EXECUTION IN E Read online

  She fell asleep just before dawn. Pounding on the cottage door awoke her almost as soon as she’d drifted off. Cursing, she dragged herself out of bed, retrieved her head scarf from under the pillow where her tossing and turning had dislodged it, fumbled on a robe, and went downstairs.

  Inspector Sutton, head of the Dunmullach Garda homicide squad, greeted her with a scowl.

  She re-tied the scarf. “It can’t possibly be a good morning if you’re standing on my porch at a quarter after oh-dark-thirty, Inspector.”

  “D’ya mind telling me why a dead man is hanging from your lighthouse?”

  Nine

  Inspector Sutton waited for her to throw on some clothes before marching her up Carrick Point Road. She followed him to the edge of the cliff and looked up at the side of the lighthouse that overlooked the bay. No mistake, a human figure hung from the end of a rope attached to the lantern room’s catwalk. Even from a distance she could see the head tilted at an unnatural angle. The clothes looked like the suit Ty wore the last time she saw him. She couldn’t see the face. From what her brother, Zeb, a physician, had told her about hangings, that was a mercy. Uniformed gardaí milled around the base of the lighthouse. Two more up on the catwalk took photos.

  “Not exactly Insta-perfect,” Gethsemane mumbled.

  “His name’s Ty Lismore,” Sutton said.

  “I know him. Knew him. He and his fiancée rented the lighthouse for their wedding in October.”

  “Hope she can get her deposit back.” Sutton strode toward the uniformed guards on the ground. Gethsemane hurried to keep up with him. “Who wanted him dead?”

  Besides damned-near everyone? “How should I know?”

  “Because,” Sutton’s scowl deepened, transforming his brow’s ever-present furrows into crevasses, “any time there’s a dead body in this village, you know something about it.” He ran a hand over his thinning hair. “Feck, I hate mornings.”

  One thing, the only thing, she and Sutton had in common. “What are you doing here, Inspector? I mean, how did you know about—” She gestured toward Ty’s body.

  “Got a call at the station, anonymous, of course. They’re always anonymous. Voice disguised. Couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Any idea who might have called?”

  “No. I don’t know anything about this. I was asleep. You woke me up. I…” She looked up at Ty again. The gardaí on the catwalk had gotten ropes around him and were pulling him up. He seemed small and harmless, so different from the malignant bully who’d threatened to ruin so many lives. She shook her head.

  “Did you hear or see anything last night or early—earlier—this morning?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. She saw Vivian running away with Ty’s property. And she saw Verna walking from the lighthouse late last night. Verna, who had even less reason to be at Carrick Point than her sister. “No, nothing.” She swallowed hard.

  Sutton cocked his head. “This isn’t your first body. You’ve seen almost as many as me.”

  For the first time in her life, she was glad to be misunderstood. “Does it ever get easy?”

  Sutton looked up at the catwalk. “When it does, it’s time to bunk off and take up fly fishing. Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell me that would shed light on how a man in Dunmullach to plan his wedding ends up swinging from the top of the venue?”

  “I saw him yesterday. Spoke to him.”

  “About?”

  She shrugged, nonchalantly, she hoped. Uncaffeinated, semi-wakefulness worked in her favor. “Photography. He, and the rest of the wedding party, are—were—in the village for a pre-wedding photoshoot. His fiancée, Sunny Markham, is a social media influencer. Pre-wedding photos attract sponsors for the wedding. Get enough sponsors, get the wedding paid for.” She added, under her voice, “Not that she can’t afford to pay for the wedding herself.”

  Sutton grumbled. “Social media influencer. What’s the world come to when that’s a fecking job description?” He frowned at Gethsemane “Photos? That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Sutton frowned and lowered his voice. “If I find out you’re holding out on me…”

  “It’s too early in the morning for me to be disingenuous.”

  “All right, you can go. I know where to find you.” A garda called to Sutton. The inspector went over to him and left Gethsemane standing at the cliff’s edge.

  Gethsemane forced herself to maintain a normal pace as she walked back to the cottage. As soon as she’d gone far enough down Carrick Point Road to be out of sight of Sutton and the rest of the gardaí, she ran.

  Back at the cottage, she ignored Eamon hovering near the door and raced upstairs to grab her phone from her purse.

  Frankie answered on the third ring.

  “Where’s Verna?” she asked. “Is she there? Tell me she’s with you.”

  “She’s not here.” Frankie sounded as sleepy as she’d felt before she saw Ty’s body. “She left around ten to go back to her place. Said she had to meet Vivian.” He paused. When he spoke again, the sleep had vanished from his voice. “Why are you asking for Verna?”

  No way to sugar coat it. Best to rip the bandage off. “Ty Lismore’s dead. The gardaí found him hanging from Carrick Point Lighthouse earlier this morning.”

  Silence.

  “Frankie?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Look, I can’t talk now. I’ve got to find Verna.”

  “I understand. And, Frankie, I didn’t tell Sutton about Verna’s and Ty’s past.”

  “Thank you, Gethsemane.” He ended the call.

  Eamon materialized at the foot of the bed. “You lied to Inspector Sutton.”

  “Don’t start in on me, Irish. I only half-slept, my least-favorite garda woke me up early to see a dead body dangling from my lighthouse, and I haven’t had coffee yet. This is not a good morning.”

  “My lighthouse. And I wasn’t going to start in on you, I was going to say fair play. I’m no fan of the guards.” Incompetent police work and a cover-up resulted in Eamon being falsely accused of murdering his wife, Orla, and killing himself—which resulted in his haunting Carraigfaire Cottage. “And, anyway, neither of us liked Lismore.”

  “Not liking is not the same as wanting dead.” She remembered her unspoken threat about the hounds of hell. “Not really. You say things when you’re angry that you don’t really mean.”

  “Vivian and Verna meant it. The Misses Cunningham really wanted him dead.”

  The same thought nagged her. “Oh, don’t say that.”

  “You know it’s true.”

  “I can’t think my friend’s girlfriend or his girlfriend’s sister killed a man. I can’t.”

  “What about Grennan?”

  “Frankie didn’t kill anyone,” she said.

  “We know that but what’s Sutton going to think? Grennan has motives—defense of his lady love, jealousy. And wouldn’t Sutton love to have another go at him?”

  Poor Frankie. Inspector Sutton had him all but convicted of murdering the man who’d wrecked his marriage. It had taken all of Gethsemane’s sleuthing ability, plus a hefty dose of help from Eamon and Inspector Niall O’Reilly of the garda cold case unit, to prove him innocent. Now this. Please let Frankie have an alibi after ten.

  Eamon’s aura softened to a sympathetic coral. He sat next to Gethsemane, sinking part way into the mattress. “It’s been a rough month. I’m sorry.”

  “Rougher for others than for me. Although we’ll all be in Sutton’s line of fire when he finds out the woman who used to be engaged to his murder victim is now dating my friend and I lied about it.”

  The edge of the bed dipped as Eamon sat on it. A thought intruded into Gethsemane’s anxiety: Why do ghosts have enough mass to weigh down a bed and leave impressions in bedcovers but not enough to sit on a bench or lean against a wall without pass
ing into the object? She forced the question from her head. Ty was dead and her friends were suspects. This was not the time to analyze the physics of a haunting.

  Eamon spoke. “Lismore was a wanker. Folks will line up from here to Dublin to dance on his grave. The gardaí will have plenty of suspects to focus on besides Grennan and the Cunningham sisters.”

  “Like who? Sunny? She might’ve killed Ty after the honeymoon, but before the wedding? She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her sponsorship opportunities.”

  “Unless she thought playing the grieving, heartbroken fiancée would sell more of whatever it is she’s selling. She’s as mercenary as they come. I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

  “If she found out Ty wasn’t done with Verna, jealous fury might have won out over mere greed.”

  “And what about the rest of that miserable crew? The grim groomsmen and those scared rabbit bridesmaids. You’d find more gleeful folks at a funeral.”

  “Having to spend time attending Sunny Markham’s whims is enough to make even Pollyanna gloomy. That’s not cause to murder Ty.”

  “Maybe there’s more behind their bad moods than Miss Markham’s sparkling personality. Do you really think the Cunninghams are the only ones Lismore ever hurt?”

  She shook her head. “Guys like that leave trails of broken spirits like Hansel and Gretel left a trail of breadcrumbs.”

  “Maybe one of them decided that murder is the best revenge.”

  “Maybe. How wrong of me is it to say I hope so? Not that I want any member of the wedding party to be a murderer. But if there has to be a murderer, I’d rather it be one of them than Vivian or Verna.”

  “What are you going to do?” Eamon pointed. The bedcovers turned back and the remaining pillow plumped itself. “Crawl back under your covers and hope this all goes away?”

  “You know me better than that.” She jabbed her elbow through Eamon’s ribs. An energizing shock zipped up her arm. “I’m going to find out who killed Ty Lismore. I just have to figure out how I’m going to do that without triggering the wrath, and the arrest powers, of Inspector Sutton and how I’m going to do it without hurting my friends.”

  “Here’s where we start: I’ll make coffee while you get a shower. Then you track down Frankie and the misses and get your stories straight.”

  “We?”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t help?”

  “What will you be doing while I’m comparing notes with Frankie and the Cunninghams?”

  “I’ll haunt up at the lighthouse and the Garda station and see if I can suss out some details about the demise of the unlamented Mr. Lismore.”

  “Keep this up and you might make a good amateur detective someday.” She paused, unsure, for once, what to say next.

  Eamon studied her face. “What’s that look?”

  “Ty being dead means Rosalie and Sunny are off the hook. Safe, I mean. In terms of my premonition of danger. Right?”

  “One of them could be a murderer.”

  “True.” She paused again.

  “What?”

  “I’m bombarded with the feeling something terrible is going to happen and something terrible happens. A man—a despicable man, but a man, nonetheless—died. Times like this, I hate being right.”

  Ten

  Refreshed by a hot shower and a hotter cup of coffee, Gethsemane rode her bike to St. Brennan’s. Frankie lived in Erasmus Hall, the on-campus bachelor faculty quarters. He hadn’t answered her calls or texts, but she guessed he might be holed up in his apartment with Verna, trying to avoid Sutton.

  She turned onto the path leading from the main campus to faculty housing when, without warning, a young girl stepped out of the bushes that lined the path and stopped in front of her.

  “Saoirse!” Gethsemane yelled. She swerved, bringing herself and the Pashley down into a patch of wildflowers. “What the—” She swallowed the swear words that filled her mouth and took a deep breath. “What on earth are you doing? I almost ran over you.” Two near-miss pedestrian accidents in two days had to be a record. Why did people keep jumping out in front of her?

  “I’m sorry, Miss.” The girl, Saoirse Nolan, helped her stand. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Gethsemane brushed off her knees and elbows and righted her bike. She studied Saoirse. Her blonde ponytail, shorts, and t-shirt portrayed a picture of a preteen enjoying a carefree summer day. Her worried green eyes and ill-at-ease stance suggested something more serious. “What’s happened?”

  “He’s not here, Miss.”

  “Who’s not here?”

  “Mr. Grennan. He’s with Miss Cunningham and her sister up at Carnock.”

  Of all the places to hide. “How do you know? Did you see them go up there? Did Mr. Grennan ask you to tell me?”

  Saoirse, a prescient, shrugged. “I just know.” The preteen often knew of events before they happened and knew information without being told.

  “Thanks,” Gethsemane said. “Now, do me a favor, and go home.”

  “No one’s home but Colm and Aengus and Feargus. They’re playing video games and won’t let me play.” Colm Nolan loved his younger sister but, at sixteen, often preferred time with his schoolmates than her. “Can’t I come with you?”

  “No, you can’t. You’re twelve.”

  “Almost thirteen.”

  “Which is still too young to be involved in a murd—unexplained death.”

  “I’m mature for my age. Everyone says so.”

  “You are as precocious as you are brilliant, but the answer is still no.” Gethsemane smiled at the girl. She’d displayed similar perseverance at that age. “You’ve already been a tremendous help, Saoirse. I appreciate it, but—”

  “I know, Miss.” Saoirse scuffed the toe of her shoe on the gravel path and sighed the way only a twelve-going-on-forty-year-old can. “How would you explain it to my parents?”

  “Hey, why don’t you stop by Our Lady? I think Father Tim just got a copy of Pliny’s Naturalis Historia.” In addition to tutoring the young, homeschooled genius, the priest gave her unlimited access to his collection of Greek and Latin texts and pretended not to notice when the occasional occult book made it into her TBR pile. “I bet he’d let you borrow it.”

  “He’ll make me sample his veal pie. Have you ever tasted a medieval meat pie?”

  “No, eating medieval meat pie does not number among the unusual things I’ve done in my life.” But never say never. Not so long ago, investigating a murder had been on her never-tried-it list.

  “If anyone offers it to you, Miss, tell them you’re a vegetarian.”

  Saoirse gave a sad wave and headed toward the village. Gethsemane watched her go then mounted her bike. Carnock rose on the horizon like a bad omen. Gethsemane took a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and headed for it.

  The road to Carnock wound through desolate ranks of gnarled trees that conspired to blot out all sunlight. Gethsemane pedaled fast, her eyes fixed on the road. Rudolph Ash, one-sixty, Jim Brown, two-sixteen, Bingo DeMoss, three-oh-nine, George Dixon, three-forty-two. She recited Negro League batting averages to ease her anxiety and keep memories of killers at bay.

  “Honestly, Frankie,” she said aloud, “couldn’t you have found a better hiding place? You know how much I hate it up here.”

  She pulled up in front of the burned remains of the old asylum and scanned the desolate area. Where would Frankie be?

  “Duh.” Where else? “The rose garden.”

  She left her bike against a tree and walked to the remnants of the asylum’s main entrance. The front door hung weirdly on two hinges. Her hand shook as she reached to push it aside.

  “Nope.” She shook her head. “Not enough Negro League stats in the world.” So much for the shortcut through the building. Her scar throbbed at the thought of creeping through its dark, fire-da
maged halls. “I’ll take the long way ’round.”

  She returned to the main drive and picked her way around the side of the building, through overgrown grass and assorted rubbish, to the rear. She stopped short and gasped at what greeted her. What she remembered as inhospitable brambles had been transformed into an oasis of beauty. The tops of tree roses peered over low stone walls, a bower of pink and white rose blossoms arched over the entry way. And along one wall, the rambler Frankie had named ‘Fearless’ in her honor, trailed over the stones and carpeted the wall with a blanket of fully double, deep red blooms.

  “Sissy.”

  She jumped at the sound of Frankie’s voice. He sat on a bench in a corner near the rear wall, his arms around Verna. Vivian sat on the end of the bench next to her sister.

  “My god, Frankie,” Gethsemane said, “what kind of horticultural wizardry did you work up here?”

  Vivian jumped up. “What’s happened? Do you know? What’s going on?”

  Verna pulled her sister back onto the bench. “Give her a chance to talk, Viv.”

  Gethsemane forced herself to push aside images of Ty dangling from the catwalk. “Around dawn, Inspector Sutton from the Garda homicide unit woke me up. I followed him up to Carrick Point. When we got to the lighthouse, he showed me a body hanging from the tower. He’d already confirmed the victim’s identity—Ty Lismore.”

  Verna sobbed and buried her face in Frankie’s neck.

  “Good riddance,” Vivian muttered.

  “I know Sutton didn’t let you off that easy.” Frankie had endured one of Sutton’s interrogations during a recent murder investigation. “We’re the usual suspects. Which of us is he pointing the finger at? You or me?”