The Celtic Riddle

"I'm so sorry about what happened, Breeta," I said. "Michael was a lovely young man. This has all been quite dreadful." Breeta concentrated on working on the meal in front of her. It was not so much eating, come to think of it, as stuffing food in her mouth. She barely chewed it. I had the feeling that, whether she was conscious of it or not, she was stuffing herself with food to keep churning emotions, grief and anger, from rising up and pouring out of her.

"Breeta," I went on undeterred, although the sight of all that greasy food making its way so rapidly into her mouth was making me slightly nauseated. "I was wondering, I mean, I'm very worried about what has happened, and as selfish as this sounds, what it might mean to Alex. First John, and then Michael. I'm so afraid that being involved in this Will may be very dangerous for everyone named. I'm sure your father never thought that such awful things would happen…"

"I hate him," she said vehemently. "Hate him!"

"But perhaps finding the treasure would put a stop to this," I went on after a few seconds pause after this outburst. "We, Alex and I and some friends, have found a number of clues already. I have them back at the hotel. If you would just have a look at them, I'm sure you could help us. You know so much about Celtic history and…"

"No!" she exclaimed. "Stop. Never. I will never forgive my father for this. My life… ruined." She looked as if she would cry, but then stuffed some more chips in her mouth.

"But Breeta, you need the money," I protested. "Please…" I reached over to touch her hand. She wrenched it away.

"Leave me alone," she said getting up from her chair. "Go away. This is all your fault. Why did you have to come here?" She almost ran to the cashier and then out the door. Stung, I let her go. After a few minutes of feeling awful, I picked up Vigs and trundled him back to the Inn, where he was greeted with real enthusiasm by Sheila and Aidan's three young children, and resignation on the part of Sheila herself. Then I headed for the bar, and ordered a drink: nothing wimpy like wine, this time-a single malt Irish on ice.

It was depressing to think that Breeta blamed me for what happened. I told myself it was ridiculous to feel guilty about everything, but found it almost impossible not to wonder if I had, however unwittingly, done something that had set off a chain of events. But if this was the case, then I had to do something to fix it. The question was, what? It was not lost on me that not everyone shared my enthusiasm for finding the treasure, but I could not think of what else to do. While there were dire hints about Byrne's past from time to time, the treasure remained the most logical place to start. I'd heard lots of tales about Byrne in the last few days, in this bar and around town. As Deirdre had said, he wasn't the most popular person in town, but there seemed to be a grudging admiration for his business acumen. He kept to himself, it seemed, was not an habitue of the bars the way many in town were. And the place being what it was, he was still regarded by the locals as a newcomer, despite the fact he'd arrived in the Dingle a newly married man many years before. But there wasn't a whiff of anything that would meet Deirdre's criteria for a curse. The more I thought about it, the more Deirdre sounded like a superstitious and perhaps not well-educated woman, and the more plausible the treasure as the key to the question about why Michael was killed: a clue had been found clutched in his dead hand, after all. In the end, I promised myself that I'd keep my eyes and ears open for more on Byrne, but concentrate on the treasure, though it was clear we were going to have to find it without Breeta's help.

Even without her, we were not doing so badly on that score. The first clues had been the easiest to find, all right around Second Chance. There was Alex's clue and Michael's, and then the one about the beauty of the plant, the one found clutched, at least part of it, in Michael's dead hand.

I'd assumed that one would be found in his garden, probably in the toolshed. When I got there, however, I discovered someone had gone looking ahead of me. At least, I thought that the only possible conclusion, because I couldn't believe that Michael, whom I'd watched meticulously tending his garden, would have left his domain in such a mess, with garden implements strewn everywhere, and broken pots and spilled soil in messy little heaps on the floor and worktable.