EXECUTION IN E Read online

  “Neither, yet. He said he got an anonymous call alerting him to the body. Then he assured me he knew where to find me later.”

  “That’s it?” Vivian asked.

  Gethsemane nodded. “For now. Not that Sutton would tell me any more than he had to.”

  “He must suspect someone,” Vivian said.

  “He didn’t say who.” She eyed the Cunningham sisters. “He did ask me if I knew anything about it.”

  “Why would you know anything about it?” Frankie asked.

  “Other than the fact that it’s your lighthouse.” Vivian’s stare challenged Gethsemane.

  “I didn’t mention running into you on Carrick Point Road,” she said. “Must’ve forgotten.”

  Vivian dropped her gaze.

  “Sissy,” Frankie asked, “do you know something?”

  Verna turned her head enough to look at Gethsemane with one eye.

  “I also saw you, Verna,” she said. “I saw you walking on Carrick Point Road late last night.”

  Vivian sucked in her breath.

  “What are you accusing her of?” Frankie tightened his hold on Verna.

  “I’m not accusing her of anything. I’m just letting her know I saw her walking on Carrick Point Road last night, heading back toward the village. From the direction of the lighthouse.”

  “And you told Inspector Sutton you saw her,” Vivian said.

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t tell Inspector Sutton anything about seeing Verna last night nor about her past relationship with Ty. Guess that slipped my mind, too. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Vern?” Frankie asked.

  Verna raised her head. “All right. It’s true.” She kept her gaze on Gethsemane. “I did go up to Carrick Point last night. I met Ty at the lighthouse.”

  Frankie withdrew his arms. “Saw him? About what?”

  Verna grasped his hand. “I saw him to tell him to leave me—leave us—alone. I worked up my nerve and confronted him. I told him he was making me miserable, begged him to stop torturing me.” She laid her forehead against Frankie’s and held his face in her hands. “That’s all, I swear. I told him I’d moved on and asked him to go away and let me be happy.” She turned to Gethsemane. “I swear I left him alive. Alive and laughing at me.”

  “I believe you,” Gethsemane said. “You’re half Ty’s size, if that. You couldn’t have hanged him. Even if you’d gotten a rope around his neck, you couldn’t have thrown him over the catwalk’s railing.”

  “I’ve known you long enough to know there’s a ‘but,’” Frankie said.

  “Let’s be honest, Frankie. If—when—Sutton finds out Ty planned to come between you and Verna and finds out Verna confronted him about it and that he humiliated her…”

  “He’ll be delighted to blame me for killing the bastard.”

  Verna threw her arms around Frankie. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Who says Sutton has to find out?” Vivian asked. “None of us are going to tell him. Are we?”

  “We don’t have to,” Gethsemane said. “He can get the story from Sunny Markham, her attendants, the groomsmen…What if he bragged to one of those guys about his plan to lure Verna back?”

  “He’d do something like that, the gobshite,” Vivian said. “What are we going to do?”

  “First,” Gethsemane said, “we need to find out exactly what Sutton knows. He won’t tell me anything, but I’ve got a, er, someone sniffing around.”

  On cue, Eamon materialized next to her. “You rang?”

  A startled expletive escaped before she could cover her surprise at the ghost’s unexpected appearance.

  “What is it?” Frankie asked.

  She covered. “Uh, nothing. I just remembered something.”

  “Who’s sniffing around for you?” Vivian asked.

  “I do not sniff,” Eamon said, “I observe. And I observed—”

  “I’d rather not say,” Gethsemane answered Vivian. “I mean, he’d prefer to remain anonymous.”

  “I observed the coroner’s preliminary report. Suicide.”

  Gethsemane forgot the others couldn’t see or hear Eamon. “What?”

  Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Sissy, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine, I just—” Beethoven’s “Fifth” jangled in her purse. She pulled out her phone. “Saved by the ring tone,” she mumbled as she answered the call.

  Inspector Niall O’Reilly’s voice came over the line. “Sissy, can you talk?”

  “Niall, hi. I’m with Frankie.” Best not to tell him about the Cunningham sisters. Friend or not, he was still a garda. If Sutton was out for Verna and Vivian, Niall wouldn’t cover for them.

  “I thought you’d like to know what the coroner thinks about Ty Lismore’s death.”

  “Yes,” she repeated for the benefit of the others, “I would like to know what the coroner thinks about Ty Lismore’s death. Can I put you on speaker?” She switched the phone to speaker mode and held it so the others could hear.

  “Nothing’s official yet, you understand,” Niall said, “and you didn’t hear this from me, but Lismore’s death looks like suicide.”

  Vivian and Verna gasped. Gethsemane held a finger to her lips.

  “Who else is there with you, Sissy?” Niall asked.

  “Just Frankie,” she said. “Your news caught him by surprise.”

  “It’s not my news—”

  Eamon interrupted. “No, it’s mine.”

  “Remember, I didn’t tell you this. It looks like Lismore tied a rope around his neck, probably one he found in the lighthouse, climbed over the railing, and jumped. Snapped his neck, lucky for him.”

  “Could someone have pushed him?”

  “No signs of struggle,” Niall said. “No scuff marks, no bits of anything under his nails, no torn clothes, no bruises. Lismore seemed like a fit fella. Doubt he would have gone over the side without a fight unless he went on his own.”

  “Thanks for telling me, Niall. And I don’t mean to sound unappreciative but, why did you tell me?”

  “Simple,” Niall said. “To keep you from poking your nose into garda business. No need for you to snoop because there’s no murder. No killer for you to uncover, no reason to risk your neck.”

  “Thanks for looking out for me.”

  “That’s what I’m doing, yeah.” He raised his voice. “That goes for you, too, Frankie.” He hung up.

  “That’s that, then,” Vivian said. “Suicide, case closed. No need for Sutton to pick at scabs and open old wounds.”

  “I’d like to go now, Frankie,” Verna said, “if you don’t mind.”

  Frankie, Verna, and Vivian rose. Frankie started to speak. “Gethsemane, I—”

  She waved it away. “No worries.” She watched him lead Verna and her sister to his new car, which she hadn’t noticed parked on a side path.

  “So, Vivian’s right? That’s it, then?”

  “Sure. Suicide. Case closed.”

  “You don’t buy that.”

  She faced Eamon. “Sure I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you’re still hearing Tchaikovsky playing in your head. I recognize the look by now. And because nothing in your life is ever that simple.”

  Eleven

  As if Eamon’s assessment about the complexity of her life needed proving, Sunny Markham appeared to complicate matters that same afternoon.

  “Gethsemane Brown!” Pounding on the cottage door punctuated Sunny’s shouts. “I know you’re home!”

  Gethsemane threw open the window in the upstairs parlor and shouted down. “Doesn’t anyone in this damned village know the proper way to knock?”

  “She’s not from here.” Eamon materialized beside her. “Better see what she wants before she breaks the door.”

 
; Gethsemane stomped down the stairs and yanked the door open to an infuriated Sunny, her heaving chest and flared nostrils giving the impression of an enraged harpy rather than a put-together social media influencer. Inspector Sutton appeared in the doorway behind the bereaved bride, an aggrieved expression on his face. This couldn’t be good.

  “Apologies, Dr. Brown. Miss Markham insisted—”

  “Don’t apologize to her,” Sunny interrupted, all traces of little-girl sweetness and curated coolness gone from her voice. She spoke with pure wrath. “Someone murdered Ty and she—” She jabbed a finger in Gethsemane’s direction. “—knows who did it.”

  A muscle twitched in Sutton’s jaw. “Miss Markham insisted I speak with you.”

  “Damned right I insisted!” Sunny yelled. “I’m not going to let you brush Ty’s death under the rug, write it off as a suicide so you don’t have to do any work. She knows who killed Ty. Maybe she was in on it. I bet she was in on it. Arrest her, make her talk.”

  The muscle twitches spread from Sutton’s jaw to his neck. His eyes narrowed. Since she wasn’t already in the back of a police car on the way to the Garda station, Gethsemane assumed the anger was aimed at Sunny.

  “Miss Markham,” Sutton said, “if you don’t stop shouting, I will arrest you for disturbing the peace.”

  Eamon appeared in the entryway next to Gethsemane. “And waking the dead.”

  Sunny huffed and plopped onto the entryway bench.

  “May I offer you a drink, Inspector?” Gethsemane asked as she shut the door.

  Sutton’s eyes brightened, then he shook his head. “Thank you, no. I’m on duty.” He glanced at Sunny. “I need my wits about me.”

  “It’s probably poisoned.” Sunny spat the words at Gethsemane. “Murderer.”

  Gethsemane bit back a caustic remark. “I’m confused, Inspector. Murder? I’d, er, heard a rumor that Ty Lismore committed suicide.”

  “Hah!” Sunny snorted. “Suicide. Ty wasn’t depressed. He didn’t have enough emotional depth to suffer from depression. Do you really think that arrogant nitwit would off himself? Do you think anyone loved Ty Lismore more than Ty Lismore?”

  “Odd way of talking about your late fiancé, Miss Markham,” Sutton said.

  “Not to mention you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Eamon said.

  “Oh, grow up, Inspector,” Sunny said. “Are all you country cops so naïve? I didn’t love Ty and he didn’t love me. He was marrying my money and I was marrying his social appeal.”

  Gethsemane stifled a laugh. “You mean you were marrying Ty because he was Insta-perfect?”

  Sunny scowled. “What of it? Our engagement photo gained me an additional 10k followers. Do you have any idea what that’s worth in brand endorsement deals? Four different couture houses begged me—begged me—to let them do the gowns for me and my bridesmaids. A high-end luggage company offered to pick up the transportation tab, half a dozen hotels were competing to have us stay with them on our honeymoon.”

  “You’re coddin’ me, right?” Sutton asked. “You were going to spend the rest of your life with a man just to gets some likes?”

  “Of course not. Two years, four at the most, maybe a kid or two, then divorce.” Sunny rolled her eyes. “Rest of my life. Hah.”

  Sutton pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I’m getting too old for this.”

  Sunny jerked her thumb at Gethsemane. “Aren’t you going to take her in for questioning?”

  “No, Miss Markham, I’m going to ask Dr. Brown a few questions right here. She’s going to answer them fully and truthfully. And then we’re going to leave.”

  “Never thought I’d see it,” Eamon said to Gethsemane, “someone who aggravates Sutton more than you do.”

  “Dr. Brown,” Sutton said to Gethsemane, “is there any reason you can think of why Miss Markham would believe you knew more than you told me about Ty Lismore’s suicide?”

  “Murder,” Sunny interjected.

  “Death,” Sutton continued.

  Better to have him for her than against her. “I’m friends with Frankie Grennan and Frankie dates Verna Cunningham—and Verna used to be engaged to Ty.”

  “You didn’t tell me this before because…?”

  “Because I assumed you knew, Inspector. It’s not a secret.”

  “You see,” Sunny jumped up, “there’s motive. Verna Cunningham wanted Ty back. She was jealous because he wanted me, not her, so she killed him.”

  “Verna Cunningham is smaller than you are,” Gethsemane said.

  Eamon laughed. “Fair play.”

  “How could she possibly have hanged Ty from the catwalk?” Gethsemane asked.

  “She’s not that small,” Sunny said. “And maybe her new boyfriend helped her. Or maybe he did it by himself. Maybe he was the jealous one.”

  Damn. Gethsemane kicked herself. She’d forgotten to ask Frankie if he had an alibi.

  “Francis Grennan didn’t kill anyone last night, Miss Markham,” Sutton said. “I can vouch for him.”

  Gethsemane, Sunny, and Eamon stared.

  Sutton continued. “I ran into Grennan last night at the Rabbit. He and O’Reilly were there from half past ten until Murphy kicked us out at three this morning. Grennan didn’t look like he was in condition to drive, so I drove him to St. Brennan’s then dropped O’Reilly off at the station to retrieve his car. Ten minutes later, Mr. or Ms. Anonymous called to tell me about a body dangling from Carrick Point.”

  “Before ten thirty—”

  Gethsemane cut Sunny off. “Frankie was with Verna until ten.” Sutton shot her a look. “He mentioned it when I called to tell him about Ty.”

  “You reported, Miss Markham, that you, Lismore, and Malcolm Amott were at Carrick Point lighthouse taking photographs until half-past nine. At that time, one of your bridal attendants,” Sutton consulted a notebook he’d pulled from his pocket, “Ms. Agnes Haygood, excuse me, Haywood, arrived in a taxi to escort you back to Sweeney’s Inn. Lismore opted to remain behind and help Amott collect his gear.”

  “I know what I said, Detective.”

  “Inspector.” Sutton checked his notes again. “Lismore’s mates, Theophilus Derringer and Brian Nishi, reported seeing both Lismore and Amott in the lobby of Sweeney’s Inn around ten o’clock. Lismore and Amott parted ways and Lismore joined his mates in the hotel bar. They saw Amott again at about half-past eleven when he returned a silver flask that Lismore had lost someplace. Lismore, Nishi, and Derringer remained in the bar until shortly after midnight. Lismore went out for a smoke about a quarter after twelve. His lighter malfunctioned so he asked the doorman for a book of matches, which the doorman provided.” Sutton snapped his notebook shut. “Several witnesses at the inn, including Amott, the bartender, and the doorman, confirm the timeline. Your fiancé was seen alive almost two hours after Frankie Grennan sat down for a pint with a couple of gardaí.”

  Gethsemane calculated the math. If Sutton dropped Frankie at home at three a.m., or a little after if you figured in the time to drive to Erasmus Hall, and the anonymous call alerting Sutton to Ty’s body came in at three twenty or three thirty—no way Frankie could have made it to Carrick Point, murdered Ty, and made it back home. Verna, on the other hand…She had admitted to being with Ty at the lighthouse. She dismissed the thought. Suicide. Ty died by his own hand, not someone else’s.

  “I don’t care about your witnesses or your stupid timelines.” Sunny stomped her foot and brought Gethsemane back to the present. “Ty did not kill himself. Someone murdered him. Murdered.” She stomped her foot again, hard enough to rattle the door hinges. “That one—” She pointed at Gethsemane. “—knows who killed him. One or all of her friends was responsible and she’s covering up for them. It’s your job to prove it, Inspector. Start by taking her in for questioning.”

  “Speaking of questioning,”
Gethsemane attempted to channel her inner ingénue and asked in her most innocent, artless voice, “if Ty really was murdered, how do we know you didn’t do it Sunny? Isn’t the significant other usually the murderer, Inspector Sutton?”

  Sutton struggled to keep his lips from curling into a smile. “Either the significant other or the butler.”

  Sunny’s face flushed as red as her hair. “You are not. Seriously. Suggesting. That I, Sunny Princess Randolph Markham—”

  “Of the Newport Markhams,” Gethsemane interjected.

  Sunny balled her hands into fists. “How could I possibly have hanged Ty? As you pointed out, Doctor Brown, he wasn’t a small man.”

  “Maybe someone from your past then,” Gethsemane said. “A heart broken and trampled on your way to social media stardom. Dreams and desires bloodied as you clawed your way to verified badges on your accounts. Any skeletons in your closet with murderous intentions?”

  “What are you talking about?” Sunny asked. “My closet’s full of Emilia Wickstead, Markarian, and Pippa Holt. There’s no room for skeletons, literal or figurative.”

  “I bet you discarded boyfriends like you discarded last year’s fashions. How do you know one of your exes didn’t follow you here and kill Ty in hopes of reclaiming his spot in your social media feed?”

  “That’s, that’s,” Sunny stammered, “that’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it, Miss Markham?” Sutton asked. “Perhaps you’d come down to the station with me and provide me a list of names to check?”

  “No, I won’t.” She narrowed her eyes and brought her clenched fists up to her chest. “How dare you suggest—” She stopped and looked back and forth between Gethsemane and Sutton. Her face relaxed into a thousand-watt smile and the little girl voice returned. “Inspector Sutton, surely, you don’t suspect me of having anything to do with Ty’s death. I’d never be involved with anything so horrible. No one from my past would be cruel enough to kill anyone. I would never associate with anyone capable of murder. Just look at me—”

  “Yes,” Gethsemane said, “let’s take another look at you. I’m still sold on the idea of the significant other as the most likely suspect.”