The Celtic Riddle

Chapter Sixteen. THE PLACE WHERE THE SUN SETS

ABOUT Owen Mac Roth," Rob said the next day. "He spent twenty-five of the last thirty years in jail. Joined the IRA and bombed somebody, got caught, and got a life sentence."

"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.

I thought she was going to hang up, but in a few seconds McGlynn came on the line. "Ms. McClintoch," he said smoothly, although I could hear a hint of irritation in his voice. Apparently, he didn't like it when his receptionist was bullied by people like me. "How nice to hear from you again. How may I be of assistance this time?"

"I'm making inquiries about Deirdre Flood," I replied. "Margaret Byrne was telling me that you provided a reference for Deirdre and…"

"I do not believe that is the case," he interrupted. "I did not know Deirdre personally." His tone implied that he wouldn't have anything to do with a lowlife like Deirdre. "I do recall that Margaret, Mrs. Byrne, asked us to assist her in finding someone. This is not, you will understand, the kind of thing we would normally do as their solicitors." I got the distinct impression Ryan McGlynn considered this little task very much beneath him. "I would have thought Mrs. Byrne could have dealt with an employment agency," he continued. "But she insisted, for some reason I do not understand. We had just snagged, I mean we had just secured, the Byrne account, and of course, wished to do anything we could to help out."

"Did that include checking references?" I said.

"I'm sure it would have," he replied.

"She was a dry cleaner," I said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"She had worked for years in a dry cleaning establishment, you know, throwing clothes into large machines filled with cleaning fluid, then taking them out again and putting them on hangers. What was it about this kind of work that you thought qualified her to be a maid at the home of one of your best clients?"

"Well… I don't really know what you are talking about. What are you implying?" he blustered. "Of course we would have checked references."

"So who gave her a reference?" I asked.

"I would hardly recall five years later, now would I?" he said. "And even if I did, and if what you say about her background is true, which I'm not aware that it is, who is to say she didn't falsify her experience and provide bogus references?"

"I'd have thought you'd make a more thorough check than that, for such a good client," I said. "But perhaps you could check your files?"

"I very much doubt we would have kept such information in our files," he replied. "I am certain, however, that we would have taken the utmost care in selecting someone for the Byrne residence."

"Would you mind checking the file just in case?" I said.

"I do mind," he replied. "The information would be confidential in any event."

"Okay," I replied. "I'll let the police here know. If they really need the answer, they can get a warrant. But you know all that, of course."

"Stay on the line," he said icily.

A few minutes later, Ms. Officious was back on the line. "Mr. McGlynn has asked me to let you know that Deirdre Flood gave as a reference a training school called Domestic Help International. The letter says she passed her courses with distinction."

"Dated when?"

"March 1, 1990," she replied.

"And this is a well-known institution, is it, this Domestic Help International?" It had a rather generic sort of name. Just the same, I knew I'd never heard of it. Apparently she hadn't either.

"Well, I don't know," she replied. "I don't think I've heard of it, but I wouldn't. I graduated from secretarial college, of course."

"Of course," I replied. "Good for you." I was tempted to ask her if they had special classes in imperious demeanor at her college, a subject at which she would no doubt have excelled.

"It must be a reputable place, though," she went on, apparently not noticing my particular tone. "It's located in Merrion Square."

"That's good, is it?" I asked. I actually knew that Merrion Square was a posh part of Dublin, but I wasn't about to say so. I wanted her to tell me all she knew.

"Merrion Square? Of course it is. One of the finest addresses in Dublin. Very close to St. Stephen's Green," she added.

"And does it have a fine phone number too?" I asked.

"There's no phone number on the letter," she replied.

"Thanks for your help," I said as I hung up. "And give my regards to Ryan and Charles, won't you?"

I checked with Dublin information, but the prestigious Domestic Help International didn't appear to have managed to get itself a telephone. Somehow I doubted it had managed a real address for itself either. Bogus references indeed. Deirdre had apparently pulled the wool over McCafferty and McGlynn's eyes completely, a fact that should have caused them considerable embarrassment, but didn't. She was able to do it, I was sure, because they were miffed at having to do such a menial task for the family, but too afraid to say no to their new, rich, and powerful client. They needed the money to restore that lovely Georgian town house of theirs.

So where did this leave me? Nowhere, I thought sadly. Absolutely nowhere. I went out for a walk to think about it some more. Large buses of the touring variety were parked on the edge of town. The music festival was about to begin. Already the streets seemed more crowded as tourists clogged the area. All the shops, thrilled no doubt by the business, had posters in their windows advertising the special events, and canned music blasted from many a store. Despite all the noise and excitement, I continued to noodle the problem around for some time.

Deirdre would have been a good bet for the murders except for two things. The Byrne family, with the exception of Eamon himself, who'd apparently died quite naturally as a result of his illness, were all still alive. As Rob had pointed out, if she was bent on revenge, why kill the staff? Unless, of course, Herlihy and Michael had figured her out. That could be the explanation. Herlihy as the butler couldn't help but notice Deirdre didn't have a clue what she was doing when she arrived. But she'd lasted almost five years there. If he was going to rat on her, it should have been right away. And Michael? Probably much too nice to reveal her as a fraud. Somehow this didn't work.

All that aside, the most compelling reason for eliminating her as a suspect was that she was very dead, and a murder victim at that, a fact that almost automatically disqualified her as a candidate for perpetrator of the other deaths.

I decided to go back to the Inn to see if I could find Jennifer and have a bite to eat with her. Aidan, the proprietor greeted me as I came in. "Miss Jennifer says you're to read this before you go upstairs," he said smiling and handing me an envelope.

I tore it open. Inside was a hastily scribbled note. Aunt Lara-Dad's here. I'm going upstairs to tell him about Paddy. Stand clear! Love, Jen.