Carla Neggers (11 page)

She pulled on her raincoat and headed outside. The sky had lightened, brightened, streaks of sunlight penetrating the mist and shining on the water. The tide was coming in, crashing onto the cobbles, boulders and steep rock faces that formed the coastline. The air was cool and rain-washed, invigorating, as Julianne smiled to herself and set off up the lane, away from the village. She knew from the map she’d consulted before leaving for Ireland that the lane didn’t loop all the way around Shepherd Head, but she had no idea how far it went before it dead-ended.

It didn’t matter, did it? She had nowhere else she had to be.

Transfixed by the view of sea, fields and sheep, Julianne let go of any of the lingering effects of her nightmare and resisted questions, speculation and worry. She wanted to be in this moment, aware of the sounds, smells, sights, even the taste, the feel, of the breeze on her face.

The lane curved away from the water, with fields and post-and-wire fences on both sides. After another fifteen minutes of walking, she came to a metal farm gate and thought this was the dead end. Then she saw that the lane narrowed—how that was possible was beyond her—and wound past the gate, back toward the water.

Irresistible,
Julianne thought, abandoning any thought of turning around just yet.

The field on the edge of the cliffs to her left gave way to a strip of windblown grass, the water a good fifty feet below. The lane deteriorated to a deeply rutted, stone-encrusted track. Despite the recent rains, she could make out partial tire marks in the mud and assumed they were from a tractor, not a car. She couldn’t imagine driving out here but could picture Sean Murphy on a tractor, tending his fields and sheep. Would he notice how beautiful the scenery was or did he take such a sight for granted?

A low stone wall appeared on the lane as it dipped between two small hills. Protected from the worst of the Atlantic winds, there was more greenery here. The stone wall was overgrown with small trees, moss, vines, ferns, rushes and wildflowers, most died back for the season. Above the lane, atop one of the hills, three worn-looking Celtic stone crosses were caught in the eerie shadow of a passing cloud.

Grave markers, Julianne thought with a mix of awe and a sudden sense of loneliness that she couldn’t quite explain. She knew next to nothing about Celtic crosses and such. Emma, as an art expert and a former nun, would know more. Julianne liked her, but Emma’s involvement with a Donovan complicated any potential for friendship. That was part of the problem, wasn’t it? Everyone in Rock Point was involved with a Donovan in one way or another.

She wished her thoughts hadn’t taken this direction. “Ireland,” she said aloud. “I’m walking on a pretty Irish lane on a pretty Irish morning.”

She pulled her gaze from the crosses and smiled, relishing everything about where she was. Walking and sunlight would help her adjust to the time change. Even if she were working the early shift at Hurley’s—which was
really
early, to accommodate the lobstermen—she wouldn’t be out of bed yet. Andy didn’t mind getting up before dawn.

She sucked in a breath at the unwanted image of him throwing off the blankets. Andy Donovan’s naked silhouette was
not
what she needed to be picturing on her Irish walk. She’d always assumed he knew how sexy he was, but during their brief, intense, utterly insane romance, she’d discovered he didn’t think about such things. He was unselfconscious about his looks, maybe the most practical, down-to-earth man she’d ever known. Since she was living with her grandmother, she hadn’t stayed with him overnight that often. Not that Granny didn’t get it. She got it all too well, and Julianne had avoided talking about her relationship with him. On some level, she must have known it wouldn’t last.

“Ireland,” she said again. “You are in Ireland.”

The narrowed lane came to an abrupt end at a crude turnaround nestled in the small hollow. A pale gray Mini was parked crookedly, its front bumper almost up against the stone wall. Julianne frowned. Someone had actually driven out here?

A sudden breeze whipped her hair into her face. She brushed it back, wishing now she’d left a note at her cottage describing where she was off to. She touched a holly leaf, glistening with last night’s rain. Her internship went into May. She’d be here for spring wildflowers and lambs, but she loved the feel of early November, the short days, the sense that winter was near. Father Bracken had said November was the best time for Irish rainbows.

“All of it’s good,” she whispered. “All good.”

She stepped closer to the car. It was well concealed from anyone up in the fields or below on the sea, or even out on the lane. She’d have missed it if she hadn’t walked right up to it. She peered through the passenger window. An iPhone was hooked up, and there was an unopened Diet Coke and water bottle in the drinks holder, as if the driver were geared up for a long drive. An overflowing, bright red tote bag was on the floor. Julianne was positive Lindsey had had a red tote bag in Maine.

Was this
her
car? Why come out here?

Surely the pits, ruts, sharp stones and dead end would deter even the most oblivious Irish driver. Maybe Lindsey had, in fact, gotten her dates wrong and had shown up at the airport this morning, then driven down to Declan’s Cross. She could have decided to kill some time to give her housemate a chance to get up and at it. Made sense, Julianne thought, but wouldn’t Lindsey have stopped at the farm gate, especially with the car? The lane obviously worsened there, and it was a good spot to turn around or admire the view.

Julianne stood straight, hands on hips, as she tried to figure out what to do next. Bits of vegetation clung to the Mini’s windshield and hood. They weren’t recent—not since daylight. The state of the tire tracks also suggested the car had been out here awhile, at least overnight. She went around to the driver’s side. She noticed footprints—or what was left of them—on the lane and a trail that led through the trees up to the top of the second hill. She didn’t see any prints returning back down to the lane and the car.

Was Lindsey up there? Had she camped out here overnight?

Balancing herself with one hand on a holly tree, Julianne tested the wet conditions on the trail. Not too slippery. She squeezed between the holly and another small tree. Another time, this would be a grand adventure. Right now, she felt uneasy, uncertain—but she continued up the steep, narrow trail.

She came to a barren rock ledge above an angled, rocky slope down to the water. She stood on the flat expanse of gray rock and looked out at the breathtaking view of sky, sea, cliffs and fields marked off with stone walls and barbed-wire fences.

Such an incredible spot. So beautiful.

To her right, the headland sloped down to a small, protected cove with a pebbled strand. Lindsey could have hiked down there, maybe, to explore a tide pool, check out a shore bird, wave to friends on a boat—anything.

Julianne felt her heartbeat quicken as she fought against a sudden, overwhelming sense of dread. “Lindsey,” she called, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Lindsey, are you out here?”

She heard only the wind and a few distant seagulls. She walked to the edge of the ledge. There was a ten-foot drop to the tumble of boulders that continued into the tide. Ordinarily the sound of waves crashing onto rocks would have soothed her, but now she only saw how dangerous this stretch of coastline could be for even an experienced hiker.

A flash of color caught her attention in the boulders below her.

Bright red, turquoise, yellow.

A cast-off scarf?

Lindsey...

Julianne squinted down at the black-and-gray rocks but saw nothing else out of the ordinary. The wind was steady, colder, with the tide coming in. Being from Maine, a marine biologist, she was no stranger to rocky coast, but she was always careful, always let someone know where she was, seldom went out alone—but she couldn’t leave now. She had to know if Lindsey was here and needed help. If she’d continued down the trail...lost her scarf in the rain and wind...

Julianne returned to the trail, which angled under the ledge and then zigzagged into the mass of rocks. Crouched low, focused on her footing, she followed the trail until it ended among several large boulders. She placed her hand on a waist-high boulder and looked for the brightly colored scarf.

She saw something poking out from the rocks below her and leaned forward for a closer look.

A black ankle boot...a dark gray pant leg...

No sign of movement.

Julianne’s breath caught in her throat, her mind resisting what she was seeing, if only for a moment, but she knew it had to be Lindsey down on the rocks.

Steadying herself, Julianne glanced up at the ledge but no one was there. She could scream for help, but who would hear her? No one was on the rocks, out on the water, down on the strand. Taking another breath, she steeled herself for what was next. She had to make sure Lindsey—or whoever was down there—was beyond help.

Julianne stayed low and crept down toward the water—toward the unmoving foot. She concentrated on the smell of salt in the air, the cold spray of the tide, until she finally stopped in a narrow crevice between two craggy, wet boulders. She bit down on her lower lip, controlling her emotions.

A woman was sprawled facedown between two large boulders. She had on the same black jacket she’d worn in Rock Point. Her hand lay palm up, discolored and still.

There was no doubt now she was dead.

“Oh, Lindsey.”

Julianne suppressed a surge of revulsion, panic and grief. She had to stay focused and do what she could to alert the proper authorities. Her hands shaking, she got out her phone. She had a single bar of service. It wasn’t much better than no service at all. She couldn’t think of the Irish version of 911 and wasn’t sure she could get a call out, anyway.

Maybe a text.

Andy’s number popped up since he’d texted her last but what good would it do to text him in Maine? She had Colin’s cell number somewhere. Her hands were splotchy with the cold as she found him in her contacts and typed:
Call police. Lindsey is dead. We’re on rocks at end of lane past cottage
.

She hit Send. She had no idea if the message would go through. She didn’t want to leave Lindsey—it felt somehow as if she were abandoning her—but she had to make sure help was on the way.

As she started up toward the trail, she lost her footing and banged her knee on a sharp rock. She caught herself, scraping her wrist on another rock, but at least she hadn’t hit her head. Fighting tears, she forced herself to slow her pace. She’d take her time and yell for help, in case anyone could hear her.

There was, after all, nothing anyone could do for Lindsey Hargreaves.

11

“I LIKE SHEEP
well enough,” Sean said as he arrived at the gate out the lane, almost at the tip of Shepherd Head. He’d walked from the farmhouse. His uncle had taken the tractor. They had fences to repair. Sean grinned at him. “What’s not to like?”

Paddy grunted. He wore his wool jacket and cap, his standard attire for a cool, relatively dry day no matter the time of year
.
Although he was slowing down, he was still fit and agile into his seventies, and as clearheaded as ever. “I can think of a few things,” he muttered.

“Ah, Paddy, what don’t you like about sheep after all these years at them?”

Paddy paused by the tractor, white hair poking out from under his cap, the sunlight showing the lines in his face. “You’re right. I’ve no complaints. Farming is good work. Imagine me in a factory.”

“I can’t. Myself, either.”

It was an ongoing discussion—a friendly argument, even—about the positive and negative attributes of sheep farming, and Sean’s aptitude for it. They’d been at it since Sean was a boy and Paddy had told him he wasn’t cut out for a life of farming.
“I can see it in your eyes, lad,”
he’d say. Sean would argue that he loved the farm, but Paddy would say it wasn’t a question of love. He couldn’t see his nephew staying in Declan’s Cross, doing much the same work day after day, year after year.

His uncle had been right, at least for a time.

The rhythms of the farm hadn’t changed since Paddy was a boy—since
his
father was a boy. One year was much like the next. Sometimes there was too much rain, or too little, and sometimes it was warmer or cooler, but the rams were still separated from the ewes in early fall and reunited again in November, with lambs born in the spring.

Paddy was eyeing him. “We’re fixing a fence. Why the garda look?”

“Habit.”

“Having FBI agents in town doesn’t help, does it?”

“They’re friends of Finian Bracken.”

“Right,” Paddy said, heaving a deep sigh. “That one.”

Sean knew his uncle considered Fin Bracken a tragic soul, a man destined to live out his days in grief and misery. The priesthood, Maine— In Paddy Murphy’s view, Fin was running away.

Sean pulled work gloves out of his jacket pockets. “The woman agent is Emma Sharpe,” he said.

Paddy’s eyebrows went up. “Sharpe, eh?”

“She’s Wendell Sharpe’s granddaughter.”

The old man shuddered as if Wendell Sharpe had returned to Declan’s Cross with new questions about the O’Byrne art theft—an investigation that stubbornly refused to be pieced together. Sean knew there was more to it than the one theft ten years ago. He doubted anyone else in Declan’s Cross did.

“I see now why you have that sour look,” Paddy said. “Don’t worry about me, lad. I can handle myself with a Sharpe.”

“I’ve no doubt. It’s just an odd set of coincidences that she’s here.”

“What about this other FBI agent?”

“Colin Donovan’s his name. He and Emma are together. They’re also friends with Julianne Maroney.”

“The biologist. She seems all right. Pretty girl. She likes the cottage?”

“Seems to,” Sean said.

“Philip helped get it ready yesterday. He’s a good lad. He’s got a backbone.” Paddy kicked a chunk of dried mud off his boot. “You know he’s the son you and Kitty could have had—”

“Let’s get these fences fixed, Paddy.”

“It’s hard for Kitty, having you here,” he said.

Sean grinned at him. “Hard for Kitty? What about me? I’m the one who was nearly killed.”

Paddy shrugged. “Broken bones can be easier to mend than a broken heart.”

Sean decided to wait to put on his gloves and shoved them back in his pockets, wishing now he’d left Paddy in the barn and gone out to fix the fences on his own. “I didn’t break Kitty’s heart.”

“She broke yours?”

“It’s not that simple.” He wasn’t discussing his love life—or lack of a love life—with his uncle. “Let’s get on with it.” He gestured down the lane. “We’ll start at the fence break out by the church and work our way back here.”

Sean had noticed the breaks when he’d been out this way on Saturday. There were no sheep in that particular field and wouldn’t be until spring, but best to take advantage of the cooperating weather and get the job done while it wasn’t urgent. It was a fine, clear, breezy morning, perfect for any sort of farm work.

Paddy got back on the tractor. That it was still running was a testament to his care over the years for his farm and its equipment. Padraig Murphy was also well known in Declan’s Cross and among local farmers for his frugality. A thing that could still be repaired wasn’t replaced, no matter how rusted, creaky and old. Paddy liked to say he felt that way about himself, too.

As Sean started past the gate, he noticed fresh footprints as the lane narrowed. Tourists sometimes walked up this way from the village, although not as often this time of year. They were attracted by the cliffs and views of the sea and surrounding countryside, some also by the atmospheric ruins of a small church and its graveyard, with their promise of ghosts and wee people. Julianne Maroney, being a scientist, might be of a more pragmatic nature, but Irish ruins, ghosts and wee people were tough to resist.

A breeze floated up from the water, carrying with it the cold of the season. Sean walked ahead of Paddy on the tractor. The footprints—recent from the look of them—continued down the lane with none returning. He assumed Julianne Maroney was out for a morning stroll.

Stone walls appeared on both sides of the lane as it wound toward the old church ruin and graveyard. Sean paused when he heard what sounded like a scream but might have only been the whistle of the wind. He motioned for Paddy to hold up on the tractor.

There it was again. Definitely a scream.

A woman yelling for help.

Paddy was already off the tractor. “Did you hear that, Sean?”

“I did. I’ll have a look, but I need you to stay with me.”

“All right, lad.”

Sean picked up his pace, his uncle keeping up with him. They came to a gray Mini. Sean felt the cold and dampness in the shadows of the small hollow.

He couldn’t hear any screaming now.

He peered into the car’s front window. It looked to be Lindsey Hargreaves’ Mini. It had been here awhile. Was she the woman he’d heard yelling for help? Then whose footprints had he seen?

“What’s going on, Sean?” Paddy asked behind him.

“I don’t know. I need to find out.”

“Help!”

They both turned, looking up through the trees to the ledge above them. The cry sounded as if it had come from the other side of the ledge, down by the water.

“Can anyone hear me?” The words were distinct, unmistakable. “I need help. A woman’s dead.”

Sean gritted his teeth. He didn’t have his phone with him. No point since there was no service out here. He grabbed his uncle’s arm. “Do not move from my side. Clear?”

The old man shook his head. “Best I take the tractor back to the house and call the gardai. I can defend myself if it comes to it.” He glanced up the hill, as grim as Sean had ever seen him. “Which one do you think is gone? Lindsey or Julianne?”

“Lindsey,” Sean said.

Paddy nodded. “More than likely the poor woman tripped on the rocks. Either way, Sean, we need to get the gardai up here.”

Sean didn’t disagree. “All right. Go. Do as they say.”

Paddy fastened his watery blue eyes on him. “Be careful, lad.”

Sean wasn’t worried about himself but said nothing more. He charged across the lane and up the trail. He knew it well. He glanced down at the lane. Paddy was already back on the tractor. It would take him a while to get to the house. Sean continued up the trail, taking long strides, feeling no pain from his June injuries. When he hit the open ledge, a cold, hard wind was blowing off the water. He ignored it and squinted down at the rocky coastline.

Julianne Maroney waved up at him. She was crouched, as if trying to maintain her balance on the wet rocks, against the wind.

He called down to her. “Are you hurt?”

“Not really. It’s Lindsey.” Julianne gulped in air, obviously trying to control her emotions. “She must have fallen and hit her head.”

“Where is she?”

Julianne pointed to boulders below her. “Down there.”

“Don’t move. I’ll come to you.”

Sean sprinted back to the trail and jumped down to the rocks. The sun was higher in the sky, promising a glorious day. He moved fast but not recklessly. This was familiar ground. He’d explored out here countless times, as far back as he could remember. He’d never thought twice about breaking his neck.

What the devil had happened? What had Lindsey been doing out here?

He dropped down to Julianne. She was sitting on a knee-high boulder now, a bloody tear in her hiking pants, a red, raw scrape on her wrist. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

She was ashen, shivering with cold and shock. “I fell but it’s nothing,” she said, visibly trying to steady herself. “Lindsey... I know first aid, but it’s too late. She’s been dead at least a day—”

“Easy now.”

“I texted Colin to call the police. I don’t know if the text went through. I’m sure he and Emma are still at the hotel.” Her voice was subdued, her eyes huge as she looked up at him. “You heard me yelling for help?”

“I was out to fix a fence. My uncle was with me. He’s gone for help.” Sean touched her shoulder. “Can you sit tight here? I want to have a look—”

She didn’t let him finish. “No problem.”

She was warm enough, Sean realized. Her shivering was primarily from the shock of discovering a body—a woman she knew. He trusted her assessment of the situation but needed to check for himself. He scanned the mass of rocks and spotted a bright bit of fabric, then a foot—a woman’s unmoving foot.

He hopped from boulder to boulder, and when he reached Lindsey, he understood Julianne’s certainty. The position of her neck, the color of her exposed skin—no question she was gone. He would do his best to limit any further contamination of the scene. There would be a proper investigation to ascertain the cause, manner and circumstances of Lindsey Hargreaves’ death.

All the gardai could do now was get her back to her family and provide them answers as to what had happened to her. From the condition of her body, Sean estimated she’d been out here, dead, for a time—more than twenty-four hours. The medical examiner would be more precise. He saw no visible sign she’d been shot, stabbed or bludgeoned, but he didn’t want to disturb the body.

Best to leave her for the gardai.

Sean stood, glancing around the area for signs of how Lindsey had ended up here. She hadn’t washed ashore. That much he knew. He saw the bright fabric again and realized it was a scarf, wedged among the rocks above her. Blown up there before, during or after her death? He looked for impact marks on the rocks, drag marks, mud, other clothing—hers, someone else’s—and anything else that might suggest what had happened, but nothing caught his eye.

At a guess, Lindsey had broken her neck in some kind of fall. A wrong step hopping from boulder to boulder? She’d have had to have been going at a fast clip and gone flying. More likely, she’d gone off the ledge.

How’d that happened? What’d she been doing up there?

Once airborne, she could have struck the flat-topped boulder three meters below the ledge and her momentum then propelled her down here. As boys, he and his friends had jumped off the ledge a time or two. Stupid and dangerous, maybe, but they’d had no problem at all. If Lindsey had lost her footing in the wet conditions on the ledge, if she’d had too much to drink, if she’d hit just right, he supposed it was possible to have ended up here, dead, as the result of an unfortunate, freak accident.

Had someone pushed her off the ledge? Had she jumped with the intention of killing herself?

Sean shook his head. “Not a suicide,” he said aloud. If she’d wanted to commit suicide, there were more certain methods to do the job than a free fall off this particular ledge. Why not off a sheer cliff straight into the ocean? If she’d been impaired by alcohol or drugs, she might have meant to make a straight, clean, drop into the water, but that seemed unlikely to him.

Not that it was his call to make.

Below him, high tide crashed onto boulders and cobbles, its rhythms untouched by the tragedy. A tragedy, he noted, that had occurred on the boundary of the Murphy farm. Garda though he was, he was nonetheless in the thick of a woman’s untimely death.

He climbed back up to Julianne, sitting on her boulder, squinting out at the glistening sea, teeth chattering. He got down to eye level with her. “I’m sorry you had to see this,” he said.

She gave a dull nod. “I’m sorry it happened.”

“Are you all right staying here until the gardai arrive? I’ll stay with you.”

“They’re the police, right? The gardai.”

“That’s right,” Sean said.

“I’m fine staying right here.” She seemed to make a physical effort to pull herself out of her thoughts. “Just trying to get my teeth to stop chattering. It’s nerves. I’m not cold.” She sniffled, licked her lips. “The view—it’s really an incredible spot. Is this where you saw your whale?”

“It is.” Sean stood straight and pointed at her injured wrist. “Is there a chance you broke a bone?”

She gave a tight shake of her head. “I just scraped it on a rock when I tried to catch my balance. If Colin got my message—would he and Emma have a role here, since Lindsey was American?”

“No, a death investigation is handled locally.”

Julianne raised her eyes to him, fear in them. “If it was murder?” She inhaled deeply. “Never mind. Sorry. You must be as out of your element as I am.”

Sean didn’t think this was the moment to explain his professional situation. “One thing at a time, okay?”

She shifted and again stared out at the sea. “Did she suffer, do you think?”

“I don’t think so,” he said truthfully. “I understand you didn’t know her well, but are you aware if she had any health problems?”

“Something that could have caused her to fall off a ledge, you mean? I’m not aware of anything wrong with her—emotionally, either, in case you’re thinking she might have committed suicide.”