"Who's this?" he asked suspiciously.
"It doesn't matter who this is," I replied. The man irritated me no end. "It's Deirdre I wish to speak to."
"It's that Canadian woman, isn't it?" he demanded. "The friend of that fellow who's taken Rose Cottage from us."
"He's not taking it from you. Your father-in-law left it to him," I said. "Now is Deirdre there or isn't she?"
"No, she's not," he replied.
"Do you know where she is? She was supposed to meet me," I went on. I thought I probably shouldn't have said that. It would set him off and maybe get her in trouble.
"It's her day off. She can do whatever she pleases. I have no idea where she is. Now don't call this place again!" he said, slamming the phone down.
I waited another hour or two, then headed out to an auction. Irritating woman, I thought. Irritating family, too. I wondered what Deirdre might have to tell me that was so important. The father of Breeta's child, perhaps? Interesting, no doubt, but did it matter? And if not that, what?
Chapter Thirteen. A GOD THAT FASHIONS HEROES FOR A LORD
NUADA, now there's a man, both a man and a god. There's the ting with the Tuatha de Da-naan, you know. They were gods in some ways, but they had the struggles of the rest of us, and they could die, too. All of them died in the end, and later all their magic too, when St. Padraig came, cursing the old gods. The three goddesses in one, Banba, Fotla, Eriu, they died, and their kings, too.
But Nuada, as I'm saying, was a very fine god. He was king of the Tuatha de and fought in both battles of Mag Tuired, aided by his sword from whom no one could escape once it was drawn, a magic sword from the city of Findias, one of the four great gifts of the gods. In the first battle, he defeated the Fir Bolg, banishing them west to Connacht and the Aran Islands. But in that battle, Nuada lost his hand, and because any king of the Tuatha de had to be perfect, he could no longer be king. Diancecht the healer made him a silver hand that worked as well as his own, but still it wouldn 't do for him to be king. And so Nuada had to watch as the new king Bres, called the beautiful, destroyed the kingdom. Because while Bres might be beautiful to look at, he was part Fomorian, son of the Fomorian king Elatha and Eri of the Tuatha de, and he was not beautiful on the inside, if you catch my meaning. He was miserly with his people and demanded they pay tribute to him and to the Fomorians, to the point that even the great Dagda became a builder of raths, and Oghma was reduced to carrying fuel for the oppressors.
And Nuada watched all this. A bitter time it must have been for him, with the gods in terrible servitude. But then his hand was restored, through the spells of Miach, Diancecht's son, who some say obtained Nuada's own mutilated hand, others say took a swineherd's arm, and reattached it to Nuada's arm. Skin grew, the joints and muscles joined again. And once more, Nuada could be king.
And so he held a royal banquet, and who should come to the door but Lugh Lamfada, Lugh of the Long Arm, who persuaded Nuada to lead his people in battle once again, this time against the worst of foes, the evil Fomorians. Nuada turned his kingship over to Lugh, and this time the Tuatha de were victorious, the victory of light and life over darkness, and the Morrigan, the crow, proclaimed the victory so that it could be heard throughout the country.
I liked Nuada the best-he seems so human, despite the magic, the weight of the oppression of his people on his shoulders, while he watched, helplessly, because he was maimed and couldn't be king. He died at the hands ofBalor the Fomorian at the second great battle of Mag Tuired. I was with him, you know. I watched the magic die.
Yes, I liked Nuada best. Yer man, Eamon Byrne, he did too.
Deirdre's body washed up on the shore, not far from Second Chance. She never made it back to The Three Sisters Inn for her appointment with me, or if she did, no one there saw her. Whatever she'd wanted to tell me had gone with her to her grave.
Fortunately, I was not the one to find the body. That sad task fell to Paddy Gilhooly, who was out in his boat early that morning, and saw something suspicious nearer to shore.
"Can't blame Conail O'Connor for this one," Rob sighed, "seeing as how we have him under lock and key. I suppose we'll have to let him go. We can't hold him forever for having battered a garda's nose. Not that we wouldn't like to, but it can't be done."
"And the rest of the family?"
"Eithne, Sean, and Margaret have, as usual, provided each other with an alibi. All at home all night together. Way too cozy, if you ask me. Fionuala is being coy, but I think we'll find she was with some guy, married, no doubt, who will eventually come in here looking furtive and asking us to promise we won't tell his wife. Now, Gilhooly, I haven't yet talked to. He may have found the body, but that doesn't automatically mean he's innocent, although I understand he's pretty upset by what happened. He's still hugging the porcelain bowl after the shock of finding her, I gather, according to Garda Minogue. We'll have to see what he has to say for himself a little later.
"I'm supposed to check on Alex, by the way, since he's on the list of people who got something out of the Will. I doubt he'll have anyone to confirm his whereabouts, seeing he's staying up there all alone. And no," he said looking at my startled face, "I do not think Alex did it. I'm taking this note of Deirdre's, you understand. Any idea what she might have wanted to tell you?"
I shook my head.
"When did she die?" I asked.
"Sometime in the night, or very early morning. Several people saw her at dinnertime, including one of those lawyer types. Those two drove back together to Dublin-I've talked to them." I was tempted to tell him that Charles had called me at midnight from Dublin, to confirm his whereabouts, but I decided that was unnecessary, and I was just being uncharitable.
"The family said she went to bed at the usual time," Rob went on, "but sometime in the night she must have crept out, to what? See someone, I guess. Who, I have no idea.
"God, she had a rough life," he said, riffling papers in the file. "Looks to me like years of really poor working conditions. Second Chance, for all its faults, must have seemed like paradise. No wonder she came back. She worked for several years in a dry cleaners before she went there," he said, pulling out a piece of paper. "In the back, too, with all those chemicals. Perhaps that's why she looked so morose. Well, if you think of anything I should know, call me."
I walked back to the Inn from the garda station, thinking about Deirdre. Despite the morbid events of the last few hours, the town looked rather gay, with posters and banners strung everywhere proclaiming the music festival, set to begin in less than a week. Everyone in town was talking about it and obviously looking forward to it. I found it impossible to get into the spirit, however. I could not shake an overwhelming feeling of helplessness in the face of terrible events. I just couldn't make any sense of what had happened: another staff person killed, another individual, who hadn't even been given one of the clues, had met a horrible death.
I kept thinking about my conversation with Moira, when she'd said that it would be either money or passion that had led to it all. If that were the case, there seemed to be only two possibilities for me to explore: the treasure or Eamon Byrne's past. I hadn't found the treasure nor knew yet what it was. There was also a lot about Eamon Byrne I didn't know. But I did know he was always looking for the four great gifts of the gods. I headed down to the pier. Denny sat there talking away to a post.
"Denny," I said softly, then more loudly. "Denny!"
He looked slightly baffled for a moment. "Lara," he said finally. "It's you."