Carla Neggers (14 page)

“Is he violent, Granddad?”

His incisive blue eyes had raised to her.
“Not yet.”

A rabbit hopped across the lawn below the O’Byrne terrace, and Emma got up, wondering if the thief had stood in this very spot. If only the stones and bushes could talk. The rabbit paused and stared at her. “And the rabbits, too,” Emma said with a smile.

She decided to call her grandfather from in front of the fire, and as she headed to the French doors, she noticed that her rabbit had disappeared under a hydrangea.

13

COLIN HAD BEEN
involved in more death investigations in his marine patrol days than he cared to remember, and he suspected Sean Murphy had been involved in his share, too. The gardai were still on scene, doing the painstaking work of documenting Lindsey Hargreaves’ last minutes. Sean had accepted Colin’s offer to drop him off. The Murphy farmhouse was warm, cozy and old—not as old as Fin Bracken’s Kerry cottage but old enough.

“It’s my uncle’s house,” Sean said as they entered the kitchen. “He and my aunt never had children. She’s gone to God now. I was raised in the bungalow where Julianne is staying. Paddy and I turned it into a holiday home a few years ago.”

“Your uncle’s the old guy on the decrepit tractor?”

Sean smiled. “That’s him. He’s gone home now.”

“He doesn’t live here?”

“He has an apartment in the village.” Sean lifted a bottle of Kilbeggan 18 off the top shelf of an old-fashioned hutch, its pine wood painted dark green. “Whiskey?”

“I’ll wait, thanks.”

He placed the Kilbeggan on the table in the center of the kitchen and got down a glass from an open shelf. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He set the glass on the table and uncorked the bottle. “They say FBI agents are on the job all the time. Rather like farmers, wouldn’t you say? Something we have in common, then.”

Colin couldn’t read the Irishman’s mood. “I suspect we have more in common than that. How long have you been on leave?”

“June. Injured on the job. I’m more farmer these days than garda.” He splashed whiskey into his glass and raised it to Colin.
“Sláinte.”

Colin glanced around at the mishmash of shelves and cupboards, the scarred pine table, unmatched painted chairs, pots and pans on hooks, dog dishes by a back door. Practical, functional. An old range that looked as if it was a heat source as well as a place to cook occupied the arch of the original fireplace.

He debated pulling out a chair and having a seat, but he was restless, didn’t plan on sticking around for long. He said, “Fin Bracken’s been instructing my brothers and me in whiskey.”

“No ice.”

“Fin’s first rule of whiskey. How do you two know each other?”

Sean swallowed some of his drink. “It’s a long story. We’re good friends. That’s what matters.”

And all he needed to know from the Irishman’s point of view. Colin watched him set his glass back on the table, recork the Kilbeggan and put it back on its shelf.

Colin recognized Garda Murphy’s faraway look. “You investigated the deaths of Fin’s wife and daughters.”

Sean gave a curt nod and picked up his whiskey glass again. He didn’t take a drink. “It’s been seven years. Hard to believe. You wouldn’t have taken Fin for a priest then.” He polished off the rest of his drink. “It was an awful time.”

Colin said nothing.

Sean took his glass to a deep, white porcelain sink. “Fin’s settling into Maine?”

“It hasn’t been dull.”

“He told me he was looking for dull, but I never believed him. He emailed me over the weekend about Julianne—that one of his parishioners was on her way to Declan’s Cross and needed a place to stay.”

“She jumped at the chance to work on this marine science field station.”

“As you saw, it’s an old garage and now likely to stay that way,” Sean said. “Fin was surprised at how fast Julianne acted. She met Lindsey last week, decided to fly to Ireland, booked her flights. It was done.”

“Sounds like Julianne. Was Fin worried about her?”

“Not that I could tell. Fin’s aware of the theft here ten years ago. That’s not unusual. Many people in Ireland are aware of it.”

“Did Lindsey show any interest in the theft?”

“Not to me, no.”

“Did you suggest she look up Fin while she was back home?”

Sean peeled off his jacket and hung it on a peg by the door. “I didn’t, no, and I don’t know who did.”

“Kitty O’Byrne?” Colin asked.

“I gave my answer.”

“Lindsey drove down here from Dublin on Monday and was obviously up this way at some point. You didn’t see her, hear anything unusual? Dog barking, a car—”

“No.”

“That was a fast answer.”

“I’d remember.”

Colin knew he was pushing his luck, but that didn’t stop him. “What about your uncle?”

“He’d remember, too,” Sean said, no irritation in his voice despite his curt responses.

“Your garda pals talked to him.”

“Yes, they did.”

Colin hadn’t talked to the uncle himself. “Paddy, right? Padraig. My mother says she wanted to name me Padraig, but my father wouldn’t go for it. Patrick would have worked.”

Sean scoffed, a spark of amusement in his eyes. “You’re making that up.”

“No, I’m serious. Well, maybe it was Seamus. Something Irish. They settled on Colin, but I don’t think my father ever really liked it. He told me he wanted to name me Tom. So, your uncle grew up in this house?”

“Yes. He and my father.”

“And now you’re the farmer,” Colin said with more than a trace of skepticism. “Hell of a day, Garda Murphy—or should I say Farmer Murphy?”

“Sean will do.”

“That little hollow with the Celtic crosses and the ruins and the wild greenery and wild winds—quite a spot. Makes me wonder if Julianne did hear a banshee this morning. Her grandmother’s comfortable with the idea of the wee folk.”

“And you, Agent Donovan?”

Colin grinned back at the Irishman. “Not so much.”

Sean rinsed out his glass in the sink. No doubt he had farm work to do, but he didn’t suggest Colin be on his way. “Julianne strikes me as a sensible, modern woman.”

“Modern, anyway.”

“You know her well?”

“We’re both from Rock Point.” Colin wasn’t interested in being questioned. “Did you notice anything at the scene that suggests Lindsey was murdered?”

“If I did, I don’t know that I’d tell you, Special Agent Donovan.” Sean grabbed a threadbare, stained towel and dried his hands. “I understand it’s tempting to get involved, but there’s no role for the FBI in this investigation. Lindsey’s father can contact the U.S. State Department if he wishes. They’ll coordinate with Irish authorities.”

“What you’re saying is that I should book that couple’s massage after all?”

Sean gave the slightest smile. “I expect you’ve done worse.”

“I’ll spare you the trouble of finding out about me the hard way. Call Matt Yankowski in Boston. He can tell you about Emma, too.” Using a Bic pen almost out of ink, Colin jotted down Yank’s number on the back of an envelope on the table. “You’ll like him. He’ll want us to mind our own business, too.”

“It’s not my investigation, either.”

“That doesn’t mean you won’t be calling Yank, does it?”

The Irishman didn’t answer. “I have some work I have to do.”

“Farm work or garda work?”

“Do you have a farm, Special Agent Donovan?”

“I used to be a lobsterman. One of my brothers is a lobsterman. That’s about as close as we get to farming. And you can call me Colin now that we’ve scaled a seaside Irish cliff together.”

“Do you have an affinity for the ocean as I do for the land?”

“Probably not.”

That brought a real smile. “An honest man.”

“Blunt, anyway. I gather your uncle still works the farm.”

“He’s up here most days. He’s a good man, Colin.”

“Would I have heard otherwise?”

“It’s a small village. You can hear anything, I suppose.” The smile was gone now. “Any more questions?”

“Do you have any other help?”

“When the work’s more than Paddy and I can do on our own we hire out. That’s not often.”

“Any other family nearby?”

“A younger sister. My mother. My father is gone now.”

“You’re not married?”

“Not yet.”

His look suggested a past, but Colin knew he’d worn out his welcome. If he’d had whiskey, he might have been able to fit in a few more questions. He zipped up his jacket and glanced out the window. It was raining. He’d learned to take Irish rain as it came. A few minutes, a few hours, a few days.

“What kind of farm work are you off to now?” he asked.

Sean shrugged. “I’ve time to finish up spraying the rams in the pens for foot rot.”

“Foot rot. Good luck with that. I don’t think I’d make much of a farmer. I’ve sidestepped a lot of sheep dung since I arrived in Ireland.” He walked over to the door that led to a narrow front entrance, then turned back to the Irishman. “Why don’t you tell me what you know about the theft at the O’Byrne place?”

“And what would I know?”

“Were you garda then?”

Sean nodded as he kicked off his trail shoes and slipped into muddy Wellies.

“Were you in Declan’s Cross that night?” Colin asked.

“Kitty has an excellent selection of whiskey. Fin helped her with it. It’s been a long day already. Give my best to Julianne. Please let her know she’s welcome at the cottage as my guest if and when she wants to return.”

He shut down further conversation by pulling open the back door.

Colin didn’t blame him. “How do you decide which sheep get to live to a ripe old age and which ones end up as lamb chops?”

“Economic necessity for the most part.”

“I wouldn’t want to come back as a sheep, but if I did, I’d want to be one that produces wool for Irish sweaters, not one that ends up served with mint sauce.”

The Irishman pulled a cap off a peg and almost smiled as he turned to Colin. “I prefer a simple roast lamb myself.”

Raindrops blew against the windows. Colin watched them slide down the old glass. “What do you think happened out here on Monday?”

Sean had clearly expected the question. “I think Lindsey Hargreaves died a quick death.”

“It took more than slipping on a wet rock.”

“Maybe so.”

“I’ll leave you to your foot-rot spraying. Why just the rams? Do I want to know?”

“It’s not just the rams. We separate the rams from the ewes for a few weeks this time of year. We’ll be letting the rams back into the fields soon. They’ll do their work, and we’ll have lambs by Saint Patrick’s Day.”

Colin grinned. “Maybe I will come back as a sheep after all.”

* * *

The rain had ended by the time Colin pulled into the parking lot at the O’Byrne House Hotel, but he didn’t get out of the car right away. He’d decided against calling Fin Bracken. Too complicated, given Fin’s friendship with Garda Murphy.

No point getting further under the skin of the Irish cop.

Instead he called Andy. His brother had no idea what was going on in Declan’s Cross. Colin gave him the news.

“Colin. Hell.” Andy took in an audible breath. “Where’s Julianne now?”

“At the hotel where Emma and I are staying. Knowing Julianne, she hasn’t told her family. Is Ryan still in town?”

“He left last night. I’m not telling her grandmother, Colin. I’ve already done enough wrong in her eyes. She won’t like me knowing something before she does.”

“She won’t like you not telling her, either. Can’t win.”

“Thanks, brother,” Andy said dryly.

“I’ll suggest Julianne call her, but it might not go over well. Do you know anything about Lindsey Hargreaves and her visit to Rock Point?”

“Not much. I can find out.”

“No. No investigating. Just tell me what you know.”

“She showed up here last week. As far as I know she was alone. She stopped at Hurley’s to say hi to Fin Bracken.”

“She knew to look for him there?”

“I don’t know. She might have just stopped to ask directions to the church and saw him. Easy to tell he’s a priest.”

“Good point,” Colin said.

“Jules was working. They discovered a common interest in marine science. One of those ‘small world’ things. I guess that’s harder to believe now that this woman’s dead.”

“You got that right. What else?”

“Lindsey said to come see her in Declan’s Cross and check out this new field station when Jules was in Ireland for her internship. Jules decided to go now.”

“Then Fin put her in touch with Sean Murphy about a cottage?”

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know much. What I do know I’ve pieced together from what Ryan told me and what I dragged out of Jules on the way to the airport. She’s not exactly talking to me right now.”

Colin heard a note of regret under his brother’s matter-of-fact tone but wasn’t getting into his relationship with Julianne. One of those times to stick to the facts. “How did Lindsey end up deciding to stay with Julianne at the Murphy cottage?”

“Emails back and forth and Julianne invited her.”

“All right. Thanks.” His brother’s story squared with what Colin had heard so far from Julianne, Sean Murphy and David Hargreaves. “Anything else you can think of, let me know.”

“You’ll keep me posted?”

“Yeah. Sure. Do you want to talk to Julianne?”

Andy didn’t respond for a moment. “I don’t want to make things worse for her. If that means talking to her, I’ll talk to her. If it means not talking to her, I won’t talk to her. You be the judge.”

“Not a chance, brother. You be the judge. You’re the one who crossed the great divide with Julianne Maroney.”

“Thanks a lot,” Andy muttered. “How’s crossing the great divide with Emma working out?”

“She wants me to do the spa with her.”

That idea improved his younger brother’s mood. Colin disconnected and got out of the car. Rainwater dripped off holly leaves and glistened in small puddles as the sun shone through the clouds. He bypassed the hotel’s front door and took a paved walkway around to the back.

When he reached the terrace, a double rainbow had arced across the sky, its colors brilliant against the shifting gray clouds. It stopped him in his tracks, pulled him out of an Irish investigation into the tragic death of an American woman. Who wouldn’t want to come here? Julianne had no reason to think she’d have anything but a great two weeks in Declan’s Cross. If she’d come here to heal her broken heart, make an emotional fresh start and prepare for her Irish internship in January—what could make more sense? Who was he to question her?

The rainbow brightened even more. He’d seen a lot of rainbows, but this one got to him. The Emma Sharpe effect, he thought, entering the hotel through the French doors, just as Wendell Sharpe’s serial thief—Emma’s thief—had ten years ago.