Archeological Mystery: Celtic Riddle Part 12

"Will you be looking for another place around here?" I asked, brightly attempting to make conversation.

"I doubt it," Margaret said. "I think I'd like to go back where I was born. It's in Connemara. Do you know it?"

"I don't," I replied, "although I've heard Conne-mara's spectacular. That's close to Galway, isn't it?"

"It is," she replied. "Absolutely beautiful. I think I might like to go back."

"Is that where you met your husband?" I asked. She nodded.

"Did you meet him after he'd been to sea, after he knew Alex?"

"Before that," she said. "We were engaged, but he went off to sea. I became engaged to another man, but then Eamon returned, and I was swept off my feet again." For a moment, she sounded sad, almost wistful, and I began to feel horribly guilty. This treasure hunt occasionally felt a little like a parlor game, and it was easy to forget that these were real people, with real feelings. It was only by concentrating on the task at hand and reminding myself that finding the treasure might be the key not only to Alex's future, but also an end to the violence, that I was able to carry on. Then she turned abruptly. "Here," she said. "My husband's study.

"The people from Trinity College have been here as you can see," she said, pointing to gla.s.s cabinets stripped bare, darker red marks showing where the weapons had rested against the velvet. "They have not left much. Are you interested in oils? These were my father's. Quite good, I believe." Not too sentimental, that woman, but perhaps she was just being pragmatic.

"Lovely, aren't they, Jennifer?" I said. Jennifer nodded vigorously. In truth, there was only one oil there that had any value beyond the sentimental, in my opinion, so I made a note of that one. While Margaret stood watching us, we carefully looked everything over, lifting objects from time to time, moving others slightly to look under them. At last I found what I wanted; at least I was reasonably sure I had. I went to the gla.s.s doors and looked outside. "Lovely day, isn't it?" I said before turning away. I was rather overusing lovely, it occurred to me, but perhaps it was because I was nervous.

My presence in the window was the signal for Alex, now hidden behind the potting shed, and who if found could claim to be crossing the property to get to Rose Cottage, to use my cell phone to call the house. The telephone rang three times. There was one in the room, but Margaret ignored it. A few moments later, Deirdre hove into view. Once again, she seemed surprised to see me. "It's for you, Madam," she said, ignoring me.

"Excuse me for a moment," Margaret said. I was elated. I was banking on the fact that Margaret would not take a call in my presence. The trouble was, Deirdre stayed put.

Jennifer walked up to her. "Sorry, but would it be all right if I used the bathroom?" she asked. Deirdre looked startled and hesitated for a moment, and I thought all was lost.

"Oh, you mean the toilet," she said finally. "Yes, please follow me." Quickly I lifted the gla.s.s case, now empty, where once Byrne's favorite spearhead, the one he attributed to Lugh Lamfada, had rested. I pulled the piece of paper out quickly, and by the time Margaret returned, I was standing looking out over the grounds once again.

"They hung up," Margaret said.

"How annoying," I said. "Ah, here's Jennifer."

I looked around a little more, extracted a promise that she'd call me if she decided to sell the old Oriental carpets in the room, then offered more than it was worth for the painting, paid cash, and told her I'd send someone around to pick it up later, if that was satisfactory. Apparently it was.

A few minutes later, Jennifer and I were sitting in Rose Cottage with the others, clue in one hand, ogham alphabet in the other, Jennifer regaling them with the story of our adventure. By the time she was through with her tale, Margaret Byrne was only microseconds away from discovering what we were after, and Deirdre about to call the police.

The story was better, or more edifying at least, than the clue: "Umbilicus Hiberniae, the sacred center" it said. Not very helpful, but there was one more clue to go, if my theory was correct. Then we'd see what there was to see.

Alex had gone down to the pier and brought back some wonderful fish, determined to prepare a meal for us all, his first dinner party, he said, in his new home. It was somewhat daunting with no electricity, but Paddy got the fire roaring, Jennifer and I lit candles and set the table, and we had a rather jolly time of it in his cozy little cottage. There was the fish, cooked in a pan over the fire, potatoes hot from the coals and slathered in Irish b.u.t.ter, and lots of fresh vegetables followed by strawberries in thick Irish cream. It was a bit strained at first, between Paddy and me, although I could find nothing to fault in his manner that night, no matter how I tried. He was solicitous to Jennifer, kind to Malachy and Kevin, helpful to Alex, and generally stayed out of my way, calling me Ms. McClintoch when called upon to address me. He had the casual charm of the Irish that was quite disarming, when the conversation and the companionship drew him out of his normal reticence, and finally I decided a truce was in order. "We didn't get off to a very good start the other day," I said to him as we were setting out the food on the table.

"We didn't," he agreed.

"I thought you'd run us down in the water. It was your boat, I think," I added carefully.

"Could have been," he said. "Do you still think I was at the helm?"

"No," I replied. "Malachy and Kevin said you wouldn't do such a thing, and that's good enough for me.

He smiled. "They're grand old boys, aren't they? And no, it wasn't me, although I regret to say it may have been my boat. There were a few extra knots showing on her than there should have been for its just being in the boatworks. The boys at the works took her out to see she was going all right, after they'd worked on her, but not as far as all that."

"Who do you think might have taken it?"

"Conail," he replied.

"Why?"

"Kind of hotheaded thing he might do. Get us both at one time, if you see what I mean: scares you off the hunt and gets me in trouble at the same time. They're a bad bunch up there at Second Chance," he added. "Treated me rough, they did. Tink they're better than everybody else, but they're not. Except Eamon. He was a fine one. Took me in, made me feel like one of the family. Treated all of us right-Michael and John and me. Not her, though. Margaret. A bad piece of work, she is. Treated me like dirt. Conail too, and Sean. The two sisters, they went along with it."

"Only two of them?"

"Not Breeta," he said softly. "Not her. She's a fine one, like her Da."

"You should call me Lara," I said.

"Should that be Aunt Lara?" he smiled.

"No, it shouldn't," I replied. Don't push your luck, I thought.

Late in the evening, well fed and warmed by the conviviality, we left Alex ensconced in his cottage and picked our way carefully overland to the main road, not wishing to run into Sean McHugh and his rifle at night, and thence back to town. I dropped Malachy and Kevin off before going on to the friend of Paddy's from whom he'd borrowed the van. He took off from there on his motorbike, and I took Jennifer back to the Inn.

There was an envelope waiting for me on my return. In it was a note. / came to see you, it said. / will come back on my day off. Day after tomorrow, 1o'clock. Please wait for me. There is something I have to tell you. Very important. D. Flood.

Chapter Twelve.

A PIERCING SPEAR WAGING WAR.

REGRETTABLY, the Byrne family followed through on their threat to take legal action to get Rose Cottage away from Alex.

"Lara," the smooth voice said. "Charles, here." I could almost smell his cologne over the telephone lines, and I confess my heart did a little dance, all my good intentions to the contrary. "I'm afraid I have bad news. Despite my efforts to persuade them to the contrary, the Byrne family has engaged the services of another solicitor and are suing Eamon Byrne's estate for Rose Cottage. They're claiming, as I suspected they might, that Eamon was non compos mentis due to the spread of the cancer to his brain. We will need to get together to discuss how to proceed. Ryan and I will be driving down your way later today. Do you think you could get in touch with Mr. Stewart for me, and the four of us might meet for an hour or two late this afternoon?"

I thought we could. As irritated as I was by this development,IdecidedthatseeingCharlesagain would go some distance toward making me feel better.

We met in the lounge of the Inn, sitting at a large table so that Charles and Ryan could spread their notes about. The two of them were in lawyer uniform again, three-piece suits and all, which turned more than a few heads of the rest of the clientele in this rather more casual setting.

"Now, Mr. Stewart," Ryan said, smiling rather engagingly. "You really mustn't worry about this. I can a.s.sure you the family has no case. We have copies of earlier versions of Eamon Byrne's Will, some of them dating back several years, and you were named in all of them. So their case, the idea that Eamon was not quite right at the end, if you see what I mean, will simply not hold water. We are hopeful, I think," he said, looking toward Charles who nodded, "that the court will find this action merely capricious and refuse to even hear it."

"I don't know," Alex said. "I've been thinking a great deal while I've been out at Rose Cottage. It's a lovely place, but..."

"Of course it is," Ryan interrupted. "A wonderful place. And Eamon Byrne wanted you to have it."

"I know," Alex said, "but I don't need it, and I'm beginning to think-I mean all the rumors in the village-that the Byrne family might..."

"Hardly," I interjected. "They still have Second Chance, and while they may have to sell it, they're not exactly in the poorhouse. What could you get for a place like that these days, anyway? More money than you and I will ever see, I'm sure. And they still have control of Byrne Enterprises, even if it isn't doing as well as it should."

"But if it means that much to them," he protested.

"Oh, no, Alex," I exclaimed. "Don't do this. You know you love the place. I saw you the other night, cooking over the fire. It's the best you've looked in a long time. The place is good for you: the sea air, the quiet away from the city."

"But my friends, my life, are in Toronto," he said. "You know that as much as I do. What would I do if I couldn't come into the shop every day? You think I'm doing you a favor, but I'm not. I hated retirement five minutes into it. I need the activity, the sense of being needed."

"Well, let's just say that we both benefit from having you in the shop. I'm glad to hear it, but that's not the issue, Alex," I said. "If you don't want to use it, you can always sell it, or rent it out for some extra income, get yourself a little cottage closer to home or whatever, but as Ryan says, Eamon Byrne really wanted you to have the cottage, and those people have no business being so entirely selfish. You saved his life, Alex, and he wanted to repay you in some way."

"Did you now?" Charles said turning to Alex. "I've often wondered. Tell us about it."

Alex gave him a delicately edited version of Eamon's story, telling him that Eamon had fallen off the pier in Singapore.

"Singapore!" Ryan exclaimed. "I love that place. I had the best sweet and sour soup in the world in a little dive not far from the Raffles Hotel. And the dim sum!" I smiled, remembering Charles's description of Ryan as a gourmand. I looked over at Charles, and he was smiling too.

"I know exactly where you found it!" Alex said, and the two were off on a culinary tour of Singapore, then Hong Kong, then Shanghai. Charles listened with real interest, and soon he and Alex too were trading stories of places they'd been, and adventures they'd had. Charles, it seemed, had not been to the manor born, as it were, and had worked very hard to put himself through law school. There was a determination under that cultured exterior that I found quite attractive.

After several minutes of armchair travel, Charles gently steered the talk back to the subject at hand. "Now, Mr. Stewart," Charles said. "As enjoyable as this conversation is, we'll need to get your direction on the lawsuit. We will accede to your wishes, of course. If you do not wish to keep Rose Cottage, then we will simply not contest the suit. But Eamon Byrne felt quite strongly that you should have it. To that I can personally attest. I had no idea why he felt that strongly, of course, not having heard the story, but I discussed the Will with him at some length, and there is absolutely no doubt in my mind as to his intentions. And he was quite lucid, I can a.s.sure you."

"Would you be defending the Will, then?" Alex asked. He obviously liked the two solicitors, and was coming around, much to my delight. I couldn't stand the idea of the family taking the cottage away from him.

"We'll be the defendants, yes, but we will hire legal counsel to represent us, a barrister for the court work," Charles said.

"Won't that be expensive?" Alex asked.

"It will, most likely, if the case proceeds to court, which as Ryan has mentioned, we think may not happen. But you don't need to concern yourself with that. Normally, the costs would come out of the estate, not from you."

"All right then," Alex said. "If you think so, Lara?"

"I do, Alex," I said. "I think the Byrne family is just being mean, that's all. They couldn't possibly be as desperate as they look."

"Are you with us, then?" Ryan asked.

"I suppose I am," Alex said. " I really do like that little place."

"Excellent!" Charles exclaimed. "Now, Ryan, I think you have something to do out at Second Chance before we head back to Dublin?"

"I do, yes. It's one of the anomalies of this particular situation," he said, looking at me, "that while the family is suing the estate, and therefore us as executors, we continue to represent Mrs. O'Connor in some personal matters. Are you coming with me, Charles?"

Charles glanced at me. There was a slight question mark in his look.

"Perhaps not," he replied. "Perhaps... a drink?" he said looking at me. "Ms. McClintoch, Mr. Stewart?"

"Sure," I said. How nice, I thought.

Charles went to the bar for drinks for the three of us, and we chatted for a while, until we were interrupted by Malachy. "There you are!" he exclaimed, looking at Alex. "We've been looking all over for you. Don't you remember we're to get together at Tommy Fitzgerald's pub?"

"My goodness!" Alex exclaimed. "I had no idea it was this late. Will you excuse me, Lara? Charles?"

"Of course," we said in unison.

"I'll see he gets home," Malachy said. "Don't worry."

Charles smiled at me. "Could we have something to eat together, do you think? It's a long drive back to Dublin. There's a very good fish restaurant right down the street. I always try to have some seafood when I'm here. It's so fresh. What do you think?"

I thought it was a very good idea, and I said so, and a few minutes later we were sitting at a table in the window, as a waiter brought a blackboard over with the day's catch listed.

"Champagne, I think," Charles said. "To start. A little celebration of Mr. Stewart's decision."

Charles McCafferty was the kind of man I and my women friends tend to make fun of, with old world manners, rushing ahead to open doors, and choosing our food for us, as if we couldn't do it for ourselves. For some reason, though, I found it all rather relaxing, not having to think too much about anything, and just enjoying the very fine food and wine that he picked. Ryan might have been the gourmand of the two, but Charles was no slouch in knowing what was good to eat around the place. He also gave me his undivided attention, something I found very flattering. I'll flay myself tomorrow, I told myself, to make up for this serious lapse in feminist ideology, but tonight, I think I'll just sit back and enjoy it. I reminded him about the shop, though, lest he think I was merely one of those ladies who lunch.

"I do recall that," he said. "I enjoyed showing you through our offices immensely. Do you specialize in any particular period?"

I told him all about the place, my favorite subject, after all. It was fun to talk about it. It reminded me of my early conversations with Clive, when we were still dating, before we married and everything turned sour. It was pleasant to share an interest with someone, to be able to discuss everything in such detail with someone who was as enthusiastic about the subject as I was. I still felt a little confused about him, though. I couldn't tell whether he was really interested in me or not. Nor could I decide if he was my kind of guy or not. We'd flirt a little, then back off, both of us, I suppose, a little ambivalent on the idea of a new romance. I had such a bad track record where men were concerned, that the idea of starting a new relationship with someone, particularly someone so far from home, was daunting to say the least. I wondered if he felt the same.

I did find him attractive, though, no doubt about it. I found myself wishing I'd had an arrangement of some kind with Jennifer, of the college dorm variety, where a ribbon tied to the door handle meant Do Not Enter. However, if we had that arrangement, I suppose it would have to cut both ways, and I wasn't about to condone an intimate relationship between Jennifer and Paddy.

At some point in the conversation, I had the feeling I was being watched, not that this was unusual on this particular occasion. Charles had a commanding presence and was rather better dressed than anyone else in the place. And the bottle of champagne chilling in the ice bucket had drawn more than a casual glance. This was different somehow. I looked about me, and there, by the bar, was Rob. He had the strangest expression on his face, part nonchalance, part... what? Jealousy? It couldn't be! I looked again. Maybe, I thought. Well, good. I smiled at Rob and then leaned forward toward Charles, who reached across and grasped my fingers. I locked my hand with his. Rob turned back to the bar and ordered another drink. Where was Maeve, I wondered.

No matter how the evening might have ended had we been alone, that particular option didn't present itself. Just as we were finishing our coffee, Ryan appeared. "Ah, there you are," he said. "Thought I might find you here. What did you have? Sea ba.s.s? Sorry I missed it. I had some awful Irish stew kind of thing out at Second Chance. Margaret made it. I hope she finds a cook soon. Dinner there is not what it once was.

And that Deirdre! Kept dropping everything and clattered about. It's a relief she left us, Charles. She'd be dumping tea in our clients' laps more often than not."

"Why did she leave you?" I asked. "The way she was going on about Second Chance the day she left, I thought she'd never come back."

"G.o.d knows," Ryan replies. "I certainly don't. But she did us a favor."

"I think she didn't like Dublin," Charles replied.

"What's not to like?" Ryan said. "Speaking of which, what do you say? Is it time to head back there, Charles?"

"Regrettably, yes," Charles said, kissing my hand. I looked up to see Rob staring at me again. "Perhaps some other time, though?"

"That would be lovely," I said. "And thank you for helping Alex, and for a very pleasant evening." The two men went outside to a waiting Mercedes and soon pulled away, Ryan at the wheel. Both waved and smiled at me as they left. When I looked around again, Rob was gone.

The mention of Deirdre reminded me that I was to see her the next day. Something very important, she'd said. It was a little irritating, I'd have to say. I'd planned another day of antique hunting to get some more stuff for the store. But I resolved I'd wait for her, nonetheless. Maybe she really would have something interesting to say.

Sometime after midnight, the phone in our room rang. It was Charles, back in Dublin. "I just called to say good night," he said in that lovely Irish lilt of his. "It's late, I know, but I wanted to hear your voice again. I had a wonderful evening, although it was far too short." "I did as well," I replied. Despite the fact that I'd told myself he wasn't my type at all, I found I was pleased that he'd called.

"We'll see each other again. That's one of the benefits of being sued by the Byrne family," he chuckled.

"Till then," I said, hanging up.

"Who was that?" Jennifer said drowsily.

"Charles McCafferty," I replied. "Go back to sleep."

"Dad said you were having dinner with one of those lawyers," she said. "I think he's jealous."

"I'd think he'd be too busy with Maeve to be jealous of me," I said tartly.

"I like you better than Maeve," she said.