened—her. Few people could resist opening up to the priest. She’d hold off on telling Niall her suspicions until after she heard from Tim. She wanted to offer the inspector something concrete, something that couldn’t be dismissed as a hunch, feminine intuition, or jiggery-pokery.

  She almost missed it. Sudden movement flashed in her peripheral vision. She turned her head just in time to see Vivian dart around a bend in the winding road leading to Carrick Point and barrel into her path.

  “Oh!” Gethsemane jerked the wheel of her bicycle to one side to avoid plowing into Vivian. She lost balance as her tire skidded on a rock. Curse words died on her lips as the road loomed toward her. She let go of the bike and twisted sideways, landing on her shoulder. “Oof!”

  “Shite!” Vivian squatted beside her. “Are you all right? Anything broken?”

  Gethsemane, stunned and winded by the impact, didn’t answer. She struggled to sort out what had happened. Her bike lay on its side, wheels spinning, a few feet from where she lay. She stared up at a worried Vivian. Vivian? What was Verna’s sister doing up on Carrick Point road?

  “Gethsemane? Are you all right?” Vivian held up her cellphone. “Shall I call an ambulance?”

  The thought of a night in the hospital snapped her out of her confusion. “No. No ambulance. I’m fine. Sore, but fine. I think.” She wiggled her fingers and flexed and extended her elbows. At least those worked. She could hold a baton or a violin. She flexed her toes, knees, and hips. They worked, too. “I’m fine. Help me up?” She extended a hand.

  Vivian helped her stand then retrieved her bike. The Pashley had earned a few new scrapes and dings but, overall, remained intact. Vivian held onto it while Gethsemane brushed gravel from her elbows. “You’ve ruined your dress.” She pointed at Gethsemane’s skirt.

  Gethsemane examined her dress. A grease stain marred the blue linen and the hem hung loose where the fabric had gotten entangled in the bike. “Nothing a good dry cleaner can’t fix. Or,” she took a closer look at the grease stain. The skirt would probably have to be shortened to remove the damaged area, “a good tailor.” Too bad she couldn’t take it to her grandfather.

  Vivian apologized. “Can you forgive me? I know I should have been watching were I was going, but—” She giggled and clutched her purse to her chest.

  “What are you doing up here?” Gethsemane leaned on her bike and massaged a sore spot in her hip. “I thought you’d gone for a walk with Mal.”

  “I did. Then he had to meet Ty and Sunny up at the lighthouse for another damned photoshoot. I helped him carry his gear.”

  She’d forgotten Sunny wanted night photos. But why would Vivian help Mal schlep his equipment, knowing that going up to the lighthouse would put her in Ty’s vicinity? “Why would you want to be anywhere near Ty?” Unless…Gethsemane’s throat tightened. “Y
ou didn’t push him off the cliff, did you?”

  “No. Tempted, but…” Vivian giggled again and reached into her purse. “I wanted to get close enough to Ty to grab this.” She pulled out his silver flask. “Actually, I didn’t get that close to him. He dropped it again. Sunny made him pick her up and spin her around like a scene from a third-rate telly advert for fabric softener or teeth whitener or something. It slipped from his pocket mid-spin and landed in the grass.”

  “You stole his flask?”

  “Borrowed it. Mal and I finished setting up before they got there so I’d been hiding behind some rocks, waiting for the chance to sneak away, when the flask fell. I nicked it and ran.” Vivian pouted the way Gethsemane’s niece did when caught doing something naughty. “Don’t worry, the wanker can have it back. Eventually. I’d like to put poison in it.”

  “But you’re not going to.”

  “No. Not poison.” Vivian shook the flask. “Nearly empty. Figures. I’d drink, too, if I was marrying Sunny Markham.” She unscrewed the flask’s top, horked saliva, and spat into the container. She screwed the top back on and shook the flask. “Mix well.”

  Gross. Gethsemane curled a lip. “How do you plan to return that to Ty?”

  “I’ll give it to Mal to give to him. Mal’s his mate—well, his fiancée’s employee—so he won’t be wide if Mal hands it back.” She frowned at Gethsemane. “You think this is a childish, petty stunt, unworthy of even the youngest of your schoolboys. You’re right. But what else can I do? The thought of that cute hoor prancing about in his fancy duds with his fancy mot, acting as if they’re the king and queen of all they survey, not giving a damn about the pain he’s causing Verna, getting off on it, even. I just—” She bit off her words and squeezed her eyes shut. She shook with an almost palpable rage, the flask clenched so tightly, Gethsemane feared she’d break her hand if the metal didn’t collapse.

  Bruised muscles and damaged skirt forgotten, she extended a hand toward the distraught woman. “Vivian?”

  Vivian took a deep breath and held it. The shaking ceased and she opened her eyes. A wan smile flickered across her lips. “God forgive me, I want Ty dead. But I’m too much of a coward to spend the rest of my life in prison for murder. So, I settle for petty sabotage, like spitting in his whiskey. Pathetic, right?”

  “Frustrated. Desperate. Understandable.”

  “Thank you.” Vivian slipped the flask back into her purse. “Thank you for not making me feel like a hysterical idiot. Neither Vern nor I have been feeling good about ourselves since Ty showed up.”

  “How’s Verna doing?”

  “Not well. At least she’s got Frankie. I don’t think she’d be able to get through this without him. He’s a good man.”

  “He knows a thing or two about sociopathic exes. Speaking of which—” She recalled Ty’s un-subtle threat to drive a wedge between Verna and Frankie. “Ty’s planning to cause trouble for them. He didn’t come right out and say so, but he dropped more hints than there are clues in an Agatha Christie novel.”

  “I’ll kill him, the lousy gobshite. I swear, I’ll kill him. If he ruins this for Verna, I’ll kill him, prison be damned.”

  “I promised him I’d lie to Sunny about him making a pass at Verna if he didn’t leave her and Frankie alone. Of course, there’s the chance that Sunny would blame Verna for enticing Ty, but any threat to her social media happiness would set Sunny off. The allegations, unfounded or not, should create enough drama to keep Ty’s focus on saving his meal ticket instead of on pouring salt into old wounds.”

  Vivian grabbed Gethsemane in a bear hug. “You’re brilliant, d’ya know that? I’m glad you’re on our side.”

  “Frankie’s my friend. He’s been through a lot and he deserves some happiness. Verna’s given him that.”

  “Pathétique” flared in her head. She willed the music to shut up. Frankie did deserve happiness and she wouldn’t stand by and watch it denied him. Tchaikovsky be damned.

  Eight

  “What happened to you?” Eamon, surrounded by a worried saffron aura, materialized in Carraigfaire’s entryway as Gethsemane let herself into the cottage.

  “Vivian Cunningham happened. She showed up unannounced on Carrick Point Road for a rousing game of dodge the pedestrian.”

  “You’re all right?”

  “The bike and I are both fine. My dress is the only casualty.” She filled him in on what had happened between Sweeney’s and home as she led the way into the study.

  Eamon’s elbow disappeared into the wood of the rolltop desk as he leaned against it. “Lismore’s such a gobshite, I’ll forgive Vivian for adulterating whiskey.”

  Gethsemane winced as she lowered herself onto the sofa.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Fine,” she said in defiance of her shoulder’s and hip’s protest. “Nothing a few dozen naproxen won’t fix. What were you up to while I was convincing a priest to snoop and crashing my bike?”

  “I went up to Carrick Point to watch Sunny and Lismore put on their holy show. You should be proud of me. I resisted the urge to blast them off the cliff, despite their turning my lighthouse into a backdrop for their theater of the grotesque.”

  “Then you saw Vivian?”

  Eamon shook his head. “She must’ve gone before I arrived. Sunny, Lismore, and Amott were the only three I saw. Sunny’d decked herself out in some diaphanous, grass-green fairy get-up, complete with wings. She looked like Titania if Titania had been styled by the costume designer from the Dunmullach Amateur Dramatical Society. No doubt the Bard’s rolling in his grave. Honestly, Sunny was so over-the-top, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the Duchess of Cambridge riding through on a horse. I assume Vivian left before I got there.”

  “Did you see anything to clue you in to impending danger?”

  “You mean like Lismore pacing off in the distance to the cliff’s edge or Sunny testing the weight of largish rocks? No, nothing like that.”

  “Maybe it’s Rosalie.” Sore muscles transformed a deep sigh into a short, sharp intake of breath.

  The saffron in Eamon’s aura intensified.

  “I promise I’m okay. I just need to give up sleuthing for the night and go to bed.”

  “Then I’ll bid you good night. May Queen Mab guard you against troublous dreams that make you sad.”

  “You’re butchering your Shakespeare.”

  Eamon bowed like an actor taking a curtain call. He began to dematerialize, feet first. “If this shadow has offended…”

  Gethsemane chuckled.

  Translucency ascended his legs. “…think but this and all is mended…”

  “G’night, Irish.”

  Stars, framed by the window behind him, came into view through his nearly transparent torso. “…that you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear…” He vanished.

  Gethsemane finished the quotation. “And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding than a dream. Lord, Irish, I hope so.”

  Shakespearean good wishes failed to bring peaceful sleep. Tossing and turning in bed mirrored thoughts of Ty, Sunny, and Rosalie tossing and turning in her mind. Rosalie and her mysterious note rose to the top of the list of worries. No obvious human force threatened her. But a supernatural one? What if whatever she kept out of her hotel room went after the rest of the village? What charm would protect everyone else?

  She conceded defeat to insomnia and sat up. Frustrated, she threw a pillow, which sailed through the chest of a saffron-hued Eamon. He hovered near the foot of her bed.

  “Look out the window,” he said.

  She went to the window and looked out. The full moon cast enough light for her to recognize Verna walking alone along the road from the lighthouse.

  “What’s she doing?”

  Gethsemane shrugged. “Walking.”

  “At this
hour?”

  “It’s the twenty-first century. Women are allowed out after dark. Even without a chaperone.”

  “You don’t go out walking this late.”

  “That’s me. It’s a hang-up.” She tucked hair back into her head scarf. “My mother’s convinced there’s no legit reason to be outside after midnight. Whenever I think about going out that late, I get a mental image of my mother staring at me in disapproving silence. Other women go out this late.”

  “You’re a grown woman and your ma’s three thousand miles away.”

  “Doesn’t matter. She will always be my mother and she will always be in my head. One day, possibly one day soon, I will turn into her.”

  Eamon jerked his thumb toward the window. “Your ma would want to know what Verna’s doing out this late.”

  “She would. But she wouldn’t go out and ask. She’d wait until after sun-up and ask her then.” Gethsemane opened the window and leaned out. Verna’s back remained visible in the distance as she passed the cottage around the bend in the path that led down to the main road.

  “What are you doing?” Eamon asked.

  “I am not yet my mother so I’m watching to see if Verna is being followed.” She leaned farther out. “She isn’t. She isn’t running, she isn’t crying, and she isn’t casting worried glances over her shoulder.” Vivian’s dash into the path of her bike and Rosalie’s paranoid behavior bubbled up in her memory. “Nor did she run in front of a moving vehicle or toss salt over her left shoulder. No boo hags are lurking—are they?”

  Eamon’s saffron hue intensified. “No, no cailleach feasa are out tonight. Would you come back in before you fall?”

  Gethsemane’s pajama top tented toward the room’s interior in response to Eamon’s pointed finger. “And Tchaikovsky, mercifully, keeps silent.” She pulled her head back in. “Verna, like me, is a grown woman. Unlike me, she chose to go for a late-night walk, probably because she needed some solitude to process the turmoil happening in her life. I am not going to disturb her. I’ll take a page from Mother’s playbook and say something to her later, at a decent hour.” She yawned. “Now, I’m going back to bed.”