She propped herself up higher on her crutches, oozing confidence. "Try it, sugar," she challenged, "but I mean to tell you, that dog don't hunt."

"Oh, yeah?" Hunh. Hunh. She wasn't the only one who could throw around trite catchphrases. "Well, the pen is mightier than the sword." She wasn't the only one who could throw around trite catchphrases. "Well, the pen is mightier than the sword."

She smiled a saccharine smile. "My daddy owns the company."

Yup. That explained a lot of things.

Fuming about the unfairness of nepotism, I returned to my room and was about to unlock my door when I noticed Ira Kuppelman and Michael Malooley engaged in quiet discussion in the shadows at the end of the hall. Now that was odd. What would a man whose wife was related to Oliver Cromwell have in common with a man who professed unmitigated hatred of Oliver Cromwell?

Ira handed Michael a sheet of white paper that Michael initially rejected, then stuck in his shirt pocket begrudgingly, shaking his head all the while. What had Ira asked him to do? And why was Michael saying "No," then changing his tune and nodding yes? Strange bedfellows, Ira and Michael. Had I paired up the wrong people? Was Michael doing Ira's bidding instead of Ethel's? But why would Ira want to frighten anyone to death? What was in it for him? What was his motivation? And then it hit me. The oldest motivation in the world. Uh-oh. I didn't like the looks of this. I opened my door with the sudden fear that if we discovered body number three today, it might belong to Gladys Kuppelman.

Chapter 12.

As we pulled into the parking lot of the Giant's Causeway on the North Antrim coast, Ashley threw a few details at us in a voice that could melt b.u.t.ter. "Some folks call this site the eighth wonder of the world, and after y'all see it, you'll know why. What y'all are about to see is a geologic puzzle."

The word geologic geologic caught my attention as I sat catnap-ping beside Bernice. Wow. A four-syllable word. She was pulling out all the stops this morning. caught my attention as I sat catnap-ping beside Bernice. Wow. A four-syllable word. She was pulling out all the stops this morning.

"The site consists of about thirty-seven thousand columns made of a volcanic rock called basalt. They start at the base of the cliff and descend like stepping-stones into the sea. Some of the columns stand forty feet high, and what y'all will notice is that they're mostly shaped like perfect hexagons. Not all, mind you. You'll see some columns with four, five, eight, or ten sides, but the regularity of the six-sided ones have geologists baffled. I guess it's unusual for nature to be that consistent, especially when you consider there are no two snowflakes that are alike."

"What does she know about snowflakes?" Bernice muttered. "Listen to that accent. She's probably never even seen snow."

Bernice was in a particularly sour mood this morning. I figured it had something to do with the Grape-Nuts she'd inhaled up her nose in the food fight. "That's a really attractive turban you're wearing, Bernice. Magenta is a good color on you."

"It's not mine. It belongs to Alice Tjarks."

"Well, that was nice of her to lend it to you. I've never had much success with scarf turbans. They keep unraveling on me. Yours looks pretty secure."

"Why are you telling me? Tell Alice. She's the one who tied it."

Bernice could accept a compliment with such grace. "It looks very smart." And it added a touch of cla.s.s to her sweatshirt with the Monster Truck emblazoned on the front and her red polyester pants.

"I think it looks stupid. Paisley. Who wears paisley anymore? But it was either this or a paper bag."

Ashley's voice sounded over the loudspeaker again. "When you get off the bus, head toward the visitors' center and proceed through the back door to the circular walkway that wends down to the sh.o.r.e. It's a lovely hike for those of y'all who enjoy a scenic walk. If walkin's not your thing, you can catch the shuttle bus at the designated area behind the visitors' center. It'll drop you right off at the Grand Causeway. We'll plan to meet back at the bus in three hours, so check your watches and make a mental note."

"What did you say about a paper bag?" I asked Bernice as the bus rumbled to a stop.

"I got made over last night," she snarled. "By an idiot. Your grandmother got made over, too. She looks like she got her head caught in a SaladShooter, but her eyesight's going, so she doesn't know yet how bad it is. At least I know enough to hide mine."

I cringed. "How bad is it?"

As the people around us stood and stretched and crammed into the aisles to disembark, Bernice pulled the turban off her head. "You tell me."

Eh! It was worse than Nana's, if that was possible. It was worse than Nana's, if that was possible.

"It's called a choppy cut."

More like the machete cut. What hair she had left fanned over her scalp like sheaves of mangled wild gra.s.s, crisscrossing in random directions. This was really bad news. "The good news is," I said, feigning optimism, "it'll grow back. Let me help you get your scarf back on."

As I snugged it back over her head, the whole thing unraveled in my hands like cascading silk, slithering over her ears and halfway down her neck. Nuts. Nuts. I did a quick sleight of hand with folds and knots and tail ends, then paused to observe my handiwork. "I like it." I did a quick sleight of hand with folds and knots and tail ends, then paused to observe my handiwork. "I like it."

Bernice stared at me, deadpan. "It didn't droop over my eye when Alice did it."

"This is a good look for you. It's sa.s.sy. Coquettish."

"Maybe I didn't make myself clear. I CAN'T SEE!"

"Okay, okay." I tucked the overhang into a fold at her hairline. "There. Perfect." Well, almost perfect, if you overlooked the fact that it was a little crooked. "If it falls apart again, have Nana give you a hand. She does the turban thing every night, only with toilet paper."

By the time we gathered our belongings and left the bus, the rest of the group was far ahead of us, heads down and arms swinging, trying to outpace each other in what looked like a spirited dash toward the visitors' center. The Iowans were in power-walk mode because they wanted to be on time for the next event. The New Yorkers were in power-walk mode because fast is the only speed they know. I figured this phenomenon was a holdover from the days when streetcars were first introduced in Brooklyn. So many city dwellers were run over by the unwelcome new vehicles, people were forced to move really fast to dodge them. Streetcars may have disappeared, but New Yorkers seem to have retained the genetic imprint to move it, move it, move it. I guess that's how the Brooklyn Dodgers ended up in Los Angeles.

The visitors' center was a one-story structure that looked newly remodeled, with lots of gla.s.s and layers of fresh paint. Once inside, we found ourselves in the middle of a gift shop, with an airy cafeteria-style eatery located at the back and a ramp that led to the shuttle bus area, with a turnstile at the bottom. While some of the group milled about the gift shop, I located a sign for the comfort station and headed toward the opposite end of the building. As I approached the area, the door to the men's room swung open. I stopped short when a sheepish-looking Jackie, dressed in a s.e.xy striped tank dress and leather wedges with a high wooden heel, shot a look both ways and slunk out the door.

"d.a.m.n," she complained, joining me. "I hate it when that happens."

I shook my head, admiring her chutzpah. "Let me guess. There weren't enough stalls in the ladies' room, so you decided to sneak into the men's."

"I didn't sneak in. I walked into the rest room, headed for the urinal, got ready to whip out my equipment, and realized I don't have have any equipment. Jeez, you'd think I'd remember I don't whiz standing up anymore, but every so often, I have these little mental lapses and end up in the wrong room. Old habits die hard." any equipment. Jeez, you'd think I'd remember I don't whiz standing up anymore, but every so often, I have these little mental lapses and end up in the wrong room. Old habits die hard."

"Guys have it so good," I said grudgingly. "External plumbing. Zippered access. No lines. No waiting."

Jackie nodded. "I have one male acquaintance who decided not to make the leap into transs.e.xualism after he saw the ridiculously long lines women had to wait in to use the rest rooms at Yankee Stadium. He figured he could discover a cure for cancer in the time he wasted queuing up to pee."

We made our way to the ladies' room around the corner and took our places at the back of the line. "Is Tom here with you today?" I inquired, unable to locate him in the crowd.

"He's here. But we're not speaking. He's hidden my fuzzy pink slippers on me, the creep. He knows I love those slippers. They're better than comfort food. He swears he didn't touch them, but I can't find them anywhere in the room, so you tell me. Did they decide to walk away by themselves? I don't think so. He hid them. I didn't realize how petty he can be."

Jackie's slippers. Nana's bathrobe. Etienne's trousers. What was going on here? "Please tell me you're going to make up before tonight."

"Why? What's happening tonight? Oh, G.o.d, you're not going to invite him to join in one of your dungeon adventures, are you? I'll tell you right now, he won't go. He's allergic to certain kinds of mold, and he doesn't like mice."

"Have you seen my grandmother today?"

"Yeah. She looks like Peter Rabbit on speed. What happened?"

"Your husband happened. He decided to give her a makeover last night to kill time. The choppy cut. If he's free tonight, he's going to apply color."

Jackie shook her head. "He wanted to give me the choppy cut, but I wouldn't let him anywhere near me. That choppy cut is bad news. They love it in Hollywood, but that's not a good barometer. Normal people sneak weird looks at you and ask if you'd like to borrow a comb."

"No color," I stated emphatically. "Nana's probably going to have a hard time clearing airport security with the haircut alone. I don't want to see what'll happen if her hair is pink."

"Tom has never done pink hair. Not even by accident."

"No color!"

Jackie planted her fist on her hip and gave me an exasperated look. "So what do you suggest I do to keep him occupied this evening?"

"You're on your honeymoon," I said in a meaningful whisper. "You figure it out."

After we did our thing at the comfort station, we pa.s.sed through the turnstile near the cafeteria and exited out the back of the building. A blue-and-white shuttle bus was loading up pa.s.sengers, but people were crammed in so tightly, I decided to wait for the next one. I'd been pinched, crushed, and pickpocketed too many times on crowded New York subways to ever want to repeat the experience. But I spotted George Farkas with his nose pressed to one of the windows, and Bernice, and then I saw a lot of people who weren't from Iowa: the Minches, the Kuppelmans, the guy who borrowed the furniture polish from the maid's closet, Tom Thum. I shook my head. Nice of him to leave his wife behind. I took a quick inventory of the people still standing on the pavement and realized that all the New Yorkers except Jackie had made it onto the bus, and most of the Iowans hadn't. This was one of the drawbacks of living in a state without a highly developed system of public transportation. You never learn how to shove people out of the way when you're trying to board a vehicle with limited capacity.

Ashley hobbled onto the step well of the bus and maneuvered herself around on her crutches to deliver a few last-minute instructions. "The shuttle runs every fifteen or twenty minutes, so the rest of y'all can either wait here for the next bus, or stroll down to the sh.o.r.e at your own pace. I see Emily's here with y'all, so if you have any problems, you just give her a holler." She flashed me a syrupy smile before hopping up the stairs, aided by a swarm of men who all but body-pa.s.sed her to the front seat. The door hissed shut. As the bus pulled forward, I regarded the tangle of bodies squished together in the narrow s.p.a.ce and nearly swallowed my tongue when I saw an unexpected face profiled in the window of the very last seat.

Michael Malooley? What was he he doing in there? Bus drivers never took the tour with the guests. They always hung out in the nearest cafe with the other bus drivers so they could drink coffee and tell bus driver stories. Pinp.r.i.c.ks of unease rode my spine. I didn't like this one bit. Michael and Ira had to have something heinous planned, and I figured Gladys was the target. Ira Kuppelman wouldn't be the first well-to-do senior to want to knock off his wife. He looked good enough to attract younger women. That had to be the scheme. Get rid of Gladys in favor of a younger, prettier trophy wife. Gladys probably didn't have a clue what was in the works, which meant that by the time the shuttle returned to pick us up, she could already be dead. I needed to warn her, and I needed to do it fast. doing in there? Bus drivers never took the tour with the guests. They always hung out in the nearest cafe with the other bus drivers so they could drink coffee and tell bus driver stories. Pinp.r.i.c.ks of unease rode my spine. I didn't like this one bit. Michael and Ira had to have something heinous planned, and I figured Gladys was the target. Ira Kuppelman wouldn't be the first well-to-do senior to want to knock off his wife. He looked good enough to attract younger women. That had to be the scheme. Get rid of Gladys in favor of a younger, prettier trophy wife. Gladys probably didn't have a clue what was in the works, which meant that by the time the shuttle returned to pick us up, she could already be dead. I needed to warn her, and I needed to do it fast.

I stuck my pinkies in my mouth and let out an earsplitting whistle. Chatter ceased. Bodies wheeled around. I waved my hand above my head so everyone could locate me, then raised my voice so I could be heard. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I think we can make better use of our time than to stand around here for twenty minutes waiting for a bus. We could all use the exercise after that meal last night. I say we walk. Are you game?"

"I'm not game," said Jackie. "How far a walk is it? I'm not wearing the right shoes and I already have a blister on my foot from yesterday."

"I'm game," said Nana. "We've sat on buses long enough as it is."

Alice Tjarks nodded. "I agree with Marion. Besides, that shuttle will need to be aired out before anyone boards it again. Did you see?" She lowered her voice. "Our bus driver is on it."

"All those in favor of walking say, 'Yea,'" Osmond Chelsvig instructed. Osmond had served as the president of Windsor City's electoral board for decades, so he was a natural to call for votes, though with his hearing loss, I feared we might be facing a lot of recounts. "Opposed, say, 'Nay,'" he continued.

"Nay," shouted Jackie.

"By my count we have a bunch of yeas and no nays, so the yeas have it. We walk."

Jackie thrust her hand into the air. "Wait a minute. I said nay!"

"Give it a rest," I advised. "You're outnumbered."

"My vote was properly cast. It shouldn't be discounted on someone's whim. That's only supposed to happen in presidential elections."

"Maybe we should line up according to height," Tilly Hovick suggested, directing people with her walking stick. "Short people in the front, tall people in the back." I suspected Tilly might have taught kindergarten before she hit the college circuit, but I noticed confusion in the ranks as people stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to decide who was taller. Everyone had shrunk to about the same height. Uh-oh. We might never get out of here if a few people demanded to have measurements taken.

"Tell you what," I called out. "Just start walking. You don't have to be in any kind of order." Tilly shot me a disapproving look, then shook her head in a way that suggested if ma.s.s chaos broke out, she she would not be held liable. Jackie let out an exaggerated sigh beside me. would not be held liable. Jackie let out an exaggerated sigh beside me.

"Well, I'm not doing any more walking. I walked enough yesterday. I'm staying put and waiting for the next bus."

I shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'll see you down there."

She sucked in her breath. "What? You're going to go off and leave me?"

"Come on, dear," Nana shouted to me. "You don't wanna be left behind."

"Duty calls." I waved my forefinger at Jackie in farewell and caught up with Nana and Tilly as they began the downhill march to the sh.o.r.e. We fell in line at the back of the group, soaking in sights that were completely alien to the Iowa landscape. A mountainous slope of lichen-encrusted rock flanked us on the right, while to our left, a wide border of scorched yellow gra.s.s skirted an endless span of sh.o.r.eline where rocks were strewn helter-skelter, seaweed blackened even the palest stone, and the midnight blue waters of the North Atlantic churned up foam as thick as the froth on a pint of Guinness. The waves made a whooshing sound as they rushed onto sh.o.r.e, and I found their soothing, steady rhythm rather hypnotic. The locals probably had some secret way of determining whether the tide was coming in or going out, but I'd have to live around the ocean for a long time before I'd ever be able to figure it out. The sea certainly inspired romantic notions, but for overall practicality, the Tidal Wave at the water park a few towns over from Windsor City suited me just fine.

I threaded my arm through Nana's, like a hitchhiker catching a ride on a speeding train. "How many days a week does your exercise cla.s.s meet?" I asked, breathless from trying to keep up.

"Three days a week usually, but I opted for the accelerated cla.s.s, so we meet every day except weekends."

"Great," I panted, feeling a st.i.tch in my side. I wondered if Nana's cla.s.s was open to nonseniors.

A gull circled above us and let out a whining shriek as it glided on a downdraft. I wondered if gulls always shrieked like that, or if this was its gut reaction to Nana's new hairdo.

"I found some information about the castle for you, dear. Just like you asked. I woulda had it sooner, but that power outage last night messed me up. You're right to be suspicious about the place. Either Ballybantry is home to one mean ghost, or there's an awful lot a sick people takin' vacations in Ireland when they should be in hospitals back home. Folks are dyin' left and right in that place, Emily. Mostly since the renovations were done."

"The extensive redecorating inside the castle may have angered one of the ghosts in residence," said Tilly. "Or worse yet, it may have disturbed a supernatural presence that had lain dormant for centuries and released it into the world. Either way, the cl.u.s.ter of deaths at Ballybantry Castle is far too great to deem it a natural occurrence. It's statistically impossible for that many people from different parts of the world to die from heart disease at one chance location."

"Is that how the deaths were explained?" I asked.

Nana took up the story. "The village paper printed notices of the deaths. They were all members of various tour groups, all in their seventies and eighties. Most a the write-ups said that the deceased had probably suffered a heart attack. I guess if you're eighty years old and you drop dead suddenly, people always think it's your heart. But there wasn't no mention of the police doin' any more investigatin'."

"How many deaths have there been?" I asked.

"Forty-eight," said Nana. "Over two years."

"FORTY-EIGHT?" My G.o.d, the Irish might have a lack of curiosity, but you'd think that forty-eight deaths in one small castle might raise the eyebrows of someone someone in law enforcement. Or was the castle simply located in too remote an area to raise any blips on the radar screen? in law enforcement. Or was the castle simply located in too remote an area to raise any blips on the radar screen?

"I found some death notices when the castle was a bedand-breakfast," Nana continued, "but only one or two over a period of some twenty years."

"That's more consistent with statistical probability," Tilly added. "Tell her about the exorcism, Marion."

"Oh, yeah. Back in 1832 the owners of the castle sought out the local village priest to perform an exorcism. They complained of wanderin' spirits who slammed doors, cried in the night, left footprints on the floor, and were a general nuisance. So the priest performed the exorcism and blessed the castle, and everything seemed pretty peaceful for over a hundred and sixty years."

"Until the remodeling project," I offered. We were narrowing the field, but I still had lots of unanswered questions. "A board of American investors share part ownership of the castle. Did you happen to find out the names of any of the board members?"

"I didn't run across no information about a board of investors, dear. If you like, I'll check when we get back."

"Were you able to find out anything about the Englishman who was the original owner of the castle?" I asked. "I'm pretty sure there's a portrait of him and his children hanging in my room. And the children all share a really peculiar trait. Their toes are stuck together."

"No kiddin'," said Nana.

"Syndactyly," said Tilly.

"Sin-what?" I asked. I asked.

"Syndactyly," Tilly repeated. "It's a birth defect in which two or more fingers or toes are fused together, either with partial or total webbing. If I recall the statistics, the condition occurs one in every three thousand live births in the United States. Fusion of the third and fourth digits of the hands is most common. Fusion of the toes is more rare, but I can't be specific about how rare. And it doesn't happen out of the blue. The condition is an inherited trait, pa.s.sed on from one generation to the next in a family bloodline."

"So if Ballybantry's original owners showed signs of the defect back in the sixteen hundreds, their descendants would still exhibit the defect today?"

"Not all of them, of course. The condition seems to manifest itself randomly within families, but yes, the defect would certainly exist. Though it would have been impossible for the family who originally built Ballybantry to have pa.s.sed the trait on."

"WHAT?" I screeched to a grinding halt, nearly tearing Nana's arm out of its socket as she continued forward. "Why couldn't they have pa.s.sed the trait on?"

Tilly paused in the middle of the roadway and turned around to face us. "You haven't finished your story, Marion. Go ahead. Tell her what you found."

Nana rubbed her shoulder protectively. "I enjoy walkin' with you, dear, but these quick stops are murder on my joints. All right, then. The rest a the story. The man who built the castle was an English lord by the name a Ticklepenny. He had three children. We know one daughter died tragically after he disowned her, and he didn't have a day a luck after that. His wife and two remaining children fell victim to a fever some months later, and they died within days of each other, so with no family to keep him here, he abandoned the castle and moved back to England, where he pretty much became a recluse. He didn't have no other relatives. He was last in the line a Ticklepennys, so when he died, the family name died with him."

"How did you find all that out?" I asked in amazement.