Kathy Reichs - Seizure

“Are you sure? I know how busy you are.”

I was finding it hard to get to the point. Aunt Tempe is my hero. She’s the last person I want to view me as foolish.

“Never too busy for you,” Tempe chided. “Let’s hear it.”

“You once told me your family came from Ireland.”

“ Our family,” Tempe corrected. “Kinsale, in County Cork. My grandfather was born there.”

“You wouldn’t happen to speak Gaelic would you?”

“ Níl agam ach beagainin Gaeilge ,” Tempe replied. “That means, ‘I only speak a little Irish.’ At least, I think that’s what it means.”

“So you know the language?”

“ Nil agam ach beágainín Gaeilge ,” Tempe repeated with a laugh. “I’ve conquered French, can get by with Spanish, even a little German. But Gaelic is tough stuff.”

“There aren’t any Gaelic translator programs online,” I said. “Only chat rooms.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s a beautiful language that was spoken for centuries, but Gaelic declined sharply under British rule. Then the Great Famine of 1845 devastated rural Ireland, where Gaelic was most prevalent. The language never really recovered.”

“So no one speaks it anymore?”

“Less than fifteen percent of the Irish population, though the current government is working hard to preserve it. Gaelic speakers are fairly rare here in the States.”

“Oh.” My spirits sank.

“I can give it a shot.” I heard static as Tempe adjusted the phone. “When I was a kid, a second cousin lived with my family briefly. She spoke Gaelic fluently, so I learned the language to keep her company.”

“And you still remember it?”

“We’ll see. Do you need something translated?”

“I’ve got a … poem.”

“From a book?”

“No,” I said. “Some pottery washed up on the beach near my house. A few lines are visible on the inside.”

I hated lying to my idol, but what choice did I have?

“A mystery! Awesome! Email me the poem and I’ll take a run at it.”

“That’d be great! Thank you so much.”

“Stop,” Tempe chuckled. “After what I’ve been slogging through today, poetry will be a welcome change of pace.”

There was an awkward pause while I debated with myself.

“Was there something else, Tory?”

Snap decision.

“Do you know anything about Anne Bonny, the female pirate?”

“I’ve heard of her, of course. But I’m a little light on specifics. Why?”

Throwing caution to the wind, I told Tempe my suspicions. Mary Brennan. The painting. Bonny’s Massachusetts rumors. Our shared handwriting trait.

When I’d finished, the line was quiet for a very long time.

Great. She thinks I’m a moron .

“Wow. Who knows? It could be true.”

I realized I’d been holding my breath. “It’s wacky, granted. But I can’t shake the feeling there’s a connection.”

“I understand,” Tempe said. “I’m a Brennan too, remember? Though I’m definitely not related to Anne Bonny. My grandparents didn’t leave the Emerald Isle until after World War I.”

“It’s crazy we share the Brennan name, even though I grew up in another family. But I’m glad we do.”

“It shows we were meant to connect,” Tempe said. “I just wish it had been under happier circumstances.”

Tempe went silent, possibly regretting the reference to my mother’s death.

“I’ll send the poem to your Gmail,” I said. “It was great chatting.”

“Don’t give up on the pirate connection. I expect a full report, matey.”

“Aye aye, captain. And thanks again.”

“ Slán agus beannacht leat .”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“‘Good-bye and blessings upon you.’” Tempe chuckled. “I hope.”

I FELT BETTER after hanging up.

Talking with Aunt Tempe always recharged my batteries. Watch check. Four p.m. Kit wasn’t due home for a few more hours.

After emailing the poem, I texted the Virals. We assembled in my living room ten minutes later.

The boys were running on fumes.

Shelton and Hi slumped on the couch while Ben fiddled with the remote, trying to locate a baseball game. Coop lay curled in his doggie bed, paws outstretched, content to merely observe.

“I sent the Gaelic stuff to my aunt,” I said. “She’ll take a crack at translating and get back to me.”

I didn’t mention the Anne Bonny portion of our conversation. I’d been teased enough for one day.

“How long will it take?” Shelton asked.

“No idea.”

“Seven to one?” Ben had finally found a game. “Man, the Cubs stink.”

“Yep.” Hi yawned. Then, “Oh! I almost forgot. My mother said something odd.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s true.” Shelton placed a hand on Hi’s shoulder. “You’re not the most handsome boy in school. Oh, burnsauce!”

“Hilarious. No, she said a strange car drove by the complex this afternoon.”

“You can’t drive by ,” I said. “This is the end of the world.”

“No argument here,” Hi replied. “But according to mommy dearest, a vehicle cruised up the driveway, idled a few minutes, then left. She almost called the cops.”

Ben fought a smirk. “Why?”

“You know Ruth,” Hi answered with a sigh. “She probably thinks the car was full of Al Qaeda operatives sent to exterminate the neighborhood watch.”

I didn’t like it. “Can you guys recall a car ever showing up out here by mistake?”

No one could.

“You can’t get that lost,” said Shelton. “Our townhomes are fifteen minutes from the last state road.”

“Most people don’t know anything is back here at all,” Ben agreed. “And a lost motorist would turn around long before crossing to Morris Island.”

“A delivery guy?” Hi offered. “Or someone’s guest? They could’ve called up, gotten no answer, then left.”

“Maybe it was local kids thinking they could drive all the way to the Morris beach,” Shelton offered.

“What type of car was it?” I asked.

“That’s the craziest part.” Hi sat forward, elbows on knees. “My mother is dead certain the car was a 1960 Studebaker Lark station wagon. Cherry red. She hadn’t seen one in decades. My grandfather apparently drove the same model.”

“That’s not a delivery vehicle,” Ben said.

I thought a moment. “What about the driver?”

“She didn’t get a good look. But whoever it was wore a fedora.”

“Stylin’,” Shelton cracked.

I didn’t like it. After dodging bullets in the tunnels last night, I felt as paranoid as Ruth. A strange car in the neighborhood was definitely cause for concern.

“Old-man car. Fedora.” Shelton tapped the side of his nose. “Sounds like Tory’s buddy Brincefield.”

“The thought crossed my mind,” I admitted. “But why would he come way out here?”

“Who knows?” Shelton said. “Why’d he show up for our ghost tour? Maybe he’s senile. Or a pervert.”

“That Marlo guy and his ogre buddy are just as creepy,” Hi said. “And they were stalking us today.”

“We don’t know they were following us,” Ben said. “Being downtown could’ve been a coincidence.”

Coincidences seemed to be piling up .

“What about Lonnie Bates?” Shelton asked.

“The pawnshop guy?” Ben seemed to consider the idea. “He was pretty pissed that we outmaneuvered him.”

Hi’s palms rose in a “who knows?” gesture.

Ben clicked off the baseball game. “If it’s sharing time, I’ve got news, too.”