Killing in C Sharp Read online

  “But you’ve had experiences that can’t be explained away in rational, scientific terms,” Kent persisted.

  She shrugged, hoping to appear noncommittal. “Some orbs, some footsteps, the odd smell or two.” She waved a hand. “Cologne, you know, that sort of thing.”

  Kent stiffened. A muscle worked in his jaw. “But he said—I mean, I heard—there have been rumors of full-bodied apparitions, telekinesis…”

  “Who said?” She didn’t get the full-blown Tchaikovsky treatment, but warning bells went off. “Who’s he?”

  “You know, just rumors.” Kent’s shrug mirrored hers, but the redness of his cheeks belied its noncommittal nature. “Local gossip. Talk at the pub.”

  Liar. No locals would tell this brash American outsider anything about Eamon’s ghost, even if they knew about him, no matter how much money he threw around. Dead or alive, Eamon remained one of their own. The only rumors coming out of the Dunmullach gossip mill would be about Kent and Ciara and the rest of the paranormal investigators. So who had Kent talked to? “Don’t put too much stock in gossip, Kent. People get into trouble that way.”

  He pressed her. “I understand your reluctance to talk. Admitting belief in the paranormal opens one to ridicule, embarrassment. There’s a stigma. You have a career to consider, a reputation. But this is your chance to help open people’s eyes, their minds, to the possibility of the existence of things beyond what they can touch and taste and feel. Your experiences can help others understand that reality is so much bigger than what’s right in front of them.”

  Therein lay the problem. Her experiences threatened to upend eons of theology and science. She leaned forward and laid a hand on Kent’s arm. She locked eyes. They were simpatico, on the same wavelength. She understood what he wanted to do. She believed. “It’s not shame or embarrassment, Kent.” She lowered her voice and lied. “Truth is, not much happens up here at Carraigfaire. The Athaneum is the real center of activity. The action happens at the theater.”

  Kent ripped off his mic and stormed out of the study. “At the theater? The theater? You’ve got to be effing kidding me.” He stormed through the cottage, tipping over camera tripods and lights, swearing at Gethsemane, Billy, and the entire Irish nation. “We waste two days up here on this godforsaken cliff setting up our gear, and now you say McCarthy’s ghost haunts the theater?” Poe, Hardy, and the rest of the crew dodged equipment and watched him rant. Poe smirked. Hardy remained inscrutable.

  “Problem?” Ciara, who’d been photographing outside, stepped into the room, her camera still slung over her shoulder. She calmed Kent with an arm around him.

  “She,” Kent jerked a thumb at Gethsemane, “tells me the paranormal activity doesn’t happen up here in this hovel. She claims the theater is the focus of the haunting.”

  “I didn’t say nothing happens up here. Some things do.” Gethsemane counted off on her fingers. “Footsteps, orbs, smells. But the good stuff happens at Athaneum.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us when we arrived instead of wasting our time?”

  “I’m new to this ghost hunting stuff. Besides, I didn’t think you’d believe me.” She eyed Kent. “You’d heard ‘rumors’ from—someone—that Carraigfaire cottage was haunted. If I denied it straight away, you’d have thought I had something to hide. Now you’ve been up here a couple of days and you’ve seen for yourself not much happens in the way of paranormal activity.”

  “She’s got a point, Kent,” Hardy said. “The cottage has been kind of a dud so far. Lighthouse, too.”

  Kent spoke to Gethsemane. “How do I know you’re telling the truth about the Athaneum? How do I know you’re not hiding something now?”

  “Would I lie and say Eamon’s ghost haunts the theater? Or would I lie and say there’s no ghost anywhere and try to get y’all to leave? Whether you set up shop in the cottage or in the village, I still have to put up with you until you get what you want. I still have to go on record saying I see spooks and shades and haints. I’m still going to be picked at and ridiculed because I admitted I believe in the boogey man. What difference does it make to me which building you take your pictures in?”

  Ciara rubbed Kent’s back. “Hardy’s right, she has a point. And, speaking from an artistic perspective, I’d rather shoot in the theater.” She turned to Gethsemane. “Don’t get me wrong, the cottage and lighthouse are lovely in a picture postcard sort of way. But the Athaneum offers a more gothic setting, more in keeping with the show’s atmosphere.”

  Poe perked up. She bounced on the balls of her feet and grinned like a kid who just learned she was going to Disney. Gethsemane half expected her to clap. “That opera guy is going to stir up Maja Zoltán’s ghost at the theater. What if we captured her as well as McCarthy?”

  “A two-for-one ghost special?” Hardy snorted. “Get over the Maja obsession.”

  “You get over yourself,” Poe said. “I believe in the curse, and that’s no stranger than any of the things you believe in, Mr. Holier-than-thou Hardy.”

  What’s the term to describe a situation where two paranormal investigators debate whose beliefs are more outrageous? Surreal. Gethsemane leaned against a wall and watched them hash it out.

  Poe went on. “This might be my only chance to investigate a story I’ve been following since I was thirteen. She,” Poe jerked her head toward Gethsemane, “says McCarthy’s ghost is at the Athaneum. We,” her gesture included the entire ghost hunting crew, “haven’t seen or heard jack up here, not so much as a light anomaly or a disembodied sneeze. The locals are happy to talk to us about the weather or sports or American politics, but when we ask them to tell us about this house or the McCarthys, they say,” Poe mimicked a brogue, “‘I will, yeah,’ and then they don’t. We only have a few more days here, and if we want enough material for an episode, we better expand our ghost hunting horizon beyond Carrick Point. Right now, we don’t have enough for a podcast.”

  “I agree with Poe,” Ciara said.

  “So do I,” Hardy said. “Reluctantly.”

  Kent surveyed his crew. “Who else thinks we ought to shift our base of operations?” One by one, the entire crew raised their hands.

  “How are we going to get permission to film at the theater?” Kent asked.

  “I have a couple of connections,” Gethsemane said. “Including Aed Devlin. A cameo, or tiny segment, on your show would be good publicity for his opera. People might buy a ticket for the chance to see Poe’s ghost.”

  “She’s not my ghost.” Poe frowned. “She just is.”

  “Okay, the ghost. Buy a ticket for the opera, stay for the paranormal after party.”

  “You can arrange access?” Kent asked. “You’re sure?”

  “I can.” Somehow. “I am.”

  “All right, guys,” Kent said to his crew. “Pack up the gear. We’ll move it down the mountain today and rendezvous at the Athaneum—” He broke off and looked at Gethsemane.

  “Tomorrow. Meet me there after lunch. But not the full crew with all your gear. Maybe just you, Kent, and a few key people. Rehearsals start tomorrow, so you’ll have to wait until after to set up.” She crossed her fingers behind her back. “But don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

  Kent stared at her a long moment. As the silence grew uncomfortable, he said, “Tomorrow. After lunch. But you won’t mind if we leave a couple of digital audio recorders and EMF pods behind here, maybe a single full-spectrum camera.” His request didn’t sound like a question. “You may not hear anything more than a footstep on the stairs, but sometimes technology detects things human senses can’t.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Good.” Kent smiled. “See, we both want the same thing. Proof life persists after the body dies.”

  Whatever. “I’m going to take a walk up to the lighthouse so I’m out of the way while you pack up.”

  “I left som
e equipment up there,” Hardy said. “I’ll be up in a while to get it.”

  Gethsemane left the Ghost Hunting Adventures crew to their task. Eamon joined her halfway to the lighthouse.

  “Fair play, grasshopper.” The green of his amused aura matched his eyes.

  “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.”

  “We’re alone. Those fellas will be scurrying around gathering up their toys for a while.”

  “I’m glad you can be cavalier about the situation. We’re not in the clear yet.”

  “I’m not being cavalier, you’re being paranoid.”

  “I risk making a huge fool out of myself to protect you and that’s what you have to say to me? Ooh, wait until I find a spell to send you to hell.” She stomped ahead.

  Eamon rematerialized in front of her. Her momentum carried her through him. The buzz shook them both.

  “I hate it when you do that,” they said simultaneously.

  Gethsemane kept walking.

  Eamon materialized in front of her again. The tingle of his hand on her arm stopped her. “Remind me why we’re fighting. Whatever I said, I’m sorry.”

  An apology from Eamon McCarthy truly ranked among the rarest of events. She relented. “We’re not fighting. And I’m not mad. I’m—worried.”

  “About?”

  “You. This Maja business might be sufficient to send most of the crew on a wild ghost chase—”

  Eamon laughed. “I see what you did there.”

  Gethsemane failed to suppress a grin. “Kent’s up to something. He let slip that someone, a male, put him on to you.”

  “Is he triggering the Tchaikovsky treatment?”

  “No, just an uneasy feeling.”

  “Maybe he’s giving you the glad eye,” Eamon said.

  “Please, I’m a bit old for him.”

  “Not as old as Ciara. And she’s got him pretty well wrapped.”

  “Kent is not interested in me. But he is interested in more than Ciara,” she said. “I just can’t figure out what.”

  “I think Hardy’s the one who needs figuring out. That fella’s agenda stretches far beyond the paranormal. The ‘your man Friday, perennial designated driver, always ready to lend a hand and do the jobs no one else wants’ routine is just that, a routine, a shtick.”

  “He’s just strange. As strange as Poe in his own way.”

  “No one is as strange as Poe,” Eamon said. “That bure’s a quare header.”

  “Okay, you’re right. Not that strange. But, well, Hardy’s never come right out and said so, but I think he may have had substance abuse problems in the past. I think that’s why he gave up drinking and smoking.”

  “You think he’s just become very intense in his sobriety?” Eamon glowed a doubtful hickory. “I think that greasy dark hair covers a head full of secrets.”

  “Now you mention it, I did notice a trace of Irish accent beneath the Noo Yahwk.”

  “Brogue, darlin’. An Irish accent is a brogue.”

  “Seriously? You’re going to nitpick while I’m warning you about—”

  “Gethsemane!”

  She turned in the direction of the shout. Hardy, several feet below her on the path between the cottage and lighthouse, snapped a photo. He waved and disappeared inside the house.

  Six

  Venus and Aed pulled up in front of Carraigfaire as the Ghost Hunting Adventures crew pulled out. Gethsemane offered to help carry Venus’s luggage from the car, but Aed waved both women aside and hauled the bags, five of them, himself.

  Gethsemane could pack for a month in a roll-aboard and a backpack. “Not a fan of traveling light?”

  “I’ve been here for months. Some stories take longer to get than others.”

  “You know Dunmullach has a laundry and a dry cleaner? In the village square, next to the stationer’s.”

  Aed squeezed between the two women, carrying the last bag. “Where should I put these?”

  “Upstairs. I’ll show you.” Gethsemane led the way up to the back bedroom.

  “It’s,” Venus looked around the room, “quaint.”

  “It’s an almost-two-hundred-year-old thatched roof cottage,” Gethsemane said. “Not the Ritz Hotel.”

  “It’s charming,” Aed said. “Reminds me of Gran’s place in Adare.” He headed back down for more luggage. A few more trips and Venus’s bags crowded the small room. “It’s only for a short while.”

  “I blame Bernard Stoltz for this,” Venus said. “What’s that snake doing here, anyway?”

  “Good question,” Gethsemane said. “He’s unemployed, officially, at least since the Cleveland Symphony scandal broke and Classical Music Today finally fired him.”

  “’Bout time.” Venus sat on the foot of the bed and kicked off her shoes. “Bernard’s been selling good reviews for years. They should have fired him earlier for what he did to Aed. Aed would never pay for a good review or to keep someone from publishing a negative story.”

  Aed must have told her about the rumors. “You just met Aed. What makes you certain he wouldn’t pay?”

  “I just know. Haven’t you ever met someone and just known right away what they’re capable of and what they’re not? Aed would never pay a bribe. He should have taken Bernard to court, scandal be damned.”

  “He wouldn’t have gotten far in court without evidence. Prior to Cleveland, Bernard was never stupid enough to let anyone record their meetings or post photos to social media.”

  “None of this explains what Bernard’s doing in Dunmullach,” Venus said. “No offense, but this is off the beaten path even for washed-up journalists.”

  And, by extension, washed-up musicians? Gethsemane couldn’t let that one pass. “But not for true crime reporters?”

  Aed, apparently sensing an argument brewing, stepped back in. “Maybe Stoltz is freelancing. Sniffing around for a story to put himself back in the game.”

  “Maybe hoping your return to the opera world will blow up in your face and he’ll be there to trumpet the news to the world? That would be how his mind works.” Venus reached for Aed’s hand. “Not that your new work will be anything but brilliant.”

  Gethsemane, hoping to interrupt a scene, cleared her throat. “Speaking of your opera, I invited a few people to attend rehearsals.”

  “What have you done?” Venus’s eyes narrowed.

  “I convinced the Ghost Hunting Adventures boys to conduct their stake out at the Athaneum instead of up here.”

  “Is that why they were leaving when we pulled up?” Aed asked.

  Gethsemane nodded.

  “Why in the name of all that’s holy would you do that?” Venus asked.

  If she was honest, because protecting her favorite ghost took precedence over seeing Aed resurrect his career. She pushed the thought aside with a twinge of guilt. “Because I thought an appearance by Aed on a popular TV show would boost ticket sales. Poe, the one with the blue hair, is fascinated by the legend behind ‘Kastély’—”

  “That is one unusual girl,” Venus interrupted. “She reminds me of an informant I met when I—”

  Gethsemane made a face and continued. “Poe is fascinated by Maja Zoltán. The crew didn’t find anything here in the way of paranormal evidence—”

  “Because there is no such thing,” Venus interrupted again.

  Gethsemane bit back a caustic remark. Venus’s skepticism was keeping ghosts out of her book revisions. Treat it as a blessing. “So I suggested, and they agreed, the Athaneum would be the perfect place to film their show. They always interview people connected to whatever case they’re investigating.”

  “Meaning me,” Aed said.

  “They devote a big chunk of each episode to backstory, in this case, the legend. And since your opera’s about the legend, it makes sense they’d talk about your opera. Maybe
even include some of the music. It shouldn’t be too hard to convince Poe that you’re playing the music to test the curse for her. Consider it the operatic equivalent of a movie tie-in.”

  “It’s risky,” Aed said. “It borders on insane. It’s bold, daring. Let’s do it. I’m in.”

  Prayers of thanks filled Gethsemane’s head. “A couple of the crew, Kent and I guess whoever he considers essential, will be coming to the theater tomorrow after lunch.”

  “You’re going to put school boys and a TV crew in the same space at the same time?” Venus asked. “Fearless becomes foolhardy in the blink of an eye.”

  Damn. The boys. She’d scheduled honors orchestra to attend rehearsals tomorrow. Too late to change things now. She played off her concern. “I’m not worried. The boys know how to conduct themselves.”

  “Like boys?” Venus asked. “That would be the problem.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about the lads,” Aed said. “I’m an Oul’ Boy myself. We’ll have a grand time.”

  “You’d have a better time if you weren’t staying at the same inn as Bernard Stoltz,” Venus said.

  “I’m sure Father Tim’s offer of a room at the parish house still stands,” Gethsemane said.

  “Don’t worry about Aed Devlin.” He tapped his thumb against his chest. “I’ve been looking out for myself since I was fifteen. I’m comfortable at Sweeney’s, and I won’t give that gobshite Stoltz the satisfaction of running me out. I feel good about ‘Kastély.’ It’s feckin’ brilliant if I dare say so. This is my time for a comeback, and damn Stoltz if he thinks he can ruin it for me again.”

  Gethsemane studied Aed’s face, distorted by passion and anger. How far would he go to deny Bernard a second chance to wreck him? Far enough to stage an accident with a statue or balcony rail? True, Niall had smelled that strange odor. And the curse decreed anyone who performed anything based on Maja’s tragedy would die horribly, but the legend made a convenient cover for murder. She chewed her lip. She couldn’t bluntly ask Aed if he’d tried to flatten Bernard. Maybe she could get him to whistle the overture again. No way he could have rigged the cottage so if anything happened, like the ceiling collapsed, he’d be cleared. She looked up at the wooden beams supporting the thatch. They could probably jump out of the way.