Carla Neggers, page 17
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?”
“I’m sorry.” She blanched, picked up another glass. “I don’t know why I said that. What would you like to drink?”
“Just water.”
“We’re all upset. This field station...this woman, Lindsey...” Kitty shook her head as she set down her cloth and filled the glass with water. “Philip should spend time with friends his own age.”
“He needs to tell the gardai everything, Kitty.”
She bristled, stood back. “The gardai? You’re one yourself. And he has nothing to hide. He’s told them what he knows. Which is nothing.” She set the water glass down hard in front of Sean. “Lemon, lime?”
“This is fine, thanks.”
“Do you have to be so blasted calm? I wish Philip didn’t have to be a part of this tragedy.”
Her son emerged from the back room, looking shaken as he stood next to his mother. “I’ll still dive,” he said. “No matter what.”
Kitty moaned and spun into the back room herself, muttering about having work to do.
Sean wished now he hadn’t come, but he drank some of his water and eyed Philip. “Diving’s an expensive hobby. You’ll be wanting to think about what’s next for you.”
“I’m not worried,” he said, stubborn. “You shouldn’t be, either.”
“It’s easy for trouble to find someone looking for it.”
Philip snatched up Kitty’s abandoned polishing cloth. “Maybe you’re the one looking for trouble.”
“You’re bored in Declan’s Cross,” Sean said.
“So are you.”
Getting far with this, he was, Sean thought as he set his glass on the bar. “Are you going to your father’s wedding?”
Philip slapped the cloth into the sink, clearly caught off guard by the question. “I don’t know when it is.”
“How do you like the woman he’s marrying?”
“She’s all right. I’m glad he’s happy. I wish my mother—” He stopped. “Never mind. I’ve work to do, too.”
“Philip, you were up at my cottage on Monday. You helped Paddy clean up, get it ready for Lindsey and her friend from Maine. Did you see her?”
“I answered all the questions the gardai asked—”
“I’m gardai. I’m asking you a question.”
He reddened. “I told you I saw her at the field station.”
“Now I’m asking about the cottage.”
“Why?”
“Because Julianne Maroney found Lindsey down the lane from there and because you just got into a fight for no reason—”
“A woman dying’s no reason?”
“It’s a reason for grief and prayer, perhaps an extra pint. Not for a fight.”
Philip fingered the cloth in the sink, staring at it as if it were the most important thing in the world. “I wasn’t at the cottage when I saw her. I was walking down from your place—from the barn. Lindsey was getting into her car. She left. I didn’t talk to her.”
“Which direction did she go, Philip?”
He looked as if he wanted to vomit. “Out the lane. Toward the old cemetery. I didn’t think a thing of it. Her car was pointed in that direction. I assumed she’d turn around. Even if she didn’t know the lane dead-ends, I figured she’d find out. Sean—”
“What time was this?” he asked, deliberately interrupting.
“After I saw her at the garage—three o’clock, maybe. I got to work cleaning the cottage. I don’t remember her driving back down the lane, but I didn’t think about it.”
“Did she seem to be in a hurry, preoccupied?”
Philip shook his head. “I couldn’t say.”
Sean suddenly had no interest in his water but resisted ordering a pint or a whiskey. “You need to tell the gardai who interviewed you. You know how to reach them?”
He nodded, turning on the water in the sink and soaking the cloth. “I didn’t lie to them. I just didn’t think of seeing Lindsey up at the cottage.”
“If you remember anything else, you let the gardai know immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”
“And stay away from alcohol. It’ll do you no good at a time like this.”
Philip turned off the tap. The color and adrenaline from his altercation at the pub had leaked out of him. He looked young, ready to cry. He mumbled a good-night and retreated to the back room.
Kitty came out and scowled at Sean. “You’re taking liberties, Sean Murphy. If you’re on the job—”
“I’m always on the job, Kitty.”
She picked up a fresh white cloth. “I need to hire a bar manager before we get busy in the spring,” she said, more to herself than to him. She looked up, her eyes wide, catching just enough of the dim light to bring out the flecks of pure white. “I didn’t want anything to happen to Lindsey, but I hoped she’d get bored with Declan’s Cross and move on.”
“That’s understandable,” Sean said.
Kitty started cleaning the small sink with her new cloth, scrubbing as if whatever dirt or bit of grime she was after would never come out. “Philip isn’t happy here,” she blurted.
Sean didn’t disagree. “Does he want to go back to Dublin?”
“I don’t know that he’d be happy there, either. His dad would have him live with him. He and his fiancée have been together for years. It’s good they’re getting married.” Kitty took in a deep breath, let go of her cloth and stood straight, her cheeks flushed. “Life is full of change. Philip will get used to it. We all do.”
“He’ll want to live on his own soon.”
“When he’s ready. He’s not yet. He’s so restless. We have family in the States who’d have him. He could work there awhile, then come home. But he needs more education—and he can’t leave his skin behind, can he? That’s the problem. He’s not happy in his own skin.” She rubbed her hands together, her fingers slender, red from her scrubbing. She raised her eyes. “You know what that’s like, don’t you, Sean?”
