The Celtic Riddle

"But he's out now, right?" I said.

"He got out," Rob agreed. "Five years ago. And promptly got himself killed in a drunken barroom brawl. Artery cut by a broken whiskey bottle. Bled to death before the paramedics could get to him. I'd say we could cross Owen Mac Roth off our list of suspects now, couldn't we? Any other theories you'd like to explore?" I was finding his tone irritating, and was about to say so.

"It was a good idea, though," he added. "And worth checking into. Maybe you should have gone to police academy instead of taking up such a risky profession as retail," he smiled. That's the thing about Rob: Just when I'm about to claw his eyes out, he says something funny and nice.

So much, though, for my theory about Owen Mac Roth. I thought about it for some time. The point was, while I had come away that first day at Second Chance with a very poor opinion of the Byrne family, I was no longer sure I'd been right. Eithne Byrne was a very nice person; Fionuala and Breeta were too, despite appearances to the contrary. And Eamon Byrne had been a very sick man. Once long ago, he had made a mistake. A very bad mistake, no doubt about it, with tragic consequences, but a mistake nevertheless. And now the family was paying for it. I didn't believe in curses, or broken geise, any more than I believed in the fairies. Instead, I was sure that some malignant force was pulling the strings off stage, bringing the family to ruin. I just didn't know who this malignant force might be yet. It wasn't Owen Mac Roth. That much was certain. And it could hardly be Deirdre, although somehow she had to be part of it. So whom did that leave?

When I thought about it, there was something patently wrong with Deirdre that went beyond the fact that she was a Mac Roth. She wasn't a maid, either. Eithne and Fionuala had laughed about how she kept spilling everything and breaking their mother's ornaments. I'd thought at the time she might be either paying Margaret back for her ill humor, or was just nervous in her presence, something it was easy enough to understand. But Rob had said she'd worked for years in a dry cleaning establishment. Bent on revenge, perhaps, she'd infiltrated Second Chance. But how had she managed to snag the position with absolutely no qualifications that I could see?

I picked up the telephone and called Second Chance. Anticipating Margaret, I was relieved when Eithne answered.

"I'm sorry to be a pest, Eithne, but I have a couple more questions. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," she replied. I'd been afraid when the sherry wore off, she'd regret her candor, but she still sounded very nice and friendly.

"It's about Deirdre again. Where did she come from, do you know?"

"Not really," she replied. "As I told you, she came when Kitty McCarthy, our old housekeeper retired. I do remember we had trouble finding a replacement. We were heartbroken when Kitty left. She was getting on, of course, but we didn't seem to notice, at least I didn't. She'd been with us since I was a little girl. She was a hard act to follow, I suppose. We advertised, of course, in town, but my mother," she paused and then lowered her voice. "Well, my mother isn't the easiest person in the world to get along with. She has a warm heart under it all, really she has, but it's not what people see, and no one in town wanted the job. So we advertised a little farther afield and found Deirdre."

"Did she come with references?"

"I suppose she must have. Mother looked after all that."

"So you don't know who gave her a reference?"

"No. I suppose we could ask Mother."

"Would you mind? I know it would help the police in their investigation, tracing something of her life before she came to Second Chance." It wasn't entirely a lie. If they knew enough to ask, then the answer would be helpful to them, I was sure.

"All right. Wait a minute. Mother!" I heard her call.

She was back on the line in a minute or two. "Sorry for the delay," she said. "Mother's trying to cook. Terrible scene. She says our solicitors, McCafferty and McGlynn, helped us find Deirdre."

"Thank you. One last question," I said. "Does the name Mac Roth mean anything to you?"

"It's a good Irish name," she said after a short pause. "But other than that, no, I don't think so. Should it?"

"I don't know," I replied. "Perhaps. I really don't know."

I hung up and dialed again.

"McCafferty and McGlynn," the officious voice said.

"May I speak to Charles McCafferty?" I said.

"Who may I tell him is calling?" she said.

"Lara McClintoch," I replied.

"I'm sorry Mr. McCafferty is out of the office," she replied. "May I take a message?"

"I'm assisting the police in their investigations at Second Chance," I replied. "Either put Mr. McCafferty on the line, or the police will have to call." This was patently untrue, but I was beyond caring. Furthermore, brush-offs by imperious secretaries bring out the worst in me.

"Really, he isn't here," she replied. Then why did you ask who I was, I was tempted to say.

"Mr. McGlynn, then," I said.