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Excerpt of
The McKenna Legacy:
IN NAME ONLY?
by
Patricia Rosemoor
PROLOGUE
Co.
Clare, Eire
The mists off
the Shannon Estuary rose around the towers and turrets of Rafferty
Manor, wreathing them with a wet silver cloak, perfect cover for the
thief to get inside without being seen by prying eyes. The house
itself was dark. The lady of the manor had announced her
intentions of visiting her daughter in Dublin for the week and had
given most of her staff time off. The few remaining at the manor
were undoubtedly asleep.
Luckily, no break-in was necessary. A key from under a
cement cherub opened the side door near the car park. And the
code to disable the alarm was a simple one – Bridget Rafferty’s
birthday.
The
stone and wood hallway was dark but for a single low light near the
side stairs, carpeted as to make them silent. The master suite –
or should it be called the mistress suite since a widow alone occupied
it? – lay to the back of the house.
The
suite itself consisted of two oversized rooms and an oversized marble
bath. The bedroom’s furnishing were of rich cherry wood,
including a four-poster. The sitting room had a fireplace with
hand-carved wood and imported tiles, plus windows with a view of the
magnificent gardens.
An
uninformed person would look for a wall safe or perhaps a larger safe
in the walk-in closet when in reality, the silly woman was so trusting
she left her most valued possessions in plain sight. Or
nearly. The dressing table held a secret drawer, one that popped
at the touch of a hidden switch.
All
one had to know was where.
One
did.
The
drawer swished open and there they lay . . . a reminder of their Celtic
heritage. Pieces of jewelry from a collection of Celtic design
commissioned during the Middle Ages. Not crafted of gold and
having neither diamond nor precious stone in the setting, the pendant
and earrings had been of poured bronze and silver, the threads twined
into spirals and knots and decorated with cabochons of fire
opal. And yet this collection was worth more than others .
. . and in more than mere money.
But
wait! Where were the other pieces? The bracelets and ring
and headpiece?
Frustration seethed through the thief as the necklace slipped
easily into a velvet pouch. The McKenna woman! She had
agreed to replicate the collection . . . must have the other pieces!
Suddenly the room blazed with enough light to make a heart stop.
“What are you doing in my quarters?” The lady of the manor
stalked forward, her expression confused until her gaze dropped to the
drawer. “I-I don’t understand.”
“You weren’t supposed to be here!”
Her
eyes and mouth widening in shock as understanding dawned, she said,
“Plans change.”
Tragic for her – only one solution to this problem. It
wasn’t supposed to be this way, this time. But it seemed violence
was inevitable.
“I
can’t believe you would steal from me!” Bridget shouted.
Unwilling to suffer the consequences of being caught red-handed,
needing to act fast before a scream brought the remaining servants
running, the thief picked up a heavy candlestick from the dressing
table and swung.
Chapter 1
“May the road rise to
meet you. May the wind be always at your back,” Father Seamus
O’Reilly intoned over the coffin in the small graveyard behind St.
Mary’s Church.
Flanna McKenna stood with the other mourners in the drizzle as
fine as a fairy’s breath. Used to the weather that kept the land green,
most didn’t bother to protect themselves.
“May the sun shine warm upon your face. And rains fall soft
upon your fields.”
A
soft day appropriate for a burial, Flanna thought. Bridget
Rafferty had been a grand woman with a generous spirit. The crowd
around her grave proved how many people she’d touched. In
addition to her children – Barry, Eamon and Katie – the wealthy stood
among Bridget’s servants and people of every class between. It
seemed the whole town of Killarra had turned out to bid her one last
good-bye.
“And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his
hand,” the priest said, finishing the traditional Irish blessing.
Such a shame – such a crime – that Bridget’s life had ended so
tragically.
But
hadn’t that been the curse of the Celtic jewelry collection, the reason
the older woman had wanted the pieces copied in the first place? Flanna
thought, watching mourners file past the coffin which would be lowered
after they all left. As Flanna had already informed the
authorities, Bridget had planned on keeping the copies and donating the
originals to the Irish Museum.
Flanna gazed around at her fellow mourners, wondering if the
murderer were among them.
Surely not.
“Oh, dear Bridget, may you be in Heaven a half hour before the
Devil knows you’re dead,” Lisa Madden said, choking back a sob.
Apparently the women had been good friends despite the difference
in age – Bridget more than sixty with Lisa looking to be on the light
side of forty with shoulder-length blue-black hair and unlined fair
skin. Lisa had gone through a box of tissues between the viewing
and the funeral mass and the gravesite, and her carefully applied eye
make-up now pooled below her gray eyes.
Flanna couldn’t help but offer comfort. “A cuppa, perhaps?”
she asked, thinking tea would soothe her.
A
pat on the woman’s back served to jolt Flanna into taking a step
away. She felt bereft as it was and didn’t need the Madden
woman’s strong emotions adding to that burden.
“A
whiskey would be more to the point,” Lisa said, wiping away her tears
as she moved away from the gravesite.
Then the distraught woman straightened her spine and rose to her
full height. Much taller than Flanna, who was five-four, she had
a regal quality to her, emphasized by a tailored gray suit that
nevertheless allowed her to look feminine.
“Sure and this never should have happened,” Lisa said, stopping
for one glance back at the coffin.
“Right you are, and I know you’ll be missing her.”
“If
only the darling woman had stayed in Dublin with Katie instead of
returning early . . .”
Flanna suspected timing wouldn’t have mattered. Bridget had
not only acquired the pieces but had made the mistake of wearing
them. The dead woman had activated the curse . . . though Flanna
kept that thought to herself. Whenever she spoke of
out-of-the-ordinary circumstances, she saw how people looked at her,
either with amusement or as though they thought her daft.
She
certainly wouldn’t reveal what she’d learned through her own gift.
“If
only she had listened to me,” Lisa mourned, adding a final sniffle.
“About what?”
“She never should have bought Caillech’s treasures. I tried
to talk her out of it.”
“You believe in the curse, then?”
“I’m Gaelic through and through, Flanna McKenna. Of course
I believe! They say Caillech herself lives in the cabochons and
takes revenge on anyone who wears what is hers.”
Knowing this, Flanna nodded but kept from adding that legend also
said that Caillech would be able to free herself and return to
corporeal form – the form of the wearer but with the power of the
sorceress – if the whole suite was brought together and worn by the new
owner on Beltane, the anniversary of Caillech’s death. Not that
Bridget had purchased every piece. There was still a girdle and
brooch missing. Thankfully – for Beltane was but a week away.
“I’ll be thanking the both of you to keep from soiling my
mother’s good name with such nonsense.”
Flanna whirled to see Bridget’s red-headed offspring in a phalanx
behind her. Young Katie was weeping, Eamon glowering, and Barry,
the one who’d spoken, had his nose ever-so-slightly in the air.
“I
meant no disrespect to your mother,” Flanna said. “But the curse
is no secret.”
“I
told Mother not to involve a McKenna,” Barry said, shaking his
head. He was a big man with a wide girth and jowly face, his
posture disclosing his self-importance. “A weird lot, all of you
McKennas. But Mother wouldn’t listen to me. If she had –”
“She might be alive today,” the younger and slighter Eamon
finished for his brother.
“You don’t think I had anything to do with her murder?”
Barry’s expression, set in stone, told her he did. “You’ll be
handing over the pieces of the collection still in your possession.”
Not
liking the way he spoke to her – nor the accusation that she might be
guilty of something – Flanna said, “When you pay me for my work.
A cashier’s check will do.”
She
feared that he might write a personal check and then cancel it before
she could get it to the bank. She’d rented a cottage here in
Killarra just to do the work for Bridget, and she still had to pay for
her flat in Dublin. Her finances were sorely depleted.
“I
do have a contract,” she went on, “and I was to be paid in full on
receipt of the final pieces, which I have completed. You’ll get
both the originals and the copies when I get my compensation.”
Barry looked ready to choke. “I won’t be able to manage
that until Monday–”
“Then Monday it will be.”
“In
the meantime, the garda will be checking on you, sure enough,” Eamon
said.
Flanna couldn’t believe the younger, slighter-of-build brother
was now threatening her with a visit from the authorities.
She’d done nothing wrong!
“Perhaps the only pay you’ll be owed is three meals behind bars,”
Barry said, his voice tart with satisfaction.
Eamon added, “If you had anything to do with our mother’s death,
you’ll certainly not go free.”
The
fragile-looking Katie suddenly spoke up. “Stop it, both of
you! Put the blame where it belongs. It’s my fault she’s
dead!”
The
brothers acquiesced, and Barry pressed his siblings to move off to the
car park and their waiting Mercedes.
“Her fault?” Flanna murmured.
“Katie and Bridget had some terrible fight. I don’t know
about what, but it’s the reason Bridget came home early. That
must be why Katie blames herself. If her mother hadn’t left
Dublin when she did . . .”
“She would be alive today.” Feeling badly for the young
woman, Flanna said, “Thank goodness her brothers don’t blame her.”
“Don’t let them get to you,” Lisa said softly. “Grief makes
one mad.”
Their grief riled Flanna inside, but outwardly she kept her
temper. “Bridget believe, too, you know. A pity she was
tempted into wearing Caillech’s treasures.”
Nodding, Lisa asked, “Shall I save you a seat at lunch
then?”
And
when Flanna shook her head – she was too upset to eat – the other woman
moved off. The crowd had thinned out, mourners no doubt heading
for Garrity’s Pub where a buffet lunch was to be served. The
drizzle had stopped and the few raised umbrellas were lowering.
That’s when she saw the stranger on the far side of the grave.
The way he was looking at her put a knot in her stomach and a tickle in
her throat. With hair that shone blue-black and eyes that gleamed
nearly as deeply blue as the Irish Sea – she noted every detail despite
the distance between them – he was a fine looking man who filled out
the shoulders of his navy suit jacket quite nicely.
A
man she had never before seen.
So
why was he staring at her as if he were trying to see inside her?
Instinct made her move away fast. Flanna’s pulse threaded
unevenly, and her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t glance
back, just walked as fast as she could to the car park. It wasn’t
until she was opening the door of her car and getting inside that she
looked up to find that the stranger was following her. Starting
the engine, she ignored his determined wave – she got the idea that he
wanted her to wait so he could speak with her.
Not
wanting to speak someone she didn’t know, Flanna drove off, heading not
for her own home but for the small town where her parents lived.
Irony of ironies, today was her birthday, her thirty-third, and Ma and
Da were making way too much of a fuss, insisting on throwing a family
party and all.
What a way to start the celebration – with a funeral.
Turning onto the national road that would take her to Lough
Danaan in Co. Cork, Flanna glanced in the rear view mirror and caught a
glimpse of a dark blue Renault doing the same. Probably one of
Bridget’s rich friends.
Her
thoughts turned to the kind and generous woman. Flanna would
mourn her. Bridget had known about the curse on the jewelry – the
reason she’d hired Flanna to make the replicas in the first place – but
the doomed woman hadn’t been able to resist wearing the real thing in
the meantime . . . just that once.
Obviously, once had been enough.
Sunk in gloomy thoughts of death and destruction, Flanna was
halfway to her parents’ house before realizing the black Renault was
still right behind her. Surely it wasn’t following her, she
thought, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. The road
was a double carriageway, with vehicles passing at will. But not
the Renault, not even when she slowed to see if the driver would become
impatient. Kilometer after kilometer, it stayed directly behind
her, the same several car lengths back no matter what speed she took.
Was
she really being followed?
Unable to get the thought out of her head, Flanna felt herself
react to the situation. Her stomach twisted into a knot and her
pulse sped up. The turn off to Lough Danaan couldn’t come too
soon for her.
One
small part of her thought that surely the Renault would keep going on
the larger road, but no, it turned and stayed directly behind her.
What to do?
There would be people at her parents’ home, including her second
cousins Aidan, Cashel and Tiernan McKenna, three of the biggest,
baddest lads a lass in need of protection could wish for. The
thought settled her down inside even as she wondered what the man
following her wanted.
Only one way to find out.
Parking behind several other cars in front of her parents’
home – a two-story limestone building with extensive gardens that had
been lovingly planted by her Grandmother Moira – Flanna steeled
herself as the Renault pulled in right behind her. She exited the
car and stood fast, ready to scream for help if necessary. The
man exiting the Renault was the same man from the gravesite.
The
one who’d been staring after her.
“Flanna McKenna, wait a moment.”
Pulse thudding, she stopped, drew herself to her full height and
demanded, “And what is it you would be wanting?”
“To
talk. About your work for Bridget Rafferty.”
“Unless you represent the authorities, which I doubt with that
accent–” he was obviously an American “–I have nothing to say to
you.” How would a complete stranger from another land know about
her work?
“Michael Eagan, Beacon Hill Investigations.” He pulled out
a leather wallet and flipped open his identification. “It seems
your Mrs. Rafferty was the third murder connected to the theft of
antique Celtic jewelry in the last month, the first having been in
Boston.”
“The third?” Flanna’s mind whirled. “Of course, the
other pieces . . .”
“So
you do know something about the murders.”
The
way he said it put up Flanna’s back. Another person who thought
she was guilty of something? Wanting in the worst way to tell him
to leave, she couldn’t do it just yet, not until she got the
details. She’d not only experienced bad vibes from the pieces
she’d replicated, but she’d had visions of several historical deaths
connected to the collection, as well. Now he was saying there
were three more deaths in the present, two more than she’d known about
. . .
She
hesitated too long. The front door flew open and there was her
mother coming at them, pushing the silver-streaked dark hair from her
still pretty face, which was wreathed in a big welcoming smile.
“You didn’t say a thing about bringing a date, Flanna,” Delia
McKenna said, giving her daughter a hug and kiss on the cheek.
“And isn’t he a handsome boyo.”
“Ma, please–”
Michael smiled in return and a dimple popped in his right cheek.
“Why thank you, Mrs. McKenna.”
“An
American, is it?”
“Irish American. Michael Eagan. I can see where your
daughter gets her beauty.”
Flanna gaped as the private investigator turned on the charm and
took her mother’s hand. Ma actually giggled.
“We’ll be so pleased to have you as our guest.”
“Give us a minute,” Flanna said, biting the inside of her cheek
when her mother raised her eyebrows and smiled before retreating to the
house. She counted silently to three, then faced Michael.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Trying to be pleasant to your mother.”
“Now she thinks you and I are . . . are . . .”
“Lovers?”
“I
was going to say together!”
“You have a problem with intimacy?” One dark eyebrow shot
up in challenge.
“I
have a problem with you. Perhaps you should leave now and we can
meet back in town later.”
“You realize if I don’t come inside with you, you’ll have to
explain why.”
He
had a point. The last thing she wanted to do was further upset
her parents, especially Da with his heart condition and all. They
knew about Bridget, of course, and were already troubled about her
involvement with the situation. She didn’t want to have to
explain what Michael Egan was doing and why he had followed her,
because he seemed to think she was somehow suspect in the crime.
She didn’t want Da having another heart attack.
There was nothing for it but to go along with the charade for the
moment. “You may come inside with me on one condition, Michael
Eagan.”
“And what would that be?”
“Say nothing about the thefts or murders. I don’t want my
family vexed for nothing.”
“I
wouldn’t equate murder to nothing.”
“They have no involvement in the crimes. Nor do I other
than as an innocent bystander,” she informed him.
Michael nodded. “All right. On your terms. How
do we explain who I am and our . . . relationship?”
“I-I’ll think of something. Just follow my lead,” she said,
her voice mournful as she turned to go inside.
The
fates were conspiring against her.
Once inside, she dipped her fingers into the font of holy water
at the door and made the sign of the cross, all the while asking
Himself for help.
She
was going to have to convince her family that she liked this Michael
Eagan, when the only reason he was here was because he thought she knew
something about Bridget’s death.
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