I told him I owned an antiques shop in Toronto.
"Do you indeed!" he exclaimed. "Then please permit me to give you a little tour. Everything here is authentic to the time, the real thing where possible," he said, gesturing toward the chairs and sliding his hand across the fabric in a way I found quite suggestive. He had nice hands, I noticed. He then pointed out each object in the room and gave a little of its history, where he'd found it, what great family had owned it, what it cost him. I tried to look impressed, which was not difficult, because frankly, I was. When I wasn't making eye contact with him, and enjoying the way he touched everything, I was mentally launching a new line in the shop-Irish Georgian-complete with accompanying design service to make sure our clients got the look just right. It was a good, no a great, idea: Irish anything was in style, thanks to some pseudo-Celtic dancers and singers very much in vogue. I was a little unsure how to get the look of the original paint, but I knew someone who could do it, if I could bring myself to ask him: Clive, who'd been my first employee, a designer, before I made the mistake of marrying him. That problem aside, I thought I had a sure-fire winner, although some of the sums McCafferty mentioned as purchase prices were daunting.
If I could find fault with McCafferty's offices at all, it was that it was all too perfect. People who decorate like this don't just sweat the details, they are obsessed by them. I found myself longing for a jarring note, an object out of place or out of time, so he'd seem more human to me, somehow. There wasn't one. I have customers like this, whose requirement for authenticity is absolute, and who, in many ways, keep me in business. Personally I prefer a little more relaxed approach, more mixing of complementary styles. Moira, whose taste in decorating is best described as eclectic-she changes the decor in her salon cum spa about every six months, often with my help, making her not only my best friend, but the shop's best advertisement-would call the offices of McCafferty and McGlynn the product of a diseased mind. Maybe he'd become too set in his ways as a bachelor, I thought.
Needless to say, I did not voice my opinion in this regard. "You've done a wonderful job restoring the place," I said. "You are obviously successful at everything you do. You have your pick of clients," I went on. "People like Eamon Byrne. I am most grateful you took time out of your busy schedule to see me."
"I'm delighted to have been of assistance," he said, self-consciously straightening his lovely tie. He was enjoying every minute of this, just as I was.
"And very kind of you to give Deirdre Flood employment," I said. "I was delighted to see that she'd landed on her feet."
"Not at all," he replied. "Dreadful business, those deaths. The poor dear was quite terrified. I'm glad I could help her out, under the circumstances."
"He must have been a challenging client, Eamon Byrne, I mean," I said, prattling on, "judging from that video. Not the easiest man in the world to get along with. I never met him, of course, but Alex Stewart knew him a number of years ago, when he was in the merchant marine. Did you know him long?"
"No," he replied, rather tersely. I waited for further clarification, saying nothing, but just looking at him. It's an old reporter's trick, I'm told, leaving a long enough silence that the interrogated person feels compelled to fill it. Finally he said, "We took over from his former solicitor about five years ago."
Too bad, I thought: not long enough to know about an old family curse. "What business was he in? Byrne Enterprises, I mean."
"Many things. It was a group of several different businesses. Land holdings, originally. He owned large tracts of boglands. Very profitable."
"Are bogs profitable?" I said. I was genuinely surprised.
"Oh, yes," he replied. "Quite. Peat is a major source of fuel here in Ireland. There is a huge commercial operation, of course: Bord na Mona. But there are smaller, private ones as well. Eamon Byrne leased out parcels of bog property for three months at a time. Renters cut as much peat as they can for fuel, and take it away to heat their homes, then Byrne rented the property out again to the next person. He had huge land holdings, so the supply was never exhausted, and there was a very nice, steady income. He used that to branch out into other businesses. Import/export for one. Medical supplies, for another. All very successful."
"Mr. Byrne didn't seem to have much confidence in the ability of his sons-in-law to run the business successfully," I said, hoping that now that McCafferty's guard was down, he'd prove to be someone who enjoyed being in the know and telling everyone about it.
"No," he replied. "And with good reason. The two of them don't get along, and aren't very good businessmen. It was fine while Eamon Byrne was running the businesses, but when he became ill, well, things deteriorated right away. Too bad, of course, but there is nothing we can do about it. Amazing how they can make such a bollocks of it. Forgive my language, please. It upsets me to see what they're doing. The peat business practically runs itself, and still they can't seem to make a go of it."
"I heard Fionuala and Connor split up," I said, con-spiratorially. There's nothing like discussing other people's relationships when you're toying with the idea of getting into one yourself.
"I heard that too," he said. He actually giggled as he said it. I gathered he was in some way rather enjoying the family's tale of woe.
"What do you think that will mean? Who do you think will take over the management of the company?"
"I'm not sure," he replied, "but it will be interesting to see, won't it?"
"Extraordinary thing, that treasure hunt, isn't it?" I said. I may have been enjoying the flirtation, but I wasn't so far gone that I had entirely forgotten what I'd come for. Not yet, anyway.
"Yes," he said, suddenly solemn. "You noticed, I'm sure, that Byrne said we didn't approve of it. We stayed in, not because, as Byrne said, we wanted his money, but because we felt we had to bring a modicum of good sense to the whole process."
"So what did you have to do? Do you know what all the clues are?"
"We did not," McCafferty averred, looking at me with some suspicion. He wasn't that far gone, either. "Byrne asked us to distribute the envelopes to his heirs on his demise, that is all."
"And you didn't take a peek?" I asked, adopting what I hoped was a playful tone.
"Absolutely not," he said, looking offended. "They were sealed when we got them."
"I'm glad to hear that," I said. "It seems a little dangerous to know the clues. Michael Davis was found with part of one clue in his hand. I'm thinking it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to assume that whoever had that clue was his killer."
"The police have already asked us that question," McCafferty replied. "Unfortunately, we were unable to help them." He was watching me very carefully now.
"Something struck me as a bit odd about it," I went on, as if oblivious to his glance. "I mean, who hid the second set of clues? Not Eamon Byrne surely. He was very ill. He couldn't possibly have climbed up Mount Eagle to the ring fort, neither could he have climbed down to the cove and out to the boat to place the first clue."
"Perhaps he did it some time ago, when he was well," McCafferty said. I noticed he didn't seem surprised by my reference to the ring fort and the boat, nor by the reference to a second set of clues.
"But Deirdre here told me he had suddenly fallen ill, very ill. Why would he have been out placing the clues that would be given to people when he died, when he was quite well and not expecting to die soon? There would be too much danger they'd be lost, wouldn't there, especially the ones outside?"
"I don't really know," McCafferty replied. If I had struck a chord with him, it didn't show. "It doesn't really matter who hid them, does it?" he continued. "As long as the family works together to find the treasure as Byrne wished."