Carla Neggers, page 7
“I went out early with Eamon Carrick and a couple of his friends.”
As if it’s any of your business, his tone said.
Sean sat on a high cushioned stool at the polished wood bar, saved from the original fittings in the house and refurbished to Kitty’s specifications. She had a background in business but loved this place. She and Aoife had been coming here since they were babies. Sean couldn’t recall when he’d first noticed them. By the time Kitty was seventeen, for certain. By eighteen, she’d been in love with her banker, William Doyle.
“Where did you go?” Sean asked her son.
Philip took the last glass from the tray and set it on the shelf with the others, all sparkling in a sudden ray of sun that was there and then gone again. “We went out to the Samson wreck off Ram Head in Ardmore.”
“I know the spot.” In 1987, a trawler had run aground, its hulking, rusting wreck an eyesore to many but a popular spot for divers. “How well do you know these lads?”
“Well enough. I’m learning a lot from them. They’re more experienced divers than I am.”
“Diving is an expensive hobby.”
“It’s not just a hobby,” Philip said. “I’m thinking of becoming an oceanographic research diver.”
Sean wasn’t one to puncture a young man’s dreams, but he said, “A college degree would help, I would think.”
“It would if I decide I want one.” He tucked the empty tray under one arm. “What if I wanted to join the garda water unit like Eamon’s brother?”
“Think you could pull a body out of the water?”
Philip didn’t flinch. “I could.”
“It’d be in addition to your regular garda duties.”
“Good.”
Practical considerations didn’t necessarily interest Philip, but that could be youth and the attitude of some of his diving friends rubbing off on him. From what Sean had gleaned in the three or four weeks since Lindsey and Brent had arrived in Declan’s Cross, they’d been bouncing from place to place in order to indulge their passion for diving. Brent in particular was a respected diver, willing to cobble together a living if it gave him the freedom to dive. Their arrival in Declan’s Cross had attracted local divers. Everyone had assumed they’d move on. Then came the idea for a research field station, the rented garage...and now Julianne Maroney.
Sean decided to get Philip’s opinion, gauge his reaction. “What’s the status of this marine science research field station?”
“Lindsey’s securing funding from her family. She wants it to be a proper field station.” Philip opened a lower cabinet and shoved the tray inside, then stood straight, his cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. “I’ve volunteered to do what I can to help.”
Meaning he wasn’t getting paid. Same with Lindsey’s new friend from Maine. “Lindsey seems to have a knack for getting people to help her.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
Sean shrugged, unruffled. “Nothing on the face of it. What about Brent and Eamon? Are they volunteers?”
“I don’t know, but Eamon’s not involved with the field station that I can see. Brent could be on a Hargreaves Institute grant. He hasn’t said, and I haven’t asked.” Philip was less combative, his interest in the field station plainly genuine. “Can I get you anything?”
Sean shook his head. “Just passing through. You haven’t seen Lindsey, have you?”
“Not since yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yeah.” Philip lifted a bottle of wine from a rack and checked the cork, obviously looking for something to do. “She stopped by the garage—the field station. I was in back with the tanks. By the time I realized she was there, she was on her way again.”
“Did you speak to her?” Sean asked.
“Not a word. I don’t think she saw me.”
“You were alone?”
“Yes. Sean—geez, man—”
“What time was this?”
“Two o’clock or so. After lunch.” He gave a half nervous, half sarcastic laugh. “I wouldn’t want to get into real trouble with you. I’m sweating.”
Sean eased off the stool, attempting to look less as if Philip were a terror suspect. His months of inaction—healing, thinking, tending sheep—had taken a toll, and now he was overreacting to absolutely nothing. “Where were Eamon and Brent yesterday?” he asked casually.
“I don’t really know. Off diving, I expect. You don’t think anything’s happened to Lindsey, do you?”
“I’ve no reason to think so.”
It was a careful answer, and Philip seemed to recognize it as such. He returned the wine bottle to the rack and grabbed a wet rag out of the small, stainless-steel sink but didn’t seem to know what to do with it. He finally slopped it onto the edge of the sink and scrubbed at some possibly imaginary stain. The color in his face was all the confirmation Sean needed that the lad was taken with Lindsey. She was at least a decade older, but that wouldn’t stop an eighteen-year-old’s fantasies.
Not much did, Sean thought. At the moment he had no desire for alcohol. He stood by the fire, burning hot with no one to enjoy it. Above the marble mantel was a mirror that had hung there for as long as he could remember. Interesting to see what Kitty had kept of John O’Byrne’s and what she’d dumped.
She bustled into the room, saw him, stopped abruptly. She wore a long sweater that came almost to her knees. It was a soft wool, as blue as her eyes. “Hello, Sean.” Tight, brisk. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“I’m admiring your fire.”
She moved deeper into the room. “You’ve never been even half as funny as you think you are. What do you want?”
He realized he wasn’t exactly sure and said, “I’m looking for Lindsey Hargreaves.”
“I see. Well, did you find her?”
“No. I talked to Philip. He hasn’t seen her today.”
“Good,” Kitty said under her breath.
Sean watched her as she tidied books that didn’t need tidying. She worried about her son. Philip didn’t seem to grasp that the clock was ticking and he needed to get on with his life. His diving friends and their live-for-the-moment ways weren’t necessarily the best influence, but they didn’t seem bad sorts.
Then again, Sean thought, what did he know about the divers, or about Kitty and her teenage son? Since he’d arrived in Declan’s Cross in June, having barely survived his smugglers’ attempt to kill him, he’d kept to himself.
“David Hargreaves is arriving tonight,” Kitty said. “Lindsey’s father.”
“Here at the hotel?”
She nodded. “He’s staying in the cottage.”
The O’Byrne cottage was through the gardens, a separate accommodation with its own kitchen and two bedrooms. Sean grabbed the poker and gave the fire a quick stir. “Lindsey’s not staying with him?”
“Apparently not. She’s supposed to be staying at your cottage. The views are gorgeous up there.”
Sean returned the poker to the rack. He noticed Kitty’s cheeks flame. She would be familiar with his cottage’s views just from living in Declan’s Cross, but he knew she wasn’t thinking about looking out at the cliffs and sea from the lane. She was thinking about waking up in his bed six years ago. His father had died. His mother had moved into the village. He and Kitty had had the place to themselves.
It had been his second chance with her. He wouldn’t get a third.
“It was a long time ago, Kitty,” he said.
She frowned as if she were mystified. “I must have missed something because I have no idea what you mean.” She moved off to adjust drapes, her back to him as she continued. “You’ve met my new guests. Finian Bracken’s friends.”
“They’re FBI agents, you know.”
She glanced back at him. “Are they now?”
Clearly she did know.
“They’re here just for the night,” she added. “They’ve been staying at Fin Bracken’s cottage near Kenmare. The one he and Sally fixed up.”
Sean nodded but made no comment. Half the women in Ireland had fallen in love with Finian Bracken after the tragic deaths of his family. They’d wanted to take away his pain and give him a new life. Then he’d gone and become a priest, and now he was in New England, thanks to Sean and, in part, to Kitty herself. On a visit to Declan’s Cross in late March, Fin had talked Sean into stopping at the hotel for a drink. They’d found Kitty deep in conversation with an American priest, Joseph Callaghan, a quiet, thoughtful man in his early sixties. Father Callaghan had chosen Declan’s Cross not just because of the raves about its newly opened hotel but because he served a parish in Rock Point, Maine, not far from the Heron’s Cove offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. He’d heard about the decade-old unsolved theft. That had tipped the scales in favor of a two-night stay in Declan’s Cross.
Over too much of Bracken Distillers’ finest, Father Callaghan had explained how he’d fallen in love with his ancestral homeland and dreamed of taking a sabbatical in Ireland. Sean hadn’t realized what a chord the old priest’s words had struck with Fin Bracken, but next thing, Fin had done whatever ecclesiastic string-pulling he’d needed to do and in June was off to Maine to replace Father Callaghan for the year.
Sean supposed the good Father Callaghan was somewhere in Ireland. He was due to return to Rock Point next June.
Not always easy to go back, was it?
Shaking off his ruminating, Sean noticed Kitty was frowning at him again. Ordinarily he wasn’t the type to ruminate. He said, “I went out to Fin’s cottage once, a year after Sally and the girls died.” He recalled that Fin had been dead drunk. Pasty, shaking. Not at peace with God then, for certain. Sean was of no mind to mention the incident. “It’s a small place, but it’s done up just right. Sally’s influence, I imagine.”
Kitty sighed heavily. “I expect so.”
It wasn’t a time he liked to revisit. He changed the subject. “Where are your FBI agents now?”
“Upstairs, I think. They had lunch here. When I saw the Sharpe name, I assumed they might be here about the theft—some new development, perhaps—but they’re seeing about this marine biologist friend of theirs who’s renting your cottage. Fin’s doing, I’ve gathered.”
“He was worried about Julianne, I think.”
“We emailed this morning, but you know how circumspect he can be,” Kitty said. “Father Callaghan never mentioned the Sharpes and FBI agents when he was here.”
Sean shrugged. “Why would he?”
“Always so practical,” she said with a bit of a sniff. “I suppose you’re right, though. The theft’s not as well-known as it was ten years ago, but it’s still a curiosity for some. It’ll never be solved.” Her eyes darkened on Sean. “I expect you know that better than most.”
“Because I’m a detective, or because I’m Paddy Murphy’s nephew?”
He thought he’d kept any harshness or sarcasm out of his tone, but Kitty nonetheless looked taken aback, as if she didn’t know if she should slap him or run from him. “Neither. Both. I don’t know. It makes no difference. Excuse me,” she said, crisp. “I’ve work to do.”
“I won’t keep you, then.”
She took a breath, but her eyes were fixed on the bar where Sean had chatted with her son. Her expression softened. “This lot Philip’s diving with—they’re all right, Sean?”
“I’m just a farmer these days, Kitty.”
“Even your sheep don’t believe that,” she said with a scoff, then moved on behind the bar. She was still clearly worried about her son, but Sean knew she would never admit as much to him, or ask him to intervene.
He lingered just long enough to notice the light shining on her black hair. He could see her on a long, lazy morning six years ago, sleeping as the sun rose. Her black hair had gleamed then, too. She’d looked comfortable again in her own skin, excited about what was next for her. She’d told him she’d remembered all the reasons why she had fallen for him the first time and had forgotten all the reasons why they had gone their separate ways.
Sean exited through the bar lounge, welcoming the cool air and wind.
Kitty was a smart woman. She wouldn’t forget again.
* * *
Sean stopped just past the bookshop, far enough from the O’Byrne House Hotel and its maddening owner that he could think straight again. He paid little attention to the familiar surroundings as he debated whether to call Fin Bracken about his FBI friends. He finally decided against it. It had never been easy to get information out of Fin and less so now that he was a priest. Instead he phoned Eamon Carrick’s brother, Ronan, a garda in Dublin and a member of the underwater diving unit that served the entire Republic of Ireland.
Ronan picked up almost immediately. “Sean Murphy. What a surprise. How are the sheep, my friend?”
“Bleating even as we speak.”
“Bleeding? Dear God. What have you done to them?”
“Bleating. Baaing. You know.” Sean had no idea if Ronan were serious or joking. “Never mind. It was just something to say.”
“Small talk from Sean Murphy. There’s something. Are you in Declan’s Cross?”
“As ever. Have you any idea why Wendell Sharpe’s granddaughter is here?”
“In Ireland?”
“In Declan’s Cross. You already knew she was in Ireland?”
“Word reached me.”
“Eamon?”
“Not Eamon. If it doesn’t come in water, he’s not interested. Someone I know in the art squad mentioned it. Wendell Sharpe’s semi-retired now, did you know? And Emma Sharpe is with the FBI. Any reason for the FBI to be interested in Declan’s Cross?”
Sean didn’t respond at once. He looked in the bookshop window and saw a small boy sitting on the floor in front of a shelf of books. He’d done the same as a boy, always interested in biographies and comics. Superheroes. Finally he told Ronan, “No reason. There’s nothing new on the art theft at the O’Byrne house, is there?”
“You’d know before I would,” Ronan said.
Probably true, if more because he lived in Declan’s Cross than because of his garda position. “You haven’t by chance run across an accident report on Lindsey Hargreaves?”
“The woman who wants to start this field station down there? I haven’t seen anything, no. I’ll have a look if you’d like.”
“I’d owe you one, thanks.”
“What’s going on, Sean?”
He told his friend what he knew.
Ronan listened without interruption, then said, “I’ll let you know if I find anything. When can we expect you back in Dublin?”
“For a pint? Soon, my friend. Thanks for your help.”
If Lindsey Hargreaves had driven off a road, Ronan Carrick would know it within the hour. He was famously dogged, as well as quick-witted and good-humored. Sean had relied on him many times during tricky investigations. They’d joined the gardai at the same time, fifteen years ago. Ronan was a few years older, redheaded, in good shape and the happily married father of three.
Sean turned from the bookshop and started up the hill toward his farm. He wasn’t always good at dodging disaster, but he’d managed to the one time he’d set his mind to propose to a woman. That had been four years ago. She’d said yes but then decided she wanted to try her hand in New York. Last he heard she was a makeup artist in the theater district.
He couldn’t see his lovely ex-fiancée spraying a sheep’s hoof to prevent a highly contagious fungal disease. Strangely enough, he could see Kitty doing it, if only because it had to be done.
Thinking about Kitty O’Byrne was the road to ruin.
Sean picked up his pace, glad he felt no pain—at least none caused by his smugglers.
7
EMMA STOOD IN front of the marble fireplace in the reading room at the top of the curving stairs. She could hear the wind and a passing shower, the light fading with November’s early dusk. By all accounts, it had been an even wetter, chillier night a decade ago when a thief had slipped into this very room. Later in the evening—no one could pinpoint the exact time but it had been after midnight, at least.
“A fire would be nice,” Colin said from the doorway.
She turned. She didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, or how long she’d been staring at the fireplace, lost in her thoughts. “It would be. I’m sure Kitty would arrange for one if we wanted to stay up here for a bit. There aren’t many guests.”
“Quiet time of year in Ireland. I like it.”
He crossed to the fireplace, making no sound on the thick Persian carpet. The shadows accentuated the hard lines of his face, but Emma knew it wasn’t always possible to read him. He was adept at burying his real emotions. In his undercover work, his life often depended on his ability to convince people he wasn’t feeling what he was feeling.
He stood next to her and glanced around the room. “No alarm system in this place ten years ago?”
Emma smiled. Colin—his pragmatism—helped keep her from disappearing into her thoughts. “No, no alarm system. John O’Byrne was lucky to keep the lights on.”
“Where was he that night?”
“He was on vacation in Portugal, staying with friends. A local farmer was looking after the place. He was asleep in the kitchen. The thief was in and out before anyone knew it.”
“Local farmer as in—”
“Padraig Murphy. Paddy Murphy. Sean Murphy’s uncle.”
“Ah.”
“He says he slept through the whole thing.”
“You talked to him?”
“No. I saw him out in the fields but never talked to him. My grandfather did.”
Emma glanced around the room, focusing on it as it was today. Modern, gracious, with Kitty’s distinctive touch. Her taste in bright, contemporary art and furnishings was very different from her uncle’s shabby, traditional decor.
“Does Wendell know you’re here?” Colin asked.
She nodded. “I called him this afternoon and left a voice mail. I told him I want to talk to him about our thief.”
“Your thief.”
She spun from the fireplace. “On my first night in Dublin four years ago, Granddad took me to a pub, and over pint of Guinness, he told me that his best advice in art crimes work—in life, too—is to distinguish between what I know and what I believe.”
