Carla Neggers, page 6
“He’s from Kerry, but he’s visited Declan’s Cross many times.” Sean glanced at her car, still parked crookedly on the side of the lane. “You drove yourself down from Shannon, did you?”
“I did. I’m a little wobbly, but I did okay. Necessity forced me out of my comfort zone. Lindsey Hargreaves was supposed to meet me, but—well, she didn’t, for whatever reason. Has she been in touch with you, by any chance?”
“No, she hasn’t,” the Irishman said. “She’s not here, then?”
“I don’t know if she’s in Declan’s Cross, but there’s no sign of her at the cottage. You know her, though, right?”
“We’ve met. A friend of mine has done some diving with her.” Sean glanced toward the sea a moment, then back at her. “Have you heard from Lindsey at all today?”
Julianne shook her head. “Not since Sunday afternoon. We emailed each other about plans to meet at the airport. She offered. I didn’t ask. I didn’t expect to hear from her again before I arrived this morning. My flight got in so early. I think my phone’s working okay—I’ll check my messages again when I go into the village. I gather there’s no cell service up here.”
“It’s spotty at best.”
“That’s fine with me.” She realized she sounded as if she didn’t want to talk to anyone back home, but it was just Andy she didn’t want to talk to. And her brother, since he’d ratted her out to Andy, who’d ratted her out to Colin. She pushed windblown hair out of her face and added, more cheerfully, “I’ll let you know if I hear from Lindsey. I’m sure I will.”
Sean studied her a moment, as if she wasn’t quite what he’d expected. “Fin says you’re a marine biologist. I see dolphins and porpoises now and again.” He nodded toward the water. “I saw a whale once.”
“Recently?”
He smiled. “I was a boy.”
Julianne didn’t know what she expected an Irish farmer to be like, but Sean Murphy wasn’t it. It was like having a mix of a young Liam Neeson and Colin Farrell up the lane. “I thought I’d get some fresh air while I can. They say sunlight can help jet lag. It’s in short supply right now, but it was sunny on the drive down here. I’d rather crawl in bed and sleep, anyway.”
“You’ll find it gets dark early this time of year.”
“Maine does, too, but Ireland’s even farther north. The Gulf Stream helps keep the climate mild here, but it doesn’t help with the short winter days.” She suddenly felt self-conscious, as if she’d already said too much. “I’m thrilled to be here, though.”
“You’ll have to come back in June when it stays light until late into the evening.”
She relaxed some. “That would be great. I start an internship in January in Cork that runs until May. I’d love to stay on a couple more weeks just to go sightseeing. Maybe I’ll get my grandmother to join me. She’s always wanted to see Ireland.”
“I noticed you had company earlier,” Sean said, checking a wooden fence post that was leaning to one side. “Friends of yours?”
Julianne nodded. “Colin Donovan and Emma Sharpe. They’re staying at a hotel in the village. The O’Byrne, I think they said.”
“It’s a good place.” He straightened some of the wrapped-wire fencing strung between the posts. “Donovan—Fin’s FBI friend?”
“That’s right.” She couldn’t tell if he also recognized Emma’s name. “He and Emma have been in Ireland a couple weeks. They borrowed Father Bracken’s cottage—I think it’s in County Kerry.”
“She’s with the FBI, too, as I recall.”
Julianne wasn’t that comfortable discussing Emma and Colin’s FBI status. “They’re not here on official business or anything like that. They just came to welcome me to Ireland.” She decided to change the subject. “Have you always lived in Declan’s Cross?”
He nodded to the bungalow. “I grew up right here. It’s been redone since then.”
“It must have been something, being a kid out here. The village lives up to the pictures I saw on the internet. Of course, my heart was in my throat when I drove through it just now, but I’m looking forward to exploring. I love to walk.”
“It’s a good place for walking. If you need anything, just find me. My uncle is up here most days, too. Paddy Murphy. Give either of us a shout anytime.”
Julianne found herself not wanting to be alone just yet. “Farming must be a ton of work,” she said.
Sean smiled, fine lines at the corners of his eyes. “Most things worth anything are a lot of work, don’t you think?”
“That’s a good attitude. I’ve always loved whales and dolphins, but it’s not as if organic chemistry came naturally to me.” She turned her back to the water—and the wind—as she looked across the rolling fields. Several sheep stared back at her. “The sheep look all set for winter. Father Bracken says Irish winters are cold, dark and damp.”
“He’s right, but I wouldn’t know any different.”
“I hope he doesn’t think a Maine winter will be any better. It’s at least as long as an Irish winter, and it can get very cold and snowy. Helps to like to do things outside. I like cross-country skiing in perfect conditions, and snowshoeing’s a lot of fun. I’ve never gone ice fishing.” Julianne remembered that Andy was into ice fishing. She’d thought they’d be together over the winter, and he’d take her out to his fishing hut on a lake up north. She shook off that image before it could take shape. “I hope Father Bracken’s enjoying Maine.”
“From what he tells me he seems to be. He said you showed Lindsey the sights while she was in Maine last week.”
“I did. We had a great time.”
Sean stepped back onto the lane. “I’ve never been to Maine. I think of lighthouses and lobsters.”
“We saw one lighthouse and a lot of lobsters, especially in Rock Point. I also showed her summer houses, art galleries, a nature trail, a couple of sandy beaches. We did a whirlwind grand tour.”
“Was she interested in seeing anything in particular?”
“She was interested in everything.” Sean Murphy might be an Irish sheep farmer, but he was starting to remind Julianne of Colin with the questions, the suspicion—but she was tired and on the defensive. She’d trust her reactions better after lunch and a nap. “I’ve kept you from your farm work long enough.”
“Not at all.” He zipped up his jacket against the stiffening wind. “Have a good walk.”
She thanked him again. As he headed back down the lane, he didn’t really strike her as an Irish farmer—but what did she know about Irish farmers?
She decided to skip her walk and instead returned to the cottage, the wind whistling in the rocks now. A grilled cheese sandwich definitely sounded good, and maybe a nice fire to take the damp chill out of the air. She’d give it a while longer before she really started to worry about Lindsey Hargreaves.
6
THAT THE UNRELIABLE, cheerful Lindsey Hargreaves had failed to pick up Julianne Maroney in Shannon was enough to distract Sean Murphy from farm work but not enough for him to raise the alarm. These days it didn’t take much to distract him from farm work.
He’d changed into a clean jacket and hiking boots after deciding against returning to the barn to finish up the antifungal spraying he’d started that morning, one sheep hoof at a time. He hated the spraying, but it had to be done to prevent “foot rot.”
He started down the lane toward the village, feeling the residual ache of injuries he’d sustained in June. Broken ribs, a punctured lung, a messed-up rotator cuff.
Sean took in a deep breath and told himself that any physical pain was in his head at this point. Fin Bracken had brought a bottle of rare, dear Bracken 15-year-old whiskey on his last visit to Declan’s Cross earlier that year. Sean hadn’t opened it until September. During the worst days of his recovery, he hadn’t touched so much as a pint. He stayed away from alcohol when it was all he wanted.
He’d taken time to heal before he’d opened the Bracken 15, and even then, he hadn’t drunk alone. He’d invited his uncle in for a taoscán. A few days later, he’d been able to walk into the village for a pint at his favorite pub.
Now it was early November, and what had changed? The Bracken 15 was still on the top shelf in the farmhouse kitchen. He was still walking into the village for the occasional pint.
Still working on the farm.
Sean didn’t known what Fin had told Julianne Maroney about him, but it had obviously been very little. She struck Sean as feisty and yet uncertain, perhaps not fully trusting her motives for coming to Ireland. He wondered if her FBI agent friends had picked up on that ambivalence and that’s why they were in Declan’s Cross checking on her.
Interesting that the main offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery were in Heron’s Cove, just down the coast from Rock Point where Fin was. Fin had mentioned Emma Sharpe. She was the granddaughter of Wendell Sharpe, who, last Sean had heard, was on the verge of retiring in Dublin.
Had Julianne’s choice of Declan’s Cross for her Irish sojourn piqued Emma’s interest, given the theft at the O’Byrne place ten years ago and her grandfather’s interest in the unsolved case?
It had Sean’s.
He hadn’t been a farmer ten years ago.
Then again, he wasn’t much of one now. He noticed his uncle puttering toward him on the tractor, an ancient John Deere with mud permanently encrusted on its green exterior. Paddy kept it in working order. Sean had given up. In his seventies now, his uncle liked to take the tractor out to the fields and was happy to leave the more tedious farm work to his nephew.
The wind had subsided. Sean recognized his own restlessness. He wanted to know what had happened to Lindsey Hargreaves, but he didn’t trust the foreboding that was starting to gnaw at him. He attributed it to the last of what his doctors had described as a normal process of post-trauma stress recovery—or, more likely at this point, boredom.
He had no business thinking of himself as bored. There was always work to do on the farm, and it was most often work he enjoyed, or at least appreciated. But that was different from loving it, wasn’t it?
And it was different from being part of an elite garda investigative unit in Dublin.
An Garda Síochána. Guardians of the Peace.
The guards.
The Irish police.
Sean had joined the gardai at twenty-two. He’d never wanted to be anything else. He’d help out at the farm—it was home as no place else ever would be—but he’d never imagined being a farmer.
Technically he was still a member of his unit. He was on leave, recovering from the thrashing he’d taken during the messy arrest of smugglers back in June. He’d won the day and broken open the smuggling ring, but he’d paid the price with a long recovery.
Being back in proximity to the proprietor of the O’Byrne House Hotel probably wasn’t helping.
“Ah, Kitty.”
Was she suspicious of her FBI guests’ motives for checking into her hotel?
She’d at least be curious.
Sean waved to Paddy and then started down the lane to the village. Walking meant he could stop for a pint or two without having to worry about his blood-alcohol level. He wasn’t one to over-imbibe, but better to fall over a stone wall than drive over it. Fin Bracken liked to say that walking was soul work. Sean didn’t know about that, but walking had helped him these past few months. At first he could only manage to the barn and back to the couch, but gradually his stamina had improved and, with it, his distances. He’d told Fin that farm work kept him busy, but walking kept him sane.
At the bottom of the hill, instead of going past the bookshop into the village, he turned down a narrow street to the waterfront and the present and future site of Lindsey Hargreaves’ marine science research field station. At the moment it was an abandoned garage she’d rented with an American friend, a professional diver. It was located just up from the small Declan’s Cross pier and so far looked more like a convenient place to store diving equipment and camp out between dives. It would take vision, enthusiasm, determination and a substantial financial commitment to create a proper research facility. Even with Lindsey’s family connections, Sean was skeptical, but that was his nature.
A van was parked out front, its back open, revealing state-of-the-art diving gear. Brent Corwin, the American diver, emerged from a side door of the garage. He was in his late thirties, his close-cropped hair almost fully gray. He gave an exaggerated shiver as he stuffed an oily rag into a sweatshirt pocket. “Hey, Sean. Where did the mild air go? It feels more like November in New York. I’m from Florida. Warm-blooded. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Lindsey Hargreaves.”
“Two Americans were just here looking for her, too. Friends of the woman she was supposed to pick up in Shannon this morning. I guess that didn’t happen. That’s flaky even for Lindsey.”
“Has she been in touch with you?”
“Uh-uh. I haven’t seen her since she left for the U.S. last week to visit her father. She arrived back in Dublin on Friday but ended up staying for a couple days. Her father had to be in London on business and decided to make a stop in Dublin and see the sights.”
Sean glanced in the van at the wet suits, masks, tanks and other diving paraphernalia, none of it looking as if it had been used in the past few hours. He turned back to Brent. “Do you think she’s still in Dublin, then?”
“Could be. If my dad turned up out of the blue, I’d probably forget half the things I had to do, too, but you’ve met Lindsey. She’s not the most organized person, you know? I can see her forgetting it was Shannon and ending up at the Dublin airport, wondering what kind of flake Julianne is.” Brent lifted a tank out of the van and set it on the ground. He didn’t look at all worried about Lindsey or anything else. “I’ll make a few calls and see if I can find out where Lindsey’s off to. I’ll let you know if I hear from her, or if she turns up. Would you mind doing the same?”
“Not at all.”
“And Julianne—if she hears from Lindsey, she’ll let us know?”
Sean nodded. “I’m sure she will.”
“I’ll check with Eamon, too,” Brent said. “He’s up in Ardmore diving with some of his buddies today.”
Eamon Carrick was the younger brother of one of Sean’s garda colleagues, both solid divers who looked for any opportunity to get under the water. Not Sean. He hated even the idea of diving. “How many of you were here last night?” he asked.
“Just me.” Brent gestured back toward the garage. “The place has heat and decent facilities. It’s roughing it by Lindsey’s standards. She’s looking forward to moving into the cottage. She’s well-meaning but she’s not reliable. She’d be the first to say so.”
“She visited a friend of mine in Maine last week—”
“The priest. Bracken, right? Yeah. That’s when she met this marine biologist, Julianne.”
“Why did she visit Father Bracken, do you know?”
Brent shook his head. “No idea. She said he’s Irish—he and his brother own a whiskey distillery near Killarney. I didn’t know you were friends with him.”
“We go back a ways,” Sean said, deliberately vague. He’d met Fin Bracken after the deaths of Fin’s wife and daughters. Not an easy subject. “When did you talk to Lindsey last?”
“Friday, after she got back to Dublin and found out her father was on his way. We only talked for a minute. We emailed a couple times after that.” Brent shut the van doors and lifted the tank. “She gave me her father’s cell number. If he’s still in Dublin, he’ll be at a five-star hotel. His name’s David—David Hargreaves. We’ve never met, but I’ve done some diving for the Hargreaves Oceanographic Institute. I hear he’s a good guy.”
Sean could see that Brent was impatient to get on with his work and left him to it. Whether it was cynicism or experience, Sean doubted Lindsey Hargreaves was going to the trouble of launching a research facility simply out of devotion to marine science. Brent Corwin was a dedicated adventurer, good-looking, energetic. Eamon Carrick and his diving friends were the same. Temptations, perhaps, for a young woman with no clear direction in her life.
There was also her father, perhaps not an easy man to impress.
Sean didn’t know Lindsey well enough to have a good feel for what motivated her, but David Hargreaves’ impromptu stop in Dublin could have thrown her off just enough that she’d forgotten to pick up her new friend in Shannon.
“A bored man you are, Sean Murphy,” he muttered, his teeth clenched as he walked into the village, knowing his next stop would be the O’Byrne House Hotel.
Fool that he was.
* * *
Rave reviews and word-of-mouth of delighted guests had helped keep a steady flow of guests at the O’Byrne House Hotel since it opened its doors a year ago, but November was quiet. Sean went through the back gate and didn’t run into another soul in the gardens. Pretty Kitty O’Byrne Doyle had seen to every detail in transforming her uncle’s crumbling mansion, shrouded in cobwebs and overrun with mice, into a modern, elegant hotel that was at once tranquil and cheerful. He’d heard it was doing well. No doubt. Everything Kitty touched was a success—except, at least in her mind, her teenage son, Philip, who gave her fits.
Sean found the lad alone in the bar lounge, unloading a tray of fresh glasses onto a head-high shelf. Philip Doyle had his mother’s blue eyes, dark hair and spirited temperament and his father’s stubborn jaw and ambition. One minute he was eighteen going on thirteen—angry, sullen, easily bored—and the next, eighteen going on thirty—strong, mature, solid. He’d moved to Declan’s Cross with his mother two years ago. He hadn’t wanted to. He could have stayed in Dublin with his father, a banker, but he hadn’t. And he hadn’t gone back to Dublin since he’d finished school.
He glanced up and said, “Garda Murphy,” with just enough sarcasm to be annoying but not enough for Sean to haul him out from behind the bar by his shirt collar.
“Not diving today?” Sean asked.
