Killing in C Sharp Read online

  “Your back and forth to the garden shed is invaluable help to these poor knees.” Tim slapped a knee with a palm. “Not that you’re missing anything. There’s not much to read, at least not in terms of what we’re looking for. Nothing in all these,” he gestured at books, “about unholy smells, pepper, grease, sulfur, or otherwise.”

  Gethsemane thumbed through a battered volume. “Nothing at all?”

  “The focus is on summoning and banishing paranormal entities, not on what they look, smell, or sound like once they arrive.”

  “About a hundred more remain in the shed. At this rate, we’ll be searching until doomsday.”

  He seemed not to hear her. “These are fascinating, if not immediately useful. For instance, did you know a nineteenth-century Italian horologist, astronomer, and occultist invented a spirit-capturing device? He used an alchemical formula to combine copper, quartz, and silica in a device that was part clock and part compass. He used banishing and binding spells to trap spirits inside the device. They could communicate with him through use of the compass needle. He ran into difficulties getting the spirits out of the device after getting them in, but—”

  “But that doesn’t help us with the smell issue.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  The office wall clock chimed. They both jumped.

  “Midnight,” Tim said. “I think we’d better call it a day.”

  Gethsemane closed the book they’d been looking at and rested her chin on her hands.

  “Look at the bright side,” Tim said. “We didn’t find anything suggesting the smell of pepper and grease means demons.”

  “We didn’t find anything that said it didn’t, either.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll take you home so I can make a truthful account to our Inspector. Then I’ll call some friends in the States, occultists, who might be able to provide some answers. I’ll brief you on my findings after Mass tomorrow.” He looked at the clock. “After Mass today.”

  She covered a yawn. “I’m too sleepy to argue. After service, then. Great incentive not to sleep in.”

  Four

  Father Tim caught up to Gethsemane the next morning during the break between Sunday services. “Take a walk with me.” They strolled from the cloister, across the church yard and cemetery, to the poison garden.

  Gethsemane shivered as she stepped into the wrought-iron enclosure that separated the toxic flora from the rest of the church gardens. Not so long ago she sipped poisoned tea while sitting amongst the deadly nightshade and hemlock.

  “Are you all right?” Father Tim asked.

  “I’m okay. Just had a flashback to a mad tea party.”

  Tim smacked his forehead. “Thoughtless of me. We can go somewhere else.”

  “Here’s fine. What news from America?”

  “My friends, two of whom still perform exorcisms, assured me peppers and grease have nothing to do with demonic possession or infestation. That’s the good news.”

  “Meaning bad news follows.”

  “One friend, a fella who came up a couple of years behind me in seminary, knew of a case of a poltergeist in Kilkenny. Cooking smells always preceded the poltergeist attacks.”

  “Poltergeists? I thought those were associated with angsty teens. No shortage of those at St. Brennan’s, but the pub’s a teenager-free zone. Your friend’s sure it was a poltergeist?”

  “He wasn’t personally involved in the case. He heard about it third-hand. Scarce details. The family wanted to avoid publicity so they went to great lengths to keep reports out of the press and keep records of the investigation private.”

  “Poltergeists.” Gethsemane looked toward the cloister where Poe and Hardy mingled with parishioners. They carried small digital audio recorders and an SLR camera. Prior to the service, she had overheard them arguing with the church secretary about bringing in more gear. They lost the argument. The additional gear had remained in the vehicle. “Those two aren’t teens, but they have issues. Could one or both be the trigger, or source, or whatever you call it?”

  Up at the cloister, a stooped elderly woman spilled tea on Poe’s boot when the photographer got between her and the tea tray. Gethsemane continued, “Or could one of the crew have staged things to guarantee some excitement for the show?”

  “You said the school custodian noticed the smell?” Tim asked.

  She nodded.

  “Your ghost hunters had no access to the school.”

  She thought for a moment. “Hate to say this, but Aed had access to the school. And the pub. Kind of out of poltergeist age-range, but…Do you think he’d stir up trouble to boost ticket sales?”

  “I don’t like to think so. But folks have done worse for money and publicity.”

  A commotion in the cloister interrupted them. The words didn’t travel across the distance, but they had no trouble deducing what went on from the gesticulations of the Ladies’ Hospitality Guild president, Poe’s stance behind Hardy, and Hardy’s attempts to keep Poe from reaching around him. Poe had gotten in the way of one too many cups of tea.

  “Should we break that up?” Gethsemane asked.

  “Nah,” Tim said. “They’ll sort it out. Ten to one in favor of the Guild president.”

  Poe backed down after a rude gesture and a few shoves from Hardy. She and Hardy moved away from the refreshments.

  “These TV fellas are rather aggressive,” Tim said. “Ghost hunters I dealt with in the past tended to be laid-back sorts. But this lot…” He jerked a thumb toward Poe and Hardy. “They ambushed me as soon as I stepped out of the sacristy, bombarded me with questions about Eamon and Orla. I had the devil of a time getting away from them, especially the blue-haired one.”

  “The others aren’t as in your face as Poe. But ‘pushy’ is their trademark style. It sets them apart from the other dozen paranormal investigation shows.”

  “I confess, I’m surprised you’re putting up with them. You’re not one to suffer fools gladly. An admirable trait.”

  “Billy granted them access to Carraigfaire and made me promise to be nice to them,” she said.

  “In exchange for not tossing you out on your ear, no doubt. If Billy ever shows up for confession I’ll have him saying ‘Hail Marys’ until his tongue falls off.”

  “Thanks for that, but you get used to them. Off duty, they’re surprisingly normal.”

  “Even the one with blue hair?”

  “Okay, surprisingly normal except for her. She’s—different. But she’s still one of God’s children, right?”

  “That’s my line.” The priest laughed. They watched another group of parishioners rebuff Poe and Hardy. Tim’s expression sobered. “How are you going to stop them?”

  “Stop them?”

  “Yes, stop them. Before some of their high-tech doodads capture something best not captured.”

  “Eamon’s promised to stay out of sight until they’ve gone.”

  “Not good enough. One mistake, one flare of that famous temper…No, you need to get them away from Carraigfaire and the lighthouse all together. Getting them out of the village would be best.”

  “Did you run all of the paranormal investigators you met in the past out of town?”

  “No, I let them poke about a bit, told them a few strictly-for-the-tourists ghost stories, and they went away of their own accord.”

  “Why’s this time different?” she asked.

  “Because this time, you’re involved. In the past, there was zero danger of the investigators capturing any concrete evidence of life after death because the real ghosts were far and few. But you bring ghosts out into the open. From twentieth-century composers to eighteenth-century sea captains, you’re a manifestation magnet.”

  “Captain Lochlan was an accident. I didn’t mean to call him up.” Conjuring Captain Lochlan proved fortuitous. The charming gho
st not only taught her the key to summoning spirits—combining a conjuring spell with musical tones that set up a sympathetic vibration—he saved her life. “I was trying to summon Eamon, remember?”

  “You didn’t mean to, but you did. Guess how many people recited that conjuring spell over the centuries, how many people sung ‘Heuston’s Lament’ without impact. Then you recite a spell you can’t understand, sing a sea chanty almost by accident, and you’re up to your eyeballs in ghosts.”

  Gethsemane held up a finger. “One ghost. Captain Lochlan was one ghost.”

  “And Eamon makes two. If you so much as think about that spell with Mahler playing on the radio, you’re liable to end up with a third, fourth, and fifth. Call it a curse or a gift, but, in case you hadn’t noticed, you don’t have to try very hard to summon ghosts.”

  She’d tried hard to summon Eamon. She’d played the piano until her fingers bruised. Then a chance encounter with a metal railing that gave way with a harmonious creak had brought Eamon back as easily as falling off a balcony. Maybe Father Tim had a point. “I still don’t see the need to remove the Ghost Hunting Adventures boys from the cottage.”

  “Because you’re at the cottage, you’re their best chance of capturing real evidence, and the cottage is the most likely place for that to happen. Imagine the chaos if they managed to capture Eamon’s image or his voice with one of their fancy doodads. Never mind the flocks of curiosity seekers and hordes of psychic investigators who’ll descend on Dunmullach like frogs in a Biblical plague. Think of the implications for the Church. For all religions. For science. Conclusive proof of the persistence of consciousness after the body fails, proof of life after death, would create an irrevocable alteration of our fundamental understanding of God, and of what it means to be human. We can’t let that happen. The world’s not ready for it.”

  And she’d only been worried about people tramping on the lawn. “You don’t believe their gear really records ghosts, do you? I’ve watched their show for seven or eight seasons. They never record anything more than flashing lights and weird noises. No full-bodied apparitions or coherent speech. It’s nothing more than electronic smoke and mirrors, strictly for entertainment.”

  “Do you want to risk it? We’re not talking about a gang of actors debunking a scary story told ’round the campfire. Aren’t they always creating new and better gadgets? Dangerous ground to tread.”

  “Strange devices engineered by mad scientists.”

  “Mad or sane, they’re still scientists. One of them might actually put together something that works.”

  “All right, now that you’ve framed the situation in terms of the continued existence of life as we know it, I’m worried. But what can I do? I’ll have to trust Eamon to lay low while they’re here, like he promised.”

  “Eamon McCarthy keeping the lid on? How’s that working?”

  Disembodied voices and the cologne scent in the pub. Hardy’s odd glances at her, as if he sensed something he couldn’t identify. Blue-hot anger lurking in Carraigfaire’s corners, orb ready to launch. “Like a two-year-old who’s missed naptime, that’s how. But Eamon can’t leave. He doesn’t know how. And I’m afraid to try a spell, even if you hadn’t sworn you’d never let me use one of your grimoires again.” The priest had pointed out she could just as easily have summoned a psychopath as a sea captain.

  “All the more reason to get those fellas away from Carrick Point.”

  “I can’t kick them out. Billy pulled no punches about that.”

  “Since when has someone telling you ‘no’ ever stopped you from doing what needs to be done?” the priest asked. “You don’t have to kick them out. Trick them out. Decoy them away.”

  A cheery “Good morning” from across the cemetery ended their discussion. Aed, the speaker, and Venus approached. Tim greeted the statuesque author by name.

  “You two know each other?” Gethsemane asked.

  “Ms. James interviewed me about Eamon and Orla a couple of weeks ago.”

  “You’re a loyal supporter of the McCarthys and a tough nut, Father,” Venus said. “If all my sources were as tough as you, I’d never get my story.”

  “I am a priest, Ms. James. Keeping people’s secrets is a particular skill.”

  Aed shook Tim’s hand. “Do you remember me, Father? I had darker hair and fewer wrinkles the last time you saw me.”

  “And I had fewer pounds.” Tim patted his belly. “Of course I remember you. You and Richard Riordan were two of my flock’s most faithful members. Almost never missed a Sunday.”

  Aed leaned closer to the priest and lowered his voice in a conspiratorial fashion. “I have a confession, Father. We came for the post-mass tea and biscuits.”

  “I’ve a confession, Aed,” Tim said. “I come for the tea and biscuits, too.” He winked.

  Venus had wandered off while the men reminisced. She called out from over by the euphorbia. “Is this where it happened? Where Eamon McCarthy was poisoned?”

  Gethsemane raised an eyebrow. Venus knew where Eamon died. She described the scene in lurid detail in her book. So why the question? Gethsemane refused to rise to the bait. “No,” she said and left it at that.

  Venus’s face morphed into an expression of fury as a deep frown creased her forehead. Her eyes narrowed and her red lips curled into a snarl.

  Gethsemane bristled. If Venus thought she could intimidate her…Before she could tell her where she could take her attitude, Venus stormed past her, spiked heels leaving a wake of holes in the garden’s gravel path. She marched past Father Tim and Aed and stopped in front of another man—short, slim, balding, bespectacled—who’d appeared at the garden’s gate. Toes touching, she glared down at him from her six-inch advantage, then drew back her arm and slapped him. His head whipped to one side, and his tortoise-shell glasses flew into a bush.

  “Gethsemane, Father, meet Bernard Stoltz,” Aed said. “The man who ruined my life.”

  Bernard scrambled after his glasses. Venus advanced toward him and drew back her foot. Gethsemane and Father Tim rushed between the author and the newcomer. Aed put an arm around Venus.

  “What are you doing here, Bernard?” Venus asked. “Did someone give you a ‘get out of hell free’ card?”

  Bernard resettled his glasses and brushed off his slacks. “Always good to see you again, Venus. As fit and feisty as ever.” He prodded the red welt spreading across his cheek. “I think that’s going to bruise.”

  Venus started for him again. Aed held her back. “What are you doing here, Stoltz?” he asked. “You’re not wanted.”

  “I developed an urge to explore Ireland. I’ve heard it’s a beautiful country. Wanted to see for myself. Cross it off the bucket list.” His accent screamed New York.

  Even if Bernard Stoltz hadn’t scuttled Aed’s career, Gethsemane would have disliked him. He had that effect. “I guess you have more time to travel, Mr. Stoltz,” she said, “now that you’ve been let go from Classical Music Today. Something about accepting payment for reviews, wasn’t it?”

  Bernard’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened for a second. Then his face relaxed. All smiles again. “Dr. Gethsemane Brown. Renowned multi-instrumentalist and conductor. Vassar and Yale graduate. First African-American winner of the Strasburg Medal, among many other accolades. Imagine meeting you out here in the back of beyond. Come down in the world?” He offered Gethsemane his hand.

  She accepted it to keep herself from balling hers into a fist and punching him. He gripped like soggy bread. “No, just needed a change of venue. You know, to get away from sleazy, backstabbing, manipulative critics who know less about music than I know about the Scottish herring fishing industry.”

  Father Tim stepped in. “Now that you’ve all reacquainted yourselves, why don’t we head back up to the church. I have it on good authority today’s biscuits came from the new French bakery that opened near the
library. We’ll grab some before they’re all gone.”

  “Thank you, Father, but,” Bernard touched his reddened cheek, “I’ve got a bit of a toothache. Think I’ll go back to Sweeney’s Inn and find an ice pack.”

  “You’re staying at Sweeney’s?” Aed swore. “Could you not find any place else in the whole of the village to darken?”

  “No, Aed, I couldn’t. Seeing as it’s the only commercial lodging in this…charming but isolated area. I heard a rumor an American hotel developer had plans to build here.” Bernard paused and glanced at Gethsemane. “Maybe you picked up something on the local grapevine?”

  “The deal didn’t work out,” she said. “Climate didn’t agree with the developer.”

  Venus aimed a manicured digit at Bernard. “I’m not staying in the same inn as that—that creature.”

  “Hard to imagine you sleeping on the street, dear,” Bernard said. “Maybe you’ll make a local friend who’ll put you up for a couple of nights.” He eyed Aed. “You’re good at making friends.”

  Venus launched at Bernard. Aed grabbed her just before she put their nemesis’s eye out. Bernard advanced toward Venus, but Father Tim’s hand halted his movement, if not his swearing. Gethsemane wondered how Venus managed to move so fast in those heels.

  “You won’t find the accommodations as luxurious as at Sweeney’s,” Father Tim said, “but you’re welcome to the spare room in the parish house.”

  “Oh no, Father, I couldn’t do that.” Venus blushed and cast her eyes downward. “Consider your reputation. What would people say about you spending the night alone with an unmarried woman?” Her concern for the priest’s reputation seemed genuine.

  Father Tim laughed. “I don’t flatter myself they’d say much of anything. Except, perhaps, accuse me of boring you to tears. But if you’d feel more comfortable staying elsewhere, perhaps Gethsemane…”

  Could put Venus up for a night or two? The woman who wrote those awful things about her friend? She shuddered. A nearby oleander bush offered avoidance. She turned to examine its leathery green leaves.