The Celtic Riddle Page 9

  The other was a realization that I wouldn’t be seeing much of Rob for the next little while, a turn of events that had been immediately obvious the previous evening when I’d entered a bar on the main street of town with Alex, to find Rob chatting up an attractive woman, slim and rather fit-looking, with a halo of reddish hair around her face, and attractive green eyes.

  “Lara,” Rob exclaimed as I’d walked up to the bar. I wasn’t sure what the tone meant. I suspected it wasn’t Lara as in Lara-I’m-so-delighted-to-see-you. He’d picked this bar a couple of blocks from the Inn, in hopes I wouldn’t find him, I’d warrant. “Lara, I’d like you to meet Maeve Minogue. Maeve, this is my associate Lara McClintoch.”

  Associate? I see. “How do you do,” I said, shaking her hand. She had a very firm handshake.

  “It’s grand to meet a friend of Robert’s,” she said. “We’re all enjoying having him here.”

  Who is we, I wondered. The name Minogue was familiar, but it took a minute or two for me to twig to it. This woman was the “chap” Minogue Rob had talked to at the police station. It gave a whole new meaning to the term “improving international relations,” to use Rob’s own words, and the fact that he’d used the term chap to describe her spoke volumes of his intention to keep her a secret from me.

  “Well, Robert,” I said, sweetly. “Perhaps you’ll excuse me while I go and sit with another of your associates. Lovely to meet you, Maeve.”

  I went and sat with Alex, trying not to huff. This was a development I found intensely irritating, although I don’t know why it incensed me so much. Rob is, after all, free to do as he pleases. I have no claim to his affections. Occasionally, I wonder if he might make a suitable partner for me, but really our lives don’t seem to work out in that direction.

  When I first met him, he was living with Ms. Perfect, and I was in a long-distance relationship with a Mexican archaeologist. Then I was free, which is to say I got dumped, but Rob was still with Barbara. Then Clive, my ex-husband, persuaded his second wife, Celeste, to buy him the store across the street from Greenhalgh & McClintoch, setting me off into a fury and putting me off relationships with the opposite sex for some time. After a while Clive ditched Celeste and took up with my best friend Moira, about the time Rob and Barbara parted company. Rob expressed mild interest in me at that time, at least I think he did, but I was so traumatized by Clive and Moira, that I ignored him, or at least chose not to notice.

  As I think about this, I am beginning to wonder if I might have a career as a scriptwriter for afternoon television, drawing from my own life experience for the plots, should the antiques business, perilous at the best of times, not work out. I do know that as someone who has seen the dark side of forty, I should probably just reconcile myself to the single life, and take up needle-point, or something, to fill the long evenings, but I don’t. Like many of my generation, I feel younger than my years—or at least I delude myself that I do. I no longer feel as if I could live forever, but I don’t feel old, either. I am, however, at the stage in life where men my age appear to prefer younger—much younger—women. That made Ireland, that through some demographic anomaly having to do with emigration rates and such, has a population 50 percent of which is under the age of twenty-five, pretty much a paradise for forty-somethingish guys like Rob.

  But I digress. The final and deciding factor in my renewed resolution to find the treasure was a series of events that took place as Alex and I left Second Chance after our unpleasant session with the inhabitants, to head back to the village. It was late afternoon as I negotiated the rental car down the long driveway toward the main road. It had begun to rain quite hard, and Michael was nowhere to be seen, having presumably gone indoors for shelter. The windshield wipers were waving hypnotically in front of me, and the defroster was working overtime to clear the fog from the windshield. As I rounded a turn a hooded figure stepped out from dense brush at the side of the road and into the path of the car. I slammed on the brakes but, forgetting I was driving a standard shift, didn’t depress the clutch in my hurry. The car jerked along then stalled a few feet from the figure.

  I rolled down the window and peered out at the face under the hood. It was Deirdre, and she looked genuinely frightened, a trembling little bird on scrawny legs, her hair matted from the rain, despite the hood. “Stay away from Second Chance,” she said breathlessly. “You have no idea what’s going on here. This family is cursed!” Then she looked over her shoulder and quickly stepped back into the brush and disappeared.

  Then I saw what might have startled her. Sean McHugh, son-in-law number one, was walking down the drive toward the house. He was, like his brother-in-law, fair, but a little softer looking, a little jowly perhaps, and less threatening in demeanor, though not, in this case, in stance. He was still in his tweeds and high boots, but he’d added a rain cape swirling behind him—the aforementioned country gentleman look—except that he wasn’t looking particularly gentlemanly. He was carrying a gun, a rifle, slung over one shoulder. Even though it wasn’t pointed at us, it was an unpleasant moment.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “We’ve had tea at the house,” I replied.

  “What are you doing snooping around on the road?”

  “I’m not snooping,” I replied haughtily. “The car stalled. A rabbit ran in front of us, and I had to stop suddenly.” I was speaking, I suppose, metaphorically. There had been more than a little of the frightened rabbit in Deirdre.

  “Get moving,” McHugh said, looking as if he didn’t believe me for a moment. Maybe there weren’t any rabbits around here. Regardless, we did what we were told. I consider it a good rule not to argue with a man who holds a gun.

  I looked over at Alex. “All rather Gothic, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Gothic, yes, but part of it is true,” he said. “To Deirdre’s point, I have no idea what is going on here.”

  “I feel sorry for Vigs,” I said. “I figure he’s doomed. What do you think she’ll do to him? He’s too big to flush down the toilet.”

  “I don’t even want to think,” Alex murmured. “We should have brought him with us.”

  “Maybe we should have brought Deirdre, too,” I replied. Alex smiled.

  “We’re going to have to do something about a road into Rose Cottage,” I said, seriously. “We can’t have Sean McHugh waving a rifle at you every time you try to get there.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Alex said. “I haven’t decided what to do about the cottage just yet.”

  “But you know you love it,” I said. “And we can’t let those awful people intimidate you out of your inheritance!”

  Alex just shrugged and took to looking at the scenery. I gathered this was a topic he didn’t wish to pursue at the moment.

  “Pull over,” he said suddenly. “Can you back up? About a hundred yards?”

  Surprised, I complied. “What is it?” I exclaimed.

  Alex pointed down a little road off to the right. I looked but couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. It was just another lane, as far as I could see.

  “What?” I said to him, mystified.

  “Look at the signs,” he said. There were a number of signs hammered into a tree, one of them for a B&B, another for a vegetable stand, others individual names. At the very bottom, however, was a crude hand-lettered wooden sign. The Breakers, it said.

  “Worth a try,” I said.

  We slowly made our way along the road, checking all the houses as we went. After about five minutes, the pavement ended, and we bounced our way around muddy potholes, then made a sharp left turn down an even worse road.

  At the very end was a little house, a shack really, with smoke swirling from the chimney. Beyond it was the sea, huge breakers crashing against black cliffs, the spume rising high up before dissipating into a mist that blew across the little bay. The sign on the gatepost was almost illegible, but apparently we were at The Breakers.

  I looked at Alex. We got out of the
car and made our way to the door, a little black and white dog yipping at our heels.

  I knocked, then knocked again. I heard steps inside and the latch being opened, then a familiar face peered out at us.

  “Malachy!” I exclaimed.

  “Lara!” he replied. “Kev,” he shouted. “Put on some tea. It’s that nice young girl we talked to at the pier. Lara. And her friend,” he added, looking myopically in Alex’s direction. I introduced the two of them. “Did you bring some whiskey, by any chance,” he whispered.

  “Sorry again,” I replied. “I didn’t know I was coming here.” I hoped I didn’t wear out my welcome with these two before I got them whiskey.

  “Where’s Denny?” I asked to change the subject.

  “Denny lives with his sister and her family in town,” Malachy said. “ ’Tis just Kev and me lives here.”

  Malachy cleared a space on the sofa, sweeping aside papers, and taking unwashed plates to the sink. “We weren’t expecting company,” he said. “Please excuse the mess.”

  “It’s fine,” I replied, taking a seat and accepting a mug of hot tea.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Kev asked loudly.

  “Shush, don’t be rude,” Malachy said, wagging his finger at his brother.

  “I just want to know,” Kev replied peevishly.

  “That’s a fair question, Kevin. Actually, we didn’t know you lived here. We were just touring around. You have a fabulous view,” I said, trying to figure out how to broach the subject I wanted.

  “The best,” Kevin agreed.

  “Grand, isn’t it?” Malachy added.

  “But now that we’re here,” I went on, “I have a question for you. Did Eamon Byrne leave anything with you to give to his family or a friend?”

  “What did she say?” Kevin said, cupping his hand around his ear.

  “She’s asking if Eamon Byrne left anything here,” Malachy shouted.

  “How would she know that?” Kevin asked. Both men turned to look at me.

  “Byrne gave everyone who got something from his Will, well, almost everyone, anyway, a riddle to solve. Alex here was one of the people who was included in this riddle, and when we saw your sign for The Breakers, we thought maybe it was a clue.” I decided honesty was the best policy, as unlikely as the story might have sounded.

  “What did she say?” Kevin said again.

  “She said Alex here is one of the people looking for Eamon Byrne’s clues,” Malachy repeated.

  “Good,” Kevin said. “I like her better than some of the rest of them. But she has to say the magic words, doesn’t she? Does she know the magic words?”

  Both men turned to look at me again. “The furious wave,” I replied.

  “She got it!” Malachy exclaimed. “Get the clue, Kevin. It’s hers.”

  “Where’d we put it?” Kevin said, looking perplexed. My heart sank. For a few minutes the two men shuffled about, pulling open drawers, looking under cushions. I was in despair.

  “I got it!” Malachy exclaimed at last, pulling a slim white envelope out of a book. “Here ’tis,” he said handing it to me. I resisted the temptation to rip it open on the spot.

  At that moment, the little dog started yapping again outside, and we could hear footsteps coming up to the door, then a loud banging.

  “Goodness me, another one,” Malachy said. “Tree years since somebody came to visit, and now dere’s two in one day!”

  He opened the door slowly, then tried to close it again. A foot stopped it from closing. “Have you got something from Eamon Byrne?” Conail O’Connor asked harshly.

  “No, I don‘t,” Malachy said, rather craftily I thought. I had it, he didn’t. But he must have looked suspicious, because O’Connor thrust the door open roughly and grabbed Malachy by the collar. The older man staggered and started to fall, but O’Connor held him up. Kevin grabbed a frying pan. I grabbed the teapot.

  “Now see here,” Alex said stepping forward, arms up, his hands balled into fists, in a kind of a boxer stance. “You have no right to treat these people this way!”

  “Get out of my way, gobshite,” O’Connor said, letting go of Malachy and stepping toward Alex menacingly. I swung my arm back with the teapot and started to move toward them.

  Alex stepped to one side, dodged O‘Connor’s arm, feinted with his left, then his right hand snapped forward. There was a loud crack, and Conail O’Connor went down for the count.

  Chapter Six

  A RAY OF THE SUN

  “Now Mr. Stewart,” Ban Garda Maeve Minogue said. Her tone was severe, but there was a hint of a smile playing about the comers of her mouth. Minogue was in her early thirties, I’d say, with reddish hair, now pulled back and tucked neatly into her cap, and that flawless complexion so many women in Ireland are blessed with. “That is quite a punch you throw.”

  “I wish I’d hit him too,” Kevin grumped.

  “You should be glad you didn‘t, Kevin,” Minogue said sharply. “If you’d hit him with that frying pan, O’Connor might be dead, and you’d be in a fine mess. As it is, he won’t be eating solid food for days. Last I saw of him, he was down at Tom Fitzgerald’s pub, taking in his daily requirement for calories in liquid form.

  “Now, Mr. Stewart,” she began again, “seeing as there are three witnesses here who claim you were provoked and the fact that you have a member of a sister law enforcement agency here,” she said gesturing to Rob, “who can attest to your good character, as well as several people around town who can speak to O‘Connor’s less than exemplary behavior of late, we will not be laying charges. Conail O’Connor is threatening to bring assault charges on his own, which he is quite entitled to do, but I do believe he will change his mind, seeing as how he’s already been the butt of several jokes regarding the difference in his and your ages, to mention nothing of size. We will not be laying charges against him either, unless you wish to make a case for it. Extenuating circumstances.”

  I wondered what these extenuating circumstances might be, but decided it was better not to ask.

  “I won’t be laying charges,” Alex said.

  “Me neither, I guess,” Malachy said. “Though that boyo better not come ’round to our place again.”

  “Right, then. Now if you gentlemen will agree to behave yourselves for the balance of the evening,” the garda said, “I’ll be away.” She glanced at her watch. “Off duty at last,” she sighed.

  “Can I buy you a drink in that case?” Rob asked.

  “That would be grand,” she said. “I’ll call in and then be off home to get changed and come back, if that’s all right?” Rob smiled his assent. I got the distinct impression he was smitten.

  “Well, can I buy you two the whiskey I’ve been promising?” I asked, turning to Kevin and Malachy. Rob may have found himself a new woman, but I had my two new men.

  “You can,” Malachy said. “She’s buying us a drink,” he said in Kevin’s ear.

  “And how about you, Alex?” I said. He was favoring his bruised knuckles.

  “I believe I will,” he said. I ordered three whiskeys for the men, a cola for Jennifer, and a glass of wine for myself. Rob declined my offer and headed off to his room, to beautify himself, no doubt, for Garda Minogue’s return.

  “Who’s that woman at the bar?” Jennifer asked me. I looked across the crowd.

  “Fionuala Byrne O’Connor,” I replied. “Why?”

  “One of the hags, you mean?” Jennifer said. “That makes it even worse.”

  “Makes what worse?”

  “She’s been chatting up Dad,” Jennifer said. “Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice.”

  She sounded annoyed, and I had to smile. Fathers and daughters, I thought. The jealousy seemed to go both ways. She had a point, though. Fionuala was definitely out for a good time. She was holding down a stool at the bar, her tight, short skirt riding provocatively high on her thighs, and a cigarette, held delicately between brightly painted fingernails, sending
swirls of smoke around her head. I wondered if she’d heard about her husband’s jaw’s intersection with Alex’s hand.

  I was also speculating whether Jennifer would like Maeve Minogue any better, when Michael and Breeta joined us.

  “What happened to your hand?” Michael said, eyeing Alex’s knuckles, now an unbecoming shade of blue.

  “It came in contact with Conail O’Connor’s jaw,” Malachy proffered.

  “He was trying to kill Malachy at the time,” Kevin piped in. “O‘Connor, I mean. He had his hands around Malachy’s neck and was throttling him. Malachy was almost unconscious.” My, I thought, how these stories grow! Denny would be telling this one to the post on the pier before long. “Alex and I went after O’Connor, Lara too.”

  “Knocked him out cold.” Malachy grinned. “ ’Twas a fine sight to see. I think we should drink another toast to Alex’s right hand.” I ordered them another round, but passed myself. It was beginning to look as if this was going to turn into a long night, and I thought I might be called upon to do a little chauffeuring later.

  Michael looked at me. “Can you enlighten us a little? We saw O’Connor leaving Tom Fitzgerald’s place. Face all swollen, and in a right bad mood. Staggering drunk, of course. Headed off down one of the lane-ways,” he added.

  “Not in this direction, I hope,” I said, thinking that a drunk Conail O’Connor might be a real problem.

  “He might be,” Michael said. “But if he is, it’s going to take him a while to get this far, the shape that he’s in. So tell us what happened this afternoon.”