Murder in G Major by Alexia Gordon

Author:Alexia Gordon [Gordon, Alexia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Cozy, General, female sleuth, english mystery, british cozy mysteries, cozy mystery, Women Sleuths, paranormal mystery, amateur sleuth books, ghost mystery
ISBN: 9781635110579
Google: FBL3jwEACAAJ
Amazon: 1635110572
Publisher: Henery Press
Published: 2016-05-11T22:00:00+00:00

“Don’t be an old woman, Murph.” Francis found a seat at the bar. “What’d I miss?”

“Dr. Brown’s virtuosa performance,” O’Reilly said. “Looks like St. Brennan’s might be a contender in the All-County this year.”

“If the All-County was held in a pub,” Hurley scowled, “and the judges were all on the piss.”

Francis raised his glass to Gethsemane. “Sorry I missed the show. Any chance of an encore?”

Gethsemane waved away the suggestion.

“Come now.” Grennan climbed from his barstool and addressed the other patrons. “Who’s up for another?”

Cheers and shouts of “Encore!” answered him.

Gethsemane demurred. “Maybe Inspector—”

“Oh, no you don’t. I’ve sense enough not to follow a better act. Besides, it’s you they’re wantin’.”

“Make you a deal. I will if you will,” Gethsemane said.

“You first.”

Hurley slammed his fist on the bar. “Gwon play,” he said, the alcohol’s effects rendering his speech almost unintelligible. “Don’ pretend yer modest. Play anotherdamsong. Thas’ all yer here ferain’tit? To make the music that’ll clean the black mark from Dunmullach’s sullied reputashun?”

O’Reilly spoke in a low voice. “Watch it, Hurley.”

Gethsemane caught Hurley’s eye. He glared at her, his gaze pure meanness. Gethsemane returned the glare, picked up the violin and, without taking her eyes from Hurley’s, let fly “The Hanged Man’s Lament.” The mournful air recounted the tale of an honest man framed for murder by a corrupt officer and hanged.

Francis, now standing behind Gethsemane, chortled. Redness crept up Hurley’s face like the tide rolling in. One hand tightened on his glass, the other clenched into a fist. Gethsemane played with more passion, putting particular emphasis on the passages musically depicting the man’s torment as his village turns against him, whipped into a frenzy by the corrupt officer’s lies. Hurley downed his drink in a gulp and slammed his empty glass on the bar.

“Careful with that, Hurley,” Murphy chided. “Glassware’s not free.”

Gethsemane kept playing. When she reached the last measures, Hurley jumped from his barstool and stepped toward her. He looked at Murphy and O’Reilly, hesitated, then stormed from the pub.

Gethsemane finished the tune as the door swung shut behind him. She lowered the violin and took a deep breath.

Francis whispered in Gethsemane’s ear. “Well played, Dr. Brown, very well played indeed.”

Gethsemane bit back a smile.

As the applause died down someone reminded O’Reilly he’d promised an encore as well.

O’Reilly tipped his hat to Gethsemane. “Ladies’ choice.”

“Hmm.” Gethsemane tapped her chin. “How about ‘Dicey Reilly’?”

“Cute. Hinting at your true feelings about me? You think I’m dicey?”

Gethsemane’s grin broke loose. “No hidden meaning, Inspector. I just like the song.”

“Dicey Reilly, it is.” O’Reilly called to the crowd. “Feel free to join in.”

Several men came forward. One sat at the piano, one picked up a bodhran propped against a wall. One pulled a harmonica from his pocket, another pulled out a tin whistle. A fifth produced a guitar. The tweed-capped man reclaimed his violin. O’Reilly led off with, “Oh poor old Dicey Reilly has taken to the sup. And poor old Dicey Reilly will never give it up.” The ad hoc band joined in and soon the entire pub sang the saga of “poor old Dicey Reilly.

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