“What’s that frown for?” Jillian wanted to know. “This is a very popular dish in Ireland. It’s colcannon.”
“There’s something about the smell,” I quietly began, as I leaned away from the dish. “Let me guess. Those aren’t potatoes, but mashed up turnips and root vegetables? I was faked out once a few years back. Wow, it didn’t taste good. That, there, looks like … you didn’t make it, did you?”
Jillian laughed. “No.”
“Okay, good. I have to know. Does that smell like something you’d like to try?”
“I think it smells fine, but then again, I do enjoy cooked cabbage.”
I leaned forward to peer into the depths of the large container of colcannon. “Is that what I’m smelling? Cooked cabbage?”
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” a voice exclaimed, coming from behind me.
We turned to see two elderly women approach. One of the ladies, the one who had spoken, was wearing a dark maroon Aran sweater, with black pants. Her companion was similarly attired, wearing a royal blue Aran sweater with gray slacks. Jillian beamed a smile at the two women.
“Saoirse! Aine! I’m so glad you could make it!”
“We wouldn’t miss it!” the woman in the blue sweater assured us. She looked straight at me and held out a hand. “Aine Bradigan. This is my sister, Saoirse.”
I shook both of their hands and returned the smile. “Zack Anderson.”
“I’ve heard your name, dear,” Aine began. “We adore your wine!”
I gave the two ladies a slight bow. “Why thank you. I love your names, by the way. I’ve tried to learn Irish Gaelic, but it turned out to be more difficult than I had given it credit.”
“If you ever want to learn,” Saoirse began, “then you have but to ask. We were both teachers for over 40 years.”
“How fascinating!” Jillian began. “I never knew.”
“Pish posh,” Aine chortled, as she waved dismissively at us with an arthritic hand. “There’s much you don’t know about us, dearie. Did you know Saoirse developed most of these recipes herself?”
Jillian nodded. “I did, yes.”
“Did you cook all of this?” I asked, amazed.
Saoirse shook her head. “Some. I had help, dear boy. The ladies of my bridge club wanted to learn how to properly cook, so Aine and I held our first class since retiring.”
I turned to Jillian. “Was that the class you took last month? The cooking class?”
“That’s the one,” Jillian confirmed. “I’ve been waiting for the best time to introduce some of my new dishes. Ms. Bradigan, I loved your class. You should consider offering more!”
“We’ll see, dear. We’ll see.”
“How long have you been in the state?” I wanted to know.
“We retired almost ten years ago,” Saoirse began. “I believe it has been nearly five years since we decided to move here. It was time for a change, wasn’t it, Aine? Aine? Did you doze off again?”
“I did no such thing. Put your glasses on. Maybe then you’ll be able to see something.”
“I think it’s wonderful you were able to retire together,” Jillian said, drawing smiles from both sisters. “I only have one brother, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say we live in the same state again. He lives on the other side of the country.”
“What grade did you teach?” I asked.
Both women stared at me with blank expressions. I ended up chuckling.
“My fault. European schools have a different way to classify the kids. Umm, what year did you teach?”
“We both taught at Buttleston,” Saoirse proudly informed me. “Third years, if you must know. We had so many wonderful years, teaching generation after generation of children.”
“Why’d you stop?” I asked.
“Oh, heavens,” Aine exclaimed, “I couldn’t take another year of those brats with their infernal devices.”
I snorted with surprise and burst out laughing.
“Kids and their phones,” Jillian observed. “They all seem to have them nowadays.”
“It was time,” Aine told us, as she added a forlorn sigh for effect. “Anyway, did I hear you talking about my colcannon? It was our mother’s recipe. You’ll find none finer in all of Ireland.”
“You’ll try it, won’t you, Mr. Anderson?” Saoirse asked. “I spent several hours on that dish. I think it’s my best yet!”
Stuck, I turned to Jillian, hopeful that she had a plan to get me out of having to eat a dish with cooked cabbage.
“Let me get you a fresh plate,” my darling fiancée said, as she hurriedly returned to the stacks of paper plates and selected another. “Here, Zachary. Your hands are full. Would you like me to dish you some?”
Caught like a deer in headlights, I could only nod. “That would be … lovely. Thank you so much.”
Jillian batted her eyes at me and then waited for me to take a bite. Not one to back down from a challenge, especially when three pairs of female eyes were upon me, I sighed inwardly, scooped up some of the mashed potatoes on my fork, while trying to surreptitiously avoid the huge chunks of cabbage. Before I could change my mind, I popped it in my mouth. Thankfully, I also noticed Jillian had procured a fresh bottle of water when she had grabbed my new plate and had already opened it.
“What do you think?” Saoirse anxiously asked. “You’re speechless, I can tell. I cannot begin to tell you how many people have tried that dish. It’s been a family favorite for years!”
“Decades!” Aine added.
The two elderly sisters moved off. The moment they were out of earshot, I held out a hand. Jillian immediately slapped the water bottle down, as though I was a doctor and had just asked for a scalpel. Guzzling half the bottle, I checked to make sure the coast was clear before letting out an exclamation of disgust.
“What do you think?” Jillian quietly asked.
I gave the colcannon a look of derision before glancing up at Jillian. “It was just as I expected it to be. I just don’t understand how anyone could eat cooked cabbage. Why would the Irish people subject themselves to such horrors?”
“Probably because, during the Great Potato Famine, they had little to eat. When you’re starving, you’ll eat just about anything to survive.”
That sobered me. I, of all people, should’ve known that. After all, I had just written a book about a single, resourceful woman living in Ireland during the famine. This particular book required lots of research, and in doing so, I learned all about the Irish and their affinity for potatoes. In fact, Vance was due to present the first copy of the book to Tori, whom I based the protagonist after, on his and Tori’s fifteenth anniversary, which would fall on June 25th this summer.
“Yeah, I can get on board with that. Hey, I promised Harry I’d bring some food over after we leave. What do you think he’d like?”
“Harrison will eat anything,” Jillian said, after a few moments had passed. “And right now, since the twins are three months old, they could use all the help they can get.”
“And they’re getting it,” I reminded my companion, with a smile. “I’m always running errands for them, or doing minor repairs.”
“Tori and I are always cooking something for them, too,” Jillian added.
“Vance gives a hand whenever I can’t. Between all of us, I’d say they’re doing pretty good.”
“It’s wonderful that our friends have such a strong support system,” Jillian decided.
“Oh, they’re getting a bill,” I declared, but not before plastering a goofy grin on my face.
“How did Monday night go?”
Earlier this week, I volunteered to help Harry and Julie’s older kids with their homework. Hardy, their oldest child, was currently in high school and had to write a paper on the Bermuda Triangle. Having absolutely no free time whatsoever, who did Harry end up calling? Who else but the published writer. As for Drew, Harry’s eight-year-old daughter, she had a math test she needed help with. So, in between giving
pointers to Hardy, and the importance of properly citing your source of information, I tutored Drew with her math.
Talk about doing your good deeds for the day.
Back to the present. Deciding our friends might like some of the authentic Irish cuisine instead of having to cook, Jillian and I each set off to fill a plate with food. Surprising even myself, I only picked out items I thought Harry might like, while steering clear of the black pudding, tripe, and anything else that turned my stomach. What can I say? I’m a good friend.
I kissed Jillian goodbye and, properly armed with plates of food, headed for Harry and Julie’s house first. Once I had passed the plates over to one harassed-looking father of twins, I was off again, only this time, my Jeep was headed to Vance and Tori’s house.
Pulling up to my detective friend’s house on Pinetop Way, I saw that Vance’s two daughters were playing in the front yard, with the corgis. The Samuelson family dog, Anubis, a large German Shepherd, was currently sprawled out on the ground while both corgis ran circles around his prone form. Laughing hysterically, Tiffany and Victoria, ages eleven and thirteen respectively, were timing their jumps across Anubis’ body, while trying to avoid contact with the corgis. Also of note was the simple fact that Anubis was lying at the base of an enormous leaf pile, no doubt the result of what the girls had originally been doing in the front yard.
Sherlock, however, saw what they were trying to do and adjusted his speed accordingly. Just like that, Sherlock’s snout nudged Victoria’s ankle, and down she went, only she had made the mistake of running toward the leaf pile, with the intent to circumnavigate it. Thanks to Sherlock’s little push, Victoria tripped and, for all intents and purposes, became swallowed up by the leaf pile. Victoria’s little sister, Tiffany, shrieked with glee, which attracted the attention of both corgis, and they promptly took off after her. The slender girl zig-zagged her way across the yard, with both Sherlock and Watson in hot pursuit. As they neared Anubis, the large German Shepherd took it upon himself to lend a paw to his two packmates.
Just as Tiffany braced herself to jump over their family’s dog, Anubis leapt to his feet. In case you were wondering whether or not Anubis was hurt in the impending collision, I should remind you that German Shepherds were a part of the herding group. Those dogs are built like bricks, and were bred to withstand a blow by those animals which they were supposed to be herding.
I could hear the solid thump the impact made all the way from the driveway.
In this case, Anubis shook himself off, straddled the girl’s still figure, and offered her an apology. Moments later, both corgis joined in on the fun. The squeals the girl was making alerted their mother, Tori, who appeared in the doorway just as I stepped out of my Jeep. Watson noticed my presence first, and hustled over to give me a greeting. It was also when I noticed the leaf pile began to move on its own. All three dogs momentarily paused as they watched Victoria emerge, spitting leaves. Disinterested, the dogs returned to attacking the younger sister.
“Hey there, Tiffany,” I said, by way of a greeting. I helped the girl to her feet. “Don’t ever say dogs don’t talk to each other. I swear Anubis was helping Sherlock and Watson slow you down.”
“He jumped up at a bad time,” Tiffany observed, with a grin. “Do you have to take Sherlock and Watson home now?”
I nodded. “It’s getting late, and I’m sure they’re both ‘h’.”
“H?” Victoria repeated, as she appeared next to her sister. She continued to brush bits of leaves off her clothes as she looked inquisitively up at me. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Remembering that the older daughter was learning Spanish, I grinned. “Hambre.”
“What did he say?” Tiffany asked her sister.
Victoria’s eyes widened. She looked down at the corgis and gave them each a scratching.
“They want their d-i-n-n-e-r.”
Tiffany nodded. “Oh. You mean they’re hungry.”
All three dogs perked up.
“And that’s why he was trying to not say the word, Tiff,” Tori laughed.
“Were they any trouble?” I asked, as I clipped leashes on my two dogs.
“Not at all. Any time you’d like to drop them off for some play time, you don’t even need to ask. Feel free.”
An elderly couple appeared on the sidewalk, walking silently, hand-in-hand. The man had his head down, and was walking with the use of a cane. At their current pace, and from the direction they were walking, the two of them would be coming within range of the corgis in just a matter of moments.
“Aren’t you two the cutest things?” the woman said, as she smiled. She used her long fingers to stroke the fur on Watson’s neck. “Walter? Don’t you think so?”
“Of course,” the man said, sounding like he believed the exact opposite.
What was the saying? If my dog doesn’t trust you, then I most certainly wouldn’t? It was something like that. Well, in this case, if this elderly gentleman wanted to be stand-offish, then so be it. He could do it elsewhere. Quietly, and without being noticed, I slipped my phone from my pocket and took a few pictures.
“You have yourselves a wonderful day,” the woman abruptly said, as she and her husband strode away.
I nodded in their direction. “Thanks. I will. See you, Tori. Tiffany? Victoria? Hasta luego!”
“I thought you didn’t know any Spanish,” Tori said, surprised.
“And that constitutes the entirety of my vocabulary,” I admitted. “I’m learning. Jillian bought me a program for my tablet, which is teaching me the language. Philosopher’s Rock. It’s quite amazing.”
“I’ll look into it. See you later, Zack!”
Twenty minutes later found me pulling into my driveway. Parking my Jeep inside the garage, I was about ready to unclip the corgis’ leashes when, for some inexplicable reason, the dogs perked up. Sherlock then let out a warning woof. Was someone here?
A quick check of the garage’s interior confirmed that it was just the three of us. I opened the driver’s door to my Ruxton and checked inside, curious to see if I had left something in it. Nope. About to admit defeat, I heard Sherlock fire off another warning woof. Something had spooked Sherlock, and that, unfortunately, had spooked me.
“All right, guys. Something’s up. Let’s go look around, all right? Maybe Caden forgot to receive a delivery for the winery. Why else would you …”
I trailed off after both dogs physically pulled me over to my front door. There, on the welcome mat, of all things, was a medium-sized crate. Walking the dogs over to the object, I let them both sniff around the container to see if there were any other reactions.
There weren’t, aside from neither dog breaking eye-contact with the thing, as if they thought there was another dog inside. That thought did make me stop and consider. Was there something I needed to be wary of?
Retracing my steps to the garage, I grabbed the first tool I could find, which was a rake with a wooden handle. Holding the landscaper’s tool by the metal head, I used the long handle to jab the wooden box a few times. When nothing happened, I knelt next to the crate and held my ear to it. Seeing how I couldn’t hear the telltale tick-tock of an explosive device (I really did watch too many movies), I decided it was safe to bring it inside the house. After all, there was a shipping label on the thing. I just couldn’t make out the writing: too mangled.
Once inside, the dogs crowded around me as I carefully set the crate on the floor in my living room and set to work opening it up. This particular crate had its lid secured with screws, so once those had been removed, the top could be lifted off. Reaching inside, I lifted out a silver, cigar-sized box adorned with all manner of shapes, symbols, markings, and what looked like a few runes. Of note, on the largest side of the chest, which could be considered the front, was a very recognizable symbol: a shamrock.
One problem became immediately apparent: there was no lid. How was I supposed to get the blasted thing open?
“Well, well. What ha
ve we here, guys?”
TWO
“What do you think? Should I be worried? I mean, this crazy thing showed up on my doorstep last night. I can’t find a way to open it, so I thought I’d bring it here.”
Vance was silent as he studied the silver box I had placed on his desk. After a few moments, he gently rotated it this way and that, all the while pushing and prodding the various adornments that seemed to be covering every square inch of surface. Catching sight of the large shamrock on the front of the chest, the rotating stopped.
“It’s a shamrock.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I scoffed. “Can you tell me anything else about it?”
My detective friend leaned close and stared at the intricately carved Celtic symbol. “Is this silver?”
“I think the whole thing is silver. That’s gotta mean it’s worth something, right?”
“I can’t imagine there are that many silver boxes that look like this. Have you tried looking it up online?”
“I spent half the night trying to do just that,” I confessed.
“And?” Vance prompted.
“Couldn’t find a thing.”
“Who sent it to you?”
I reached into a pocket and pulled out a ripped, folded piece of paper.
“I was able to peel this off the crate it was shipped in. I can’t make much out of it.”
“There’s no shipping company listed?”
I tapped the top left corner. “It’s been smudged. I have no idea what it says, other than the company name is two words.”
Vance held out a hand. “May I?”
I handed him the shipping invoice and leaned back in my chair as Vance studied the packing slip. After a few moments, Vance picked up his desk phone and pressed a button. We waited, in silence, for whomever he called to answer the phone.
“Brigette? Could you come in here, please?”
The cradle was replaced. Curious, I stared at my friend and crossed my arms over my chest.
Case of the Shady Shamrock Page 2
