“We’re friends. At least I think of her as a friend. I’m a simple mythologist, Mary.”
“I doubt there’s much about you that’s simple.” She nodded back toward the church ruin. “Do you have a particular interest in the three crosses on the hilltop?”
“I’m not working on a scholarly paper, if that’s what you mean. The church that’s in ruin is named after Saint Declan. This is Saint Declan country. He’s one of the great patron saints of Ireland.” Oliver smiled, the hint of awkwardness a moment ago vanishing. “Fin’s twin brother is named Declan.”
“It’s a traditional Irish name,” Mary said. “I’m not religious. I certainly don’t believe Saint Declan was led to this part of Ireland by a bell atop a boulder floating on the Irish Sea.”
“Not literally, perhaps—”
“Rocks sink.”
“But think of rocks flung about in a fierce storm. Perhaps they could appear to float. In any case, I see the power of Saint Declan’s story not in its literal truth but in its human truth.”
“Now you sound like Finian.”
“Also the name of an Irish saint,” Oliver said with a wink. “There’s no chance of you entering a convent, is there?”
Mary laughed. “None at all. I’d have said there was no chance of Finian entering the priesthood, but obviously he did.”
“He’s a very good priest.”
“He was a good whiskey man, too. And a good father and husband.”
“You don’t approve of his vocation?”
“It’s not for me to approve or disapprove.”
“But you don’t approve.”
She sighed. “Let’s go back to discussing art. It’s much safer, don’t you think?”
“That all depends,” Oliver said.
“Oh, right—helps not to be a thief or the victim of a thief.”
He said nothing. The lane descended steeply into the village with its brightly painted homes and shops. Mary found herself wishing again she were staying here through the weekend, enjoying the spa at the O’Byrne House Hotel, indulging in scones, whiskey and full Irish breakfasts. She could wander to Ardmore with its sand beach, stunning cliff walk and impressive medieval round tower. Saint Declan was said to have been buried there. She was almost sorry she was leaving for Dublin and a long flight to Boston in the morning. She didn’t need to go to Maine.
Except she did. Deep inside her, she knew she did.
“The Sharpes came up in a conversation last week,” she said as she and Oliver turned off the lane at a bookshop, its front painted a vivid shade of red. “An American woman on a tour at the distillery mentioned them. We chatted for a few minutes after the tour. She said she was fascinated by Killarney’s history, but she herself knows more about ancient Greece and Rome. She said she inherited a passion for antiquities from her mother, who was once a Sharpe client. Small world, isn’t it?”
“Antiquities and whiskey. A good combination, I would think.”
Mary felt heat rush to her face, but she glanced at Oliver and realized he wasn’t making fun of her. “I tend to chat with visitors between tours, lectures and tastings.”
“You’re gregarious by nature.”
“I know much more about whiskey than I do antiquities. This woman was aware I have a brother in Maine who’s friends with the Sharpes. It seemed odd at first, but then she explained that she chose our distillery to visit because of the connection.”
“Do you recall her name?” Oliver asked.
“Claudia Deverell. I made a point of remembering. She visited the distillery on Friday, but I don’t know how long she was in Ireland. She said she lives in London most of the time. Do you know her, by chance?”
“We met at a party on Sunday, as a matter of fact. Small world. I can’t say I’ve run into her before then. Have you told anyone else about her visit?”
Mary paused, noting a few pedestrians out in the village enjoying the fine spring day. The hotel was a short distance up the street. She suddenly couldn’t wait to be there. She felt unsettled, as if she might have said too much to this charming, eccentric Englishman. She had been warned about him, after all.
“I haven’t said a word to anyone,” she said finally. “I don’t know why I mentioned her to you. Because she lives in London and knows the Sharpes, I suppose.”
“The Sharpes are an intriguing lot.”
Mary forced herself to take in her surroundings—a passing car, the scent of roses from a trellis on a small house painted a rich yellow. Best to change the subject, she decided. “Finian’s promised to take me sightseeing in Maine,” she said cheerfully.
Oliver eyed her a split second longer than was comfortable. “That sounds splendid.”
Mary smiled, relieved he didn’t press her further about Claudia Deverell. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use splendid in a sentence.”
“My grandfather used to say splendid. I suppose I was channeling him.”
“I’m not making fun of you. It’s sweet, using a word your grandfather used.”
“He was a good man.”
“Did he like the Irish?”
Oliver winked. “Who doesn’t like the Irish?”
* * *
“What did Oliver York want with you?”
Mary bristled at Sean Murphy’s tone. She sat next to him at the bar at the O’Byrne House Hotel, nursing a glass of sparkling water and lemon as he gave her a dark look. He was drinking coffee. She had assumed he was in Dublin, but he’d explained he’d come down to Declan’s Cross to visit Kitty and see about his farm. Mary appreciated Sean’s rekindled relationship with Kitty O’Byrne, who’d left them alone at the bar.
Mary wondered if Oliver York had anything to do with Sean’s arrival in Declan’s Cross. She liked Sean, although she didn’t know him as well as Finian did. The two had become friends in the terrible months after the deaths of Finian’s family. In a way, Sean had saved her brother’s life, or at least he’d helped.
Nonetheless, Mary didn’t like his tone. “Are you asking as a friend or a detective?”
“I’m both, Mary.”
His tone had softened slightly. The spring breeze floated into the quiet lounge through open doors and windows, and she could hear the wash of the tide across the back garden of the boutique hotel. It was located in the heart of the quaint, tiny village. “Oliver didn’t want anything with me. I ran into him out past your farm. We walked back here together, and he got in his car and is on his way to Cork for his flight to London.” Mary paused, but Sean made no comment. She hadn’t touched her sparkling water yet and took a small sip, setting her glass down before she continued. “What’s your quarrel with Oliver?”
“Trouble has a way of following him. Let’s leave it at that.”
Mary eyed Sean. He was a fine-looking man with his dark, thick hair and piercing blue eyes. He had an amiable manner, but she knew better than to allow that to lull her into thinking he was more sheep farmer and friend than alert detective.
“What did you and Oliver discuss?” Sean asked finally, lifting his coffee cup.
Mary shrugged. “Not much. The weather and a few other things.”
“What other things?”
She felt more like a recalcitrant toddler than a manager of tours and lectures at a successful whiskey distillery, but Sean had crawled under her skin—and he knew it. In fact, she saw now he’d been quite deliberate about it. She supposed she’d fallen into his trap, letting herself get twisted into knots. “I’m not used to being interrogated,” she said.
“I’m not interrogating you, Mary.”
“You are, but we won’t argue about it. Oliver and I chatted about Saint Declan, whiskey and Finian, since they’re friends.”
Sean grimaced. “I wouldn’t call them friends.”
Sean drank some of his coffee and set the cup carefully in the saucer.
Mary waited, studying him. She felt her pulse quicken. “Can he? Sean!”
“Forget Oliver York.” Sean pushed his cup and saucer away from him on the polished wood bar. “Are you driving to Dublin alone?”
“I am. Oliver offered to switch his flight and drive me if I was too tired or wanted to have a drink before I left Declan’s Cross.”
Sean’s expression darkened. “Mary Bracken, you can’t—Fin would have my head if I let you—”
“You don’t have a say in what I do, Detective Garda Murphy.”
“Provided it’s legal,” he said.
“Well, of course. In any case, I said no to Oliver’s offer, and, as I’ve already told you, he’s gone, on his way to Cork, which, I needn’t remind you, is a good distance from Dublin. I’m leaving in a few minutes and driving myself. I debated taking the train, but Aoife offered to let me leave my car at her studio in Dublin. She’s here in Declan’s Cross painting for a few weeks.”
Sean sighed. “You enjoyed riling me up, didn’t you?”
Mary grinned at him but didn’t let down her guard. “Very much.”
“Have you told me everything you and Oliver discussed?”
She relented and told him about the American woman and Oliver’s reaction. Sean’s jaw tightened visibly as she spoke. “Do you know her?” Mary asked when she finished. “This Claudia Deverell?”
Sean’s jaw seemed to tighten more. “No.” He studied her a moment. “I wish you’d reconsider this trip to Maine, Mary.”
“I promise I’ll stick close to Fin the entire time.”
Sean turned and stared out the window next to him. It looked out on a strip of lush, green grass with a bench and stone urns dripping with bright spring flowers. Once again, Mary couldn’t name the variety of flowers. Begonias, she thought. She had an apartment with a garden in Killarney but she’d killed everything she’d tried to plant. It wasn’t a question of aptitude, Declan and her sisters would tell her. It was a question of regular maintenance.
Finally, Sean shifted back to her. “Trouble has a way of finding our Father Finian Bracken these days, too.”
Mary breathed in the scent of grass and salt water floating into the lounge from the doors and windows. “It’s a good thing it’s a fine spring day or I might have to figure out how to poison you, Sean Murphy. I’d get away with it, too, because you’d be gone and you’re the best detective the garda has.”
“And no one would suspect pretty, blue-eyed Mary Bracken. Well, I suppose the flattery cancels the threat, and I don’t have to arrest you.” He rolled off the stool onto his feet. “You’d be wise to steer clear of Oliver York, Mary. Let’s hope he stays in London.”
“You really are going to phone Finian, aren’t you?”
“The minute I get home.”
“Home to Dublin or to your farm here?”
Sean glanced past her to the doorway where Kitty had disappeared. “Home is wherever Kitty is.”
“Such a romantic,” Mary said, feeling a pang of loneliness. She had loads of friends and acquaintances, but she’d never fallen in love the way Kitty O’Byrne and Sean Murphy had with each other—never mind they’d needed years and years to figure out they were soul mates. Mary hoped her true love, should he ever materialize, didn’t take that long to get sorted and there were fewer twists and turns.
But if it was twists and turns she wanted to avoid in her life, why was she on her way to visit her brother in Maine?
“Find yourself an Irish lad,” Sean said, as if reading her mind. “One who likes a strong, stubborn woman, because that’s what you are, Mary Bracken.” He handed her a card. “Ring me anytime, day or night, if you run into trouble in America.”
“I will, Sean. Thank you, but I won’t run into any trouble.”
He looked unconvinced as he left in search of Kitty.
Mary filled her water bottle, grabbed an apple from a bowl and headed out through the front door for her car. She’d be in Dublin in less than three hours. She considered stopping at the cottage Aoife had rented for her painting retreat. Maybe Aoife could explain Oliver York, the Sharpes, the FBI agents and one Father Finian Bracken, but Mary had detected tension between Aoife and Finian at the winter gathering here in Declan’s Cross.
Perhaps best to get on to Dublin and rest ahead of her flight to Boston in the morning.
5
Killarney
County Kerry, Ireland
Colin Donovan was admiring a giant rhododendron with a profusion of white blossoms and thinking of his fiancée, who would appreciate the rhodie more than he did, when Sean Murphy called and ruined his afternoon. Maybe his evening. Maybe his entire Irish excursion. All it took was the mention of Oliver York.
“I’m getting an instant headache,” Colin said.
“I live to give the FBI headaches,” Sean said, his natural humor intact. “Where are you?”
“Killarney.”
“Meet me at the Bracken distillery in two hours.”
The Irish detective clicked off. Colin slid his phone back in his jacket. He’d alerted Sean to his presence in Ireland as a professional courtesy, but he wasn’t there on FBI business. He was there to plan his honeymoon. He’d put it off for weeks—months—while he focused on his latest deep-cover mission. He’d been to four countries, coordinating with other federal agencies and local authorities as he chased down an arsenal of shoulder-fired missiles and other goodies that had ended up in the wrong hands. He’d posed as a rogue buyer. The weapons were secured. The bad guys were on the run or under arrest in the USA, and he was in Ireland, looking at rhododendrons.
He walked across the soft grass of an expansive lawn to a walkway and got out his phone again. The early sunshine had given way to gray clouds but no rain yet. He’d didn’t mind. He’d been in hot places. The cool, damp Irish weather was perfect.
He hit the number for Matt Yankowski.
Yank answered on the first ring. “I thought you were taking a couple of days to decompress.”
“That was the plan. I’m walking past flowers right now. I think they’re lavender. I don’t know, though. They’re purple.”
Silence. “What?” Yank asked finally.
“I’m at Muckross House. It’s a part of Killarney National Park. Mansion, gardens, views of one of the famous lakes of Killarney. Didn’t you visit here when you were in Ireland last fall?”
“No.”
“Just proving I was decompressing.”
“Was,” Yank noted.
“Sean Murphy is on his way.”
Yank sighed. “Because Oliver York is in Ireland.”
“Emma?”
“They talked earlier.”
Colin stood by a bench among the flower beds along the attractive walkway. “What do I need to know before Sean gets here?”
Yank filled him in on Gordon Wheelock’s visit that morning with a certain Special Agent Emma Sharpe. “Do you know Wheelock?” Yank asked as he finished.
“By reputation. Legend.”
“A retired agent attending a London party a few days before the Sharpe open house isn’t cause for alarm in and of itself. I don’t like throwing in Oliver York, MI5 and rumors about stolen ancient artifacts, but no point in getting riled up until we know more. Gordy Wheelock and I never got along, but I respected him. I don’t want to see him hurt himself.”
&
nbsp; “I hear you,” Colin said.
“Emma’s following up with him. In the meantime, if I were Detective Garda Murphy, and you and Oliver York showed up in my country at the same time, I’d want to talk to you, too. We have no reason to suspect York wasn’t on the level when he told Emma he was in Ireland to see her grandfather and stopped in Declan’s Cross on a whim.”
“All innocence,” Colin said, skeptical.
Yank grunted. “There’s nothing innocent about Oliver York. When he was eight, yes. Now? No.”
“If he’s gone back to London and I decide I need to talk to him after I meet with Sean?”
“Go. I hate to pull you away from the lavender, though.”
“Maybe it’s mint. Mint’s purple, isn’t it? The rhododendrons are impressive. They’re not the invasive kind. Emma explained the difference when we were here last fall.”
“Well, don’t explain it to me. Stay in touch.”
Yank disconnected, and Colin continued on the walk to the cafeteria in a newer building next to the sprawling Victorian mansion. He hadn’t done the mansion tour but he’d read the tour guide. All that stuck was that it had sixty-five rooms and the gardens had been expanded ahead of a visit from Queen Victoria in 1861.
He’d rather be thinking about Queen Victoria’s long-ago visit to Ireland than Oliver York and whatever he was up to now.
Especially if it involved the Sharpes.
Colin went into the modern cafeteria, got rhubarb crumble and a coffee and sat at a small table by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens. It wasn’t crowded. He wished he had Emma with him. She knew her flowers from her time as Sister Brigid. He hadn’t been in touch with her in weeks, out of necessity. He’d promised he would be home in time for their wedding. Beyond that...she knew little about where he’d been, what he’d done.
Yank had told him she was on her way to Maine for the Sharpe open house.
A fine drizzle started and the afternoon turned grayer as Colin drank his coffee and ate his crumble. He wondered what he’d be doing now if he’d decided on a Scottish honeymoon instead of an Irish one. His throat tightened, and he could feel his fatigue clawing at him, his frustration that his forty-eight-hour break in Ireland had gone to hell.
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