The Celtic Riddle (12 page)

"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 wellas 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."

I told them the story, with a lot of help from Malachy and Kevin.

Throughout this conversation, Breeta said nothing, although she
looked shocked enough when she heard the story. She seemed sort of out
of it, somehow, her mind somewhere else entirely. I'd offered her a
drink, but she didn't take me up on it, and sat, instead, holding a
glass of soda water, which she barely touched, as she stared into the
flames of the fireplace across from us.

"I've lost my job," she said, suddenly rousing herself from her
torpor.

"Oh dear," I said. "That's too bad. What happened?"

She was silent for a moment or two. "I've been working in a dress
shop," she said finally. "A very fancy dress shop, in Killarney. I
think," she said slowly, "I think-they didn't say so, but they didn't
think I looked good enough to work there. They wanted someone who
looked better in the clothes." Her lip trembled, but she didn't cry.

"What do you mean, Bree?" Michael exclaimed. "What do you mean you
didn't look good enough to work there?"

"I've put on so much weight," she said. A tear slipped out of one
corner of her eye. She brushed it away angrily. "And they're right. I
don't look good in the clothes. I don't care about the job. It wasn't
very interesting," she went on. "But I'll have to give up my flat in a
couple of weeks, and I don't know where I'll go."

"I think you're just beautiful, Bree," Michael said, his voice
hoarse. "And you can stay with me. I know I'm not good enough for you,
working on your family's estate and everything. But I have that little
flat in the staff cottage. Now that John Herlihy's gone, maybe I can
get his. It's bigger, with a little kitchen and everything. There's
room for…" He stopped and looked down at his rough hands. "There's room
for all of us."

I wasn't sure who all of us were, but I thought his offer was very
nice, and Breeta could do a lot worse. Michael wasn't exceptionally
bright, maybe, but he was smart enough, and he was also kind and
generous, and obviously sweet on Breeta.

"Thank you, Michael," Breeta said softly. "I appreciate your offer.
Very, very much. It's the nicest thing that's happened to me in a long
time. I will have to think about it, but…" Her voice trailed off, and
they both sat looking at each other.

Ain't love grand? I thought. Certainly it was thawing Breeta, which
was nice.

"That settles it. We'll have to look for that treasure," Michael
said suddenly. "Really look for it. I mean it. Everything will be all
right, Bree. There'll be lots of money. We can all look together. I'm
sure there will be enough to go around when we find it. You can have my
share." He paused. "I forgot," he said, turning to me. "What happened
when you went to ask about Breeta's clue?"

"We were stunningly unsuccessful," I said, as Alex nodded. "Your
mother," I said looking at Breeta, "insists it was an ordinary robbery.
Some money was taken from the safe along with the clue, if we believe
the clue is really missing, and a map or two. She also said the family
has decided to have nothing whatsoever to do with the hunt for your
father's treasure."

"I don't believe that," Malachy said indignantly. "What was that
shite Conail O'Connor doing at our place if he wasn't looking for the
treasure?"

"But we don't need them, do we?" Michael persisted. "Breeta knows
the poem. Come on, Bree. Tell us about the poem. Please!"

"Oh, Michael, you're such an optimist. Touched in the head. Maybe Da
was just making a joke, teasing us all."

"And maybe he wasn't! It's worth a try, anyway. What do we have to
lose?"

Breeta looked over at him affectionately. "All right," she said at
last. "It's called 'The Song of Amairgen,' and it is supposed to be the
words spoken by Amairgen of the White Knee as he set his right foot on
Ireland's shore. My father made me translate it from the Old Irish, and
to memorize it. It goes something like this. I am the sea-swell, the
furious wave, the roar of the sea." The sound of her voice was lovely,
the Irish lilt and cadence carrying the words along.

"Her Da taught her well!" Kevin exclaimed, his hand cupped over his
ear. "Young people today, hardly any of them are interested in the old
tales, want to pretend the past doesn't matter, but Breeta always was.
She's like her Da in more ways than one."

"Hush," Malachy said.

"I am a ray of the sun." As she spoke, Michael reached out and took
her hand. This time she did not pull it away.

"I am the beauty of a plant." These were lovely images, and I found
myself falling under the spell of the words. And so it went until she
came near the end. "Who drives cattle off from Tara," she said. "That
fine herd that touches each skill." She paused for a moment. "That's
the translation, but there are some who have interpreted these phrases
about the cattle as being about the stars, rather than the herd. It's a
question, almost, like 'Who calls the stars? On whom do the stars
shine?'"

"I hope they shine for us," Michael said fervently.

One thing was certain, the stars were not shining for Conail
O'Connor. The door of the bar burst open, and a very drunk Conail
lurched in. His hair was matted down by rain, and his jaw looked
swollen and sore, his face flushed with alcohol. I felt a surge of
panic as I saw him look our way. But it wasn't us he was looking for.

"Nuala," he roared. "Get your coat. We're going home! As for you,
gobshite," he said, grabbing the man next to Fionuala, one who'd been
the object of her charms since Rob had left, "keep yer fecking hands
off my wife."

The man stumbled as Conail pulled him off the bar stool.

"Now, Conail," Aidan, the proprietor and bartender, said. "Calm down
now, will you?"

"I wasn't doing nothin'," the other man said. "Just talking, that's
all."

"Talk to somebody else," Conail shouted. "Come, Nuala. Now!"

"I'm not going anywhere with you, Conail," she replied. "And it
isn't your home, anymore. You and I are finished. Don't you dare darken
my door or come anywhere near Second Chance ever again!"

Conail grabbed her arm, his face contorted with rage. Several people
stepped back. I sensed rather than saw a few people slip out the door
preferring to brave the rain than to be involved in this nasty little
scene.

"Mr. O'Connor," Garda Minogue's calm voice said. She was out of
uniform, looking softer and rather pretty, in fact, but there was no
ignoring her tone. "Might I suggest you get a room at the hotel down
the street before you find yourself spending the night in jail. Let go
of Mrs. O'Connor's arm, please."

Conail, still holding Fionuala's arm, ignored her and started
yanking his wife toward the door.

"I believe Garda Minogue has asked you to let go of Mrs. O'Connor
and leave the premises," Rob said. I hadn't seen him come back, but I
made a mental note to tell him his timing was impeccable. "I suggest
you do exactly as she says," he said, with an emphasis on exactly. He
was standing very still, arms down at his side, but there was a degree
of readiness there, I could tell, to move very fast if he had to. There
was also something in his voice I'd never heard before, something that
said Conail had better comply. Conail apparently heard it too, because
after a second or two, he let go and left the bar, shoving a table by
the door very hard as he did so, sending several glasses crashing to
the floor.

Absolute silence greeted his abrupt departure. A few more guests
followed Conail out into the street. The Conail O'Connors of this world
could not be said to be good for business.

"How about a jig or two, Malachy," Aidan said finally, grabbing a
broom and dustbin. "Free drinks all evening for you if you'll help me
entertain my guests here."

"Done," Malachy said. One of the waiters took the broom and started
working away at the trail of broken glass Conail had left behind. Aidan
disappeared into a back room for a moment and came back with a fiddle
and a Celtic drum. "Where's Sheila?" someone called from the crowd.

"In the back, where else?" Aidan said. "But I'll get her out for
this."

Sheila, Aidan's wife and co-proprietor came out of the back room,
her face pink and steamy from the kitchen. "Where's your flute?" the
man in the back called. Sheila grinned. "We're having a bit of a
ceilidh, are we?" she said, pulling a tin flute out of her back pocket.
"I had a feeling we might when I saw Malachy and Kevin come in. It's
grand to have you back, Breeta," she said.

"What's a ceilidh?" Jennifer asked.

"A musical event," the man at the next table said. "Brought your
dancing shoes, have you?"

Aidan watched as Malachy pulled the bow across the strings a couple
of times, tuning his instrument. "Pick the tune, Malachy," he said,
"and we'll follow you."

"Best call your uncle," Kevin shouted to one of the young men at the
bar, who nodded and headed for the phone. "One of Denny's sister's
boys. Denny should be here."

Malachy launched into a rousing number, followed by Sheila on the
flute. Aidan marked the beat on the bodhran. It was a real toe-tapper,
and pretty soon the crowd was swaying in time to the music, and one of
the older women in the crowd started to dance. Within a minute to two,
the furniture was moved back against the wall, and Malachy was fiddling
as fast as he could. Jennifer grabbed Alex's arm and pulled him up.
Breeta shyly reached over and took Michael's hand. Maeve even convinced
Rob to get up and dance, an event I considered extraordinary. Kevin
stood up, a little shakily, and bowed very formally. "May I have the
pleasure of a whirl around the floor?" he asked me. I didn't know the
steps, but it didn't really seem to matter. In truth, it seemed
impossible to sit still. Everyone who was able to was laughing and
drinking and dancing enthusiastically. Those too old to dance were
smiling and clapping in time to the music and singing along. Everyone
that is, except Fionuala, who stood for a few moments at the edge of
the crowd, clapping halfheartedly in time to the music, her face a
study in conflicting emotions. After a few twirls with Kevin, I turned
to look for her again, but she was gone, and soon both she and Conail
were quite forgotten, as the music and the conviviality restored
everyone's spirits.