How to Snare a Dodgy Heir: A Mags and Biddy Genealogy Mystery, #2

By Eliza Watson

A Mags and Biddy Genealogy Mystery, Book 2

 

From USA Today bestselling author and family historian Eliza Watson!

After inheriting her grandmother's cottage, Mags Murray moves from the States to rural Ireland to embark on a new life. Her odd seasonal jobs won't pay for the needed repairs on her home, so Mags is determined to become a full-time genealogist, following in her grandmother's footsteps. She starts by organizing a DNA support group that encourages members to share research tips and provide moral support to frustrated family historians.

Mags soon lands her first client, but not the kind she'd expected. A group member, Aidan, hires Mags to find a stolen family heirloom—a valuable unpublished manuscript written by a famous Irish author. Shortly after hiring her, Aidan also turns up missing. His brother hires Mags and her sidekick, Biddy, to find both Aidan and the manuscript. He guarantees them a cut of the manuscript's sale price. Rather than spending the money on an exotic trip as she would have in the past, Mags dreams of buying a shiny new riding lawn mower and a fuel tank.

Will the money they stand to make be worth the risk of uncovering a dark family secret and chasing down forgers, an ex-con, and other dodgy suspects?

*Genealogy research tips included.*

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eliza Watson
• Release date: Apr 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781950786060

Book preview

One

Day one. I already wanted to disband my DNA support group.

I think we should be signing confidentiality agreements, Cynical Sophie said. I don’t want anyone repeating what I’ve shared here. Haven’t even told my family.

Aidan, a lanky brown-haired guy in a blue Spider-Man T-shirt, looked confused. About your biological mum being a pole dancer, ya mean?

"I said she survived colon cancer. See, not even the correct gossip might be spread. Typical man, half listening."

I did a mental eyeroll, reining in my frustration.

My best friend, Biddy McCarthy, glared at the woman, looking intimidating despite her Scooby-Doo pediatric nurse’s scrubs and dark-blond ponytail. Everyone here agreed to respect others’ privacy. We’re not signing confidentiality agreements. If you’re afraid someone is going to blab private information, don’t share it.

Hmph, the woman muttered.

Biddy’s uncle Seamus gave me a bright smile and a wave from behind the bar, where he was chatting with a customer. The short elderly man wore his typical navy suit and a green tweed Guinness cap. While Biddy’s parents were cruising the Greek Isles celebrating their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary, her aunt Violet was managing the pub. When business was slow, Violet hung out in the McCarthy’s back residence watching Coronation Street while her husband, Seamus, sat out front waiting for visitors. Biddy had two uncles named Seamus. Seamus the cardiologist had died of a heart attack, whereas Seamus the farmer had survived being kicked in the head by a donkey. I’d felt awful when I learned about Seamus’s accident. However, he was undoubtedly the happiest person I’d ever met.

Life was weird.

I snatched the stick off the table and waved it in the air. The piece of kindling from the fireplace hearth represented a family tree branch and commanded silence.

Any hints for getting someone to respond to a message on ancestry sites? I was not only attempting to get the discussion back on track, I was disheartened that a second-cousin DNA match in Cornwall, England, hadn’t replied to my two messages over the past few months. He might hold clues to my biological father’s identity. While impatiently waiting for his response, I’d sent my saliva to two more DNA companies.

Rosie Connolly, an older woman, stopped knitting. "I’ll be telling ya what not to say. ‘What do you know about your Wright ancestors? Cheers.’ That was it. Such a rude lad. You should start out by stating that you’d love to learn your relationship. Offer to share information rather than demanding it."

I nodded enthusiastically. Great point. And we were back on track.

Sophie eyed Rosie. "Haven’t shared why you took a DNA test."

Rosie looked taken aback. I haven’t had one done. My cousin gave me an Ancestry.com subscription for Christmas.

That’s what my granny gave me, along with the DNA test, Aidan said. Had hoped for a tournament dartboard.

I love a good mystery, Rosie said. I’m brilliant at solving them. I find this whole DNA thing simply fascinating.

Cynical Sophie rolled her eyes.

Rosie’s porcelain cheeks flushed the color of her pink pressed dress. The woman always looked like she’d just stepped out of a 1950s family TV show. She glanced over at me. Not required to have taken a test to participate, am I?

Of course not. My glare warned Sophie to back off.

I’d encouraged the lonely woman to attend. I was a bit protective of Rosie. We’d met three months ago when I was investigating a hit-and-run accident that had landed Finn O’Brien in intensive care. A man I’d helped to identify his biological father and whom I’d come to have a slight crush on. I’d been certain Rosie’s widowed daughter-in-law had run Finn off the road believing he was the result of her husband’s affair. However, it turned out Grumpy Gretta was guilty—the woman who’d treated Biddy and me like criminals for unwittingly uprooting her daffodils when we were eight.

"Anyone else have something positive to add?" I asked.

I’m going to be on the telly. Aidan smiled proudly. "Rags to Riches Roadshow. Filmed the episode yesterday in Dublin."

And once again we were off topic.

Biddy’s blue eyes lit up. Ah, fair play to ya. What did you have appraised?

An unpublished manuscript written by my second great-grandfather’s brother, Brendan Quigley. Has been passed down generations.

Hadn’t a clue your family was related to Brendan Quigley, Biddy said, having gone to school with Aidan, who was twenty-eight, two years older than Biddy and me.

Oh my—Rosie placed a hand to her pearl necklace—I do love Brendan Quigley. How did your family acquire such a treasure?

Aidan shrugged. In exchange for some land a century ago.

How much was it appraised at? Biddy asked.

A half-million euros.

Sophie grunted in disgust.

Janey Mac! Biddy about sprang from her chair. A half-million quid? Would be like winning the lotto. Could be buying a vacation home in Spain.

The value depends on the demand at the time of sale, Aidan said. Could be twice that if it goes into a bidding war.

Or half that if nobody wants it, Sophie said.

We all gave her the evil eye.

Items have been known to sell for much over the appraisal once the segment airs. Though I won’t be selling it. Been in our family for generations and will be passing it down.

I’d kill to have an ancestor’s handwritten letter or even a grocery list. I’d certainly never sell a manuscript written by one.

Did that handsome fella appraise it? Rosie asked.

Biddy swooned. The one who looks like a young Sean Connery?

Rosie nodded.

Aidan shook his head. No, he appraises artwork, I believe.

Ah, that’s right, Biddy said. Too bad. I’m half tempted to buy some yoke at a thrift shop just to meet the fella.

My brother operates an antique store, Rosie said. We could certainly borrow an item from there if we were to get on the show.

Brilliant, Biddy said.

I held up the stick, glaring at Biddy. Whacking her with it would likely scare away the few members I had. Also, as soon as she’d gotten home from work, I’d roped her into attending the meeting to bump up my numbers. Even though I’d posted flyers at every business in a twenty-mile radius, only seven people had signed up for the group and only three had shown, besides Biddy and me. If it were held in Dublin rather than rural Westmeath—where I lived and had access to free meeting space—I’d likely get better attendance.

Back on track. Next meeting, I was bringing a gavel!

Of course. So sorry. Rosie peered over at Aidan. I have several Brendan Quigley novels. If I bring one, might ya autograph it?

How was that on track?

Sophie rolled her eyes again. Not like he’s the man himself. Going on about a bloody relative dead for a hundred years.

Weren’t dead people what genealogy was all about?

He died in 1953. Far from a hundred years. Rosie looked pleased with herself for correcting the nasty woman.

You’re merely jealous because ya found out your ancestor was sent off to Australia on a convict ship, Aidan told Sophie.

I raised the stick. Again, if everyone can’t be positive, helpful, and courteous, this will be our first and last meeting.

Rosie nodded. Maybe we should start meeting twice a week. See if that helps.

This wasn’t a group therapy session.

If it was, I’d certainly start charging.

It was meant to be an opportunity for people to share insight into DNA research and provide moral support to frustrated family historians. Establishing the group looked great on my new website advertising my genealogy services. It had been Finn’s and my idea. He hadn’t attended the inaugural event because he was in the US visiting his mother with his newfound biological father. Even if he’d been in the country, his home in Wexford was a two-hour-and-thirty-three-minute drive to my house in the Midlands.

I called a ten-minute break and headed to the bar.

Seamus perked up on the stool behind the bar. How’s the craic? Fancy a pint, would ye?

I shook my head. I better stick with tea.

The older man talking with Seamus while eating his lunch smiled at me. Brilliant movie. He gestured to my gray souvenir sweatshirt from Tombstone, Arizona.

‘Why, Johnny Ringo, you look like somebody just walked over your grave.’ I delivered the Doc Holliday movie quote on my shirt with a perfect western drawl. The most genealogy-related shirt I owned, it’d seemed appropriate for my first DNA meeting. "I worked at the Bird Cage in Tombstone for a bit. I could quote every famous line from the movies Tombstone and Wyatt Earp by the time I left. Probably still can."

The man chuckled. Fair play to ya. The place is still open, then?

It’s a museum. Has a lot of the original furnishings, like the poker table, and over a hundred bullet holes.

That’d be something to see. He shook his head in amazement. You’re Maggie Fitzsimmons’s granddaughter, aren’t ya?

I nodded, smiling. Mags Murray.

Andy Dougherty. You’re a spitting image of your grandmother.

Besides inheriting Grandma’s name, I had her blue eyes and heart-shaped face. In her younger years, she’d had my chestnut-colored hair. I also had Grandma’s ability to not take myself too seriously. One of her favorite Irish sayings was Life is like a cup of tea—it’s all in how you make it.

Was sorry to hear about her passing at Christmastime. Was a lovely lady. Been repairing the bricks on her front wall for years. I see several burst again this past winter.

Two weeks ago, when I’d returned from a three-month caretaker job at a Maine B and B closed for the winter season, fragments of bricks were scattered on the front lawn.

That happens every year? I asked.

Aye, water gets inside ’em during winter. When it freezes, the bricks expand and burst. Was a dodgy lot of bricks that fella used. Maggie never should have been paying him for the job. I could be fixin’ ’em for ya.

Thanks, but I’m a bit strapped for cash. I think I’m going to super glue them.

The guy looked at me like I was completely daft. That won’t be working. They’re too porous.

What do you recommend?

Replacing ’em. His scowl softened. Weirs in Castleroche might carry an adhesive. Make sure ya be buying the one suited for colder temperatures and damp bricks.

Why would they even sell another kind in Ireland?

I had six grand left in the bank from the caretaker job. With all the needed repairs on Grandma’s—or rather my—cottage, I’d blow through it by summer. And that was just the repairs I was aware of. I really needed to make this genealogist job work.

Cynical Sophie flew from her chair, arguing with Aidan. That’s it. I’m done with this group. As she stalked out of the pub, Rosie, Biddy, and Aidan clapped.

Hopefully, keeping Grandma’s house wouldn’t turn out to be as big of a mistake as this DNA support group.

Two

With one swift pull on the cord, Biddy drew up a living room blind. A sheep stared in at us with beady brown eyes. I let out a startled squeal.

Sorry about that, Biddy said. Wonder how the fella keeps getting out of the fenced-in area.

"No clue, but you’re getting him back in it. I yanked the cord, and the blind dropped back down, the sheep vanishing. Out of sight, out of mind. Your cousin did kind of a shoddy job building the temporary fence back there."

Following an extremely wet winter, the grass was so long, Grandma’s push mower had died from exhaustion. One more expense added to my list. Biddy’s cousin had offered several of his sheep to graze in the backyard until the grass was at a more manageable length.

Not only are they helping with the mowing but helping ya get over your fear of sheep, Biddy said.

When I was eleven, an escaped sheep had chased me up the road and inside McCarthy’s pub. A story I still hadn’t lived down. Yet I was in no hurry to purchase a mower, which cost twice as much in Ireland as it did in the States.

Pinky and I are getting along quite well. The sheep with a pink splash of dye on its wool had been dining on grass in Grandma’s front lawn for years. Not sure how I’m going to mow with sheep poop flying all over the place.

Maybe my cousin would be willing to leave them here through the summer. Biddy threw on her green fleece rugby jacket. I’ll chase him back in. She headed through the conservatory and outside.

Biddy had only lasted a week as my live-in caretaker, because of the cold. To keep the heat above fifty degrees, she’d had to refill the damaged fuel tank the day after I’d left for Maine. Neither of us had the funds for weekly fuel deliveries. Now spring, there was no use replacing the tank until fall. A new fuel tank ran around a thousand euros—twelve hundred bucks. Then there’d be the added cost of buying more than a hundred liters of fuel at a time. And was it wise to buy a new tank without having a shed built to protect it? A thief might once again drill a hole near the bottom of the tank and empty it. Not that I didn’t have plenty of wine corks to plug the hole. However, that should be a temporary fix rather than a permanent one.

Prior to my return home, Tommy Lynch had fixed the radiators at no cost. His service was in exchange for me not pressing charges against his wife, Gretta, who’d whacked me on the head with her purse, knocking me out cold. Her brutal act had been to prevent me from identifying her as the driver who’d put Finn in the ER. Tommy had also paid my emergency room bill. The nasty woman ended up with a thousand community service hours for having left the scene of Finn’s car accident, which she’d unintentionally caused.

I threw more peat on the fire in the green cast-iron stove tucked into the brick fireplace. The way I blew through peat, it might be cheaper to buy fuel. The thermostat was set at twelve degrees centigrade, fifty-six Fahrenheit. I wrapped a fleece blanket around me, adding another layer to my blue wool sweater and Tombstone sweatshirt.

Biddy returned.

That was quick.

She smiled proudly. Think I missed my calling as a sheepherder. She shrugged off her coat and plopped down onto the overstuffed red couch. Can’t believe proper Rosie is such a Brendan Quigley fan. Had to read one of his books in school. Gave me nightmares for weeks. Was more than a bit dark.

I’d never even heard of him. Guess he wasn’t as big of a success in the US.

"It worries me that he was all the rage here. Biddy shuddered. She snagged my résumé off the cocktail table and scanned her notes. A smaller font and margins would reduce it from four pages to three."

Any smaller and it won’t be readable. Besides, it’s going to take more than a tiny font to get it down to one page, two at the most.

Having had twenty-two jobs in seven years will make that a wee bit difficult. Make sure your cover letter emphasizes your diverse background, preparing them for your résumé.

If I keep working seasonal jobs until I can make a career as a genealogist, my résumé will be even longer.

"How about only listing jobs that reflect your most transferable skills? And it needs a bit of embellishing. Like station clerk for that narrow-gauge railroad in Colorado. Did anyone else work in that station?"

I shook my head. It was the size of a shed.

"Then you were the manager. She scratched out the old title and added my promotion. You were in charge of cleaning the loos. Say you were in charge of sanitation."

Sounds like I worked for a garbage company.

How about in charge of public health conditions at the facility?

I nodded. "Write that down. To account for the time off in between jobs I’ll say