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,