The Celtic Riddle (2 page)

So when Ryan McGlynn, solicitor with the firm of McCafferty and
McGlynn of Dublin, no less, had called to tell Alex that his presence
at the reading of the Will of one Eamon Byrne was required, and Alex
had expressed some reservations about going, I insisted upon coming
along with him. To keep from embarrassing him, I told him I needed a
holiday, and indeed, much to my own surprise, the idea of me taking a
vacation being an even more novel idea than a tortoise for a pet, I
decided to have one. In addition, I'd managed to convince a friend of
mine, a sergeant in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police by the name of
Rob Luczka, and his daughter Jennifer, to come along with us. The four
of us planned to tour about Ireland after the reading of the Will.

Alex said he didn't know why he'd been summoned, but I was hoping
that he'd come into a minor fortune of some kind so he could spend the
rest of his days in luxury. I could think that knowing he'd continue to
come into the store to help out anyway, that being the kind of person
he was, but at least I wouldn't have to worry about whether or not he
could afford to live on his pension and the paltry sum we were able to
pay him.

Alex's airfare was to be covered by the Byrne estate, apparently,
and I cashed in a few thousand frequent flyer points, of which I have
approximately a billion, to get tickets for myself and Jennifer Luczka.
I have that many points because the merchandise Sarah Greenhalgh and I
sell in the shop is purchased all over the world. I do almost all the
buying, since Sarah doesn't really enjoy that part of the business, on
at least four major trips a year.

I don't know why I don't use my points more often. I tell people I'm
saving them for a round-the-world trip, which I know I'll probably
never take. Why should I? I'm doing what I love and get all the travel
anyone could want just doing my job. The truth is I'm rather
superstitiously keeping the points in case Sarah and I are ever so
broke that the only way we can stay in business is for me to travel
free. My best friend Moira, who owns the swank beauty salon cum spa
down the street, says that the accountants or actuaries who are paid to
worry about such things as people hoarding enough points to bankrupt an
airline will send someone to kill me one day.

We'd only been in Ireland for twenty-four hours or so, and I was
already beginning to regret using those points. There we were, seated
in the gloom of a room in Eamon Byrne's estate, which, according to a
discreet sign out at the road, was called Second Chance. The house was
quite beautiful, pale yellow stucco with black roof and white trim, an
impressive long and curving drive, and acres and acres of grounds
stretching toward the sea. The driveway was lined with hydrangea bushes
laden with stunning pink, blue, and purple flowers so heavy they almost
touched the ground. Across the back of the house was a sunroom, all
done up in white wicker and green chintz, with a view of absolutely
gorgeous gardens, and farther away, across a stone patio and staircase
lined with white plaster urns, the blue of Dingle Bay. It was
remarkably light and airy, quite in contrast with the general mood of
the place.

We, however, were in the library, which suited the occasion
perfectly. A rather large and impressive room also at the back of the
house, off the sunroom, it was panelled in very dark wood, with
oversized black leather chairs and a desk so large they must have had
to build the house around it. The library had apparently also served as
Eamon Byrne's study. On this occasion, the curtains, of bordello red
velvet, floor to ceiling, were pulled across the very large windows to
keep out the daylight, and regrettably both the air and the view, all
the better to enjoy the show. The room had, to my occasionally
oversensitive nose, a faint smell of antiseptic.

In contrast to the quiet elegance of the exterior of the house, this
room was cluttered, almost to the point of chaos. Byrne, it appeared,
was an inveterate collector and not necessarily a discriminating one.
This is not to say that what he collected wasn't good-a cursory glance
about me when we'd first arrived indicated he knew what he was
collecting very well-but he didn't appear, at first glance anyway, to
restrict himself to a specialty. If there was a unifying theme to his
collecting, it was not immediately apparent to me. There were
paintings, prints, books, hundreds of them, many of them leather-bound
and quite old, on shelves, piled on the furniture and on the floor,
which itself was covered by three oriental carpets of real quality.

The paintings that adorned the walls, oils all of them, were dark,
primarily of large sailing ships battling either the elements or enemy
ships at sea. Along one wall were glass cases in which were displayed
some very old weapons, largely swords and spear tips, and on the bottom
shelf of the case were rather extraordinary iron pots or bowls, some of
them at least twelve inches in diameter, others even larger; Iron Age
cauldrons, I decided. All were laid out against a red velvet backdrop,
a perfect match for the curtains. I figured, as I looked about me, that
it must have taken tens of thousands of dollars and about a mile of red
velvet to do the room. A single sword, its blade eaten away in places
by time, was mounted on the wall behind the desk, and another,
obviously special, was mounted under glass on the desk. It was an
impressive collection to be sure, but it did lend a rather menacing air
to the proceedings. It made me think that, for Eamon Byrne, on the
assumption it was he who'd amassed the paintings and the weapons, life
was one long battle of some kind.

The television and VCR were placed on the credenza behind the
massive desk, the TV raised on a stack of books. It was placed just
slightly to one side of the desk chair, which gave the impression, from
the angle at which I was sitting, squashed with Alex at the back of the
room behind the more important people in Eamon's life, that the talking
head was where it would have been had Eamon been alive, a sight that
would normally have made me giggle, had the situation not been so
lacking in humor.

With the exception of Breeta, flopped in the large armchair folding
and refolding a lace handkerchief, the rest of us were perched on
rather uncomfortable metal folding chairs in two semicircles around the
desk. The VCR was being handled by Charles McCafferty, one half of
McCafferty and McGlynn. At least I think it was McCafferty. He and his
partner wore virtually identical rather expensive-looking suits, dark,
nice cut, matching vests with watches and fobs, and white shirts with
very starched high collars and French cuffs with silver cuff links.
They also sported almost identical designer haircuts and
expensive-looking reading glasses that allowed them to peer down their
noses at the rest of the world. One distinguished them, apparently, by
the pattern on their silver-gray ties, one diamonds, the other stripes,
their idea, I suppose, of rugged individuality. I'd mentally named them
Tweedledum and Tweedledee. I shouldn't do this, I know, make up
monickers, often, but not always, disparaging, for people all the time.
But, let's face it, I'm dreadful at remembering names. And no matter
what I called them, McCafferty and McGlynn appeared to be doing quite
nicely, thank you. They had that prosperous look to them, lack of
sartorial originality notwithstanding. It was humbling to think that
for what they had both forked out to dress themselves, I could probably
pay off my mortgage.

"You'll be hearing shortly from either McCafferty or McGlynn-they're
virtually interchangeable as far as I'm concerned-about the terms of my
will," Eamon Byrne continued after another long pause for breath.
Tweedledum looked uncomfortable with Byrne's notion that he and
Tweedledee were indistinguishable, although I could not have agreed
more. The three hags, as I'd already come to call them, turned their
attention from us back to the television.

"Not to keep you in suspense, you will find that I have left my
company, Byrne Enterprises, to my daughters Eithne and Fionuala, or
Eriu and Fotla as I liked to call them when they were small, and de
facto, I suppose, to their husbands Sean and Conail. Sean and Conail
have, of course, been running, or should I say running down, the
business during my illness, seeing as how they prefer warming the seats
of their favorite bar stools to an honest day's work, in Conail's case,
or swanking around like an English squire, in Sean's." The two men
shuffled angrily in their seats, as the face, drawn with the effort,
continued speaking. "I expect that unless my daughters see their way
clear to turfing the two laggards out, their inheritance will quickly
become worthless.

"To my wife Margaret I have left Second Chance, including the land,
the house, and all its contents, with two exceptions, Rose Cottage,
which I will speak of later, and my collection of antique weapons,
maps, and manuscripts, which, by previous arrangement, I leave to
Trinity College, Dublin. I have also provided her with an allowance
that most would consider generous, but which she will no doubt consider
miserly. Being responsible for the upkeep of the house and grounds
should be instructional for Margaret, who may begin to have some
appreciation for what it took to keep in the style which she felt her
due. Unless she can herself another husband of some means in short
order, I expect she'll be selling it soon." Judging by the knots at the
back of Margaret's jaw, accompanied as they were by a sharp intake of
breath, she was less than amused.

"To my youngest daughter, Breeta, who, until she left home in a fury
two years ago, was my favorite, my little Banba-I'm sure I'm not
telling my other two something they didn't know-I leave nothing. She
said she despised my money, and so she gets none of it." Breeta said
nothing, only bending, perhaps to hide her face, to pick up the
tortoise as he began to amble under her chair. She sat stroking its
little head as if this was the only thing in the world there was to do.

"I have settled upon what I hope is a generous sum for the staff of
Second Chance. In addition, I have made arrangements for a monthly
stipend to be paid to Michael Davis, if he agrees to go back to finish
his schooling. I sincerely hope he will take me up on my offer and make
something of himself. He has eased the burden of the last few weeks for
me considerably." All eyes turned to Michael, none that I could see
friendly. Michael looked charmingly grateful for his good fortune, but
his furrowed brow indicated he wasn't sure how he'd eased Eamon's
burden.

"Rose Cottage, its contents, and the land on which it sits, I leave
to Alex Stewart of Toronto, who I hope is here today. It is Alex who
gave me my second chance which, despite everything, I am grateful for,
no matter what I said at the time, and while he has refuse my offer of
compensation during my lifetime, I hope he will accept this now. Rose
Cottage has been a place of great pleasure to me, and I hope that Alex
will enjoy it too."

Rose Cottage, I thought. Not quite the small fortune I'd had in mind
for Alex, perhaps. He certainly looked somewhat taken aback by the
notion. I had a sudden vision of a stone cottage, its front yard ablaze
with flowers, a miniature version of the grounds at Second Chance.
Roses in profusion, that was its name after all. White and pink, I
decided, ramping up trellises, arching over the entrance way. A
thatched roof, of course. Inside, whitewashed walls and dark, exposed
beams, a huge stone fireplace, logs blazing, a carved wooden swan on
the mantelpiece. Huge comfy sofas, down-filled, perhaps, covered in
chintz in what? A soft, hazy green? Celadon, perhaps? No, wait, rose,
dusty rose. It would have to be rose. But large and soft and squishy.
Sofas to sink way down into, a good book and a glass of sherry at hand.
Alex would have to modernize the kitchen and plumbing, no doubt, but
that would be fine. I'd help him. And there'd be a shortage of closets,
but I'd ship over a couple of antique armoires from the store as a
present. Minor details. In short, it was perfect. The floors would
probably need refinishing, wide planks, stained dark, with area rugs,
dhurries, I'd think, that would pick up the rose, with the celadon and
cream…

My mental excursion through the ozone was disturbed by the crackle
of psychic tension in the room. When I came to, as it were, Margaret
was so tense that cords stood out on her neck, and even from the back I
could tell her jaw was rather firmly clenched. Breeta sobbed just once,
out loud. Her older sisters' shoulders were hunched up to their ears.
As Eamon spoke about Alex, the anger in the room, kept in check so f
threatened to boil over. They may not have been too thrilled about
Michael's good fortune, but Alex's, forsome reason, really bothered
them.

The face, undeterred, stopped only for a moment t sip liquid through
a straw. "There is one other perso who may be here, but who, fearing
the wrath of my family, may send a representative instead." The hag;
turned and looked at the lawyer seated to our right. He nodded and
smiled somewhat less than pleasantly in their direction.

"I have, with regret, acceded to my family's wishes and have left
nothing for Padraig Gilhooly in my estate." The lawyer, who I surmised
was representing this Gilhooly fellow, whoever he was, frowned;
Margaret's back relaxed a little. The face continued. "I want Padraig
to know that nothing would have made me happier than to have him
accepted in our household. Perhaps he will sue for a share of the
estate. It is one of the benefits of being dead that I will not have to
deal with this. I leave that family squabble and all the others I have
had to endure, to the living.

"It is a source of considerable pain to me that there is so much
strife in this family. In an effort to address this, even in death, I
have designed an exercise that will require you to work together."
Shoulders stiffened all around the room.