Carla Neggers (23 page)

Sean poured the whiskey and handed Colin a glass, then sat across from him with his own. “How do we know her grandfather isn’t our Declan’s Cross thief? He was living in Dublin ten years ago.”

Colin settled back in his chair. “Is that what you think?”

Sean shrugged. “I keep an open mind and follow the evidence. Isn’t that what you do, Special Agent Donovan?”

“Sometimes I operate on pure gut instinct. It’s great when it works. When it doesn’t—”

“It can get messy,” Sean finished for him.

Colin grinned. “Almost caused me to be eaten by alligators a few weeks ago.” He raised his glass. “Which is only the slightest exaggeration. So, is there any evidence that points to Wendell Sharpe?”

“It’s not my investigation.”

“Right. That’s what I say when I don’t want to answer another law enforcement officer’s question. You don’t trust many people, do you?”

Sean swallowed some of his whiskey. “I don’t distrust you. If I did, I wouldn’t have offered you the Bracken 15. Does Emma ever think about quitting the FBI and returning to her family business?”

“Sometimes.”

“When her background as a Sharpe complicates her work instead of enhances it?”

“More like when she feels like baking pies in Maine.”

Sean almost smiled. He found himself liking Colin Donovan, but he realized the FBI agent had come to ask questions, not to answer them. Sean nodded toward the window, rattling in the wind. “You should be off soon. I can give you a lift if you’d like.”

“Who attacked Philip, Sean?”

“I don’t know that anyone did.”

“Think he tripped on his shoe laces and made up an attack?”

“I think these are difficult days and we should see what the gardai come back with.”

The FBI agent assessed him with a frankness that Sean recognized as calculated, deliberate. “Fair enough,” Colin said finally, rising. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Care to borrow a hat, Special Agent Donovan?”

He just grinned and left. Sean stood in the front door and watched the American walk out to the lane. He didn’t look as if the thought of the cold and wind troubled him at all.

Sean noticed headlights.

The gardai and Philip leaving the cottage.

He shut the door and went back into the kitchen. He built a fire and poured himself another
taoscán
of Bracken 15, fighting an image of walking in the cold and wind with pretty Kitty O’Byrne.

22

EMMA WAS EXPLAINING
what she had learned about whiskey from Father Bracken to Philip as he slumped next to her at the bar. He had a Coke and a fresh ice pack for his cuts and bruises. His mother looked on from behind the bar. Kitty was clearly controlling her emotions, putting on a good face to her guests even as her son turned black-and-blue.

“The Bracken brothers do know their whiskey,” Emma said. “Twins who set about opening an independent distillery in their early twenties. Quite a dream.”

“Most dreams don’t come true,” Philip said.

Emma understood his mood. Attacked at the Murphy cottage, in the wrong place at the wrong time—she believed his story but was also convinced he was holding on to things, perhaps things that were of more consequence to him than to the investigation into Lindsey’s death.

She guessed what one of them was. “You told Lindsey about Father Bracken,” she said.

He nodded, an effort that caused him obvious pain. “It’s why you’re here. Because I told her we had a friend in Maine, and she went to see him. And now she’s dead.”

Kitty stiffened visibly behind the bar. “How does one thing lead to the next? You can’t think Lindsey died because she visited a priest in Maine who knows two FBI agents.”

Emma could see there was more to it. She kept her gaze on Philip. “When did you tell Lindsey about Father Bracken?”

“Right before she left to visit her father in Massachusetts. She was here for a drink and we got to talking about the theft. I took her upstairs to show her where the paintings had been stolen. I didn’t think a thing of it. I was showing off.”

Kitty sucked in an audible breath. Emma glanced up at her, but Kitty busied herself behind the bar and said nothing.

“Lindsey was happy here,” Philip continued. “She told me that. She loved diving and would go on about whales and things, but she was interested in everything. She’d been out to the ruins on Shepherd Head and said she was fascinated by the old graves and crosses.”

“Did she mention your aunt?” Emma asked.

His eyes widened in surprise, but it was Kitty who responded. “Aoife? Why in heaven’s name would Lindsey Hargreaves be interested in my sister?”

Emma decided to answer. “Her parents bought two of Aoife’s works fifteen years ago on a visit to Ardmore.”

“Fifteen...” Kitty paled. “I had no idea.”

“It’s one piece of what’s become a rather complex puzzle,” Emma said, keeping her tone even, neutral, as she turned to Philip. “Did you tell Lindsey that my grandfather had looked into the theft?”

Tears pooled in his eyes, and he sniffled, placing an ice pack again on his jaw. “I did.” His voice was barely a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat before he went on. “I was a small boy back then. To me it was all an adventure. No one was hurt.”

And telling Lindsey was a way to impress an older, attractive, well-connected woman. Emma eased off the comfortable stool. She’d had two sips of whiskey, but they were enough. “Philip, you don’t have to protect Lindsey or anyone else. Just tell the investigators everything you know. Let them sort out what’s relevant.”

“That’s what I told him, too,” Kitty said, defensive. “And now he has. Haven’t you, Philip?”

“Not about Father Bracken and the Sharpes. I’ll tell them now.”

Philip seemed stronger, more certain of himself and what he had to do. Kitty, on the other hand, looked shaken, but she nodded at her son. “I’ll let you handle it, then.”

Emma left them. She had a rush of questions of her own to process. She went upstairs and noticed Julianne was alone in the reading room, sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, a fire burning behind a screen.

“Mind if I join you?” Emma asked.

Julianne smiled. “Please do.” She nodded up at Aoife O’Byrne’s seascape. “I don’t know much about art, but that’s an amazing painting.”

Emma sat next to her on the thick carpet. Julianne was in leggings and an oversize sweater, no shoes, as if she’d tried to settle in for the evening and found she couldn’t stand being alone. She hadn’t joined Emma and Colin for dinner, instead ordering a sandwich in her room. Emma still had on her skirt from dinner, but she kicked off her flats and wiggled her toes, welcoming the heat of the fire.

“It’s weird how life can throw people together at intense times.” Julianne leaned back against the love seat. “You’ve been all over the world, Emma. Monday was my first time on a transatlantic flight. I had this whole trip rationalized in my head, but the truth is, I was running away from Rock Point. From myself.”

“Maybe that’s what you had to do.”

“You’re very centered, aren’t you? At peace with yourself.”

“I don’t know about that,” Emma said.

“It’s hard to stay at peace with yourself when you’re in love with a Donovan.”

“Are you, Julianne? In love with a Donovan?”

Julianne gave a small moan. “Andy. Just who I want to think about while sitting in front of an Irish fire.”

“It doesn’t answer the question, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t, Special Agent Sharpe.” Julianne sat up straight. “I don’t have a Donovan in love with me. You do. Where is Colin, by the way?”

“He went up to see Sean Murphy.”

“Sean. Now, he’s an interesting guy. Good-looking, too. Who knows, if the field station had worked out, maybe I could have become a staff biologist and...” She paused and looked at Emma. “He’s, what, thirty-six or thirty-seven? That’s not too old for me, is it?” She looked again at the fire. “I don’t know what to do, Emma. I keep thinking about Andy. It’s not healthy.”

“You’ve been taking the steps to move on with your life,” Emma said.

“Running away to Ireland on a whim?”

“Julianne—”

“I ruined Rock Point for myself by getting involved with Andy. Maybe deep down that’s why I did it. A bad, inevitable breakup with Andy Donovan would force me to leave.”

Emma listened to the wind gusting against the windows, the crackle of the fire, and felt Julianne’s exhaustion—felt how much she wanted Andy with her right now.

“I’ll be fine,” Julianne said. “Really. I’m not lying dead at the base of an Irish ledge.”

“You’re strong, Julianne, and you’re resilient. Maybe you don’t have to be so hard on yourself for falling for Andy.” Emma touched Julianne’s hand. “Or for still being in love with him.”

Julianne stood quickly, wiping tears off her cheeks. “Thanks, Emma. I’ll rally. I’ll figure all this out.”

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I appreciate that, but you and Colin have enough going on. I’ll pull myself together. I’ll figure out what to do in the morning. Going back to the cottage now that Kitty’s son got bloodied up there...” She sighed. “That wouldn’t go over well with Colin, would it? Not that I need him to stop me this time. The past week to the contrary, I do have some common sense. I’m glad Philip’s okay. That’s what matters.”

Emma got to her feet. “We could get you out of here tomorrow. Maybe drive over to Killarney and hike up to Torc Waterfall, or do a boat tour of the lakes. Now that the field station hasn’t worked out, you don’t have to stay in Declan’s Cross. You could spend the rest of your two weeks over there. It’s incredibly beautiful.”

“That’s tempting. When do you go home? You haven’t told me already, have you?”

“I was booked on a flight tomorrow.”

“What about Colin?”

“He’ll be staying a bit longer,” Emma said.

Julianne studied her, but said only, “You two are something,” then smiled and headed into the hall.

* * *

When Emma returned to her room, Colin still wasn’t back yet. She filled the tub with water as hot as she could stand and added scented salts—rose geranium, she saw—and slid in. She closed her eyes and let the pieces of the puzzle of this little village and its ties to Rock Point, Heron’s Cove, a theft a decade ago—a death a few days ago—drift past her.

She heard Colin come into the room.

“It’s me,” he said.

“I’m in the tub.”

“Are there bubbles?”

“There are no bubbles.”

“Good.”

He opened the bathroom door. He’d pulled off his jacket and had on the sweater he’d worn to dinner—Irish cashmere that she’d bought for him on a shopping-and-lunch day in Kenmare. It seemed like a hundred years ago but had been just last week.

He sat on the edge of the tub. She let a facecloth float strategically over her. “Are we any closer to knowing what happened to Philip?” she asked him.

“I’m not. I doubt Sean Murphy is, either.”

“Philip doesn’t know. He’s racked with guilt because he talked to Lindsey about the theft. He told her about my family. I doubt she went to Maine just to clear her head and say hello to Finian.”

“It doesn’t mean she stole the Aoife O’Byrne pieces from her father, either. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

She smiled. “I’m trying not to think.”

He returned her smile. “I was hoping you were going to say that.”

He stole her facecloth and cast it aside, then lowered his mouth to hers in the sexiest kiss ever. Him dressed...her naked in the tub...the hot water swirling over her breasts, between her legs...his tongue parting her lips, plunging deep, insistent, erotic. Sensations bubbled through her. Desire, love, dreams that she’d once thought impossible.

Then his fingertips slid ever so lightly over her wet skin...

“Colin.” She couldn’t breathe. “I’m going to drown. I swear.”

He dipped his hand into the water, skimmed his fingertips over her hips. He had to know he was torturing her. He plunged his hand deeper into the water, until his fingers found their mark. He stifled her cry of pleasure with his mouth, his tongue matching the rhythm of his fingers.

Ragged, aching, she raised up out of the water, throwing her arms around him, ready to pull him in with her.

He lifted her out of the tub. Water went everywhere, but she didn’t care—and obviously he didn’t, either. He laid her on the soft, thick bathroom rug. She pulled him down on top of her, and he feasted on her—tongue, teeth, fingers exploring, taking her to the edge and back again, not letting her go over.

She tore at his shirt, pulled at his pants, making little progress...until he helped. Then his clothes were off in seconds, cast onto the edge of the tub, in the scented water.

“Emma, if the floor—”

“The floor’s good. It’s perfect.”

And it was. The moment he touched her again, she was lost—there was him, and only him. She arched to meet him, and, when he plunged into her, felt his heart racing with hers. This time when he took her to the edge, he let her go over...and went with her.

Later, when their bodies had cooled, he pulled a towel off the heated rack, wrapped it around her and carried her to bed. In the darkness, she held him close, skimmed her hands over the familiar shape of his muscles, the sexy roughness of his callused hands, and she splayed her fingers on his chest, felt his heartbeat and knew she loved this man, and would forever.

23

ANDY DONOVAN HAD
never thought much about Heron’s Cove. It was a good spot to take a date for dinner or to check out cute shops, fancy yachts and big summer houses. Sharpe Fine Art Recovery was located in a gray-shingled Victorian tucked between an upscale marina and a picturesque inn at the mouth of the tidal Heron River. Wendell Sharpe used to work in a front room. Now, except for a small apartment in back, the entire house was being transformed into offices.

Andy went around back and found Lucas Sharpe on the porch overlooking the water. The tide was out, the marina quiet on an early November afternoon. Lucas was tall and sandy-haired, with a strong enough resemblance to Emma that people would recognize them as brother and sister. He had on ratty khakis and a canvas shirt spattered with white paint, as if he’d been helping prime walls—but he said no, not here. He’d been painting at his house in the village. “The carpenters don’t like me helping here.”

A couple of them were from Rock Point and had told Andy the same thing. He’d met Lucas since his sister had taken up with Colin in September, but didn’t know him well.

“I’m short on time,” Andy said. “Sorry to cut to the chase. Why wouldn’t someone report an art theft?”

Lucas eyed him for a beat, then answered. “Ransom. The thief threatens to destroy the art if the owner doesn’t pay up. Insurance fraud. Inheritance disagreements. Ownership disputes. Those are some of the most obvious reasons. Does this have something to do with Declan’s Cross?”

“You’ve talked to Emma?”

“And my grandfather.”

Andy noticed an empty easel in the corner of the porch. Emma was an amateur painter. Any artistic talents he had went into his boat restoration work. He didn’t know about Lucas. Looked more the type to relish the cerebral aspects of his work. “Any theories why David Hargreaves wouldn’t report the theft of the two Aoife O’Byrne pieces he owns?”

“He could have thought he was protecting his daughter, his reputation—his family’s reputation.”

“Avoiding publicity, then.”

“A prison sentence for Lindsey, too, perhaps, unless she could claim ownership.” Lucas picked up a paintbrush drying on the porch rail and tested the bristles. “Hargreaves isn’t giving a straight story.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Andy said. “There’s more to this unsolved theft in this little Irish village than you and Emma and Colin are saying, isn’t there?”

Lucas returned the paintbrush to the rail. “I don’t know that it has anything to do with what’s happening there now. Lindsey’s mother was a painter, but she never got a toehold and spiraled downhill after the divorce.” He nodded toward the back door. “I spoke to the carpenters just now. A woman fitting the description of Lindsey Hargreaves stopped in last week asking about the Sharpes.”

Andy frowned. “Asking what?”

“Vague questions. They gave her the address of our temporary offices, but she never showed up there. This was in the morning.”

“Before she arrived in Rock Point, then. How much are these Aoife O’Byrne works worth?”

“A lot.”

“More than the pieces stolen ten years ago?”

“Not more than the Jack Yeats paintings. Not yet, anyway. Why? What’s on your mind, Andy?”

He could see that Lucas was quick-minded, no-nonsense, probably relentless as hell. Andy decided not to mince words. “Do you think David Hargreaves could have pushed his own daughter off that ledge?”

Lucas’s blue eyes narrowed. “I think someone did.”

Andy thanked him and went back out front. Mike was waiting in his truck. Andy climbed in. His brother looked over at him. “You still want to do this?”

“Yeah.” Andy put on his seat belt. “I hate flying, though. I’m not afraid. I just hate it.”

“Flying’s better than listening to Franny Maroney go on about her dark fairies. She raised the hairs on the back of my neck.”

She’d hunted Andy down at Hurley’s. Mike had been there, too. She’d told them she’d heard a banshee keening last night. She had dark circles under her eyes and her sweater buttoned up crooked, as if she hadn’t slept. She’d thumped the table with her bony finger and told Andy that he had to do something.

Finian Bracken had arrived, and Andy and Mike got out of there, leaving their Irish priest friend to deal with Franny. Andy was sorry she was so worried, but he also hadn’t told her that he’d already booked a flight to Ireland and was leaving tonight.

“Do you think it’s a bad sign Franny heard her banshee after I bought my ticket?” he asked Mike.

“Andy, it’s Franny Maroney. Even if there are such things as banshees, she likes scaring the hell out of us, and she’s a pessimist. She can find the negative in fixing oatmeal for breakfast.”

“She’s still getting over Jack’s death.”

Mike pulled out onto the quiet street. “So is Julianne.”

“I know. That’s part of why she weakened and fell for me.”

“What’s the other part?”

“My natural charm.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Why’d you weaken and fall for her?”

Andy looked out his window. “Some things just can’t be explained, Mike.”

“Like Franny’s dark fairies,” his brother said with a grin as he headed toward the interstate.

Andy would arrive at Logan just in time for his flight. He’d be in Ireland for breakfast. In Declan’s Cross by lunch. “I haven’t told Colin I’m coming.”

“Good. Don’t until you land.”

That was Mike. Mr. Communicator.

“You’re not second-guessing yourself, are you?” Mike asked. “That would be Julianne rubbing off on you.”

“She should trust her instincts more,” Andy said. “She knew this trip to Declan’s Cross was nuts, and she was right.”

Mike grimaced. “Might not want to tell her that.”