Page 47 of Death at Inishmore Castle

Maximillian the accountant was up on the hill talking to someone on his cell phone. It seemed to be quite an animated conversation, and I wondered what it was about.

“Some of the roses are more than four hundred years old, and we take great pride in keeping the various species growing.”

Along with my sister, Sally was taking pictures of everything. Her husband appeared bored.

“If you have any questions, I’m happy to answer them,” Jim said.

“Where did you work before you came here?” I asked.

His head snapped back as if I’d slapped him. Then his eyes narrowed. “That’s a strange question,” he said. “Do you want my CV?”

Everyone around us chuckled.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sound rude. I’m just curious because you’re so knowledgeable about everything here. You remind me more of a professor at a university.”

Oh my. That sounded even ruder.

He chuckled, as though he found that the funniest joke ever.

“I’ve been cultivating gardens since I was a wee one,” he said. “My da said to understand the world and our place in it, we must study our environments and the land. We need to respect the natural world if we are to learn from it.”

Again, he was very articulate, but I noticed he didn’t answer my question.

“I’m just truly impressed by everything you’ve done here. The grounds are gorgeous.”

He nodded. “Thank you. Does anyone else have questions?”

A few people did, and he answered them.

“Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you back to the house for your next class.”

“I wish I had someone like him at home,” Sally said. “We have some yard guys, but they haven’t trained like him.”

“Did he say he was trained? I missed that.”

“Well, no. I don’t think so. But he certainly knows a lot about the place and its history. I can’t wait to get back to the castle and go online. I want to research plants that are native to our area in Tennessee.”

“Since when are you into gardening? Other than having flowers for the house,” her husband asked. “I thought shopping was your main hobby.”

She playfully slapped at his shoulder. “A woman can have more than one creative outlet. Besides, I keep telling you clothes and purses are art forms. Every piece I buy is a piece of art.”

He sighed. “Says you.”

“Stop. You can’t talk. You have your toy trains and military war stuff.”

“They aren’t toys,” he said under his breath. “They are collectibles.”

“Same thing,” she argued.

“You’ll notice the plantings directly around the estate are more colorful,” Jim interrupted the bickering couple. “That is Mrs. O’Sullivan’s doing. She thought the bright colors would liven up the stone exterior. She designed them so there is color even through our winter months and we use indigenous plants.”

Was there anything Nora wasn’t good at? She could bake, make lace and was obviously skilled in gardening.

I could write. But that’s about where my talents stopped. Well, except, I make a mean cup of coffee. That was something I had to learn when I was a struggling writer because I couldn’t afford to go to coffee shops. Now, I owned a machine at home that made the best coffee I’d ever tasted.

And during emergencies, like when our power had gone out, Matt down at the local pub was quite the barista, and they hadbackup generators. The power grid was something we’d learned to live with in Ireland. A strong wind, and they were aplenty, could knock out parts of our town sometimes for an entire day. It was something that Lolly and Rob, who were on the town’s council, were looking in to. They were exploring solar energy, which I thought was brilliant.

As people went through the back door into the kitchen, I waited.

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