EXECUTION IN E Page 9

  “What?” The little girl voice vanished.

  “Did you kill your fiancé, Sunny? Assuming for the sake of argument that he was murdered. You found out Ty wanted to rekindle things with Verna. You became jealous, afraid an affair would ruin the image of the happy couple you were shopping to sponsors. You’re smart, you wouldn’t let size stop you from eliminating a threat to everything you’d worked for. You could have lured him up to the top of the lighthouse, coaxed him into putting a rope around his neck, talked him into climbing onto the railing for some kind of extreme selfie—”

  “You!” Sunny flew at Gethsemane who ducked out of reach. Inspector Sutton intercepted her. He grabbed her around her waist with both arms and pulled her back. Sunny struggled against him, but he held her tight with her feet several inches above the floor.

  “That’s enough of that, Miss Markham.” Sutton dodged a kick aimed at his shin.

  Gethsemane averted her eyes to keep from laughing.

  Sunny squirmed and struggled. “Did you hear what she said? What she accused me of?”

  “No more than what you accused her of. I think it’s best if we go now.” Sutton backed toward the door, socialite in arms.

  The door swung open, aided by Eamon. Sutton half-carried, half-dragged his uncooperative cargo through it. Gethsemane hoped he didn’t remember that she’d closed the door when she’d invited him in. She shut it again after Sutton loaded Sunny into his car.

  Eamon densified until he appeared solid. “I’d hate to get on the wrong side of that one. She’s more terrifying than a lioness who hasn’t eaten for a week.”

  “Where were your blue orbs when she attacked me?”

  “She’d have caught one and thrown it back at you.”

  Gethsemane went to the study and poured herself a shot of Waddell and Dobb. “Do you think she was right? Could Ty have been murdered?”

  “By who?” Eamon asked. “Grennan has Sutton as his alibi. The Cunningham sisters are both too small to hoist a grown man over a rail. And I don’t see Ty posing for any extreme selfies with them.”

  “One or both of the groomsmen?”

  “No signs of a struggle, remember? How would they have gotten him over? Dared him?”

  “I wish I’d looked at the clock when I saw Verna. She says she left Ty alive. Sutton got his call not long after three a.m. Ty must have been dead by three. Verna could have been there at the same time as the killer, could have seen or heard—”

  “What killer?” Eamon asked. “Don’t let that she-devil get to you and turn a straightforward suicide into a murder that didn’t happen.”

  “But what if it wasn’t really a suicide? What if it was actually murder, staged to look like suicide? You know what that’s like. You waited twenty-five years after your death to prove you didn’t kill yourself.”

  “Damn.” Eamon followed this up with a string of more profanities. His aura glowed a blue-saffron mixture of anger and worry. “I just thought of something.”

  “What?”

  “If—and this is only conjecture—but if Ty’s suicide wasn’t a suicide, if he was murdered but he’s buried as a suicide—”

  “Like you were.”

  “He’ll never be able to rest in peace.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he’ll roam as a ghost like me, condemned to haunt the place where he died until someone sets things right and clears his name.” Blue sparks popped and sizzled. A tiny blue orb whizzed past Gethsemane’s ear.

  She felt the heat as the ball of energy flew by. “Hey, take it easy. You’ll burn the house down.”

  “I’ll burn the whole bloody village down. Dunmullach be damned if I’ll be stuck co-haunting Carraigfaire with that bollocks for all eternity.”

  Twelve

  “Thank you, Father Tim,” Gethsemane said to the priest on the other end of the phone. “In the meantime, I’ll try my luck at Arcana Arcanora. An occult bookstore ought to have at least one book on how to keep ghosts away. Which reminds me, have you spoken to Rosalie?”

  “Ay,” Tim said. “Not that I got any answers about the note. I went to Sweeney’s this morning to see her. Of course, Ty, God rest his soul, was foremost in mind. Lots of angst and confusion among guests and staff alike. I prayed with more than one. Gardaí were everywhere, asking questions. I think they interviewed everyone in the inn. I only had time to ask Miss Baraquin how she was holding up before a garda whisked her off for an interview. I didn’t see her again.”

  “Thanks for trying. Not that it matters much now. Ty was the one in danger, not Rosalie. Although, I’d still like to know why she blocked her doorway.”

  “Religious practice, superstition, habit. Plenty of people take precautions against things they can’t see and may or may not believe in but want to be on the safe side of, just in case.”

  “You’re right. I won’t put a hat on a bed, just because Grandma said not to. Even my skeptical, rational, citified mother won’t do it. Grandma never told us why we couldn’t put hats on beds, she just told us not to. Probably nothing. But why chance it?”

  “I am sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” Tim said. “I can try again later, if you like.”

  “That’s okay. Don’t trouble yourself any further. Like I said, it doesn’t matter now and you’re likely to be busy. As much as I detested Ty Lismore, I realize his sudden, violent death must have hit his friends hard. At least some of them will be seeking spiritual guidance and solace.”

  “Hopefully, I’ll have better luck finding a spell to ensure the peaceful repose of that poor soul. Of course, I’ve prayed that eternal rest be granted to him, but a back-up spell wouldn’t hurt.”

  They rang off and Gethsemane turned to Eamon. The ghost stood next to the kitchen counter, arms crossed, aura a sullen teal blue.

  “Stop sulking,” Gethsemane said. “Father Tim’s going to search his collection for a spell to prevent someone from coming back as a ghost—he’s already prayed—and I’m going to the occult bookstore to search for the same. We don’t want Ty’s ghost to come back to haunt any more than you do.” The coffee pot, visible through Eamon’s semi-transparent chest, simmered full of rich, dark liquid and the earthy, caramel aroma that gave her almost as much pleasure as hearing the Biber Mystery Sonatas played on a Stradivarius violin filled the room. “Coffee’s ready.”

  Eamon nodded at a cabinet. It swung open and a mug levitated across the kitchen to the counter. The coffee pot floated up, tilted, and filled the mug before settling itself back on the counter. The mug drifted across the kitchen and set itself down on the table in front of Gethsemane.

  “You shouldn’t drink that stuff so late in the day,” Eamon said. “Have a cup of tea instead.”

  “Tea contains caffeine, too.” Gethsemane sipped coffee. “And ‘this stuff,’ as you so dismissively call it, gives me the energy to do things like find ways to prevent dead louts from becoming ghosts and to figure out whether said louts killed themselves or if someone did it for them.” She drained her cup. “Have to go. Bookstore closes soon.”

  She arrived at Arcana Arcanora, Dunmullach’s occult bookshop, in time to find a young man with purple hair and pierced face wheeling a cart full of books from the sidewalk into the bookstore. Faint strains of Nina Simone’s cover of “I Put a Spell on You” spilled through the open doorway.

  “We close soon,” the man said as she approached.

  She slipped past him into the shop’s crowded interior. “Ten minutes. I know what I want.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what that is and we’ll make it five minutes?”

  “A grimoire.” She pointed at a sign, labeled “Spell Books,” that hung from the ceiling at the far side of the store.

  “Any particular incantation you’re looking for? Romance, money?” He looked her up and down. “Youth?”

  A spell to turn smart-m
outhed store clerks into toadstools? She reminded herself she’d have to be nice if she wanted the clerk’s help. “I need an incantation to prevent someone who died from coming back as a ghost.”

  “Takes more than just the incantation, you know. You have to perform rituals, as well.”

  “Yeah, I know. Trust me, I have some experience with ghosts.” She tapped her watch. “The book?”

  The young man led her through narrow aisles filled with tarot cards, incense, scrying mirrors, and numerous other occult items. Gethsemane couldn’t guess what half of them were for.

  “What happened to the other clerk?” she asked. “The young woman with the chiffon and tattoos?”

  “Got married and moved to Dublin.” He stopped under the “Spell Book” sign and scanned the jumble of titles on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. “Hmm, I don’t see anything. We have several books with rituals for preventing someone from coming back as a vampire but nothing to prevent revenants, strigori, or duppies. I thought we had one but…” His finger hovered over a book spine as he shook his head. “No, sorry. Have you tried Father Tim at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows? He owns a comprehensive occult library. Maybe you’d have better luck there.”

  Father Tim’s occult collection was one of the worst kept secrets in Dunmullach. “I called him already. He’s checking for me.”

  “Sorry. Say, you’re not worried about that fella who hanged himself from Carrick Point lighthouse coming back as a haunt, are you?” The clerk pulled a small, red book from the shelf and handed it to her. Profilaxie Vampyras. “Maybe you should try this instead. People who commit suicide are at high risk for becoming vampires.”

  “Thanks, but,” Gethsemane handed to book back, “ghosts are my concern. By the way, how did you know about—”

  “Ty’s suicide?” a familiar voice interjected.

  Gethsemane and the clerk turned toward the speaker.

  Rosalie approached them. “Everyone in this village knows what happened up at Carrick Point in the wee small hours of the morning. Dunmullach’s just like small towns at home. Bad news spreads like a virus.” She held up a deck of tarot cards. “I’d like to get this, please.”

  The clerk grumbled about customers waiting until almost closing time to come in as he took the cards and led the way to the cash register.

  “Have you ever had a reading, Dr. Brown?” Rosalie asked. “A tarot reading, I mean.”

  “It’s Gethsemane. And, no, I haven’t. I’m not really a believer.” Ghosts, she believed in, and Russian symphonies playing in her head as harbingers of doom. But fortune telling? She wasn’t quite there yet.

  “You don’t have to believe in something for it to be true. You should have a reading. Try it. You’d be amazed at the insights tarot can provide.”

  “How are you doing?” Gethsemane asked. “Ty was a friend—”

  Rosalie interrupted. “To no one. Ty Lismore was a deeply unpleasant individual who left things worse off than when he found them. He never did anything to make the world a better place and no one misses him. Least of all his fiancée.”

  Harsh words. No hesitation to speak ill of the dead. Not exactly the image of the bridesmaid’s post-tragedy demeanor she’d gotten from Father Tim. “I, er, saw Sunny earlier. She seemed quite upset about Ty’s death. Nearly hysterical.” Not exactly with grief, but hysterical, nonetheless.

  “Sunny Markham thrives on drama, chaos, and manipulation. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “Aren’t you her friend? You’re serving as one of her bridesmaids, so I assumed…”

  “Emphasis on ‘serving’ and ‘maid.’” Rosalie bit her lip, then sighed and continued. “It’s complicated. There are to be ten bridesmaids, total. Agnes, that’s Agnes Haywood, the other woman you saw at the lighthouse, and I are maids of honor. That means we’ve the ‘honor,’” Rosalie made air quotes, “of being Sunny’s primary whipping posts and scut monkeys.”

  “You mean you’re not clamoring to be in the wedding party for the social media exposure opportunities?”

  Rosalie snorted. “Hardly. Ten million followers wouldn’t be adequate compensation for putting up with Sunny Markham. Her money and family connections ensure she gets whatever, and whoever, she wants. If you refuse her, she finds a way to make you pay. The job you were after suddenly disappears, your name drops to the bottom of the waiting list for the apartment you coveted, you’re a social pariah. And if the threat of becoming a social outcast fails to keep you in line, Sunny resorts to full-on conniptions. She throws tantrums that put two-year-olds to shame. People cave to avoid a scene. Mal’s the only one able to talk her down. I don’t know why, they haven’t known each other that long. But Mal’s got some sort of gift for dealing with her lunacy. He’s the only one she responds to. He’s a drama queen whisperer. We call him The Lord of Chaos.” She glanced toward the door. “But not when Sunny’s in earshot.”

  “Ty, the man she planned to marry, had no influence over her behavior? He couldn’t calm her down?”

  “Not Ty. Sunny’s outrageous behavior suits—” she corrected herself, “suited Ty. His particular gift was for directing her wrath at others. He’d manipulate her into a tirade then step out of the line of fire and enjoy the spoils of war. As long as Sunny focused her terror on others, Ty could spend her money—usually on cigarettes, booze, and other women—without fear of detection. It’s not like you could tell her, after the fact, what Ty had gotten up to. Sunny’s ego won’t allow the possibility that anyone would prefer any company over hers. And Ty seemed to have a knack for shifting blame for his sins to other people.”

  “Why do you think he—”

  “Hanged himself? You mean other than to get out of marrying Sunny?” Rosalie flushed. “Sorry, that was flip. No, it wasn’t. Death would be preferable to a life of hell with Sunny Markham. But Ty had a plan to help himself to a large part of her fortune as compensation.” Rosalie shrugged. “Maybe the devil made him do it.”

  Gethsemane shuddered. The opening measures of “Pathétique” blared in her head, catching her off guard. Damn. Now what? Ty was dead. So why the warning? “Ty didn’t tell you—”

  “About his plans to relieve Sunny of the burden of wealth? No, he told Brian and Theo. And Brian is a gossip.”

  “Excuse me,” the clerk called to Rosalie, “that’ll be eighteen ninety-five.”

  Gethsemane waited while Rosalie paid for her tarot cards. She followed her out as the clerk locked the door behind them.

  The Tchaikovsky persisted. Had she been wrong about the warning being for Ty? Was Rosalie the one in danger and Ty’s death a tragic coincidence? Was there a connection between them? Rosalie was no bigger than Verna. She couldn’t have thrown Ty over the railing. Maybe her cryptic note mattered after all.

  She caught up to Rosalie, several paces ahead of her. “I get that you’re not going to weep for Ty but are you sure you’re all right? About that other thing, I mean.”

  Rosalie kept walking. “What other thing?”

  “The note you received at Sweeney’s. The one you didn’t want me to see. The one with the line drawing.”

  “I didn’t want you to see it because it was no business of yours.”

  “If you read my tarot cards, you’d find out that I have a penchant for sticking my nose into business that’s not mine.”

  “That’s not how tarot works.”

  “Sorry. Bad joke. But I’m serious about that note.”

  Rosalie spun without warning and collided with Gethsemane. “You don’t quit, do you?”

  “No.” Gethsemane rubbed her nose where it had impacted Rosalie’s collarbone. “Quitting is not one of my character traits.”

  Rosalie’s shoulders slumped in resignation. “The note was a…message, like a calling card. From an old business associate, warn—letting me know he’d be ’round to see me soon.”

  “Granted
, I only glimpsed the note for a few seconds, but I didn’t see any words, only a drawing. You got all that information from a drawing?”

  “It was a pictograph. The drawing contained all the information I needed. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.” She walked on.

  Undeterred, Gethsemane followed. “When is this friend, sorry, associate coming to visit?”

  Rosalie stopped again and held up the shop bag containing the tarot cards. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do a reading?”

  Neither woman spoke. Gethsemane waited. Was Rosalie going to answer her question about her pictograph-writing visitor? Several seconds passed in silence. Apparently, Rosalie had meant it when she’d declared she had no more to say about her note. Gethsemane debated bringing up the charm Rosalie had used to protect her door but explaining how she knew about the charm would be tricky. She conceded the round. Time to change the subject.

  She spoke first. “I’ll pass on the cards, thanks.”

  “Are you sure?” Rosalie asked. “You might learn something.”

  The truth about whether or not Ty killed himself? She imagined Rosalie’s offended response that tarot didn’t work that way. “I might not like what I’d learn,” she said.

  Rosalie warmed to the topic. “Insight always benefits, even if it’s hard to accept. Wouldn’t you like to gain a deeper understanding of the teachings of your grandparents? The wisdom of your elders?”

  “My grandparents?” A tailor and teacher on her father’s side and farmers on her mother’s. Alarms from her claptrap meter replaced warning notes from Tchaikovsky. Rosalie’s wisdom-of-the-elders spiel sounded like a carnival barker’s con job. “What do my grandparents have to do with anything?”

  “They must have passed some rural Virginia folk wisdom on to you with the family lore. People connected to the land possess a great deal of knowledge. When they share it with family it may not be in a form the recipients understand or appreciate. The tarot can help make sense of what you already know.”