Rock Point (Sharpe & Donovan)

by Carla Neggers

  Finian considered getting Colin’s take on Becan Kennedy and the two men at Shannon airport, but it would serve no purpose. He was in a different country now. Sean’s investigation in Ireland, whatever it was, whatever dangers he faced, wasn’t for an Irish priest on a yearlong stay in a small town in southern Maine to sort out.

  “Something on your mind, Father?” Colin asked him.

  He pulled himself out of his wandering thoughts and smiled. “Whiskey.”

  For the first time, Colin offered a glimmer of a smile and warmth in return. “My kind of priest,” he said.

  “All things in moderation, even whiskey. Perhaps especially whiskey.”

  “Caution duly noted. Hurley’s has a lousy selection, but maybe I’ll see you there later.”

  With that, the FBI agent abruptly headed off the pier.

  An interesting man, Finian thought, wondering if the good Father Callaghan had left any notes on the Donovans of Rock Point, Maine.

  * * *

  Finian arrived back at St. Patrick’s to a welcome party in the recreation room. There was pie, coffee and well-wishes. In forty-five minutes everyone was gone, the place tidied and quiet. He wandered into the sanctuary. It had a foreign feel, despite all the requisite Roman Catholic accoutrements. The late-afternoon June sun streamed through a stained-glass window, adding a golden glow on the white walls, dark-wood pews and red carpet.

  Father Callaghan had removed his personal items from the office, a small room off the side entrance. He’d left his books and files. A reader of Saint Augustine, the American was.

  Finian locked the church behind him and walked over to the rectory. He carried his luggage into the worn kitchen and set it next to the table. Parishioners had left milk, bread, cheese, orange juice, a basket of fruit and a pie—wild blueberry, according to a handwritten note.

  Ah, what would Sally think of him now?

  He unzipped the outer compartment of his suitcase, an expensive black leather leftover from his days at Bracken Distillers. He withdrew a weathered case that contained a small antique hydrometer—a clever device that measured the alcohol content in spirits—and set it on the table next to the pie.

  Then, with a whispered prayer, he withdrew two navy blue velvet pouches containing rosary beads a friend in Sneem had handmade for each of his daughters for their First Communion. He and Sally hadn’t been particularly religious then, but they’d wanted to raise Kathleen and Mary in the church.

  “Daddy, will you read me a story when we’re on the boat?”

  “I will, Kathleen.”

  Mary had piped up. “Will you sing me a song?”

  He’d kept the rosary beads with him, but in seven years hadn’t yet been able to take them from their velvet pouches.

  Kathleen’s were white glass, he remembered, and Mary’s were pink glass.

  He took the hydrometer and the pouches into the dining room and placed them in a glass-front cabinet.

  The rectory was quiet, filled with late-day shadows and the faint odor of cleaning solution. It had obviously been scrubbed shortly before his arrival.

  He bolted out of the dining room and left for Hurley’s again. He walked, but he would have to see about a car. Father Callaghan had suggested leasing. Finian would look into it tomorrow. He was happy to have a restaurant within walking distance of the rectory—he wasn’t a good cook and seldom drank alone anymore.

  Hurley’s was as simple and rustic inside as it was outside. He spotted Colin Donovan alone at a table in back, in front of windows overlooking the harbor, and told the waitress he was joining a friend. A stretch, perhaps, but he made his way past tables of locals and tourists—he’d spent enough time in Killarney to spot such a mix—dining on lobster, chowder, coleslaw, fried fish and pie. Rock Point seemed to be a place for pie.

  Colin had no lobster, chowder, fish or pie in front of him. He held up his glass and named the American whiskey he was drinking. Finian gave an inward shudder but obviously not inward enough, because the FBI agent smiled and said, “It’s rotgut, I know. You’re welcome to join me.”

  Finian sat at the wobbly round table. The long June day was finally giving up its light, the harbor waters glasslike in the red-gold twilight. He examined a printed, plastic-coated menu that listed the establishment’s limited whiskey offerings. He chose an acceptable whiskey from Tennessee.

  Colin leaned back in his chair. “A whiskey connoisseur, are you, Fin?”

  “My brother and I have a distillery in Ireland.”

  “Bracken Distillers,” the FBI agent said, then tilted forward on his chair. “The church ladies didn’t tell me. Father Joseph did. We’ll have to work on John Hurley and get him to improve his whiskey selection while you’re in town.”

  Finian’s whiskey arrived, complete with ice and water he hadn’t requested. The waitress must have read his expression because she blushed and said, “I just assumed. I’ll bring you another—”

  “No worries. In this case, water and ice are appreciated.”

  He thought he saw Colin Donovan smile.

  Finian eyed the whiskey’s medium caramel color, then took a tentative sip. It really was quite decent, a smooth, full-bodied, single-barrel sour mash Tennessee whiskey. He regretted leaving in the ice and water. He raised his glass to his new American friend. “Sláinte.”

  Colin smiled. “Sláinte.”

  * * *

  In the morning, Finian again found himself at Hurley’s. He had today to get himself settled before he started his duties at Saint Patrick’s. He thought nine was a perfectly respectable hour for breakfast but soon learned it was late by Rock Point standards. The lobstermen had long been out. Hurley’s apparently renowned cider doughnuts were depleted. As he sat at his table of last night, Finian swore he could smell chowder. It was early afternoon at home in Ireland, so he was hungry and ordered eggs, toast, ham and grilled tomatoes.

  His waitress was a hazel-eyed young woman with a thick dark braid hanging down her back. She frowned at him. “I’ll see if we can grill a tomato, Father, but if I get tossed out of the kitchen, you’ll know that didn’t go over too well. We do tomatoes in omelets, though. No problem with that. They’re not grilled, though. Just cut up.”

  “Good to know.”

  “No black pudding or white pudding,” she added, then smiled at him. “I can tell you’re Irish. The accent. I’m of Irish descent. I’d love to go to Ireland someday. I’m thinking about doing an internship there. I’m a student—I pick up hours here when I’m in town.” She took a breath. “Anyway, I’ll see what I can do. White or wheat?”

  “White or wheat what?”

  “Toast.”

  Of course. Finian smiled. “Wheat.”

  He ordered coffee. He wasn’t ready to chance Hurley’s idea of tea. His waitress bustled off, and Finian looked out at the glistening harbor. The working boats were mostly out to sea. A small sailboat was moored off to his left.

  Why couldn’t Father Callaghan have been from Montana?

  Finian tried his coffee when his waitress plunked it in front of him. It was perfect. He relaxed, and in another moment his phone vibrated on the table next to him. Declan calling to see how his first full day in America was going?

  Ah, no.

  He saw it was Garda Detective Murphy. “Sean,” Finian said. “How are you?”

  “Your friend and I arranged to meet, but he didn’t show up. Do you know where he is, Fin?”

  “I don’t, no.”

  “If you did, would you tell me?”

  “Depends how I knew, but it’s not worth discussing since I don’t know. Do you think something’s happened to him?”

  “If not yet, soon.”

  “The number I gave to him—I’m the only one who has it? That’s how you know for sure it was me who gave it to him, isn’t it?”

  Finian could almost see Sean’s smile. “You’re catching on, Fin.”

  “I shouldn’t try to sort out what’s true and what’s not true, should I
?”

  “Your friend is playing a dangerous game. Whatever he’s told you, whatever I’ve told you, that much is true.”

  Becan Kennedy. The name was on Finian’s lips, but he didn’t say it. “Have you talked to my brother?” he asked instead.

  Sean was silent for two beats. Then he said, “No, I haven’t.”

  “I think he’s checking on a painting job at the distillery. We often need this or that done. Short jobs that we hire out. We’ve been thinking about converting an old shed that was part of the original distillery into a health club. Imagine that. A couple of poor Kerry sheep farmers planning saunas and treadmills.”

  “I’ll go see Declan, then.” Sean added, “I’ve always liked him.”

  “Does that mean he’s not a suspect?”

  “A suspect in what, Fin?”

  “One never knows.”

  “It’s good you’re in this Rock Point. Watch your back nonetheless.”

  Finian started to say goodbye when he realized that Sean had already disconnected. He set his phone back on the table.

  His breakfast arrived.

  No grilled tomatoes.

  Chapter 6

  It took most of the day to find a proper car to lease and fill out the paperwork, but Finian finally had a black BMW in his possession. He hadn’t taken a vow of poverty, but he wasn’t one to flaunt his wealth. Nevertheless, he’d driven a BMW in Ireland and appreciated its familiarity. The traffic even in Maine was daunting. He’d had a taste of Boston traffic when he’d arrived yesterday. A BMW seemed less of an indulgence under the circumstances.

  He took it for a drive around southern Maine, checking out places like Orchard Beach, Wells, Kennebunkport and York before parking in front of a marina in Heron’s Cove, an attractive classic Maine village just down the coast from Rock Point. He got out, welcomed the cool breeze blowing off the water with the rising tide. There were more pleasure boats here. He remembered a time when he’d been fascinated by yachts.

  No more.

  He walked up a street lined with pretty shops and large residences, most with front porches that looked out on the Atlantic. He saw porch swings, hammocks, wicker chairs, most empty despite the perfect June afternoon. Heron’s Cove reminded him of reruns of Murder, She Wrote, but he supposed Jessica Fletcher’s Cabot Cove was actually in California.

  He sat on a bench on a narrow strip of grass between street and ocean, the tide crashing on rocks below him. Cormorants dove. Seagulls wheeled. Off in the distance, he heard the laughter of children.

  He dug out his phone and called Declan. “I had a lobster roll for lunch and the sun is shining. How is Ireland?”

  “Raining,” Declan said.

  Finian knew it wasn’t true. He had a weather app with Killarney listed among his “favorites.” He stretched out his legs, barely aware he was in a black suit while passersby were in shorts and T-shirts. “I miss Ireland. It’s funny how life pieces itself together, isn’t it? The threads all connecting as they should.”

  “Or not, as the case may be. Sean Murphy rang me.”

  “Ah.”

  “He asked if I could help him find a contract worker, probably a painter or a carpenter. I couldn’t think of anyone off the top of my head. I’m checking the records, but it’s a needle in a haystack. I don’t even have a name for him.”

  “Maybe you’re not the one who dealt with him.”

  “It’s unlikely I would have. Sean is your friend. Do you know what’s going on, Fin?”

  “Just do as Sean says and not one thing more.”

  “Fin? Is this contract worker dangerous?”

  “Sean Murphy’s looking for him, isn’t he?”

  After he and Declan disconnected, Finian phoned Sean but his friend didn’t pick up. Finian left a message for him to call as soon as he could.

  Humidity had built up through the day, but Finian welcomed it as he took a scenic coastal road back to Rock Point. It was rougher than Heron’s Cove. He parked in front of the rectory and got out into the shade of what he’d already learned was a sugar maple.

  He tried to reach Sean once again but got his voice mail. He left a message. “I’ve missed something, Sean. Call me.”

  * * *

  Finian was back at Hurley’s that evening. Colin Donovan was at the back table with a bottle of Maker’s Mark. “A fine Kentucky bourbon,” Finian said. “It’s not on the menu. You brought it?”

  “Worked it out with Hurley’s. I thought you might turn up tonight.”

  “Thank you,” Finian said.

  “We’ll have to try Bracken 15 year old some time. We have a peated and a non-peated version.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  Colin winked. “Always like to know who I’m drinking with.” He had a plastic pitcher of water—no ice—and two glasses. He poured a bit of the bourbon into each glass and then handed one to Finian. “Two of my brothers are joining us. Kevin and Andy. There’s a fourth brother. Mike. He’s farther up the coast.”

  “Four Donovans.”

  “That’s right.” He grinned. “You’ll get used to us.”

  In a short while, Kevin and Andy Donovan joined them at their table. They wore jeans and T-shirts. Kevin, the youngest brother, was a Maine state marine patrol officer. Andy, the third-born Donovan, was a lobsterman who also restored boats. All three brothers were gray-eyed and strongly built.

  Colin fetched two more glasses and poured bourbon for his brothers. After just a few minutes, Finian was convinced the younger Donovans didn’t believe their FBI-agent brother worked at a desk in Washington, either. Kevin and Andy left early, wishing Finian well. Andy apparently was quite the ladies’ man.

  Finian settled comfortably at the table and ordered a bowl of clam chowder. Colin said he wasn’t hungry but didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. “Is there a woman in your life?” Finian asked him.

  “That would be complicated.”

  “Because of the nature of your work,” Finian said. “You’ll be leaving again soon?”

  The FBI mask dropped in place. Colin ran a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “If anything happens to me, Fin, take care of my folks. My father’s a retired town police officer. He’ll understand. My mother won’t.”

  “I will, of course, Colin.”

  He looked up then and grinned. “But nothing will happen. I’ll be back in Rock Point in no time.”

  Finian saw it then, why this man was here—why he kept coming back. “You need Rock Point to remind you that you still have a life.”

  The comment seemed to catch Colin off guard. “Funny, that’s what I tell myself, too.” He raised his glass again. “You’re a wise man, Father Fin.”

  Father Fin. He would have to put a stop to that before it took hold.

  His chowder arrived, steaming, thick with clams and potatoes. He tasted it. It was truly excellent. A good bourbon. Good chowder. New friends. Life in Rock Point was getting better.

  “How do you navigate between what you can do and what you shouldn’t do but know would help?” Finian asked.

  Colin shrugged. “There’s always a way.”

  His matter-of-fact response didn’t match the serious look in his eyes. He stood apart from his friends and his hometown, Finian thought, but Colin Donovan needed Rock Point.

  As I do.

  As he’d said to Garda Detective Murphy, he now said to Special Agent Donovan. “Be careful, my friend.”

  Colin grinned at him. “Careful is for accountants, Fin. I just get the job done.”

  * * *

  Alone, back at the rectory, Finian sat with a stack of files Father Callaghan had left for him in the living room to help him understand his small parish. Finian remembered the older priest that March evening at the O’Byrne House Hotel in Declan’s Cross.

  “Sometimes you’re the first one to know something. Sometimes you’re the last one to know. Sometimes you’re the only one to know.”

  He’d been thinking he was the only one who knew B
ecan Kennedy had talked to him about his misgivings about what he was involved with.

  What if he was wrong?

  What if Becan’s criminal associates—these smugglers—also knew? What if they’d been watching Becan, waiting to see if he’d betrayed their trust?

  Finian leaped to his feet, his heart racing. The smugglers could easily figure out he and Sean Murphy were friends, although they wouldn’t necessarily know Sean was investigating them...

  “Now they do,” Finian said aloud, his jaw clenched with tension.

  He could see it all. Becan meeting him at the old distillery shed. Finian giving Becan the card with Sean’s number.

  Becan’s associates finding out he and Finian had met.

  Then following Finian to see what he would do. Those had been the men at the airport in Shannon. Smugglers.

  Becan Kennedy was in extreme danger, and so was Sean Murphy.

  “They’re walking into a trap.”

  Finian raked a hand through this hair and forced himself to settle down. Becan knew what sort he was dealing with. So did Sean, who was an experienced detective with a capable team behind him.

  What had can-do Colin Donovan said?

  “There’s always a way.”

  Still on his feet, Finian phoned Sean, but again got his voice mail. He left a message: “The men who followed me in Shannon know our friend contacted you. They’re after him—and they’re after you, Sean. Be careful.”

  Chapter 7

  Finian was still awake at eleven when Becan Kennedy called. It was four in the morning in Ireland. Becan’s voice was ragged, hoarse. “They’re going to kill me, Father. They know I’ve talked to the guards.”

  Finian switched on a side-table lamp. “Where are you now, Becan?”

  “The shed behind Bracken Distillers. Where we met the other day. It’s dark. We were supposed to meet for a drop, but there’s not a soul here but me. They’re coming to kill me. I know they are.”