Celtic Sister (24 page)

“It’s clever,” Amy said.

“Saint Brigid converted a pagan king to Christianity while she folded rushes into the shape of a cross. Now children make them to celebrate the Feast of Saint Brigid on the first of February.” Mary pointed at the cross hanging over her kitchen. “Keeps evil, fire, and hunger from the home where it is hung.”

“Fascinating.”

“My granddaughter made these. You keep this one.”

“Oh… I couldn’t.”

“Please take it. My gift.”

Amy nodded. “Thank you.” She held it up for Sam to see. “A little piece of Ireland to take home.”

Once the ladies were done chatting, Sam could no longer contain himself. He sat forward, produced Emma’s picture, and handed it to Mary.

“Did Fiona tell you why we wanted to see you?” he asked.

Mary nodded. “You’re looking for one of my girls.”

“Perhaps. Do you recognize her?”

Mary inspected the picture, pursed her lips, frowned slightly, and looked at Sam.

“I don’t think so,” she said, but there was a tentative quality in her voice. Sam and Amy exchanged a subtle glance.

“Are you sure?” Amy pressed.

Mary took a long sip of tea. She seemed slightly irritated.

“I’m her brother.”

Mary examined the photo again and handed it back to Sam. “Not much of a resemblance,” she mumbled.

Amy leaned over. “I can vouch for him.”

Mary said nothing.

“We can ask his parents to scan and send old family pictures.”

Sam threw her a warning glare. Amy knew he didn’t want his parents to know what he was up to, but her gut instinct told her they were very close. She rummaged through her endless yellow purse and produced Sam’s reproduction of the notebook.

Mary took it, a wary expression on her face. She flipped through the book and carefully reviewed each page.

“I’ve facilitated in many happy reunions,” she said, a faraway sound in her voice. “And I’ve kept many secrets.” Another pause. “This was a secrets girl.” She examined the book again, focusing on the page with the poem. After several minutes she said, “But perhaps you are not the one she was running from.”

“No. No we aren’t.” Sam’s voice almost broke from emotion. “Look. See? Right there.” He pointed at the book. “She wanted me to find her. She…” Words failed him.

Amy stepped in. “She left these clues in a birdhouse for her brother to find.”

Mary raised her eyebrows, fascinated. “A birdhouse?”

“It was quite a bit more complicated than Emma planned on, I think. I’m sure she wished he’d find her sooner.”

Mary furrowed her brow. “She didn’t say she wanted to be found. In fact, she actually talked a lot about
not
being found. She was a very scared young lady.”

“How long did she stay at the Catholic house where you volunteered?” Amy asked.

“You mean Cúnamh?”

“Yes, I guess.”

“She never checked in. She refused.”

Sam appeared shocked. “What?”

“She was afraid. Said Cúnamh was way too obvious. That the person she was running from would find her there for sure. It was only a matter of time.”

“So where did she go?” Sam asked hopefully.

“Maybe County Cork. I can’t be sure.”

Amy picked her brain for an image of their map of Ireland. Cork was to the southwest of them, one county over. But surely someone who wanted to meet by Saint Patrick’s Well would not expect the follower of the clues to hop down to Cork County.

Sam appeared puzzled, probably wondering the same thing.

“She was an odd one,” Mary said.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, slightly offended.

“She had a real spiritual side, but she wouldn’t trust anyone. I told her God put people in her path for a reason. She almost believed me.” Mary shrugged. “We met at Saint Patrick’s Well. She seemed rather enchanted with it, like in the poem. I would think she’d see God’s hand in such a chance meeting. A pregnant girl and a woman who helped young ladies in the same predicament.”

“You only met her that one time?”

“She called me a few times. Wanted to know if I knew someone who would drive her south, to County Cork. Someone safe.”

“Did you give her any names?”

“I didn’t think it was a good idea. Cúnamh was the ideal place for her. What was in Cork?”

“She didn’t give you any clues?”

Mary tipped her head. “She implied she knew someone there. I asked why that person couldn’t drive her, and then she hushed up. It was peculiar.”

“Why didn’t you drive her? You could have checked it out.”

Mary looked at the ceiling, her expression heavy. “A thousand times I’ve chided myself. I truly wish I had just taken her. At the time I figured if I stood my ground, she’d come with me to Cúnamh. Clearly, her mind was set. After that third phone call, I never heard from her again.”

Amy was trying to wrap her brain around the information. “So she visited Saint Patrick’s Well and then decided to go south? We were sure she’d live close to the well, so it would be easy for Sam to track her down.”

Mary looked at the notebook. She flipped it open to the poem and read it again. “Did you find the silver?” she asked.

Sam laughed and picked up a cookie. “What do you mean, did we find the silver? Emma’s the silver. It’s a metaphor.”

“Is it?” Mary held up the notebook, page open to the poem.

Amy subtly rolled her eyes in Sam’s direction, but he was motionless, shortbread cookie halfway to his mouth.

“
Your silver hides in his peaceful spring
,” he whispered. “
My
silver.” He practically threw the cookie down. “Of course.”

“Sam?” Amy asked tentatively.

Mary placed the notebook on the coffee table. “Now that’s curious.”

Amy threw up her hands. “What’s curious, Mary?” Then she turned to Sam. “Have you figured something out?”

Sam had retreated into the recesses of his mind.

“She was climbing out of the well when I first saw her,” Mary said, responding directly to Amy.

“What?” Sam said.

Mary shrugged. “I assumed she was touching the holy water. People do it all the time. But perhaps she was hiding something.”

Amy waved her hands. “Hold on. You think she put something in the well?”

“She could have.”

“Yes,” Sam interjected. “She put my silver in the well.”

Amy touched his arm. “That’s a stretch.”

“No it isn’t. I gave her a silver pillbox when she was thirteen. She didn’t take medication, but it had a few green rhinestones embedded on top. It made me think of her, so I bought it and saved it for her birthday. Wasn’t cheap.”

“So you think she brought the pillbox here and hid it in the well?”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it? Given everything we know.” Sam stood up and wandered toward the fireplace. “We never found that pillbox. I wanted to keep it as a memento. All we found was the jewelry box. Mom insisted she keep that, so I was left with nothing. Eventually, I took the desk.”

Amy stifled a chuckle. The girl’s desk had looked odd in the man’s apartment, but now she understood.

Mary lit up as the conversation progressed. “What a delightful idea.”

“Whoa,” Amy said. “Do you think she just dropped it in the well and expected no stranger would find it?”

Sam turned to face her. “Obviously not. The bottom of the well is less than a foot. Even if I were only days or weeks behind her, there would be too much of a risk that someone would take it. Who could resist? They wouldn’t know.”

“Under the rocks?” Amy suggested.

“Behind a brick,” Mary said.

“You’re sure she was in the well?” Sam asked. “That would certainly narrow our search.”

“Yes. She was standing on the platform inside the well when I first saw her, and then she rushed to climb out when she noticed me.”

“Time to go back to the well, Amy.” Sam rubbed his hands together like a man with a devious plan.

“Do you think she put a clue in there?”

“She must have.”

“Could it have survived fifteen years?”

Sam frowned. “I can only hope so.”

Amy stood up. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mary.”

“It was my pleasure. Lovely to meet you.”

They waved as they jogged down the driveway.

“Keep in touch,” Mary called after them. “I would like to know how she is.”

“Of course,” Amy said before climbing into the car.

They sped off toward Clonmel.

***

Thankfully, the drizzle kept potential pilgrims away from Saint Patrick’s Well. It was more comfortable for Sam to wander around the ledge and examine the bricks without curious onlookers or busybodies asking him to leave the well alone.

Amy leaned over the wall but didn’t step inside.

Sam crawled along the ledge and jiggled the brick-like stones, one by one. Amy got busy and inspected the outside of the well.

“It won’t be loose anymore,” she said as she wiggled random stones anyway.

Sam sat back on his feet to give his knees a rest. At this point, his hair was fairly wet and it clung to the side of his head. Amy reached up to touch her own hair. It was very wet, and most likely rather unflattering.

“I suppose,” Sam said in response to her comment. “And none of these appear to be sticking out more than the others. I would think she’d have to make some space behind it.”

“Unless she chiseled a hole in one.”

“That would be more difficult than you think.”

“What about those stones closer to the water?”

Sam leaned over and peered into the water. The ledge he was standing on was also formed out of brick-like stones. He grabbed each one and wiggled purposefully.

Amy climbed in and helped him.

“This one is interesting,” Sam said, touching the edges of a stone that protruded slightly more than its neighbors. “You can get a tool in here.” He pointed at three different gaps. “Not as tight as the others.” Sam felt his pockets. “What do you have in that purse?”

“A pen?”

“No. Something stronger. A pen will break in a heartbeat.”

Amy dug around in the purse. “I took out everything sharp, so it wouldn’t get confiscated by security.”

Sam swung his legs over the wall and began to examine the ground.

Amy tried to suppress her frustration. The near-hopeless search for a silver pillbox hidden for fifteen years in a well was now followed by an even more futile search for a file or a butter knife on the ground.

Sam wandered in the direction of the statue of Saint Patrick. Then he broke out into a run.

When Amy caught up with him, he was pulling a heart shape out of a bouquet of flowers which had been left at the saint’s feet. The heart had a long metal stick attached to it.

“Oh, Sam. This isn’t right.”

“I’m just borrowing it.” He rushed back to the well.

When Amy returned to the well, Sam was bent over, shoving the metal stick into the gaps around the stone. With each round he jiggled the stick more and more violently. The heart shape at the end of the rod shook in response.

“I don’t think we should be doing this,” Amy said. She felt a knot forming in her stomach.

“Almost got it,” Sam said as a little bit of dirt and moss fell from the stone.

“You’re defacing a holy site.”

“God will understand.” A little more dirt fell, and the stone moved ever so slightly. Amy glanced around. No one was on the property, and no one was visible on the stairs.

After a few more rounds of poking and scraping, Sam began to use his hands. He managed to get a couple of fingers into the gaps. It was now clear he would succeed if given enough time to wiggle the stone. Amy gave up her nervous obsession with the imaginary visitors who were most likely warm in their houses without a thought of making a trip to the well. She climbed over the wall to get a closer look.

At that moment, the stone came loose and Sam eased it out of its place in the wall. Something tumbled out and dropped in the water. Sam placed the stone on the ledge, pulled up his sleeve, and reached for the object. The surface of the water was continuously being spattered by miniscule drops of rain, just enough to make it impossible to see to the rocks at the bottom. Nevertheless, Sam’s hand emerged only a moment later, clutching something. He dipped it in the water again and rubbed off years of dirt. He kept cleaning the object until it was obvious it was a pillbox with something that resembled rhinestones on the top.

Sam stood, shook out his legs, and massaged one of his knees. Then he sat on the ledge of the outer wall and fumbled with the clasp, a very small button. Eventually, he was able to slip his thumbnail behind the clasp, and the lid flipped open.

Amy sat down next to him. Her head swam in anticipation. Sam pulled out a small cross on a link chain. He rinsed the cross in the water. It was silver, a nice piece. Still, it was not very helpful as a clue. Sam put the cross in his pocket and attempted to use the edge of his sleeve to rub the dirt off the inside of the pillbox.

“Let’s go back to the car,” Amy suggested. “We can get dry and clean that up.”

Sam returned the stone to its proper place. He pulled a bit of moss from an adjoining rock and shoved it between the gaps. He repeated this procedure until he was satisfied the stone was secure, already on its way to blending with its neighbors.

He brushed the dirt off his pants and held up the pillbox. “Must be something etched in here. Some kind of clue.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Amy said with what she hoped was a tone of reassurance.

As promised, Sam returned the heart-shaped ornament to the flower bouquet before they made their way up the stairs.

Once settled in the car, they took off their damp sweaters and laid them in the backseat to dry. Amy produced a package of travel tissues from her bottomless purse and proceeded to clean the pillbox. The tissue tore into bits in the process, but slowly the inside surfaces began to emerge. The pillbox was simple yet classic. No plastic dividers, just smooth silver.

Sam grabbed a second tissue and asked to see the pillbox. Then he spat a generous mouthful of spit on the tissue. Amy looked away and made an exaggerated gagging sound. Nevertheless, when she turned back around, she saw that Sam’s spit shine had almost polished the silver. Smooth and glossy, it had only a couple of minor scratches. That was bad news. The scratches didn’t appear to convey any message.