The Celtic Riddle (19 page)

"Mr. Byrne didn't seem to have much confidence in the ability of his
sons-in-law to run the business successfully," I said, hoping that now
that McCafferty's guard was down, he'd prove to be someone who enjoyed
being in the know and telling everyone about it.

"No," he replied. "And with good reason. The two of them don't get
along, and aren't very good businessmen. It was fine while Eamon Byrne
was running the businesses, but when he became ill, well, things
deteriorated right away. Too bad, of course, but there is nothing we
can do about it. Amazing how they can make such a bollocks of it.
Forgive my language, please. It upsets me to see what they're doing.
The peat business practically runs itself, and still they can't seem to
make a go of it."

"I heard Fionuala and Connor split up," I said, con-spiratorially.
There's nothing like discussing other people's relationships when
you're toying with the idea of getting into one yourself.

"I heard that too," he said. He actually giggled as he said it. I
gathered he was in some way rather enjoying the family's tale of woe.

"What do you think that will mean? Who do you think will take over
the management of the company?"

"I'm not sure," he replied, "but it will be interesting to see,
won't it?"

"Extraordinary thing, that treasure hunt, isn't it?" I said. I may
have been enjoying the flirtation, but I wasn't so far gone that I had
entirely forgotten what I'd come for. Not yet, anyway.

"Yes," he said, suddenly solemn. "You noticed, I'm sure, that Byrne
said we didn't approve of it. We stayed in, not because, as Byrne said,
we wanted his money, but because we felt we had to bring a modicum of
good sense to the whole process."

"So what did you have to do? Do you know what all the clues are?"

"We did not," McCafferty averred, looking at me with some suspicion.
He wasn't that far gone, either. "Byrne asked us to distribute the
envelopes to his heirs on his demise, that is all."

"And you didn't take a peek?" I asked, adopting what I hoped was a
playful tone.

"Absolutely not," he said, looking offended. "They were sealed when
we got them."

"I'm glad to hear that," I said. "It seems a little dangerous to
know the clues. Michael Davis was found with part of one clue in his
hand. I'm thinking it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to assume that
whoever had that clue was his killer."

"The police have already asked us that question," McCafferty
replied. "Unfortunately, we were unable to help them." He was watching
me very carefully now.

"Something struck me as a bit odd about it," I went on, as if
oblivious to his glance. "I mean, who hid the second set of clues? Not
Eamon Byrne surely. He was very ill. He couldn't possibly have climbed
up Mount Eagle to the ring fort, neither could he have climbed down to
the cove and out to the boat to place the first clue."

"Perhaps he did it some time ago, when he was well," McCafferty
said. I noticed he didn't seem surprised by my reference to the ring
fort and the boat, nor by the reference to a second set of clues.

"But Deirdre here told me he had suddenly fallen ill, very ill. Why
would he have been out placing the clues that would be given to people
when he died, when he was quite well and not expecting to die soon?
There would be too much danger they'd be lost, wouldn't there,
especially the ones outside?"

"I don't really know," McCafferty replied. If I had struck a chord
with him, it didn't show. "It doesn't really matter who hid them, does
it?" he continued. "As long as the family works together to find the
treasure as Byrne wished."

"But it does matter," I said. "I think that whoever placed them
might well have looked at them. They weren't sealed, just stuck in
plastic. And I think that person might have inadvertently placed their
name on a death list. You will be careful now, won't you, Mr.
McCafferty?" I said looking him right in the eye.

"Charles, please," he said. "Of course, I will be careful," he said,
placing his hand on my arm.

It was the first time since the initial handshake that he'd touched
me. I suddenly felt as if I was falling into something I might not be
able to control. "My," I exclaimed, looking at my watch. "I really must
be going. I have to meet a young friend of mine who's on a tour of
historic Dublin. I mustn't keep her waiting. I've really enjoyed the
tour of your offices, though."

"I have enjoyed it as well," he said as we descended the stairs to
the front door. "I hope you'll come and visit us another time. Perhaps
our paths will cross again. I have to be at Second Chance from time to
time to assist the family with various matters."

"Perhaps we will." I smiled. So much for my intention to call this
one off.

"Good," he said. "If I needed to find you for some reason, the legal
challenge to the Will, for example?"

"The Three Sisters Inn in town."

"I know the place," he said, as we descended the steps to the main
floor.

Deirdre and Tweedledee, Ryan McGlynn, were in the foyer, a fact that
brought our flirtation, or was it seduction, to a close. As I had
predicted, they were dressed very much alike once again. I searched the
two men's faces for some family similarity, but the resemblance seemed
to stop at their age, which was about the same, their clothes and
demeanor. McGlynn was a little heavier, not quite in such good trim as
Charles, and more relaxed in outlook. He was smoothly seeing a stately
dowager out the door, telling her not to worry, that everything would
be taken care of. She looked pathetically grateful, considering what
she was going to have to pay to be able to stop worrying.

"We've met, have we not?" he said, turning his charm on me. "Ms… ?"

"McClintoch," McCafferty said. "Ms. McClintoch is here to see to
details about her friend's inheritance from Eamon Byrne's estate."

"Of course, Second Chance," he said, shaking my hand.

"I must compliment you on your offices," I said. "Mr. McCafferty has
been showing me around."

"They are grand, aren't they?" McGlynn responded. "All Charles's
doing. He's the connoisseur. I just go along with whatever he suggests."

"Ryan is rather more interested in good food," McCafferty smiled.

"Food," McGlynn agreed, patting his stomach, "and wine." He gave me
a wink. Neither of these gentlemen, it seemed, were short at all on
charm.

The good-natured jousting came to an end as the front door opened,
and Fionuala Byrne O'Connor walked in. She did not look pleased to see
me. But then Deirdre didn't looked pleased to see her either, adopting
her scared rabbit look the moment she set eyes on Fionuala.

"What's she doing here?" Fionuala demanded to know, looking at me.
It was the second time since I'd arrived that question had been asked.
Deirdre, however, assumed Fionuala was asking about her, and her mouth
moved soundlessly a couple of times. I knew Fionuala meant me.

"Now you know we can't answer that," Ryan McGlynn said in a soothing
tone. "Allow me to take your coat, Mrs. O'Connor, won't you, and then
we'll go upstairs." I turned away from her and busied myself with
paying the bill, a feat that required a fair number of travellers
checks to accomplish. I could feel her eyes boring into my back.

"Charles," Fionuala said in a breathless voice, having established
to her satisfaction that I was on the way out. "I really need your help
with something."

"I'll do whatever I can, of course," he replied, in the same
familiar tone of voice he'd adopted with me just a few moments earlier.
I felt a twinge, just a twinge, of jealousy.

"Won't you come upstairs?" he continued, taking Fionuala's arm and
then directing her up the stairs ahead of him. When she was almost to
the top, he turned to me for one last time, and leaning close enough
that I had the full benefit of the marvelous cologne, said, sotto voce,
"Tell Mr. Stewart that I pride myself on writing airtight Wills." Then
he hastened up the stairs after Fionuala. I headed out the door.

I still had a few minutes to kill before I was to meet Jennifer, and
was very glad of it. I felt off balance somehow. I actually found
myself wondering what it would be like to live in Irish Georgian
splendor, and where exactly Ballsbridge was. It annoyed me that I felt
this way. I like to think that by and large I have a very firm grip on
reality, but I felt myself losing my hold on it. The strange thing was
that although there seemed to be some mutual attraction there, I wasn't
sure how far it went. Indeed, the sexual energy was, I thought, more on
my part than his, that his passion was directed elsewhere. At Fionuala,
perhaps? I could hardly bear to think it. I decided that while it had
been fun, and I was pleased to think he would be on our side if we
ended up in court with the Byrnes, this was a deadend relationship, and
anyway, I was happier when I was on my own. I told myself to forget him.

I resolutely turned my attention to thinking about what I had
learned about the Byrne family and the treasure hunt, admittedly not
that much, and certainly nowhere near what I had hoped. I still didn't
know for certain who had hidden the clues; nor did I know for certain
that it mattered, although I had a feeling it did. It couldn't have
been one of the participants who had received a clue: they would simply
have looked at them all before hiding them. After all, I would have.
That let out the family members, Padraig Gilhooly, Michael himself, and
Alex.

Was it John Herlihy? Could have been, I suppose, either him or
Deirdre, which might explain why she was always looking so terrified.
Malachy or Kevin? They had known Eamon Byrne; they'd told me as much.
But I couldn't see them being so deceptive in their dealings with us,
somehow. Their excitement at finding the clues seemed absolutely
genuine to me. Denny didn't seem to be any more likely than his two
pals. And so, unless it was a complete stranger, that left McCafferty
and McGlynn as the most likely candidates for the job.

The next obvious question was, who had hidden the treasure itself,
whatever it was? Eamon Byrne in earlier, healthier times was one
possibility. Perhaps he had found it a long time ago and hidden it
then. I had a vague recollection that hoards of treasure had been found
in the bogs of Ireland-I'd have to do some research on that score-and
so he, big landowner that he was, might have found something and left
it hidden. But if it had required hiding at the same time as the clues,
the big question was who had hid it, and was it still there, temptation
being the powerful motivator that it is.

I arrived at the gates of Trinity College several minutes before the
tour was due back, and could see no sign of Jennifer. I decided to walk
a little farther, to get Charles McCafferty out of my system and soon
found myself passing a statue of a woman with a wheelbarrow that I
could only assume was Molly Ma-lone of cockles and mussels alive
alive-o fame, and then on into Grafton Street, a busy shopping street
closed to cars for several hours of the day. At every corner, there was
something else to see, nice old buildings, lots of store windows, and
flower sellers with huge pails of really spectacular blooms, most
notably lilies in white and pink, their heady scent lingering in the
air as I strolled by.

Partway along the street I found myself in front of Bewley's
Oriental Cafe, a landmark three-story building, and an establishment
famous for its coffees and teas for almost a century and a half,
apparently. I stood back to admire the facade and noted through the
reflection on the glass, a couple seated at a table in the window up on
the second floor. It was kind of sweet, the way they had their heads
together, holding hands on the table. As I watched he leaned over and
planted a kiss on her lips, and for a second or two I could see them
both clearly.

Rob is going to kill me, was all I could think.

"Not you too," Jennifer wailed. "I'm eighteen! Lots of girls my age
are married already. With kids," she added.

"How old is he?" I demanded. "Thirty-five? Thirty-six?"

Jennifer bit her lip. "That's twice as old as you are," I huffed.
"Padraig Gilhooly is way, way too old for you."

"He's sophisticated," she argued. "Not like those stupid boys at
school." Sophisticated was not a word I would have associated with
Padraig Gilhooly, but I suppose it's all relative. Certainly, he would
have to be more worldly than the boys her age at home, which was a real
worry. Also, I didn't think his relative sophistication was the issue
here. While age eighteen was a dim memory for me, I remembered enough
to know that Gilhooly's dark hair, blue eyes, and fair skin, to say
nothing of his brooding manner, would be powerful attractions. How far
had this gone?

"I hope you haven't done something you will regret, Jennifer," I
said. My, I sounded like an old prune, but I couldn't stop myself.
Maybe I shouldn't have called Rob a poop.

"Paddy's a gentleman," she sniffed. I hoped that meant what I
thought it did. That had been some kiss he'd planted on her in the
upstairs window of Bew-ley's, and she hadn't appeared even remotely
reluctant. I wasn't sure gentlemanly was going to last for long.

"Don't tell Dad, okay?" she said beseechingly. It was tempting to
agree, I'll admit, but I knew I couldn't.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, that I lied about going on the walking
tour and everything. It's just that Dad is so weird about the guys who
ask me out." She snuffled. I sighed. Neither of us, when it came right
down to it, had been honest with the other when it came to our motives
for the trip to Dublin. And, let's face it, it was true what she said
about her father. He was really nuts where his daughter and boys were
concerned. She was a very sensible young woman, and was being more
truthful than I was prepared to be. But Paddy Gilhooly! Twice her age!