"Look at the expression on his face," said Tilly. "I think he was frightened of something in the room and was hiding from it. Why else would he squirrel himself away in a closet?"

Liam paled another shade lighter. "Oh, Jaysuz."

"Nana?" I said, soliciting her opinion.

"I think it's obvious." Three sets of eyes riveted on her, awaiting her p.r.o.nouncement. "He was tryin' to tell us he was gay."

I knew my decision to avoid explaining the gay and lesbian movement to her in rabid detail would one day come back to haunt me.

"You're being too literal, Marion," Tilly explained. "The term 'coming out of the closet' is merely a euphemism to describe a person's decision to reveal his lifestyle to the world. There are no actual closets involved."

"No kiddin'? What about wardrobes?"

Tilly shook her head. "No wardrobes either."

Nana mulled this over for a half second. "You mighta known that, but how do we know he he knew that?" She nodded toward Archie. "Maybe he didn't understand about euphemisms either." knew that?" She nodded toward Archie. "Maybe he didn't understand about euphemisms either."

"I need to be calling the authorities," Liam stammered, wringing his hands. "And I'll need to be asking you ladies to pack your bags and move to another room before the police arrive, else they might be wanting to include your belongings as part of their investigation."

Nana nearly tripped over Tilly's cane in her rush to start throwing things back into her suitcase. "I been that route with Emily last year," she said as she gathered the contents of a drawer into her arms and dumped them into her grip. "That Swiss hotel lost her luggage and she couldn't wear none a the pretty things she brought with her. No way that's gonna happen to me, specially not with all the fancy undies I got with me. I bought 'em, and by glory, I'm gonna wear 'em."

I could hardly believe my ears. "You brought fancy underwear with you?" I teased. Nana had always favored flannel bloomers, but that was logical considering the longest season in Minnesota was winter, with an occasional warm weekend in July that pa.s.sed for summer.

"I been rethinkin' my options in intimate apparel since I made the move south," Nana replied as she scooped out the contents of another drawer.

Tilly waggled her cane as if calling us to order. "What room are you sending us to, young man?"

Liam scrunched his face into an agonizing grimace and ma.s.saged his forehead. "Let me think. Oh, Jaysuz, I've no rooms available."

I felt my stomach sink to my knees. No. No! This was my mother's doing. Her prayers of intercession were killing me.

"I'm afraid you ladies will have to be returning to Miss Andrew's room, if she'll be having you."

"What about the room we checked into yesterday?" asked Nana. "You got that clean yet?"

"We do, yes. Archie scoured it today. Even washed the carpet. But--"

"We'll take it," she said, rushing into the bathroom.

Liam looked horrified. "I'll not be asking you ladies to sleep in a room where someone died only yesterday."

"Won't bother us a bit." Nana scurried across the floor with her toiletry bag, pitched it into her suitcase, and slammed the lid shut. "It'll be like visitation at the funeral parlor, only without the body."

Liam gave Tilly an Are-you-sure-you-want-to-do-this? look. Tilly a.s.sumed her professor's demeanor. "In comparison to some of the places I've done field research, this should be a cakewalk. Why, I've slept in huts in New Guinea where the main decorative feature consisted of a hundred human skulls dangling from the roof."

Good thing Martha Stewart hadn't been along. She probably would have wanted to turn them into something adorable, like lampshades...or door knockers. "Okay," I said, liking the plan. "Liam will call the police, then see the two of you to your new room. I'll scoot back to my room to finish dressing and will plan to see you in the dining room in a little while."

I picked my way around small clumps of New Yorkers who had stopped to socialize with each other as I walked across the hall to my room and unlocked the door. They apparently weren't concerned that it was seven twenty-five, and by Iowa standards, they were really late for dinner. I envied their ability to ignore the schedule and to live life at their own pace. Of course, they ran the risk of cold food, bad seats, and disapproving stares by being late, but they could remedy this easily enough by whining to the management. Unfortunately, New Yorkers had earned a reputation for being consummate complainers, but no one ever asked why why they complained. I figured the reason was health-related. Complaining was a way of preventing ulcers. They didn't get the ulcers themselves; they gave them to other people. New Yorkers were really serious about preventive medicine. they complained. I figured the reason was health-related. Complaining was a way of preventing ulcers. They didn't get the ulcers themselves; they gave them to other people. New Yorkers were really serious about preventive medicine.

As I changed into my dinner dress, I tried not to think about the body in Nana's closet, but the look on the man's face kept haunting me. It was Rita the maid all over again, minus the b.l.o.o.d.y footprints. Was Tilly correct in thinking Archie had been trying to hide from something in the room? Is that why Rita's body had been found near a closet too? Had she been attempting to hide? Or had she been trying to escape? But from what? Cries? Apparitions? Cold spots? A really big duck?

Whatever the explanation, it seemed statistically impossible to me that two members of the castle's staff would die of natural causes on two consecutive days. I'd taken statistics in college. I knew about these things. I might even be able to work out the math if I could remember what I'd learned. Liam McEtigan might not want to face the truth, but I thought it was as clear as the freckles on his face. Something in Ballybantry Castle was killing people, and my greatest fear was that once it finished off the staff, it would start on the guests. I had to make sure that didn't happen, but I wasn't exactly sure how. The only recourse I had at the moment was to keep my eyes open at dinner and see if I could root out any new information.

I smoothed my dress over my hips and thighs, slid into my shoes, and plucked out a few wisps of hair to float around my neck and temples. It was seven thirty-five now, and since Etienne still hadn't shown, I followed his directive and trotted off to the dining room by myself.

The place was abuzz with conversation and laughter. Chairs sc.r.a.ped the floor as people headed out to join the buffet line. Gla.s.ses tinked. Dishes clinked. Flatware c.h.i.n.ked. A soft Irish melody played in the background. I noticed my people all bunched together in groups of four and six at the tables closest to the food. I guess these were considered the "good" seats--where you simply had to tilt your chair back on its legs to grab more dinner rolls. The New Yorkers occupied the tables flanking the good seats, but they all seemed content, at least for the moment. I spied George Farkas down front at a table for six, wedged contentedly between Nana and Tilly, who had somehow managed to beat me there. Their table was full, so I searched for another open s.p.a.ce and found one where I could both mingle outside my social circle and snoop. A brief acquaintance had once told me that the fun of travel isn't the sights you see but the people you meet. This was the perfect time to put the theory to the test.

"Do you mind if I join you?" I smoothed my fingers along the back rail of the last empty chair at a table occupied by the Minches, the Kuppelmans, and my ex-husband. "Or are you saving this seat for Tom?" I asked Jackie.

"Tom has a migraine, so he can't even look at food. I'll save the seat for you, but don't stop to sit. Get your food before it's all gone. The Iowans arrived first and they have voracious appet.i.tes."

I grabbed a plate still warm from the dishwasher at the end of the buffet table and proceeded slowly through the line, agog with the variety of culinary fare available. Two members of the cleaning staff might be dead, but the cooks were alive and kicking. There were three tureens of soup: green pea, creamy mushroom, and a b.u.t.terscotch-colored broth that had green herbs and seash.e.l.ls floating around in it.

I skipped the soup and went on to the appetizers. Fresh oysters. Pale pink smoked salmon. I forked a piece of salmon onto my plate. I pondered a bowl of crisp lettuce, then pa.s.sed it by, not wanting to waste my appet.i.te on food I could eat back home. Next came the vegetable choices. Potatoes in every incarnation: mashed, boiled, roasted, fried, and flattened into cakes. Boiled cabbage. Kale. Broccoli. I scooped a little of each kind of potato into my plate and added a spear of broccoli for color, then moved on to the chafing dishes.

I wasn't sure what each dish contained, but it all smelled delicious, and since I'd made a vow to expand my rather pedestrian "meat and potatoes" palate, I decided to sample everything. A spoonful of some kind of stew with carrots, onions, and a meat product that looked like sausage. A nibble of something resembling a stuffed mushroom cap covered with breadcrumbs. A dollop of mashed potato with a crab claw sticking out of it. A spoonful of another kind of stew with onions, mushrooms, carrots, and shredded beef. A scoop of a fluffy golden ca.s.serole with onions and some other ingredient I couldn't quite identify. I pa.s.sed up the baked ham as too ordinary and the bread selections as too filling and headed back to the table.

"I'm sorry to hear about Tom's migraine," I said as I took my place between Ethel Minch and Jackie. "Does he get them often?"

"Only when he's stressed out. This thing with Ashley today did a real number on him."

I nodded, understanding. Poor Tom. Crippled by the stress of watching his wife carry another woman down a rugged path for over a mile. Life could be h.e.l.l. "So, is everyone excited to taste authentic Irish cuisine?" I gazed around the table to discover that no one else's plate looked like mine. Jackie's was glutted with potatoes, cabbage, broccoli, a bunch of lettuce, and a single slab of salmon. "You didn't take any ham? You used to love ham."

"Did I forget to tell you? I've become a vegetarian! I've changed so much since I saw you last, Emily. No burgers. No steak. No ham."

No d.i.c.k.

"You two dolls go back a ways?" asked Ernie Minch, whose plate held a pile of lettuce supplemented by potatoes, cabbage, kale, and broccoli, with a cup of pea soup on the side.

"We're old friends," I said, staring at Ernie's meatless selections. "Don't tell me you're a vegetarian too."

"We're vegans," Ethel answered for him. "We don't eat anything with a face, a mother, or a liver."

They ate nothing with a face? Wow. That eliminated meat, fish, fowl, Nabisco Teddy Grahams. They could probably still eat gingerbread men, but they'd probably have to break the heads off first.

Ira Kuppelman waved his fork at Ethel's plate. "You're still eating too many unhealthy vegetables." Ira's dinner consisted of cabbage, kale, broccoli, and a single slice of bread. "Potatoes are on my 'Do Not Consume' list and I eat lettuce only occasionally."

"You're too extreme with that diet of yours," warned Ethel. "One of these days someone's going to find you dead from malnutrition."

I regarded the five different kinds of potatoes on my plate. "What's wrong with potatoes?" I asked Ira.

"They don't allow the body to achieve a harmonious and dynamic state with the natural environment."

I wondered if that was worse than eating too many calories. It kind of sounded like it. I pushed my potatoes to one side of my plate.

"So what do you eat if you don't eat potatoes?" Jackie asked Ira.

"I eat what every macrobiotic eats." He ticked off a litany on his fingers. "Bok choy, burdock carrots, daikon radishes, azuki beans, and your common sea vegetables like nori, wakame, hiziki, and agar-agar."

The man ate p.r.i.c.kly carrots and questionable produce that sounded like creatures who'd tangled with G.o.dzilla. Hmm. Hmm. Disharmony with the natural environment was looking pretty good about now. I nudged my potatoes back toward the center of my plate. Disharmony with the natural environment was looking pretty good about now. I nudged my potatoes back toward the center of my plate.

"Are you on the same diet as your husband?" Jackie asked Gladys Kuppelman.

I figured the answer to that was no since the food on Gladys's plate was divided evenly between lettuce and broccoli.

"I'm a fruitarian/raw-foodist," said Gladys. "And let me tell you, it's not easy sticking to your diet when you're on vacation. The fruits are overripe. The vegetables are over-cooked. And just try try asking for condiments or beverages. Watch this." She motioned a server to our table. "I'd like to order something to drink. Do you have roasted bancha twig tea?" asking for condiments or beverages. Watch this." She motioned a server to our table. "I'd like to order something to drink. Do you have roasted bancha twig tea?"

"I'm sorry?" the girl asked, looking confused.

"How about roasted brown rice tea?"

"We have green tea."

"Do you have any sesame seaweed powder?"

"What?"

"Never mind." Gladys motioned her away. "You see what I mean? The tour company promises that all your dietary needs will be met, but once you arrive at your destination, they serve you the same old slop that everyone else is eating." Her eyes dipped to my plate. "I bet you don't even know what half that swill in front of you is."

This was authentic Irish cuisine! How gauche of her to call it swill. I skewered some food on the end of my fork and held it up for her perusal. "Boiled potato." I stuffed it into my mouth and flashed a satisfied smile.

"I know what's she's eating," said Ethel Minch. "I got a book." She whipped it off her lap for us to see. "It lists every kind of Irish dish there is and shows a color photograph. You see that mound of mashed potatoes on her plate there with the crab claw sticking out of it? That's called Seafood Pie and it's a real delicacy."

A delicacy, was it? Nice choice, Emily. I dug into the seafood pie.

"You better have all your business in order," Ira Kuppelman warned me, "because that food is poisoning your system. Wait and see. It'll end up killing you. You young people treat your bodies like refuse dumps. You'll never live as long as Gladys and me."

All the tables in this place and I had to pick the one patrolled by the food police. Brilliant idea I'd had to socialize outside my immediate circle.

"How old are you?" Jackie asked Ira as I forked a whole mushroom cap into my mouth.

"Take a guess," Ira said proudly.

Jackie shrugged. "Sixty-one?"

"Here's a picture of that little nibble you just put in your mouth," said Ethel, pointing out the photo to me with her brightly lacquered nail. "It's a stuffed heart."

"I'm ninety-two," bragged Ira, "and Gladys is ninety."

EH! My eyes froze open in shock, but I was unsure what freaked me out more: learning Ira Kuppelman's age or discovering what I'd just sunk my teeth into. I tried to remain calm as I mumbled around the pulp in my mouth, "Wot kind of hart?"

"It says here they use any kind of fowl or small game heart. What kind of heart do you think she's eating, Ernie?"

"Gotta be a chicken," he replied. "Or a turkey."

Ira shook his head. "I bet it's a duck."

Oh, G.o.d!

"Could it be a Cornish hen?" asked Jackie. "They look like they'd have bite-size organs."

"Maybe it was a capon heart," said Gladys.

Jackie looked confused. "What's a capon?"

"A capon is your standard male chicken with one basic difference," said Ernie. He scissored his fingers in the air. "He's been castrated."

Jackie clutched her throat and sucked in her breath. Uh-oh. I hoped she wasn't having a flashback.

"How can they castrate a chicken?" asked Ethel. "I thought all chickens were female."

Ernie rolled his eyes. "There's girl chickens and boy chickens. The girls are called hens. The boys are called c.o.c.ks. When there's too many boys, Farmer Brown snips off their stones and--zap!--they can forget about knocking up Clucky Lucky anytime soon."

Aha! A perfect example of the incredible strides the feminist movement had made in the poultry industry.

"I thought the boy chickens were called roosters," said Gladys.

"Clucky Lucky was not a hen," Jackie corrected Ernie. "He might have acted like a hen, but I think it's obvious he was a c.o.c.k...with gender-identification issues."

"Would that make him a d.y.k.e?" asked Ira.

Gladys shook her head. "It makes him a capon."

"You know what I think? I think you people are all talking bull," bull," wailed Ernie. wailed Ernie.

Why was this discussion sounding so familiar? I swallowed the half-chewed mush in my mouth and sat straight up in my chair, stricken.

"Tasted pretty bad, huh?" asked Ethel.

I shook my head. "It's not that. I just realized I've had this conversation before. In Switzerland." The topic had been bovines instead of fowl, but the level of confusion had been exactly the same. I studied the remaining food on my plate with apprehension.

"You want me to find pictures of the other stuff you got there so you know what you're eating?" Ethel asked helpfully.

"That would be so so sweet of you," I said with relief. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the water pitcher from the middle of the table, filled my gla.s.s, and chugalugged the whole thing in one gulp to get rid of the aftertaste in my mouth. sweet of you," I said with relief. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the water pitcher from the middle of the table, filled my gla.s.s, and chugalugged the whole thing in one gulp to get rid of the aftertaste in my mouth.

"I hope that's well water," said Ira. "Or spring water. Those are the only kinds of water you should ever drink. And never with ice."

Sounded like advice Ponce de Leon might have given his men during their search for the mythical fountain of youth. Of course, ice hadn't been an option back in the 1500s. Especially in Florida. But it seemed the Kuppelmans had discovered the elixir of youth that had eluded Ponce. I regarded their smooth, tanned complexions. Their taut flesh. Their full heads of hair. Their athletically trim bodies. The superior muscle definition beneath their matching jerseys. "Are you really ninety-two?" I asked Ira.

"Born April second, 1908. You do the math."

"That fluffy ca.s.serole you got there," Ethel said, referring to her book. "That's tripe and onions."

I scooped a portion of the ca.s.serole onto my fork for a better look. "What's tripe? Some kind of fish?"

"It's cow stomach," said Gladys. "Or sheep. Or goat. They sell it at our corner market. Some people make handbags out of it."

Not the Irish. They made ca.s.seroles. I dumped it off my fork and scooted it to a remote section of my plate.