Carla Neggers (16 page)

There was definitely more color in Julianne’s cheeks, some no doubt due to the heat of the fire, some to her makeup, some to time. “So, what happened ten years ago?” she asked. “Did the thief break in through the French doors, or weren’t they here back then?”

“They were here,” Emma said, “but this place was quite different.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

Colin leaned back. “Julianne...”

“Over our whiskey. I’d rather talk about an art thief than a lot of other things we could talk about. Andy, for one. We can talk about him over the tomato bisque with bits of blue cheese.” Julianne swallowed. “And Lindsey.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I don’t know how we’d have done as housemates, but I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to find out.”

“So am I,” Emma said.

“Me, too.” Colin sat forward and winked at Julianne, obviously catching her by surprise. “Just one thing. Andy would love the tomato bisque with the blue cheese.”

Julianne shook her head. “He would not.”

Colin grinned. “You still have a few things to learn about him, Ms. Know-it-all Maroney.”

“I don’t want to know anything else about him.”

“Ha.”

Emma smiled, even as she recognized she hadn’t known the Donovan brothers as cocky teenagers, or Julianne as a bright six-year-old with a fascination for tide pools. She was an outsider in Rock Point, and as much as she loved Colin—and he loved her—she didn’t know what that meant for their future together.

A question for another time.

Kitty returned with a tray with three glasses of Bracken 15 year old, a rare, peated single-malt Irish whiskey. Emma preferred the non-peated Braken 15, but said nothing as Kitty handed her a glass. “You didn’t drink much earlier. You’ll be fine.”

Emma thanked her. She handed Julianne and Colin their glasses and withdrew.

Julianne held her glass and smiled through fresh tears.
“Sláinte.”

15

THE RAIN HAD
let up when Sean walked into the village after supper. He knew everyone in Declan’s Cross and could easily distinguish local from stranger. He cut down to the would-be field station and found Eamon Carrick packing his gear into a rusted hatchback.

Eamon stood straight, a lock of fair hair falling into his face. Between his good looks, easy manner and diving skills, he had no trouble attracting women. Keeping one was another matter. “Hello, Sean. I thought I might be gone before you worked your way down here. This is terrible. I never expected it.” He shut the back of the car with more force than was necessary. “Brent’s taking Lindsey’s death hard. Philip, too. You just missed them both.”

“Where are you off to now?”

“Dublin.” Eamon gave a ragged smile. “Before Ronan drives down and drags me back. My garda brother is apoplectic I’m mixed up in a death investigation.”

“I can’t say I blame him.”

“I can’t, either, to be honest. I didn’t have much to tell the gardai, but I said what I knew. Any word from the medical examiner on the cause of death?”

“Not yet.”

“I only knew Lindsey a few weeks, but I never saw her drink to excess, or use drugs. I doubt they’ll find anything like that contributed to her death. She wasn’t on medication that I know of. Just an ordinary, healthy young woman.”

Sean peeked in the back of the car. Eamon had heaped his diving gear in with his personal things—clothes, boots, waterproofs. “Did Hargreaves Oceanographic Institute hire you to do any diving for them?”

Eamon shook his head, matter-of-fact. “I’ve done some research dives for them in the past, but this has been all for fun, at least as far as I was concerned. I’ve come down when I could. Weekends, mostly. Brent Corwin knows his stuff. Lindsey did, too, although she wasn’t as experienced.” He nodded at the abandoned garage. “I’d hoped this place would work out.”

Diving was a passion for Eamon, not a career. He taught diving, but it was his Dublin pub that paid the bills. He’d never been interested in law enforcement, joining the garda underwater unit like his brother. Eamon liked to choose when and where he went under water, and he preferred to search for sunken treasure or photograph fish than go after a missing person.

Ronan had helped recover the remains of Sally Bracken and her two young daughters. Eamon wouldn’t have survived such an ordeal. Ronan barely had. Sean hadn’t done any diving, but he’d led the death investigation. He and Ronan had agreed that however invaluable training was, it could only do so much to prepare anyone for the reality of what they sometimes had to do—see—in their work. Ronan had said he coped by knowing he’d helped find answers. Knowing the good he’d done always got him back into the water after a grisly scene.

“The gardai know where to reach you?” Sean asked.

Eamon nodded. “They do. Ronan would tell them if I didn’t, so no worries.” He looked up at the black sky, then turned to Sean, the emotional pain in his face impossible to miss even in the shadows. “I don’t like to think she died alone up there, or that she was murdered. I’d rather find out she was drunk and went to God without knowing what happened.”

“It’ll be what it’ll be, Eamon.”

“Yes,” he said heavily. “So it will.”

Eamon was a gentle soul, if also as fit and tough as any diver Sean had ever seen. Ronan did what he had to do to be able to do his underwater work, but he wasn’t as dedicated to fitness as his younger brother—nor as affable. Given Eamon’s experience as a diver and having Ronan as a brother, he would know to follow evidence and try to avoid rabbit trails to nowhere.

Sean said good-night and turned back toward the village. The young couple who owned the bookshop were locking up and waved to him. They had three children under the age of four. Their children’s section was second to none, and the shop had become a popular stop for children’s authors. Another life, Sean thought as he waved back and continued on to the heart of the village. Paddy would be at his favorite pub. He’d seen his share of tragedy in his day, but this morning had been hard on him. Sean wanted to check on him.

As he crossed at an intersection just past the O’Byrne House Hotel, he could hear a commotion around the corner. Shouting, cursing. He tensed, immediately on alert. Moving fast, he turned up the street and was at the pub just as two men burst out the front door, one tripping, catching himself before he could fall flat on his face. He spun around and grabbed the other man, flailing wildly.

Sean gritted his teeth.

Philip.

The lad was the one flailing wildly, pummeling—or at least trying to pummel—Brent Corwin, the second man, who had him by the shoulders. It didn’t look as if many of Philip’s blows were connecting with his intended targets. Mostly he was hitting thin air.

Sean jumped into the fray and hauled Philip off the American. “Settle down,” he said sharply. “Do it now, Philip. Right now.”

Philip was red-faced, angry, his emotions high. “Go to hell.”

Sean tightened his grip on Philip’s lower arm, ready to jerk it around to the small of his back and really get his attention. “Settle down. I’m not saying it again.”

Brent, breathing hard, put up a hand. “Sorry, Garda Murphy. He’s upset. It was nothing. No harm done.”

“I lost my temper,” Philip said, more sullen than apologetic.

“Not a problem. We’ve all had a rough day.” Brent nodded toward the pub entrance, the door still open. “I’ll be inside.”

Sean waited for him to go in before he released Philip, who scowled and stalked off. “Not so fast,” Sean said.

Philip didn’t so much as glance back at him. “I have to work.”

“At the hotel?”

No answer.

“Philip.”

He huffed and turned around, walking backward. “Yes. The hotel. Anything else, Garda Murphy?”

Sean shook his head. “Go on.”

Philip’s mother would be there. Kitty would do the lad more good than Sean would right now.

He noted that he felt no pain at all after pulling Philip off his diver friend. One good thing about this day, Sean supposed. His last fight had been with his armed smugglers. The bastards.

He went into the pub. It was a light crowd for a Wednesday evening. A few couples were at tables, and two-thirds of the stools at the curved bar were filled.

One of Paddy’s longtime friends was pouring drinks and didn’t look ruffled by the altercation. “A pint?” he asked.

Sean nodded. At the far end of the bar, his uncle was seated next to Colin Donovan. Brent Corwin was on the FBI agent’s other elbow, a fresh pint in front of him. Obviously not his first of the evening.

Sean took his pint down the bar and joined them, standing between his uncle and Colin.

Brent was addressing the FBI agent. “You look like the sort who knows a thing or two about dead bodies. What should I call you? Agent Donovan?”

“That works.”

Brent yawned, then shook his head as if trying to counter the effects of the alcohol he’d consumed. “I should probably stick to water or Coke.” He shoved his pint aside. “Damn. I’m going to miss Lindsey. I feel sorry for Julianne, too. How does an FBI agent end up knowing a marine biologist?”

“Same hometown,” Colin said.

Paddy glanced up from his Guinness but said nothing. He didn’t need to. His expression said it all. An inebriated diver, a suspicious FBI agent and now a suspicious garda—not a good combination.

“Have you run into Lindsey’s father at the hotel?” Brent asked. “He’s in Declan’s Cross, you know.”

Colin nodded. “We met last night.”

Sean took a proper gulp of his pint. He’d eaten a few bites of leftover stew before heading into the village, his first food since breakfast. “You mentioned you don’t know why Lindsey visited Father Bracken. Did she tell you she planned to go to Maine while she was home in New England?”

Brent shrugged. “Not really. She wasn’t a planner, you know?”

“Father Bracken serves a small church in Rock Point, Maine. It’s a struggling fishing village.” Sean was aware of Colin Donovan’s scrutiny, but the FBI agent didn’t interrupt. “Do you see Lindsey making a special trip to Rock Point just to see an Irish priest?”

“I don’t know Maine that well,” Brent said. “I’ve done some diving there, but it’s been a few years. I don’t know what Lindsey had in mind. Maybe she needed to blow off some steam and visiting this priest friend of yours was just something to do.”

Sean supposed it could be the case, but it didn’t feel right. “Rock Point is close to Heron’s Cove and the Sharpes.”

“The Sharpes?” Brent scrunched up his face as if he were having difficulty keeping track of the conversation. “Am I supposed to know them?”

It was the FBI agent who responded. “Sharpe Fine Art Recovery is based in Heron’s Cove.”

“Never heard of it. Did Lindsey— Wait.” Brent pointed a finger at Colin. “Your sidekick. Isn’t her name Sharpe?”

“Special Agent Emma Sharpe,” Sean said. “Her grandfather is a renowned art detective in Dublin.”

Brent frowned. “I know less about art than I do about marine science. I dive. That’s it.” He left a few euros on the bar, then started out, but stopped and turned to Sean. “Look, sorry about earlier. Don’t hold it against Philip, okay?”

Sean made no comment, and Brent left, unsteady on his feet, perhaps more so than he would recognize or admit. Diners looked up from their drinks and plates, watched him leave. The fight with Philip would have been enough to get their attention, but word of the death of a woman on Shepherd Head would have spread throughout Declan’s Cross by now.

Paddy raised his head from his pint and sighed. “You two lads can make a man sweat.”

Sean grinned. “That’s the idea, Paddy.”

“FBI. Garda.” The old man grunted. “You’re a suspicious lot.”

Colin obviously took no offense. “A woman just turned up dead on the Irish coast. It’s got my attention.”

“Are you two thinking it’s got something to do with the theft at the O’Byrne place? That was a long time ago. I met the grandfather then. Wendell Sharpe.” Paddy tapped his neck above his frayed shirt collar. “He wore a bow tie.”

Sean stood up from his stool. His uncle had been ruminating over his pint. The effects of the Guinness had nothing to do with it. It was simply how Padraig Murphy was. All those years farming, working alone in the fields and barn with only sheep and wee folk to keep him company. That was what Sean had always figured, anyway.

“I didn’t know the Sharpes ten years ago,” Colin said.

Paddy looked up from his empty glass. “I’ll spare you asking. I’ve never lied to anyone about what happened that night. Not to John O’Byrne, not to the gardai—not to Wendell Sharpe.”

“Let’s go, Paddy,” Sean interrupted, clapping a hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “I’ll walk you home.”

No question Paddy was reluctant to leave the warm pub and the company of an American FBI agent—even one as hard-nosed as Colin Donovan—but Sean managed to get him out into the sea-tinged night air.

Paddy pulled a wool cap out of his jacket pocket and put it on. “Philip was taken with the dead woman. Poor lad. No wonder he got into a fight.”

“What precipitated it?” Sean asked.

“Nothing to speak of. The American diver said they’d be shutting down the field station now, no choice given what’s happened. He said Eamon Carrick’s already gone home to Dublin. Philip took exception, and next thing, fists were flying.”

“Just Philip’s fists or Brent’s, too?”

“Just Philip’s. Brent doesn’t strike me as much of a fighter. The FBI agent almost intervened. I could see him wanting to get up and stop them, but he kept still. Disciplined. Philip was spoiling for a fight when he walked into the pub. He said Lindsey’s father had a drink in the hotel bar and now he’s shut himself up in his room—he’s staying in the cottage on the grounds. Doesn’t want to come out. Philip brought him dinner.”

“Had you heard the Hargreaves name before Lindsey arrived in Declan’s Cross?”

The old man shook his head. “Why would I have?”

“It was just a question.”

“No, it wasn’t. Nothing’s ‘just a question’ with you. What are you thinking?”

Sean gave him an easy smile. “I’m thinking a lot of things that probably won’t amount to anything.”

“It’s been a sad day, Sean. A sad day.”

“I know, Paddy.”

“No one’s done anything wrong. What happened—it was an accident.”

Sean said nothing.

“I don’t know why you and your friends didn’t break your necks out there when you were boys,” Paddy said, half to himself. “I don’t know why I didn’t. I wish we’d found the body instead of that poor girl. Do you think we would have if we’d gone out to fix that fence a few minutes earlier?”

“It’s possible. If we’d spotted Lindsey’s car, we would have.”

“To think she was lying out there...” Paddy shuddered, then eyed Sean. “You look as if you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“Do I?”

“Means you’re ready to go back to work.”

“We need to get the rams back out to the fields.”

“Not that work. Garda work.”

Sean didn’t respond. It wasn’t a subject for tonight. He left Paddy at his apartment and debated what to do next. Back up to the farm, back to the pub or take his life in his hands and head to the O’Byrne House Hotel?

The hotel won. He’d known it would.

* * *

Kitty was alone in the bar lounge, not even a guest warming up by the fire. She was polishing glasses, looking preoccupied, but not so much so that she didn’t notice Sean take a seat at the bar. She flung around at him, a glass in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. “What do you know about Philip and this woman who’s died?” Her blue eyes flashed with the intensity of a worried mother. “He’s heartbroken, angry. He came in all red in the face. He says he ran into you at the pub.”

“He needs to settle down, Kitty. A good night’s sleep will help.”

She slammed down the glass. A wonder it didn’t break. “What about you and this woman? She was going to stay up at your cottage. Did she fancy you, Sean? Did you break her heart?”

He settled back against the cushioned stool. “Think I’m a killer now, do you, Kitty O’Byrne? Or did I just drive this woman to suicide with my heartless ways?”