Carla Neggers (22 page)

“Maybe the Sharpes are rubbing off on you.”

He ignored that last comment. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

She didn’t argue with him. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign, but she seemed stronger, more sure of herself, as he headed outside to the gardens.

He was walking past beds of pansies when Emma joined him. “I’m telling you,” she said, tucking her hand into his, “you would love the spa.”

“Think a deep-tissue massage would help me?” He squeezed her hand gently. “Am I too hard on people, Emma? The work I do on top of being a Donovan...”

“Where are you going with this, Colin?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“I don’t think so.” She knotted her fingers into his. “I’m getting to know you, don’t forget.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m the right man for a woman like you.”

“A woman like me. Are you referring to my being a Sharpe, an art crimes specialist, an FBI agent or an ex-nun?”

“All of the above.”

“I see.”

He had a feeling she did see. “I’ve pushed you hard, Emma. I know I can be rough on people. I know I look for all the sharp angles and dark corners. It’s not just my undercover work.”

“It’s who you are.” She eased her hand from his and slipped her arm around him. “Don’t soften your hard edges on my account. I like who you are. I like your honesty, your toughness, your instincts.” She put her head against his arm as they paused by a low rock wall, covered in moss, heather and died-back ferns. “And I love you.”

He held her close. “I love you, too, Emma. Always.”

“But you don’t think it’s enough, do you?”

“Emma...”

She smiled. “It’s okay. It’s a beautiful afternoon. We don’t have to get deep. Let’s just walk.” She lowered her arm and took his hand again. “You’ve got a big heart, Colin. All you Donovans do. I see that.”

“Even Mike?”

She laughed. “Especially Mike.”

* * *

They wandered through the O’Byrne gardens and down to the sea, tossing rocks into the tide, and when they returned to the terrace and saw David Hargreaves at a small table in the shadows, Colin felt Emma stiffen next to him. The intrusion of reality. The end of their short pretense that they were on a romantic getaway.

Hargreaves had a glass of white wine in front of him. His face was ashen, but he motioned with one hand and said, “Please join me.”

Emma pulled out a chair and sat down, but Colin remained standing, ready to excuse himself if she proved more able to deal with the grieving father and his relationship with his daughter. “We were in Ardmore this morning,” she said. “My grandfather met us there. We had lunch at the Cliff House Hotel. Is that where you stayed on Monday?”

He nodded. “It’s a wonderful place. It’s built into the side of a cliff. Every room has a view of Ardmore Bay. Lindsey’s mother would have loved it.” He picked up his glass. “Would you care for wine?”

Emma shook her head. “We’re having dinner here at the hotel soon. Do you have plans?”

“An early bedtime. I’m exhausted. I walked out to where Lindsey died. I could have asked one of the officers to take me, but I wanted to go alone.” He inhaled deeply. “It was difficult. Very difficult.”

“Had you ever been out there before?” Emma asked him.

“No, never. This is my first time in Declan’s Cross. My last, too, I’m certain, as lovely as it is. I’m returning to Dublin tomorrow. The gardai tell me they’ll release Lindsey’s remains as soon as possible.” He set his glass down without having drunk any of the wine. “I’m sure having two FBI agents in town got their attention, but nothing suggests foul play was involved in her death.”

Colin debated taking a seat but instead peeked in a window. Julianne had vacated her spot by the fire. Someone had added another log. He watched it burn, while behind him, Emma let David Hargreaves talk. She had a way of drawing people out, and Colin only wanted to insert himself into the mix at the right moment.

“Of course,” David continued, “you and Special Agent Donovan are in Ireland on vacation. I understand that. I feel terrible that Lindsey’s death interrupted what must be well-deserved time off, and that it’s marred this place. At least it’s not the high season. By spring people will have forgotten a young American woman fell out here on a wet November day.”

Colin turned from the window to a large stone urn and feigned interest in its array of flowers and vines.

Emma sat back in her chair. “Did your wife visit Declan’s Cross when you were in Ardmore fifteen years ago?”

David obviously didn’t expect the question. “Special Agent Sharpe—”

“We’re trying to understand why Lindsey chose Declan’s Cross,” Emma said evenly.

“I thought you had no role in the investigation.” When she didn’t explain, his shoulders slumped, as if the energy to stay offended, on alert, had gone out of him.

“Cynthia drove to Declan’s Cross by herself one day. She told me she wanted to test her Irish driving skills. She had lunch at a pub and then drove back to Ardmore.”

“Was that—”

“It was after I’d bought the Aoife O’Byrne works.” His gaze steadied on Emma. “That was your next question, wasn’t it? I’m aware that a senior FBI agent spoke to my housekeeper last night.”

So Yank was accounted for but there was no mention of Mike and Andy, Colin noted.

“I thought you might be,” Emma said.

“The Aoife O’Byrne works are a personal matter with no relevance to Lindsey’s death.”

“Did you or your wife know about Aoife’s connection to Declan’s Cross?”

“I didn’t,” he said, reaching for his wineglass again. “I don’t know if Cynthia did. She never said.”

“If she drove down here—”

“She was a painter herself. She was always looking for scenes, especially seascape, to paint.”

Emma waited as he sipped some of his wine. She touched a finger to a bit of a red flower petal that had landed on the table. When she didn’t continue, Colin realized she wasn’t going to bring up the connection between the cross Aoife O’Byrne had made fifteen years ago and the cross on the hill near where Lindsey had died. Not only would Emma not want to tread on an Irish investigation, she would take great care with her own.

Colin abandoned the urn. “Where are your Aoife O’Byrne works now?” he asked, sitting next to Emma.

David set his glass down with exaggerated patience. “If it turns out Lindsey’s death wasn’t an accident, it’s far more likely to be because she stumbled into the middle of a Sharpe or an FBI vendetta than because I bought two works by an emerging Irish artist fifteen years ago.” He pushed back his chair and rose, formal, awkward. “I’ve answered every question the Irish authorities have asked me truthfully and to the best of my ability. Now I just want to take my daughter home.”

“Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help,” Emma said, her tone neutral.

“Thank you. Please excuse me. I’m very tired, and I’ve suffered a terrible loss. I hope you understand.”

He left quickly, without waiting for any response. Colin watched him march through the gardens back toward his cottage. “He knew we’d ask about last night,” he said.

“He just hoped we wouldn’t.”

“He’s lying about the appraisal.”

Emma’s expression tightened as she shot to her feet. “Yes, he is.”

Colin stood next to her. Time to lighten the mood. “So, I noticed you packed that cute little skirt you bought in Killarney. Going to wear it to dinner?”

It worked. She smiled. “Anything for you, Colin.”

“I’ll remember that.” He noticed that now her smile reached her green eyes, and he leaned in close to her and whispered, “Best part of that skirt is getting it off of you.”

“And I,” she said, “will remember that.”

21

SEAN RESISTED KICKING
in the door to the O’Byrne House kitchen but only because it was unlocked. Even then, it was a near thing. He hadn’t been this agitated in a long time. Not since he’d come to blows with his smugglers.

He heard a muffled sob coming from a side office and ducked in there instead of continuing on to the main cooking area.

Philip was seated at a tidy desk, a first-aid kit torn open in front of him as he dabbed antibiotic ointment on a bloody cut on his hand. He looked up, the left side of his jaw and his left cheek also bloodied and bruised.

Sean ground his teeth. “Philip.”

“It’s nothing.” He squirted more cream out of the tube. “Go away.”

“Did someone catch you sneaking around on the farm and knock your head in?”

“I don’t know what happened. I didn’t see.”

Sean stepped deeper into the small, airless room and adjusted a desk lamp to get a better look at the lad’s face. He had to be in pain, but the cuts were superficial—they wouldn’t need stitches—and Sean doubted there were any broken bones.

He stood back. “You were at the cottage. I saw blood splattered out by the shed. Were you hit there, or somewhere else?”

“I didn’t say I was hit at all.”

“You left the back door open. Our FBI agent Donovan took a look but didn’t go as far as the shed—only because he had to see to Julianne Maroney. If he’d found the blood, believe me, it wouldn’t have mattered that Lindsey’s death isn’t his investigation.”

Philip touched his swollen jaw. “This has nothing to do with Lindsey.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Kitty swooped in, one hand on the door latch as she gasped at her son. “Philip—dear God in heaven, what’s happened? Should I call the gardai?”

“No need to now,” Sean said.

Kitty didn’t seem to hear him. She edged in closer to her son. “Do you need a doctor?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Philip said, his words slurred, no doubt from the swelling. He pointed to a plastic bag filled with partially melted ice. “I know what to do.”

Sean jumped in while Kitty absorbed what she was seeing. “Why didn’t you come to me for help?” he asked.

Philip stood and shut the first-aid kit, then shoved it back onto an open shelf above the desk. “Why would I have?”

A fair point, but Sean didn’t let up. “Why didn’t you call the gardai when you got here? If you were assaulted—” He softened his tone, although it took some effort. “Talk to me, lad.”

“I went out to the rocks where Lindsey—”

“Where this woman
died?
” Kitty shrieked. “What were you thinking?”

Sean shot her a look. “Wait in the kitchen.”

She stood straight and glared at him. “I’ll do no such thing.”

“You will, Kitty. Don’t coddle him. He’s a man. He can answer for himself.”

Her mouth dropped open, but she told her son she’d be in the kitchen and then stepped out of the tiny office.

Philip sank onto the edge of the desk and picked up his bag of ice. “I didn’t get hit out on the rocks. I was hit at the cottage.”

“What were you doing there? Why did you sneak inside?”

“Aren’t gardai trained to ask one question at a time?”

Sean knew the sarcastic remark was intended to get a rise out of him—to divert him. “You’re lucky it’s my cottage and I’m the one who saw the blood. An American woman just died, Philip. There are a lot of unanswered questions. You don’t want to be sneaking around FBI agents.”

“I wasn’t. Lindsey was staying at the cottage.” He sounded less confrontational. He placed the ice on his hand and winced, clearly in pain. “That was her plan, anyway. How did you know it was me? It could have been anyone’s blood.”

Paddy had spotted him, but Sean said, “It doesn’t matter. What I need from you is the truth. What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

Sean reined in his impatience. “You are. The FBI agents know it and so do I. So does your mother. I’m not worried about them. I’m worried about you.”

Philip put the ice to his jaw. “I don’t believe you.”

Sean ignored him and checked Philip’s bloodied hand. “This looks like a cut.”

“I fell after I got hit in the face. I don’t know what I landed on. By the time I got to my feet, whoever ambushed me was gone.”

“
Ambush
is a strong word. Did you see who hit you?”

Philip made a fist, as if testing his first-aid job and the extent of the swelling. “People are on edge.”

“Who did it, Philip?”

“Sean...” He looked away, putting the ice back onto his injured hand.

Sean could feel the heat of the small room, so close to the kitchen. “Who?”

“You’ll tell the guards—”

“I am one, Philip. I’m just on leave recovering from a thrashing of my own.”

He raised his eyes, reminding Sean of his mother. “I thought you fell.”

“I did. I also got thrashed.” Sean leaned in close to him. “Who hit you?”

“It was your uncle, Sean. At least I think it was. That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. We’re all on edge with what’s happened. Paddy—”

“How do you know it was Paddy?”

“I got a glimpse of his jacket and cap,” Philip said, clearly reluctant. “I can’t say for certain it was him.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No.”

Eyewitnesses weren’t always reliable for a reason. Sean sighed. “You need fresh ice. Get some and think about telling me the rest. I’ll see to Paddy.”

Philip touched the tip of his little finger to the worst of the swelling on his cheek. “Will you tell the guards? I mean the ones investigating Lindsey’s death.”

“You will. Your mother will take you. You’ll tell them everything that happened. Don’t leave out anything.” Sean paused. “D’you understand, Philip?”

He tried to nod but moaned in pain.

Kitty was back in the doorway, fighting tears. “I’ll get the ice, and I’ll see to it he talks to the gardai.” Her voice was low, calm, a reminder that she ran an upscale hotel and could handle herself in a crisis. She raised her eyes to Sean. “Where will you be?”

“I don’t know. Call me if you need me.”

He left them and went outside through the kitchen door. He’d never be a patient man, but he’d always and forever be a loyal one, and that, he feared, would one day be his undoing.

He welcomed the cold evening air as he walked out through the garden and into the village. He found Paddy on a wooden stool in his favorite pub. Sean almost went back out again. He could be up at the farm mucking out stalls or carrying in turf for a fire. There was always work. Then again, he’d never been bored as a garda, either. Wasn’t in his nature.

He sat next to his old uncle. “Did you throttle Philip Doyle this afternoon?”

“Kitty’s son? What happened? Is he all right?”

“Paddy—”

“I didn’t throttle him. That doesn’t mean I haven’t wanted to from time to time.” Paddy narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be sitting here if Philip was hurt badly.”

“Ice and a good night’s sleep will take care of him. He says he was blindsided up at the cottage by someone wearing your jacket and cap.”

“My jacket and—” Paddy frowned as if his nephew had lost his mind. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re wearing a sweater tonight.”

“It’s all I need, and I don’t wear my barn jacket and cap to the pub.”

“Where are they now, Paddy?”

“Hanging off the kitchen up at the farm, same as always.”

Sean waved off the barman, although he wanted a pint. He focused on his uncle. “You’d tell me if you’d hit the lad, wouldn’t you, Paddy? A lot’s been going on. It’d be easy to hear someone and get nervous—”

“The only time I was at the cottage today was with you, when we saw the marine biologist and that FBI agent.” Paddy spoke calmly, not sounding particularly offended at his nephew’s questions. “After I told you I saw Philip.”

“Where were you again when you saw him?”

“On my way back to the house from the upper field. I’d let loose some of the rams. Philip was on foot—he was almost to the cottage.”

“Coming up from the village?”

“Other direction. I figured he’d gone to see where Lindsey was found. The gardai have finished their work out there. Philip was alone.”

“What did you do after you saw him?”

Paddy shrugged. “I went on to the house, cleaned up and did some paperwork.”

“Could someone have slipped in through the back and borrowed your jacket and cap?”

“I don’t hear as well as I used to, so I suppose it’s possible. Why take that chance? Me right there. You right in the barn.”

Sean nodded. “More likely Philip caught a glimpse of a jacket and cap similar to yours.” Or he’d lied, Sean thought. “You didn’t wear them when we walked down to the cottage—”

“I wouldn’t have. I was through with the farm work for the day.”

Sean would have liked to have asked Philip more questions—when he’d gone up to Shepherd Head, what he’d done, why he’d stopped at the cottage. But the gardai investigating Lindsey’s death would ask all those questions. By rights, Sean had no business talking to Paddy now.

“Did you see anyone else?”

“An older man—the dead girl’s father, I think. That was earlier, before I saw Philip. I let him be. He had the look of a man who needed to be alone with his grief.”

Sean supposed that Paddy, a widower himself, would recognize that in another man. “Did you talk to anyone?”

“The sheep.” His eyes twinkled ever so slightly. “I’ve always talked to the sheep, you know.”

“I suspected as much.” Sean relaxed a little at his uncle’s halfhearted stab at humor. “What did you do after you saw Philip?”

“I ran into you, and we walked to the cottage together. Ah, Sean. I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you.”

“You’ve never disappointed me.”

The old man stared into his Guinness. “I wasn’t drunk that night.”

Sean knew what night he meant.

“I was in the room down by the kitchen, just as I told the gardai and the Sharpe fellow. I wasn’t asleep, though.” He took in a long breath. “Old John O’Byrne and I didn’t have much in common, but we’d both lost women we loved with all our hearts far too soon. Your aunt Ruth had a soft spot for him, and she adored the house. Her mother used to clean it, before John’s day. Ruth would help from time to time. I got to thinking of her as a little girl, and I couldn’t stand it, Sean. I sobbed my blasted eyes out. I missed her so much that for a time I thought I wouldn’t go on and...” He didn’t finish. “I miss her still. I think of her every day.”

“I’m sorry, Paddy.”

“She’s gone to God, lad. She’s gone to God.” He shook his head in despair. “I was too embarrassed to tell anyone, but I might as well have been asleep. I didn’t see the thief. I didn’t hear a blasted thing.”

“Kitty should have been there. You shouldn’t have been alone in that house and then had to bear the suspicions—”

“Do you think I cared about that? That people wonder if I was drunk that night, or that I let in the thief myself? I care that because of what I did, you threw away a chance at happiness, lad. I know where Kitty was that night.” Paddy stood up from his stool. “You two were good together.”

“It was an illusion.”

“It was a fine illusion, then.”

“It was,” Sean said, standing next to his uncle. “I have the devil to pay for my mistakes, Paddy. You had nothing to do with them. Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

“Do you think Philip lied to you, Sean?”

“I don’t think so. I think he just didn’t tell me everything.”

Paddy nodded thoughtfully. “He’s still a fish out of water in Declan’s Cross, but he’s been here long enough that he is in Dublin, too. He doesn’t know where he wants to be. Understandable at that age. You were the same.”

“The same?” Sean grinned at his uncle. “It’s a good thing you’re a farmer, because you’re better at analyzing sheep than you are people.”

Paddy didn’t argue. “Anyway,” he said, buttoning his heavy sweater, “I can walk home on my own. You needn’t worry about me. I can still take care of myself in a fight.”

“I know you can,” Sean said. “It’s your company I want.”

* * *

Paddy’s barn jacket and wool cap were hanging on their pegs off the kitchen as always. Sean didn’t see blood stains or anything else that suggested they’d been involved in thrashing Philip Doyle.

He walked down to the cottage, imagining himself as a boy, loving this place—loving the farm—and yet knowing he wanted something else for himself, and it wasn’t in Declan’s Cross.

The gardai had just arrived with Philip. Sean opened up the little bungalow and turned on the outside lights for them. Philip was pale, subdued, his bruises blossoming into ugly splotches of purple and blue on his face. His hand was bandaged. His mother’s doing, no doubt, but Philip was alone now with the gardai. Kitty hadn’t forced her way up there. That was a good thing, Sean told himself, even as he felt an urge to protect Philip himself.

He left the gardai to their work. They’d lock the cottage after they’d finished, and they’d decide without his help if they wanted to check Paddy’s jacket and cap for themselves.

When he got back to the farmhouse, Sean wasn’t surprised to find Colin Donovan on the front step. “Busy up here lately,” the American said. “It’s usually quiet, isn’t it? Just you and your uncle and a lot of sheep?”

Sean went past him and opened the door. “What can I do for you, Special Agent Donovan?”

“I’m walking off my dinner. Thought I’d have that whiskey.”

“Come in, then.”

Sean knew he didn’t sound particularly hospitable, but Colin didn’t seem to mind. They went into the kitchen, and Sean got down the Bracken 15 and two glasses. “I’ve worked with FBI agents before,” he said. “You and Emma are unusual.”

Colin took a seat at the table. “That’s why our boss likes us.”

Sean grinned. “I can just imagine.”

“He wants to do a Vulcan mind meld with her grandfather—know what he knows.”

“He’s not the only one, I can tell you. Emma can be a Sharpe one day and an FBI agent the next?”

“She’s both every day. That’s what I’ve finally figured out.”

“It’s not always easy, is it?”

“I don’t know that it’s ever easy, but it works.”