Declan's Cross. Carla NeggersЧитать онлайн книгу.

      6

      THAT THE UNRELIABLE, cheerful Lindsey Hargreaves had failed to pick up Julianne Maroney in Shannon was enough to distract Sean Murphy from farm work but not enough for him to raise the alarm. These days it didn’t take much to distract him from farm work.

      He’d changed into a clean jacket and hiking boots after deciding against returning to the barn to finish up the antifungal spraying he’d started that morning, one sheep hoof at a time. He hated the spraying, but it had to be done to prevent “foot rot.”

      He started down the lane toward the village, feeling the residual ache of injuries he’d sustained in June. Broken ribs, a punctured lung, a messed-up rotator cuff.

      Sean took in a deep breath and told himself that any physical pain was in his head at this point. Fin Bracken had brought a bottle of rare, dear Bracken 15-year-old whiskey on his last visit to Declan’s Cross earlier that year. Sean hadn’t opened it until September. During the worst days of his recovery, he hadn’t touched so much as a pint. He stayed away from alcohol when it was all he wanted.

      He’d taken time to heal before he’d opened the Bracken 15, and even then, he hadn’t drunk alone. He’d invited his uncle in for a taoscán. A few days later, he’d been able to walk into the village for a pint at his favorite pub.

      Now it was early November, and what had changed? The Bracken 15 was still on the top shelf in the farmhouse kitchen. He was still walking into the village for the occasional pint.

      Still working on the farm.

      Sean didn’t known what Fin had told Julianne Maroney about him, but it had obviously been very little. She struck Sean as feisty and yet uncertain, perhaps not fully trusting her motives for coming to Ireland. He wondered if her FBI agent friends had picked up on that ambivalence and that’s why they were in Declan’s Cross checking on her.

      Interesting that the main offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery were in Heron’s Cove, just down the coast from Rock Point where Fin was. Fin had mentioned Emma Sharpe. She was the granddaughter of Wendell Sharpe, who, last Sean had heard, was on the verge of retiring in Dublin.

      Had Julianne’s choice of Declan’s Cross for her Irish sojourn piqued Emma’s interest, given the theft at the O’Byrne place ten years ago and her grandfather’s interest in the unsolved case?

      It had Sean’s.

      He hadn’t been a farmer ten years ago.

      Then again, he wasn’t much of one now. He noticed his uncle puttering toward him on the tractor, an ancient John Deere with mud permanently encrusted on its green exterior. Paddy kept it in working order. Sean had given up. In his seventies now, his uncle liked to take the tractor out to the fields and was happy to leave the more tedious farm work to his nephew.

      The wind had subsided. Sean recognized his own restlessness. He wanted to know what had happened to Lindsey Hargreaves, but he didn’t trust the foreboding that was starting to gnaw at him. He attributed it to the last of what his doctors had described as a normal process of post-trauma stress recovery—or, more likely at this point, boredom.

      He had no business thinking of himself as bored. There was always work to do on the farm, and it was most often work he enjoyed, or at least appreciated. But that was different from loving it, wasn’t it?

      And it was different from being part of an elite garda investigative unit in Dublin.

      An Garda Síochána. Guardians of the Peace.

      The guards.

      The Irish police.

      Sean had joined the gardai at twenty-two. He’d never wanted to be anything else. He’d help out at the farm—it was home as no place else ever would be—but he’d never imagined being a farmer.

      Technically he was still a member of his unit. He was on leave, recovering from the thrashing he’d taken during the messy arrest of smugglers back in June. He’d won the day and broken open the smuggling ring, but he’d paid the price with a long recovery.

      Being back in proximity to the proprietor of the O’Byrne House Hotel probably wasn’t helping.

      “Ah, Kitty.”

      Was she suspicious of her FBI guests’ motives for checking into her hotel?

      She’d at least be curious.

      Sean waved to Paddy and then started down the lane to the village. Walking meant he could stop for a pint or two without having to worry about his blood-alcohol level. He wasn’t one to over-imbibe, but better to fall over a stone wall than drive over it. Fin Bracken liked to say that walking was soul work. Sean didn’t know about that, but walking had helped him these past few months. At first he could only manage to the barn and back to the couch, but gradually his stamina had improved and, with it, his distances. He’d told Fin that farm work kept him busy, but walking kept him sane.

      At the bottom of the hill, instead of going past the bookshop into the village, he turned down a narrow street to the waterfront and the present and future site of Lindsey Hargreaves’ marine science research field station. At the moment it was an abandoned garage she’d rented with an American friend, a professional diver. It was located just up from the small Declan’s Cross pier and so far looked more like a convenient place to store diving equipment and camp out between dives. It would take vision, enthusiasm, determination and a substantial financial commitment to create a proper research facility. Even with Lindsey’s family connections, Sean was skeptical, but that was his nature.

      A van was parked out front, its back open, revealing state-of-the-art diving gear. Brent Corwin, the American diver, emerged from a side door of the garage. He was in his late thirties, his close-cropped hair almost fully gray. He gave an exaggerated shiver as he stuffed an oily rag into a sweatshirt pocket. “Hey, Sean. Where did the mild air go? It feels more like November in New York. I’m from Florida. Warm-blooded. What can I do for you?”

      “I’m looking for Lindsey Hargreaves.”

      “Two Americans were just here looking for her, too. Friends of the woman she was supposed to pick up in Shannon this morning. I guess that didn’t happen. That’s flaky even for Lindsey.”

      “Has she been in touch with you?”

      “Uh-uh. I haven’t seen her since she left for the U.S. last week to visit her father. She arrived back in Dublin on Friday but ended up staying for a couple days. Her father had to be in London on business and decided to make a stop in Dublin and see the sights.”

      Sean glanced in the van at the wet suits, masks, tanks and other diving paraphernalia, none of it looking as if it had been used in the past few hours. He turned back to Brent. “Do you think she’s still in Dublin, then?”

      “Could be. If my dad turned up out of the blue, I’d probably forget half the things I had to do, too, but you’ve met Lindsey. She’s not the most organized person, you know? I can see her forgetting it was Shannon and ending up at the Dublin airport, wondering what kind of flake Julianne is.” Brent lifted a tank out of the van and set it on the ground. He didn’t look at all worried about Lindsey or anything else. “I’ll make a few calls and see if I can find out where Lindsey’s off to. I’ll let you know if I hear from her, or if she turns up. Would you mind doing the same?”

      “Not at all.”

      “And Julianne—if she hears from Lindsey, she’ll let us know?”

      Sean nodded. “I’m sure she will.”

      “I’ll check with