Читать книгу Liar's Key - Carla Neggers - Страница 9

4

Near Ardmore

County Waterford, Ireland

Mary Bracken paused on the narrow lane that wound along the cliffs above the village of Declan’s Cross. She was winded from walking too fast up the hill, but the lane had leveled off. She was on the headland where Sean Murphy, a garda detective, had his farm. As she caught her breath, she watched a trio of chubby lambs chase each other in the pasture on the other side of a barbed-wire fence. Nearby, two ewes nibbled on the lush green. Mary could hear the bleating of the lambs above the crash of waves on the rocks far below her. She didn’t know if the tide was coming in or going out, just that it was somewhere between low and high.

She knew whiskey, not tides, she thought with a smile.

She resumed her walk on the quiet lane, a short distance from historic Ardmore, the ancient land of Saint Declan. She loved this part of Ireland, but it wasn’t home. Home was Killarney to the west, a favorite with tourists given its natural beauty, national park and fascinating history. Bracken Distillers, where she worked, was located in the hills not far from the busy village. A good location.

I should be there now.

Mary sighed, frustrated with her obsessing. She’d made her decision. She even had her boarding pass for her flight tomorrow. No point questioning her motives for setting off to America now. She’d fly from Dublin to Boston and then drive on to Maine and a visit with her brother, Finian.

Her priest brother.

One of the ewes spotted her and bleated loudly, as if she knew Mary needed a good talking-to.

She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and continued on her way. Where would she be now if Finian and Declan, twin brothers and the eldest of the five Bracken siblings, had decided to make a go of the Bracken farm instead of launching their own whiskey business?

She passed another ewe, a lamb at her teats.

Mary smiled. “That’s where I’d be. I’d have little ones at my teats by now.”

As it was, she had a full-time job at Bracken Distillers, running tours and the whiskey school. She loved her work. She and Declan got on well.

They missed Finian.

Mary felt a lump in her throat. “Ah, Fin.”

Where would he be if he’d made a go of the farm?

He’d be off on a tractor, fixing fences and tending sheep instead of across the Atlantic working as a parish priest in a small Maine fishing village. Fixing himself, tending his church flock—living far away from the reminders of his loss. His wife, his daughters. Gone too soon.

He was a worry, Father Finian Bracken was.

Mary, the youngest Bracken, usually wasn’t prone to worry or obsessing, but Finian’s choice to enter the priesthood felt all wrong to her and had from the start. Now seven years had passed and he hadn’t yet returned to Bracken Distillers and his senses. She feared he never would.

Old Paddy Murphy waved to her from his tractor, across a rolling pasture on the other side of the lane as it curved along the cliffs. She waved back, and Paddy continued his work, which no doubt involved mud, muck and manure. Mary could smell the salt water and welcomed the fresh, clean breeze, no hint of rain in the clear air. As the lane wound closer to the cliffs, she saw the tide indeed was ebbing, and she wished her worries could ebb with it. Yet she knew even if they could, they’d be back, as sure as the tide would rise again.

The lane turned to dirt, narrowing further as she approached the tip of the headland, where a medieval church lay in ruin along an ancient stone wall covered with moss and tangles of greenery. Mary recognized holly, rushes and a small oak, but she couldn’t name the spring wildflowers, delicate-looking with their pink and blue blossoms amid the vines and moss. Like tides, she didn’t know much about wildflowers. They seemed to hold their own against rock, wind and sea, and were an integral part of the rugged, beautiful scenery.

Three ornately carved Celtic Christian stone crosses stood on a green hilltop above her, as if they were sentries protecting the headland. She noticed a movement, and then recognized Oliver York as he emerged from behind the center cross. “Don’t come up here,” he called to her. “It’s muddy as bloody hell.”

Mary stayed put as he trotted down the hillside toward her. She zipped her Irish Mackintosh and felt the stiffening breeze whip through her long, dark Bracken hair.

She thought the mysterious Brit on his way to her might be one of Finian’s new friends, too. He disappeared into the church ruin, its partial walls of lichen-covered stone behind the trees and vines on the overgrown wall. Mary didn’t know what to make of him. They’d met briefly in February, here in Declan’s Cross. Finian had been there, home in Ireland for a short visit.

Oliver squeezed between the oak and a holly and jumped onto the lane, missing a puddle by inches. He was, indeed, splattered with mud, from his Wellingtons to his well-worn waxed-cotton jacket. His tawny hair was tousled and his cheeks were red, no doubt from the windier conditions up by the crosses.

“Mary Bracken,” he said cheerfully. “Father Bracken’s youngest sister. Hello, Mary. I don’t know if you remember me. Oliver York.”

“I do remember you. How are you, Oliver? It’s a beautiful afternoon for a walk.”

“I suppose it is. I’m not much on rambling, I’m afraid.” He glanced out at the sea, a deep turquoise in the late-day light. “This is a good spot to nourish the soul, if one goes for that sort of thing.”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes. Here, especially. I can’t explain.”

He shifted his gaze back to her, scrutinizing her with a frankness she didn’t find unsettling, perhaps because of his overall good cheer and easygoing manner. She was dressed casually, in leggings, a simple top under her jacket and waterproof walking shoes.

“I didn’t expect to walk this far,” she said. “Did you just arrive in Declan’s Cross?”

“Last night. I stayed at the charming O’Byrne House Hotel. I enjoyed Bracken whiskey in the lounge before turning in and then a full Irish breakfast this morning while I looked out at the Irish Sea. I checked out before I started up here.”

“Did I interrupt your contemplation of ancient Irish Celtic myths and legends?”

“Hardly. I was contemplating getting on with my drive to Cork in time for my flight back to London.” He tilted his head to one side, his green eyes narrowing on her. “And you, Mary? What are you contemplating on your ramble among the sheep, sea and ruins?”

“I was just enjoying the scenery.” It wasn’t the entire truth, of course, but she wasn’t baring her soul to this man. “I leave for Dublin soon. I have an early flight to Boston tomorrow.”

Oliver’s eyebrows went up. “Is that right?”

Yet...he didn’t seem surprised. Mary couldn’t put her finger on why she thought that. She heard a bird twittering in the rushes and suddenly wished she wasn’t leaving for Dublin and America but could stay on here for a few days.

“Will you be visiting your brother in Maine?”

She nodded. “I want to see him before his year there is up. I’m staying with him at the rectory. He can’t take much time off, but I’ll be able to amuse myself.”

“I’ve no doubt. Is this a sudden trip?”

“The priest he’s replacing is finishing his Irish sabbatical in a few weeks. If I don’t visit now, I’ll never have this chance again.”

“You hope, if it means he’ll be back in Ireland,” Oliver said.

“Maybe so.”

“Did you drive here from Killarney? Declan’s Cross is a bit out of the way if you’re on your way to Dublin Airport.”

“I know, but I couldn’t resist. Have you been in touch with Finian lately?”

“Not in a while, but he and I are great friends. You must say hello to him for me.”

“I will,” Mary said.

“Did he warn you about me?”

She smiled. “Everyone’s warned me about you.”

“Ah.” Oliver’s lively eyes sparked with humor. “Let me guess. I’m an eccentric, solitary Englishman steeped in the language of myth, legend and folklore.”

“Also that you’re a teller of tall tales and, like Fin, friends with dangerous types—such as the two FBI agents who were at the gathering here in February.”

“Egad.” Oliver shuddered. “Agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan would throw me in irons if I referred to them as friends. That’s only the slightest exaggeration, mind you.” He kicked a clump of mud off the toe of his boot. “Does your work with Bracken Distillers put you in contact with many dangerous types?”

“Not me personally, no, but we had a brush with smugglers last spring, just as Fin was moving to America. The smugglers used an abandoned section of the old distillery for their illicit activities. They were caught with help from Fin. I missed most of the excitement, or whatever you want to call it.”

“Sean Murphy was injured in the fracas.”

For reasons to which Mary wasn’t privy, Sean didn’t approve of Oliver York. She didn’t know if his reasons were personal or professional, as an elite garda detective.

She angled a look at the Englishman. “You seem to know a lot about us.”

“I suspect Detective Garda Murphy and the FBI know far more about me than I do them. Shall we walk back to the village together, or do you want to ramble some more? I wasn’t joking about the mud up on the hill.”

“I’ll walk back to Declan’s Cross with you.”

The lane was the only route on the headland to the village. Oliver didn’t seem at all out of breath as he walked with her, the breeze picking up as they emerged from the protection of the wall and ruins. Mary found it curious if not suspicious that he’d shown up in Declan’s Cross as she was leaving for Maine to see her brother. She didn’t know if Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan would be there, but she expected they would be.

Oliver slowed as they came to the Murphy farmhouse. Paddy, Sean’s uncle, had returned from the fields and was cleaning off the tractor in front of the barn. Sean owned the farm, but Paddy mostly worked it.

“I love listening to the lambs,” Oliver said. “Can you hear them?”

Mary smiled without looking at him. “I can.”

“I have a farm in England. I inherited it from my grandparents.”

“It’s in the Cotswolds, isn’t it? I’ve been there—to the Cotswolds, I mean. Obviously I haven’t been to your farm. I did one of those inn-to-inn walking tours.”

“More rambling,” Oliver said with a wry smile. “You went on your own?”

“Yes. It was after the deaths of my sister-in-law and nieces in a sailing accident. I was on summer break before my final year at university in Cork. I needed...” Mary broke off, searching for the right words. “I suppose you could say my solitary walk in the English countryside was good for the soul. Are you here in Ireland alone?”

The wind caught the ends of his tawny hair. “I am, yes.”

“Is your visit because of mythology or because of the dangerous types you know?”

“Perhaps both.”

He spoke lightly, but Mary detected an edgy undertone, as if her question had struck a nerve. She wondered if his response might be the truth. “When did you arrive in Ireland?” she asked.

“Yesterday. I flew into Dublin.”

“And you’re leaving tonight. That’s a brief visit.”

“I’d hoped to see Wendell Sharpe but discovered he’d already left for America. Do you know him?”

“Not personally, no.”

“He’s gone home to Maine for the first time in years. He’s attending the open house for the new Sharpe Fine Art Recovery offices.”

“Wonderful,” Mary said. “Fin and I will be there. Did you know the Sharpes investigated an art theft at the O’Byrne house about ten years ago?”

“I’ve heard,” Oliver said.

“It wasn’t a hotel then. Kitty’s uncle owned it. It was a drafty old place, I understand. The thief made off with several valuable artworks, including two landscapes by Jack Butler Yeats that are worth a fortune now.”

“He was the younger brother of William Butler Yeats. A talented family.”

“Most of the stolen works mysteriously reappeared last fall.” Mary could hear the drama in her voice, but she didn’t care. It was a captivating tale. “Only a landscape painting of the crosses and ruin out on the headland is still missing. It’s unsigned and probably of little value. Some people think it’s an early work by Aoife O’Byrne, but she hasn’t claimed it. She says she became an artist in part because of the theft.”

“I’m a great fan of her work.” Oliver looked out at the sea, past a narrow strip of pasture between the lane and the cliffs. “I own one of her porpoise paintings.”

Mary hadn’t known that but hid her surprise. “Aoife was at the gathering in February, too. You two, you aren’t...”

“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.”

“It was a normal conversation, Sean, which, I might add, this is not.” She hesitated, debating how far to go, but she’d never been one to keep her thoughts to herself. “I’ve had a feeling Oliver had something to do with the art stolen from here ten years ago. Is he a source—a consultant with the Garda, or Interpol, perhaps? He can’t be the thief, can he?”

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.