"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.
Chapter Seventeen. WHO CALLS THE STARS?
YOU, young lady, will go to your room," Rob shouted. "And stay there until I say you can come out. And you will never, ever, see that guy again!"
Do we suppose Jennifer has already told her father about the boyfriend, by any chance? I asked myself.
"But it's the music festival," Jennifer sulked.
"I don't care if it's the Second Coming," Rob said. "You are grounded, confined to barracks, under house arrest. Do you get my drift here?
"As for you," he said, his face flushed with anger, as Jennifer stomped across the hall to our room. "Have you aided and abetted in all of this? Have you set my daughter up with this Gilhooly fellow? I left her in your charge, you know."
"You did not leave her in my charge," I retorted. "And I did not aid and abet. I was as surprised as you are when I found out. Yes, I may have known about it a few days before you did, but that was because I was paying attention. You, on the other hand, have totally abrogated your responsibility as her parent. And furthermore, I do not think that yelling at her about it is going to change anything."
"Well, what is?" he yelled. He was totally out of control. It occurred to me that with this stress and the Irish cooked breakfasts he'd been eating, he might be on the verge of a stroke. However, I couldn't stop.
"She's an intelligent young woman. She'll figure it out for herself."
"What if it's too late?" he said.
Too late? Too late for what? "Oh for heaven's sake, Rob. Don't be such a drip."
I stomped out of the Inn. It was true, I was feeling guilty. But I still thought he was handling this situation all wrong. I wandered around the town for a while, holding imaginary conversations with him and her, and trying to calm down. From time to time, I'd see almost everyone in town I knew: Conail, out of jail and still drinking, Eithne and Fionuala-I took some pleasure in knowing Fionuala had persuaded her older sister to come into town-Paddy Gilhooly, who didn't seem to have allowed the disappearance of his young girlfriend to bother him too much. The only person I didn't see was Breeta. I carefully avoided the rest of them, not in the mood for conversation. I needed to think what to do.
Finally, in a fit of ill humor, I decided I was going to go to the music festival, whether I would enjoy it or not, just to spite Rob. I might even forget all about it, if I tried hard enough, I reasoned. I walked along the streets until I heard music I liked, the traditional Celtic jigs and reels, and went in.
The bar was packed, a haze of cigarette smoke, and very, very noisy. It was a friendly crowd, most of them, I could tell, out for a special Saturday night at their local pub. Young people crowded around the bar, and pints of beer, dark and creamy, were passed across to others in the room. Most were in couples, but there was a small group of women out for an evening together, and a crowd of young men on the other side of the room looking them over furtively. For a horrible moment, I thought I saw Rob and Maeve, which would entirely spoil the place for me, but when I looked in that direction again, I couldn't see them.
Over in one corner, two old women sat smiling, one toothlessly, at the crowd. They were of sturdy stock, both dressed in gray, one with her white hair held back from her face with a barrette, the other's hair covered by a small gray scarf. From time to time, the barman, a fellow with a hearty booming voice called across to them, "Ready for another round, dears?" and the two old woman would laugh and nod. The barman would then send a strapping youth to deliver the drinks to their table.
In another corner of the room, seated on a bench, behind a large low table on which were scattered dozens of drink glasses, some empty, some full, and several ashtrays heaped with butts, were four musicians: a raven-haired woman in a black sleeveless top and black pants playing a squeeze-box; a blonde woman, casually attired in sweatshirt and jeans, on the bodhran, the Celtic drum; another woman with short-cropped hair in jeans and sweater, the fiddler; and the leader of the group, a man in jeans and wool sweater, who played the flute. It was he who announced the tunes they were to play, or tried to at least, the din in the bar making it impossible for all except those closest to hear what he said, and marked out the beat with a thump of his heel on the wood floor.
Those patrons who wanted to hear the music crowded in a large semicircle several rows deep around the table, those in front sitting on low stools. I stood near the back of that group, cheered by the music, as the musicians began to play. The first piece was a ballad, sung by the raven-haired woman, a song that all but me seemed to know. Her voice was clear and sweet, the refrain wafting over the crowd, some of whom sang softly along with her.