Killing in C Sharp Page 7

  Father Tim repeated himself, drawing her name out the way her mother did when she wanted Gethsemane to do something Gethsemane found distasteful, like putting on a frilly dress and playing the piano for her parents’ work friends when she was a girl or having dinner with one of the milquetoasts her mother insisted on introducing her to when she was just out of college. She examined the oleander more closely.

  A hand touched her elbow. “Gethsemane,” Father Tim said, “there’s a spare room at Carraigfaire. The back bedroom.”

  Gethsemane spun to face Venus. “It’s tiny. Spartan. I think I left my laundry on the bed.”

  “For the sake of keeping the peace,” Father Tim said, “in the name of Christian charity.”

  Gethsemane looked back and forth between the two combatants. Bernard, the deceptively benign creep who poked and prodded until his target erupted. Venus, muscles tense with restrained rage. She pictured Bernard discovered dead in his room, stiletto heel embedded in his skull. Guilt tickled the back of her neck. “If Venus wants to stay at the cottage, fine with me,” she conceded.

  “That’s settled, then,” said Aed. “Thank you. I’ll help you move your things, Venus.”

  “Would you like to stay at the parish house, Aed?” Father Tim asked.

  “I’ll be all right where I am, Father. I know how to handle vermin.”

  Venus and Aed crossed the cemetery toward the street. Bernard started after them, ignoring Father Tim’s pleas to “Use your sense, man.” Bernard caught up to the duo near the wrought-iron gate that separated the church yard from the sidewalk.

  “We should do something,” Gethsemane said to the priest.

  “Did I ever tell you I used to box at university?” He led the way to the trio now embroiled in another argument.

  Gethsemane and Tim arrived as Venus grabbed Bernard’s arm. Bernard’s shove sent the author crashing into Gethsemane, who broke both their falls.

  Aed spewed a tirade of profanity that would have made both Eamon and Captain Lochlan blush. He swung at Bernard, who dodged the blow and swung back. Soon the two men rolled on the ground amongst the tombstones as they pummeled each other. Bernard punched Aed in the ear. Aed punched Bernard in the flank and pinned him. He drew his arm back and aimed his fist at Bernard’s nose.

  “Enough!” Father Tim grabbed Aed’s elbow and pulled him off the battered critic.

  Bernard hoisted himself up and launched at Aed and Father Tim.

  Gethsemane stuck out her foot and tripped Bernard. He tumbled into a tombstone and lay still. Aed collapsed onto a bench. Venus sat next to him and put her arms around him.

  Bernard sat up. He spat into a nearby flower arrangement. Gethsemane thought she detected a pink tinge to the spittle as it reflected the sunlight. He pressed one hand against his side and ran his other across his comb-over. “Where are my glasses?”

  Gethsemane and Father Tim searched. She spotted them a few feet away from Bernard, tortoise-shell frames twisted and broken, near an urn. She pointed. “Over there—watch out!”

  She flinched as a concrete statue of a weeping angel slipped from its perch atop a marble column that stretched far above their heads. Shock transfixed her as the angel’s wing caught the edge of the column and pulled it down. She willed her feet to move and pushed Father Tim out of the way. Aed grabbed Venus and dove to one side a second before the angel crashed to the ground. Bernard rolled in the opposite direction a second before the pillar landed where his head would have been. A crowd came running from the cloister to the scene.

  “It’s all right, everyone,” Tim raised his voice above the chatter to reassure the upset parishioners. “It was just an accident. We’re all okay.”

  Poe picked up a broken piece of angel’s wing. “Maja did this.”

  “Oh, for Chris—” Hardy hid his face in his palm. “Don’t start that again, Poe. No one wants to hear it, not now.”

  “Want to or not, what other explanation is there? That one,” she pointed at Aed, “sticks his thumb in Maja’s eye by writing an opera in direct defiance of her curse, then rubs salt in by whistling the damned tunes in a pub.”

  “And in a school,” Gethsemane mumbled.

  “What?” Poe asked.

  “Nothing,” Gethsemane said. “Please continue.”

  Hardy interrupted. “Please don’t.” He grabbed Poe by the arm and dragged her, still clutching the broken statuary, away. “Let’s find you a drink. Someplace around here must serve on Sunday morning.”

  Poe protested and insisted Maja was out for Aed’s blood.

  Hardy spoke over her. “Mind if we raid the bar at Carraigfaire? Some of that Waddell and Dobb might shut her up.”

  The rest of the onlookers dispersed in various directions, whispering about mysterious accidents and blue-haired ghost hunters and the trouble Americans caused wherever they went. More than one cast a glance at Gethsemane. Father Tim helped Bernard up and Gethsemane tended to Aed and Venus.

  “Is everyone all right?” the priest asked. “Do I need to run anyone to A and E?”

  “We’re fine, thank you, Father,” Venus said.

  “No serious injury, Father.” Aed scowled at Bernard. “Certainly, none worse than what that bastard’s done to me in the past.”

  Bernard lurched forward and collided with the arm Father Tim extended in his path.

  “Enough!” Tim shouted. “From all of you. Aed, please escort Ms. James back to the inn. Mr. Stoltz, you’ll wait.” Bernard protested but Tim’s grip on his arm cut him short. “You’ll wait in the parish hall while I send for a taxi. The hospitality hostess will make you a cup of tea.” He marched Bernard toward the church.

  Venus and Aed excused themselves and left for Sweeney’s.

  Gethsemane knelt and examined the fallen statue. “It could have been an accident,” she said to Tim as he returned.

  “I’m sure it was. It’s an old statue, been there for at least a hundred years. All that tumbling about Aed and Stoltz did, they probably knocked it off balance.”

  “Poe thinks Maja knocked it over.”

  “She blames everything on Maja. Or credits everything to her. What would a cursed ghost be doing in a churchyard, a sacred space?”

  Eamon couldn’t come into the churchyard because he’d been buried in unhallowed ground as a suicide. But did being walled up alive in a castle against your will count as being buried in unhallowed ground?

  Tim continued. “And no one complained of any odd smells, pepper, grease, or otherwise.”

  “True.” She picked up a softball-sized piece of marble and hefted it from hand to hand.

  “You’re skeptical.”

  “You’re probably right. An accident caused by the fight is the most likely explanation for the statue falling. But something nags me.” She aimed the marble at a nearby tree and pitched it. “Poe, even if she is a poltergeist nidus, didn’t come near the statue until after it fell. Neither did Hardy. Aed, on the other hand…Do you think he could have messed with the statue? Rigged it to make it unstable so it would fall if something hit it? Something like two men having a knock-down drag out?”

  “Aed couldn’t have known Stoltz would pick a fight.”

  “Tim, a blind man could have seen that fight coming.”

  “Even so, Aed stood in the statue’s path as much as Stoltz. Why would he put himself in jeopardy?”

  “The best laid plans of mice and men, et cetera? Maybe Aed didn’t think he’d be so close to ground zero. He’s fitter than Bernard. Maybe he didn’t think Bernard would put up such a fight. Maybe he thought he could take him down with a punch or two and get safely away. Bernard would be too busy licking his wounds to notice a ton’s worth of stone angel aimed at his head.”

  “That would be murder. Rigging lights to fall in deserted hallways is one thing, but murder is a bit far for a publicity stunt.” />
  “The hallway wasn’t deserted. I was there, and so was the custodian.”

  “But, if Aed did it, he’d have had no way of knowing anyone would be there. You’re suggesting he deliberately set Stoltz up.”

  “As you said, folks have done horrible things for money. And dropping a statue on Bernard would serve two purposes: generating buzz for the opera and getting revenge on the man who ruined his life.”

  “I don’t know, Gethsemane. It all seems a bit much. He’d need technical know-how, opportunity, indifference to human life. He couldn’t guarantee Stoltz would be the only one injured by the statue, just as he couldn’t guarantee no one would be in the school hallway. And he doesn’t seem sociopathic. Look at the way he protected Ms. James.”

  “I admit, I don’t have much evidence. Any evidence. Against Aed or against Maja or against anyone to shift the blame for all that’s happened away from the forces of fate. I’m not ready to run to the garda. Nor to build one of those spirit-catching devices described in your book to go after Maja. I only have suspicions. Which, with five euros, will buy you a latte at the coffeehouse. I do, however, have a solid idea of how to throw Kent and crew off Eamon’s scent. Use Maja as a decoy. If Eamon will behave long enough to convince the Ghost Hunting Adventures boys that he’s a dud—” Lucky the temperamental ghost couldn’t come into the churchyard; she’d pay if he overheard that. “—maybe they’ll do their stakeout in the theater, instead of up at Carraigfaire.”

  “A ghost is a ghost, no offense to Eamon. We don’t want them to capture proof of her existence, either.”

  “But there hasn’t been any proof. A bad smell that only a few people have noticed, one scream that might have come from anywhere, and a couple of incidents that were probably accidents but could have been staged. I’m not convinced Maja doesn’t exist mostly in Poe’s mind. Granted, I’m not an expert on poltergeists, but events so far have been underwhelming compared to the few attacks I’ve read about. No shower of stones or furniture flying around the room. Just enough for innuendo and conjecture, typical TV fare, nothing earth-shattering or faith-destroying.”

  “How are you going to convince Kent and crew to relocate from Carraigfaire to the Athaneum?”

  “What better place for a snipe hunt, or should I say, a Maja hunt, than the opera house where Aed’s tempting fate with his production? Poe should be easy enough. Going after a paranormal sociopath who kills indiscriminately is more her style than staking out a relatively sane murdered composer.”

  Father Tim crossed himself and mouthed a silent prayer.

  “I can sell Hardy on the move by promising access to Aed. I’m sure Hardy would love to tell his mother that he’s hanging out with her favorite composer. The others may take more doing. Poe’s rantings might work in our favor by convincing her colleagues Maja’s the real paranormal deal. Or, at least, the more interesting one.”

  “And Billy? He’ll lose out on whatever fee that crew is paying him to investigate at Carrick Point.”

  “Whose side are you on? You’re the one who told me I had to stop them from filming in the cottage.”

  “I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out the flies in the ointment.”

  Gethsemane crossed her arms. “You think of something then.”

  “Actually, I like your idea. Reminds me of something I might have done in my days as a curate.”

  “You played bait and switch with ghost hunters when you were a curate?”

  Father Tim laughed. “No. I was thinking of the priest I was assigned to. Cantankerous buzzard who demanded everything his way. Believed the only good ideas were his own. So I mastered the art of making him think my ideas were his.”

  Gethsemane hugged him. “I knew I liked you. Now we need to figure out the details of our plan.”

  “Can I help?” A blonde head popped out from behind a statue of Saint Philip Neri a few feet from where Gethsemane and Father Tim stood. The blonde hair framed a thin face and a pair of startling green eyes.

  “Saoirse Nolan, listening at keyholes.” Father Tim clicked his tongue.

  “Hiding behind a statue, more accurately. And I wasn’t eavesdropping. I already knew what you planned to do.”

  “No point trying to keep a secret from someone who’s both prescient and precocious,” Gethsemane said.

  “Good thing I am. How else would I know what’s going on? No one tells me anything.”

  “Because you’re twelve, Saoirse.”

  “I’m a genius.”

  “A twelve-year-old genius,” Gethsemane said. “I’m not involving a twelve-year-old in any schemes. I’m determined to the point of stubborn, but I’m not irresponsible.”

  “I’m very grown up and independent for my age. And I can help,” Saoirse said, her voice pleading. “I helped you before, didn’t I?”

  The girl’s parents recognized their daughter wasn’t quite like other children and knew the villagers would look out for her, so they tended to give her free reign. And she had provided key information in Gethsemane’s investigation of the McCarthy murders, information she might not have uncovered the killer without. She wavered.

  Saoirse pushed her case. “I know every corner and cranny of the Athaneum by heart. Secret ways in and out. Places to become invisible. I come and go, silent as the wind.”

  “Don’t oversell it, Saoirse.” She told the truth, however. Gethsemane supposed the girl went home for meals once in a while, but Father Tim’s library and the Athaneum were the two locales most likely to yield a Saoirse sighting. “How can you help?”

  “I can pretend to see Maja’s ghost. I can scream and point and swoon.”

  “No swooning,” Father Tim said. “Swooning’s so nineteenth century.”

  Saoirse rolled her eyes. “The rest, then. I’ll put on a holy show, and they’ll believe me because I’m twelve.”

  They probably would. Still…“I don’t know.”

  “You’re afraid I’ll get hurt. It won’t be dangerous. All I have to do is play act. That’s not dangerous, especially in a theater. And Colm will be there.”

  “How do you—” Gethsemane began. “Prescient. Never mind.” Colm Nolan, one of the two most talented musicians at St. Brennan’s, protected his little sister like a mother bear protecting her cubs. Colm had faults—arrogance, chronic lateness—but he scored A-plus in the big brother department. “Ruairi will be there, too.” Ruairi O’Brien, the other best musician, had a crush on Saoirse, two years his junior. Between him and Colm, she’d be well looked after.

  Saoirse blushed and lowered her head. She looked up at Gethsemane through blonde tresses. “So I can help?”

  Gethsemane looked at Father Tim.

  “I think she’ll be all right. She takes care of herself pretty well. Reminds me of you.”

  “Oh, all right. I can’t think of any other way. The Saoirse Show, it is. You’ll be at the Athaneum—”

  “Before anyone gets there.” Saoirse grabbed Gethsemane in a hug. “Thank you for letting me help. I won’t let you down.” She skipped off across the cemetery.

  “How about a biscuit?” Tim asked.

  Gethsemane followed him to the refreshment table.

  “Father, Dr. Brown.” The voice caught her mid-sip, sending tea out her nose. A returned Poe stood at the end of the table, one hand in her pocket.

  Gethsemane grabbed a napkin and dabbed tea from the front of her dress. “I thought Hardy took you out. I mean, took you away somewhere.”

  “Just couldn’t resist these cookies.” Poe bit into one. “Bet they’d go well with that fancy bourbon,” she said around a mouthful.

  “You do not pair cookies with Waddell and Dobb. And you didn’t come back for the cookies.”

  “No.” Poe pulled her hand from her pocket. She clasped a small battered leather-bound book. “I came back to ask about this. What can you tell
me about it, Father?”

  Gethsemane recognized it as one of Tim’s grimoires. She grabbed for it, but Poe snatched it out of reach.

  “Where did you find that?” the priest asked.

  “In the garden shed,” Poe said. “On a shelf full of occult books. Odd things to find on church grounds.”

  Tim took the book from Poe. “I’ll thank you not to poke your nose into other people’s garden sheds.”

  “The door wasn’t locked,” Poe said. “Care to comment on the collection?”

  “No,” Tim said. “I don’t.”

  “How about you, Dr. Brown? Anything to say?”

  “Nothing I’d care to say in front of a man of the cloth.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” Tim muttered.

  Poe shrugged. “I’ll mark you both down as ‘no comment.’”

  “Isn’t Hardy waiting for you?” Gethsemane asked.

  “Hardy has plenty to keep himself busy without babysitting me.”

  “What’s with the two of you, anyway? You date, you used to date, you—”

  “Used to be drinking buddies. That’s all. Then Hardy got sloppy, then Hardy quit drinking.”

  “Then he realized you were a lot easier to tolerate when he was drunk.”

  Poe started to speak, then seemed to change her mind. “Now that you mention it, he probably is waiting for me. Thanks for the cookies.” She grabbed another and left.

  Gethsemane took the book from Tim and thumbed through it. “What’re the chances she reads Latin?”

  “I wouldn’t think it to look at her, but I suspect she knew exactly what she had.”

  Faint strains of “Pathétique” played in her head. “I’m afraid you’re right.” She said goodbye to Tim and exited the churchyard, one eye out in case Poe put in another appearance. Eamon materialized as soon as she stepped outside the boundary of the wrought-iron fence.

  “We need to do something about you not being able to enter hallowed ground,” she said.

  “Exhumation, reinternment, a formal exculpation by the Church.” He waved away the suggestion. “Did you and the padre come up with a way to get rid of the nosy nellies?”