The Celtic Riddle (7 page)

"Halfway where?" Jennifer said, sliding into a chair beside her
father. She tossed her windbreaker, a pinky-purple number with the
words "Take no Prisoners" emblazoned across the back.

"Half the clues handed out to Eamon Byrne's family yesterday. I'm
trying to persuade your father that we should look for the treasure in
the Will."

"Brilliant!" Jennifer exclaimed, having managed to pick up the local
slang within minutes of our touchdown at Shannon Airport. Or rather,
she said something that sounded like ten-ale-erb. Jennifer had taken a
class in what was called creative thinking in her last term, in which
the teacher had encouraged them to free their minds to think outside
the box, to use that odious expression beloved of management
consultants, by speaking backward. Jennifer had readily taken to this
suggestion, a development her father found intensely irritating. I,
however, had a dim memory of school chums doing the same thing, secret
societies and the like, and I assumed this was a stage that would pass.
I did not wish to stunt her creative thinking, of course, but I hoped
it would be soon. "Tiod stel, Dad," she added.

"Not both of you," Rob grumped.

"Have you seen Alex?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied. "He's down at the docks renting a boat. I've
come to ask you both if you'd like to go sailing with us."

"Wonderful idea!" I replied.

"Sailing!" Rob exclaimed, feigning horror at the thought. "You
forget I'm a Ukrainian from Saskatchewan. My idea of relaxation is to
sit on a porch and watch fields of wheat stretching as far as the eye
can see. Now there's a vacation for you. Why risk seasickness, when you
could have the taste of dust in your mouth, and not so much as the
tiniest breeze to mess up your hair?"

"What hair?" Jennifer grinned as she reached over and patted a small
bald spot on the top of her father's head. I noticed she switched to
regular speech when she wanted to tease her dad, so he wouldn't miss
the jibe.

"Given the absence of dust here, and wheat for that matter," I said,
"what are you going to do this afternoon while the rest of us are
sailing?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I'll think of something."

There was something in his tone. "Rob!" I said.

"I was thinking maybe I'd just pop down to the local police
station-what do they call themselves? Gardai is it?-introduce myself."

"Would you know a vacation if you tripped over it?" I asked. "You
wouldn't be planning to prove your theory that John Herlihy met with
foul play, would you?" I can't believe this man, I thought. He's
absolutely obsessed by his job. How can people be like that, thinking
about crime and criminals every waking moment, and maybe even dreaming
about it, too? It's a sickness.

"Will you look who's talking like she's an expert on vacations all
of a sudden?" he said mildly. "When she hasn't had one in all the years
I've know her. No, I'm just trying to improve international relations,
inspire a little goodwill between police forces, that sort of thing.
Now get going, will you, so I can get on with this noble activity? And
try and stay out of trouble, both of you." He gave his daughter an
affectionate hug.

Jennifer and I turned left as we exited The Three Sisters Inn, as
the guest house where we were all staying was called, and with Jennifer
chattering away about all the things she'd have to tell her chums about
when she got home, we ambled along a cobblestoned street that wound its
way down to the sea past charming littlehouses, shops, and pubs painted
sunny colors, yellow, red, blue, and green.

To save money on the trip, I was sharing a room with Jennifer, and
Rob and Alex were doing the same. It was not my idea of the perfect
holiday, bunking in with an eighteen-year-old, but I found I was
enjoying her company, and, as we made our way down to the harbor, I got
caught up in the enthusiasm she brought to everything about her.
Although she'd been reluctant to come with us at first, she was clearly
having a good time now that we were in Ireland. She was on the cusp of
adulthood, a little young for her age in some things, in my opinion,
but very worldly in others, a whole new life ahead of her at university
when she got home.

Jennifer's mother had died when she was very young, and Rob had
raised her on his own. He'd not remarried. The way he told it, he and
Jennifer had never found a woman they agreed on. So Jennifer had the
combination of self-reliance and yet the essential loneliness of the
only child. The big problem with her life right now, I'd quickly
ascertained, was that she hadn't yet had a serious boyfriend. As
painful as this was for Jennifer-she claimed she was the only girl in
the western hemisphere who hadn't had a date for the prom-this state of
affairs suited her father just fine, considering as he did all his
daughter's potential suitors to be lascivious louts, to use his own
words. After a couple of days sharing a room with Jennifer, I began to
realize it was time I had a serious talk with her father, something
along the lines of his reserving his interrogation and intimidation
skills for the people he came across in his chosen line of work, rather
than the young men who came calling on his daughter. It was not a
conversation I was looking forward to, but what are friends for? And
certainly Rob has never held back from telling me things about myself
he feels I need to know.

The town lined the mouth of a river at the head of a large bay that
provided snug harbor for the dozens of boats, large and small, moored
there. We found Alex waiting for us at the end of the pier, aboard the
Maire Malloy, a rather old and lumpy little wooden craft painted a
dreadful pea green. The sea was perfect for sailing: a good stiff
breeze, but not too much of one. The sky was clear in all directions,
so it looked as if the weather would hold. Gulls squawked and wheeled
after us as Alex started the engine and we put-putted out of the
harbor, past fishing boats, large and small. When we cleared the edge
of the harbor, Alex cut the engine and gave orders to hoist the sail.
The wind ;aught us immediately, and appearances to the con-rary, the
boat surged forward very nicely.

"Oohay!" Jennifer yelled. Sailing was a new expe-ience for her, and
her excitement was contagious. I bund myself starting to enjoy myself,
pushing the pic-ure of John Herlihy's black boot back to the
further-nost corners of my mind.

"Oohay!" I agreed. From the sea, the land was even nore
spectacularly beautiful: blue mountains in the dis-ance, cut by the
enormous gashes of valleys, rolling ills that swooped down to sheer
cliffs at the sea, far-tier out, the wild columns of spray where the
sea met le shore. And everywhere, tiny isolated houses stark gainst the
most extraordinary shades of green.

"Where to?" Alex called to us, the wind whipping is words away.

Jennifer shrugged. "Dnaleci," she shouted.

"I have a more practical idea," I called back.

It was relatively easy sailing, hugging the coast, past ttle bays
and coves, some with houses visible, othersdeserted, others with the
same derelict and abandoned houses we'd seen near Rose Cottage.

Few of the homes were as beautiful as Second Chance. From the water
it was spectacular, the pale yellow of its walls in sharp contrast to
the dark, dark green of the hills way behind it, and the well-manicured
lawn and gardens sloping down to the sea. It looked like a little
paradise, and even Jennifer, burdened very slightly by a late
adolescent angst that had a tendency to show itself as chronic
cynicism, looked impressed.

As we followed the coast past Second Chance, the wind whipped up, as
it had when we'd hiked to Rose Cottage, and we had to tack several
times to make headway. It was exhilarating, though, as the little boat
crested the waves, then fell into the trough, the rugged shoreline,
high cliffs at whose base the waves pounded and above which seabirds
flew, receding off into the mist miles away. And high on the cliff,
Alex's newly acquired cottage sat snugly facing out to sea. "Is that
it, Uncle Alex?" Jennifer called out pointing toward the shore. "Oooo,"
she exclaimed, as Alex nodded proudly. "It's brilliant. Can I come and
visit summers?"

"Of course you may," he replied.

The little wooden boat was still bobbing in the cove when we got
there. Alex skillfully maneuvered our craft past some rocks and pulled
alongside.

"I don't see anything," Jennifer said, peering into the Ocean Crest.

"We'll need to board her," I said.

"Be quick about it, Lara," Alex said as he pulled alongside. "It's
time we were getting back," he added, pointing to the sun now dipping
toward the horizon.

"Just give me a few minutes," I said, easing my way into the other
boat. Once I was aboard, Alex shoved off and anchored several yards
away.

I started at the stern and moved forward. I checked for wire or
ropes over the side, thinking there might be a watertight package
hidden in the water. I pulled the boat up to the buoy where it was
moored, but found nothing there. I ran my fingers under the gunwales in
case a tiny piece of paper had been stuck there. I checked the oar
sockets and I felt under each seat, before moving toward the bow. I
checked under that seat, too. Still nothing. Then I reached up into the
prow of the boat, and came up empty again.

I was about to give up when I noticed that one of the boards in the
bow looked freshly painted, in contrast to the rather worn quality of
the rest of the boat. I gave the board a little tug and it came away to
reveal a piece of white plastic sheet, part of a plastic bag, I'd have
said, rolled up tightly and wedged into a grove between the boards,
then taped to hold it in place.

"Got it," I yelled to Alex and Jennifer, slowly peeling away the
tape, being careful not to tear the plastic or its contents.

"Yanpmoc!" Jennifer called out, waving her arms toward the shore. I
looked up in the direction Jennifer was pointing. At the top of the
cliff, round about where John Herlihy must have gone over, Conail
O'Connor, son-in-law number two, stood, arms crossed, one leg propped
up on a rock at the edge, looking down at us, like a bird of prey
readying to strike. At that moment, I knew two things: One was that if
looks could kill, I'd have keeled over right then and there. The other
was that some people were taking this treasure hunt way too seriously.

"Let's get out of here," I called to Alex, who weighed anchor and
navigated over to me. I stuffed theplastic roll in the back pocket of
my jeans and scrambled on board the Maire Malloy. Alex started the
little engine, and we slowly made our way out of the cove and into the
wind.

The trip back to the harbor should have been a fast one. The wind
was with us, and as soon as the sail was up our little boat leapt
forward. The setting sun was to our right and behind us as we sped
along.

We were about halfway back when a trawler, engines at a deep throaty
roar, blasted out of the late afternoon shadow of the bay, heading
directly for us. It was not a sleek boat, but it was a powerful one,
its course bringing it inexorably closer and closer. "Come about," Alex
yelled, as Jennifer and I ducked to avoid the boom, and scrambled to
the opposite side. The other boat changed direction and continued to
bear down on us. We were yelling and waving, trying to catch the
attention of the driver, whom we couldn't see, before it was too late.
At the last moment, Alex, an excellent sailor and remarkably calm in a
crisis, did a quick maneuver, and the trawler, which was about to hit
us broadside, instead just grazed the stern. It was enough, however,
and, swamped, the Maire Malloy rolled over, hurling all of us overboard.

As we went over the side, I grabbed hold of Jennifer, but I hit the
water so hard, I was dazed for a moment, and she was wrenched from my
grasp. There was a roaring in my ears, either the shock of the water or
the underwater sound of the powerboat, and my nose and mouth were
filled with water as I was swept up in the wake. I struggled my way to
the surface and looked about for the others. I saw Alex immediately,
but Jennifer was nowhere to be found. A panic so intense it was almost
a physical pain gripped me, and I started screaming her name and
flailing around in the dark, cold water, desperate to find her, a
glimpse of her purple jacket, or her blonde hair.

And suddenly there she was, first her head, then her shoulders, she
rose coughing and sputtering, a few yards away. "Gip!" she gasped,
shaking her fist at the departing trawler, already far away, a small
black shadow retreating in the shimmering path of the sun on the water.
"Mucs!" she yelled again, this time much stronger. I figured she was
okay.

Together, we tried to right the boat, but it was difficult,
exhausted as we were by our narrow escape, and in the end we just clung
to the side of it, waiting until help arrived. It came mercifully soon
in the person of Michael Davis who pulled alongside not long after in a
small motorboat.

"I saw you from the cliff," he said after he'd hauled us all on
board and attached a line to the sailboat to tow it to shore. "Bloody
ijit driving that boat!" he exclaimed. "You could all have been killed!"

"Did you happen to see who the bloody ijit was?" I asked him, after
I'd caught my breath.

"No," he replied, but he looked away as he said it. I had a feeling
that even if he couldn't actually see, at that distance, who was
driving the boat, he had a very good idea who was responsible. And
recalling vividly the malignant look on Conail O'Connor's face, so, for
that matter, did I.

Chapter Four

A STAG OF SEVEN SLAUGHTERS

APPARENTLY you were right," Rob said, nodding in my general
direction as he passed his daughter the marmalade. Breakfast was served
each morning in a little glassed-in porch overlooking the little garden
at the Inn, and we started our days together there.