"Maybe he was going to check the door, or he had a bladder problem, or didn't want the others to see he was overcome with grief or something," Rob interjected.
"I don't think so. His shoes squeaked, and he stopped after a few steps, just about as far as a sideboard in the hall on which there were several bottles of booze, I'd noticed. He had another drink, a rather large one, when Tweedledum or Tweedledee, whichever it was, said how much he'd get. It was about fifteen thousand Irish punt, by the way, which these days is worth more than twenty-five thousand dollars. That should rule out suicide. Why kill yourself the day you come into some money? When Alex and I left to go to the car, he was helping himself again, quite liberally, to the drinks on the sideboard in the hall. It's a wonder he could even stagger to the edge of the cliff!" I concluded.
"There!" Rob exclaimed. "What did I tell you? You've just added an element of doubt to your own theory."
I glared at him. "My point, if only you would allow me to get back to it, is that we're here for a while, pending the results of the autopsy, so why not look for the treasure?"
"But why would you want to?"
"Well, for one thing it wouldn't bother me a bit to beat those po-faced women to it," I replied.
Rob winced. "Aren't you being a little hasty in your judgment of them? What did they do to deserve that?"
"Since you ask, they were horrible to Alex," I said. "When we first arrived, we were left hanging about the front hall for ages, and I overheard Byrne's wife Margaret telling Tweedledum or Tweedledee-those are the lawyers-that she wouldn't have that man in her house. I assumed she was talking about Alex, although come to think about it, it could have been the other lawyer, or Padraig Gilhooly, whoever he is. In any event, Alex went over and introduced himself when we were finally allowed in, and they wouldn't even shake his hand when he offered it."
"It was a bad time for them, don't forget," Rob interjected. Sometimes the man is way too nice.
"I know. But Margaret and the two daughters all have the same expression on their faces, like they've just encountered a bad smell, or something." I paused. "And there's another reason."
"I thought there must be. The real one, this time, I hope," Rob said.
"Alex just loved the cottage. I could tell, without him having to say a word. It's a dream come true for him."
"I'm very glad of that. But he has the cottage. What's your point?"
"My point is, now what? How is he going to look after it? Pay the taxes or water bills? Put in some electricity? Make repairs? Those old places need a lot of upkeep. And unless he wants to keep crossing the property in front of the house, which heaven knows, I wouldn't, he's going to have to put a road in that will cost more than a penny or two, I can assure you. He's on a pension, Rob! If we could find the treasure for him, and it really is worth something as Byrne said it is, Alex could really retire, not just sort of retire and work part time in the store the way he is now.
"We're here now, aren't we?" I wheedled. "And we're not going too far until the police conclude their investigation into John Herlihy's death, although what could take them so long, I can't imagine. Anyway, we'd get to see a little of the countryside around here, while we looked, and we might just have some fun."
"I do understand how you feel about Alex, and maybe he does need the money, but what makes you think we could find it? We don't know the place at all, or the people."
"Piece of cake," I replied. "After all, you are a policeman. You're accustomed to tracking down clues. Already we have two of them, and we know they come from a poem called the 'Song of Amairgen.' "
Rob looked baffled and I felt mildly triumphant, having produced the name of a poem he didn't know. As rare as the occasion might be, I tried not to gloat. "Michael Davis is going to try to persuade Breeta to get her clue out of the safe at the house, and tell us what it is. We'll then have three of the clues. I think there were seven-the mother and three daughters, three more counting Michael, Alex, and someone by the name of Padraig Gilhooly, who incidentally would be about as welcome in that house as a rattlesnake at a garden party, should he choose to show his face there-so we're almost halfway there."
"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.