"I'm serious, Ira!"

"You're always serious. When aren't you serious? I'm happy, you're serious. Tell me somethin' I don't know."

I peered at my neck in the mirror of my compact. Ehh! Ehh! Bernice was right. My neck was cross-hatched with welts the length of my baby finger. Oh, my G.o.d. Nana had mentioned seeing a case like this on Bernice was right. My neck was cross-hatched with welts the length of my baby finger. Oh, my G.o.d. Nana had mentioned seeing a case like this on Rescue 911. Rescue 911. At any moment my throat was going to swell shut from anaphylactic shock. Then I'd die. At any moment my throat was going to swell shut from anaphylactic shock. Then I'd die. Ehh! Ehh!

"You ever been allergic to anything before?" Bernice piped up.

"No," I said in a panic. "I'm in perfect health. I've never even had a cavity!"

"Well, you're allergic to something now."

"Look, Ernie," squawked the woman in front of me, jabbing her finger at the window. "That dump truck has a whole load of tailpipes in the back. And look how rusty they are. They were probably made in j.a.pan."

"It's not tailpipes," said her husband. "It's probably peat. They use that c.r.a.p for fuel over here."

"No way. How you gonna pump that stuff into your gas tank?"

"It's not for cars, Ethel. Jeez, you're such a genius. Fuel to heat the house. They use it in their stoves. Their fireplaces."

"How come they don't use electricity? They have electricity over here, don't they?" Silence, then in an emphatic snarl: "Ireland was your idea, Ernie. If I can't use my curling iron for the next ten days, you're gonna hear about it!"

Bernice squinted more closely at my neck. "I'm beginning to remember that my husband's neck had a notion to swell up like that sometimes."

Not encouraging. Bernice's husband had been dead for half a century. "Is that how he died?"

"You bet."

Oh, great. My throat constricted. My heart beat double-time. This was it. I was a goner.

"He was on his way to see the doc for a teta.n.u.s shot, and just before he left the house, his neck swelled up like yours. He was dead before he ever got there. Doc said it was hives brought on by the stress of thinking about that shot. Harold was awful needle phobic."

"Hives? He died from hives?"

Bernice nodded wistfully. "By the time he reached town, they'd spread all over. When he bent down to scratch his ankle, he missed a Stop sign and got broadsided by an ice truck. Back in those days, they used to deliver right to your door. They tell me he died before he ever knew what hit him."

My heart stopped racing. I discovered I could still breathe. "So your husband didn't actually die from hives. He died in a car accident."

"If he hadn't had the hives, he wouldn't have bent down to scratch. If he hadn't scratched, he wouldn't have been broadsided. He died from hives."

And I was still a virgin. Just ask my mother.

Over the loudspeaker, Ashley continued to enlighten us about our surroundings. "On your left you'll note some of the lovely stone buildings that form the campus of Trinity College, which is the oldest university in Ireland, founded by Elizabeth the First and dating back to 1592. The college is home to what is described as the most beautiful book in the world, the Book of Kells, which is a ma.n.u.script of the four Gospels in Latin, scripted and illuminated by Columban monks during the eighth century."

I angled my mirror toward the light for a better look at my throat. "So you think this looks like hives?" I said to Bernice.

"It's hives, all right. But I don't know why you'd get hives. What's someone with your cushy job got to be stressed out about?"

I dabbed pressed powder onto my neck to camouflage the redness, then, while I was at it, dug out the rest of my makeup. I could take the time to freshen up now that I wasn't going to die immediately. Ahead of me, Ethel jabbed a finger at the window once again.

"Look at this traffic! We've moved a car length in five minutes. I told you we should have gone to Venice."

Ernie snorted dismissively. "This traffic is nothin'. The Van Wyck at rush hour. Now that's traffic."

"How come everyone's driving on the wrong side of the street?" Ethel pounded on the window to a car below. "You're going the wrong way! Hey, there's no steering wheel in that car." She gave a quick look up and down the lanes of traffic. "There's no steering wheel in any any of those cars!" of those cars!"

"My wife the rocket scientist. The steering wheel's on the pa.s.senger side, Ethel. Car manufacturers had to install the steering wheels on the wrong side of the car to make it easier for everybody to drive on the wrong side of the road. Get it?"

I contemplated explaining the difference between opposite opposite and and wrong wrong to Ernie and Ethel, but I wasn't sure either one of them would "get it." to Ernie and Ethel, but I wasn't sure either one of them would "get it."

From behind me, Gladys began complaining in her singsong, sandpaper voice. "I smell something, Ira. Do you smell something?"

"Diesel."

"It's not diesel. It's worse than diesel. It smells like a sewer. I think it's coming from the front of the bus. Ethel!" she yelled past my ear. "Do you smell something?"

Ethel propped herself up to look over the back of her seat. Ehh! Ehh! Ethel's hair was an intense burgundy rose, a shade popularized by liquid antiseptics such as Mercurochrome, and Olympic ice-skating coaches from former Eastern Bloc countries. She wore rouge that was too red and eyeliner that was too black, but at least her rhinestone-studded gla.s.ses concealed the fact that her eye shadow was iridescent blue, a no-no even in former Eastern Bloc nations. "I can smell it," she blurted to Gladys. "Phew! The toilet must be backed up. It must be the toilet. You think it's the toilet?" Ethel's hair was an intense burgundy rose, a shade popularized by liquid antiseptics such as Mercurochrome, and Olympic ice-skating coaches from former Eastern Bloc countries. She wore rouge that was too red and eyeliner that was too black, but at least her rhinestone-studded gla.s.ses concealed the fact that her eye shadow was iridescent blue, a no-no even in former Eastern Bloc nations. "I can smell it," she blurted to Gladys. "Phew! The toilet must be backed up. It must be the toilet. You think it's the toilet?"

"It's not the toilet. There's no toilet on this bus."

"No toilet? The brochure promised us a toilet. What are we supposed to do if we have to go in the middle of nowhere?"

"I repeat," Gladys's husband griped behind me. "Look around you. The whole country's the middle of nowhere."

I looked at Bernice. Bernice looked at me. It was kind of creepy when a conversation with Bernice started to look good.

"That's it," said Bernice. "I'm disconnecting." She popped her hearing aid out of her ear with a superior smile. "That's one of the benefits of old age. You go deaf."

Close by, a cell phone started chiming the first bars of "New York, New York." Ethel picked up. "No, I'm not having a good time. Why? I'll tell you why. There's no toilet on the bus and something stinks. How should I know if your father can smell it? Just a minute. Ernie, can you smell it?"

"I can smell it, Ethel."

"He smells it."

Another cell phone began beeping a digital rendition of "The Sidewalks of New York." "h.e.l.lo?" answered the man across the aisle. "What? WHAT? YOU'LL HAVE TO SPEAK UP. I CAN'T HEAR YOU."

I leaned back in my seat and scratched my neck, my ear, my jaw. I sidled a glance at Bernice to find her sitting with her eyes shut, smiling beatifically. Some people had all the luck. What I wouldn't have given to be old and deaf right now.

Ballybantry Castle might have had a little something for everyone, but by the time we arrived, it was too dark to tell. The Golden Irish Vacations tour guests trooped into the lobby like defeated soldiers and collapsed all over the plush furniture while Ashley and I took up our post at the front desk. The clerk was a freckle-faced, redheaded man in his mid-twenties whose name tag identified him as Liam McEtigan.

"The tour group, are you?" he inquired in his cheery brogue. "We were expecting you this morning. But no harm, is there? You're only eleven hours late. Take a wrong turn, did you?"

Ashley leaned an elbow on the desk and stared him straight in the eye. "I want our keys, and I want them now."

"Yes. Brilliant. If I can trouble you for your pa.s.sports. I'll be needing to check them before--"

"Y'all can check pa.s.sports in the morning. Right now, I want keys." She flashed him a barracuda smile. "I'm not having a good day, sugar. Trust me. Y'all don't want to make it any worse."

Liam hesitated for only a split second before he grabbed a box filled with envelopes and shoved them at her. "Names and room numbers are on the envelopes. Keys are inside. But I'll still be needing to check pa.s.sports in the morning."

My brother was right. Men find it impossible to refuse drop-dead-gorgeous blondes with big chests. Maybe I needed to change my hair color.

Ashley grabbed the keys and headed for the lobby. "If he has any questions, answer them," she called to me over her shoulder. "And find out where to get the bus repaired."

"That would be Dooley's," Liam said to me. "Two villages over. But they'll be no good to you this week because the garage is closed. Death in the family."

If the garage was located two villages over, it would do us no good anyway. Michael Malooley would get us lost trying to find it. "Tell me, Liam," I said, leaning over the desk in a conspiratorial fashion. "Why are there so few route signs posted on the roads around here? And why, when there are are signs, are they stuck behind trees, behind overgrown shrubbery, and on buildings behind creeping vines?" signs, are they stuck behind trees, behind overgrown shrubbery, and on buildings behind creeping vines?"

Liam shrugged. "The locals are knowing where everything is, so they're not needing signs. And if you're not local, me da would say, you've no business being here in the first place, so why tell you how to get here?"

I guess that's why most of the signs ran parallel rather than at a right angle to the road. The only way you could read them was to crank your head around and try to eyeball them over your shoulder as you zoomed past. Ireland had progressed from a nation of leprechauns with clay pipes to a nation of speed-readers with whiplash.

As I sauntered into the lobby to look for Etienne, I noted some of the interior touches of Ballybantry Castle. Suits of armor standing like sentinels around the perimeter of the room. Military shields with coats of arms displayed above a ma.s.sive fireplace. Huge faded tapestries hugging the walls in an attempt to add warmth to the cold granite. Nana appeared at my side as Ashley continued to call names and distribute room keys.

"That was some day we had today. Went pretty good. I didn't even need my umbrella."

I eyed Nana warily. "You do realize we were lost all day."

"I know, dear. But we got to see lots that wasn't on the itinerary. I shot some real nice pictures." She whipped a half-dozen or more out of her bag. "Here's that pretty stone cottage that was built so close to the road in that one little village. I thought the thatched roof and all the window boxes were nice touches.

"Here's the hole in the cottage after we took out all its window boxes when we cut the corner too close.

"Here's the hole in the bus after the window boxes took out our side mirror.

"Here's the mirror lyin' in the gutter after we backed over it.

"This is a good one a Ashley. This is where she's waggin' her finger in Michael's face, callin' him a moron. Look how pretty her nails are. I wouldn't mind havin' my nails done up like that sometime.

"Here's that pretty stone fence that circled the pub where we ate lunch."

Her next photo showed a shiny sculpture twisted into a series of sinuous angles and curves. "This is different," I observed. "I don't remember seeing this."

"That's a closeup of the bus's rear fender after we rammed the stone fence. Here's another good one a Ashley. This is where she's standin' next to the fence callin' Michael a stupid twit."

I was pretty sure she'd called him a stupid s.h.i.t, but Nana's hearing isn't what it used to be.

"This last one didn't come out too good 'cause we were goin' by too fast. Can you make out that crumpled thing on the pavement there? That's the door we sheared off the car that was stopped in the middle a the road when we rounded that blind curve."

I'd found it odd that the driver had left his vehicle with the door wide open on an unshouldered road boxed in by hedgerows. You had to figure it was a cultural thing. Americans liked their cars without roofs. The Irish preferred theirs without doors.

Nana shook her head. "Poor Michael. He seems to be havin' a run a bad luck on the road. Speakin' a which--" She lowered her voice. "Bernice tells me you got some real whiners back where you're sittin'. How'd you survive the day?"

I mined my skirt pocket and opened my palm. "I remembered I had these in my shoulder bag."

Nana squinted at the two short rubberized tubes that were the circ.u.mference of No. 2 pencils. "Erasers?"

"Earplugs. Once I got them in, I couldn't hear a thing."

Nana held up the earplugs with jealous regard. "You think it'd be okay to use these in my nose? There's an awful smell in that bus and I didn't think to bring nose plugs."

"It's the driver," said Tilly Hovick, joining us. "Unlike the rest of us, he doesn't feel the need to disguise his natural body odor with artificial sprays, colognes, and deodorants. I find it entirely refreshing. A man living outside the strictures of convention. He's to be admired."

I didn't agree with her about the body odor thing, but I thought it was pretty admirable that a guy who demonstrated no skill at driving or reading maps could land a job where his primary responsibility was to drive and read maps.

Tilly handed me an envelope. "Ashley asked me to give you your room key."

I peered over Nana's head toward the crowd that was rapidly dispersing in the lobby. "Has anyone seen Etienne?"

"He volunteered to help Michael unload the luggage from the bus," said Nana. "Ashley said there weren't no bellmen on duty tonight."

Okay. This wasn't so bad. I'd have time to run to my room and freshen up before he came knocking at my door.

"Refresh my memory," asked Tilly. "Etienne is the black-haired mesomorph with the stunning blue eyes. Is that right?"

I wasn't sure what the correct definition of mesomorph mesomorph was, but I suspected it might be anthropological for "stud m.u.f.fin." "Right," I said. was, but I suspected it might be anthropological for "stud m.u.f.fin." "Right," I said.

"There's another interesting specimen on the tour," Tilly continued. "Have you noticed? A young woman with exquisitely applied makeup and huge feet. I don't see her right now, but her skeletal structure and musculature indicate she might be something other than--"

"Shall we head for our rooms?" I interrupted. I had to discourage Tilly's anthropological observations. Too bad she wasn't a retired geology professor. Then the only thing she'd notice about Jackie would be the size of the rock on her ring finger.

I threaded my arms through theirs and dragged them along with me. "Early start tomorrow, ladies. We need our beauty sleep. What's your room number?"

Their room was three doors down from mine on the first floor, so I said good night to them at my door and raced into my bedroom. I don't know what the castle had looked like before the renovation, but the end result was stunning. My room was the size of a basketball court with a bank of windows occupying one wall. Two queen-size beds dominated the s.p.a.ce, the headboards covered in the same rose-and-mauve flower-garden fabric that was repeated in the drapes and counterpanes. Four velvet boudoir chairs were arranged around the stone fireplace, and hanging over the mantel was a gilt-framed oil painting of some ancient lord astride a horse, surrounded by sleek hounds and barefoot children poised to dip their toes in a babbling brook. There was a mirrored double dresser, an armoire with a television inside, mirrored panels on the closet doors, and a host of other wall paintings that depicted thatched cottages, stone towers, and elaborate Celtic crosses.

I rushed into the bathroom. Wow. Whirlpool tub. Gla.s.sed-in shower. Marble tile. Aromatic candles. Jars of bath salts and bubble bath. Little bottles of shampoo, body lotion, and ma.s.sage oil. I held up the ma.s.sage oil. Maybe I could heat it over the candle. Oh, boy. This day might not be a complete loss after all.

I pulled the turtleneck of my sweater down to examine my neck. Okay. It didn't look too bad. No new welts had formed. If I applied more powder, Etienne might not even notice, especially if he was looking at me by candlelight.

A light tap at my door. Speak of the devil. I threw the door wide and smiled my most seductive smile.

"I'm sorry to bother you, dear," Nana apologized, "but do you suppose you could come down to our room?"

"Right now?"

"You're probably expectin' your young man. I'm sorry. You take your time then and come down when you can. There's no hurry."

"Is there a problem with your room?"

"Just a small one. There's a dead body in it."

Chapter 4.

The deceased was a spindle of a woman dressed in a chambermaid's uniform and lying on the floor in front of the mirrored closet in Nana's room.