Page 34 of Road Trip
“She didn’t answer. Not that I expected her to. And I deliberately didn’t mention the portrait. It’s probably a pretty touchy subject with the family.”
Still keeping her eyes on the road, Maeve handed her sister the file folder she’d compiled containing tourism brochures, maps, restaurant recommendations, and relevant news articles that she’d researched.
“Look at the printout on the top of the stack,” she commanded.
Therese read the headline out loud.
IRA HEIST AT IRISH MANSION: MILLIONS IN ART STOLEN IN DARING RAID.
“Whaaaat?” Therese exclaimed. “What kind of art? When was this?”
“Read the article.”
“I can’t. This print is tiny. And the ink’s faded. Plus, I think I left my reading glasses on the plane. Just give me theReader’s Digestcondensed version.”
“This happened back in the mid-1970s. Back when the previous Lord and Lady Rossington still lived in the house, and they had hot and cold running servants. This was during what the Irish call the Troubles, back when the IRA was waging guerilla war against English rule. The Rossingtons were in their study one night, listening to chamber music or whatever the hell English aristocracy did back then, when they heard someone banging on the door to the servants’ entrance. The butler answers the door and this young womanwho’s babbling in something like French tells him her car’s broken down and she needs help.
“Then, suddenly, three masked gunmen burst into the house. They make the butler take them to the owners, tie everyone up, ransack the place, and make off with eleven priceless paintings. A Goya, a Turner landscape, a Vermeer, a Rembrandt etching…”
“And a portrait of Lady Geraldine by a famous artist,” Therese guessed.
“Bingo. A day later, they receive a letter demanding two million pounds in ransom money—plus the release of two IRA terrorists who’re being held in a jail in Belfast for a bombing that killed four people.”
“Fascinating. Keep talking,” Therese said.
Maeve pointed at the map on her phone screen. “Okay, but there’s a haha coming up in a couple miles and I need you to tell me which road to take.”
“What the French toast? What’s a haha?”
“I had to look it up too. It’s like a roundabout, or a rotary, which is what they call them in England. We need to take the second exit. Don’t let me miss it.”
As they approached the intersection, Maeve bit her lower lip, trying to concentrate on not careening into a huge truck coming from the opposite direction.
“Turn here! Turn left!” Therese screeched. She grabbed for the steering wheel, but Maeve slapped her hand away.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Maeve somehow maneuvered onto the correct exit. She clutched at her chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“You almost got me skewered by an eighteen-wheeler,” Therese retorted.
“Don’t ever do anything like that again,” Maeve said, her teeth gritted.
They rode in silence for a few miles.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” Maeve asked.
“Are you going to tell me about the art heist or not? Did they get the paintings back?”
“The thieves weren’t exactly rocket scientists,” Maeve said. “The police mounted a massive manhunt. They found the group’s ringleader—the woman who was speaking in faux French—in a rented cottage up in the mountains. Her lover had gone into the village to buy some fish and chips. They found most of the paintings in the trunk of her car and two more hidden in the house. The cops arrested the lover when he got back to the house, but the lookout evaded arrest until later.”
“You said ‘most.’ What happened to the rest? Were they recovered? What about Lady Geraldine?”
“Local lore says that the paintings were buried, somewhere up in the mountains.”
“And Lady Geraldine?” Therese persisted.
“The stories I’ve read don’t mention her either way.”
