J. Robb: Indulgence in death

“They work, farm, run shops, tend homes and families, go to the pub for a pint and community. Simple doesn’t mean unfulfilled.”

She let out a little snort. “You’d go crazy here.”

“Oh, within a week. We’re urban creatures, you and I, but I can appreciate those who make this way their own, who value and support community. Comhar ,” he added, “that’s the Irish word for it. It’s particular to the west counties.”

There were woods now, sort of looming back from the road, and pretty-if you went for that kind of thing-stretches of fields divided by low walls of rock she imagined had been mined from the pretty fields.

She recognized the house when Roarke turned. It managed to be sprawling and tidy at the same time, fronted with flowers in what Roarke had told her they called a dooryard . If buildings sent off an aura, she supposed this one would be content.

Roarke’s mother had grown up here before she’d run off to the bright lights of Dublin. There, young, naive, trusting, she’d fallen in love with Patrick Roarke, had borne his child. And had died trying to save that child.

Now her twin sister ran the house, helped run the farm with the man she’d married, with their children and siblings, parents-the whole brood seemed to root here, in the green.

Sinead stepped out of the house, telling Eve she’d been watching for them. Her gilded red hair framed her pretty face where green eyes warmed in welcome.

It wasn’t the connection of blood kin that put that affection on her face, or in the arms she stretched out. It was family. Blood, Eve knew, didn’t always mean warmth and welcome.

Sinead caught Roarke in a solid, swaying hug, and as her murmured greeting was in Irish, Eve couldn’t understand the words. But the emotion translated.

This was love, open and accepting.

When she turned, Eve found herself caught in the same full-on embrace. It widened her eyes, shifted her balance.

“ Fáilte abhaile . Welcome home.”

“Thanks. Ah…”

“Come in, come in. We’re all in the kitchen or out the back. We’ve enough food to feed the army we are, and thought we’d have a picnic, as you’ve brought such nice weather.”

Eve cast a glance up at the sky, and supposed there were degrees of nice weather, depending where you stood on the planet.

“I’ll have one of the boys fetch your bags and take them up to your room. Oh, it’s good to see your faces. We’re all here now. We’re all home.”

They were fed and feted, surrounded and questioned. Eve managed the names and faces by imagining them all as suspects on a murder board-even the ones who toddled and crawled.

Especially the one who kept toddling over and trying to claw its way into her lap.

“Our Devin’s a lady’s man.” His mother-Maggie-laughed as she hauled him up, and in the way of some women, lodged him effortlessly on her hip. “Da says you’re off to Italy next. Connor and I splurged on our honeymoon and went to Venice. It was brilliant.”

The kid on her hip babbled something and bounced.

“All right, my man, since we’re having a holiday. I’m after getting him another biscuit. Would you like one?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

A moment later, Eve felt an itch between her shoulder blades. Shifting, she saw a boy staring at her. She recognized him-the Brody family green eyes, the solar system of freckles-from when the family had come to New York the previous Thanksgiving.

“What’s the deal?” she demanded.

“I’m wondering if you’ve got your stunner.”

She hadn’t worn the harness, but she’d strapped her clutch piece to her ankle. Old habits die hard, she supposed, just as she supposed Sinead and the rest of the females wouldn’t appreciate her showing the kid the weapon at a family picnic.

“Why? Somebody need to go down?”

He grinned at that. “My sister, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“What’s the offense?”

“Being a git. That should be enough.”

She knew the gist of the meaning from Roarke’s use of the word when he lapsed into his native slang. “Not in New York, ace. The city’s full of gits.”

“I think I’ll be a cop and blast the bad guys. How many’ve you blasted?”

Bloodthirsty little bastard, Eve thought. She liked him. “No more than my share. Putting them in a cage is more satisfying than blasting them.”

“Why?”

“It lasts longer.”

He considered that. “Well now, I’ll blast them first, then put them in a cage.”

When she laughed, he shot out another grin. “We don’t get bad guys around here, and that’s a pity. Maybe I’ll come to New York again, and you can show me some of yours.”

“Maybe.”

“That’ll be frosted!” he said, and bolted off.

The minute he did, someone plopped down beside her and pushed a fresh pint into her hand. Seamus, she identified, Sinead’s oldest son. She was pretty sure.

“So, how’re you finding Ireland then?”

“We went east from New York. Green,” she added when he chuckled and gave her a friendly elbow in the ribs. “With a lot of sheep. And good beer.”

“Every shepherd deserves a pint of an evening. You’ve made my mother very happy, taking this time to come, be with family. She thinks of Roarke as hers now, in her sister’s place. What you’re doing for her, and for him, it matters.”

“It doesn’t take much effort to sit around and drink good beer.”

He patted her thigh. “It’s a long way to travel for a pint. Added to it, you’ve thrilled my boy to pieces.”

“Sorry?”

“My Sean, who was just here interrogating you.”

“Oh. It’s hard to figure who’s whose.”

“Sure it is. Since we visited you last year, he’s given up his dream of being a space pirate in favor of being a cop and blasting bad guys for his living.”

“He mentioned it.”

“Truth be known he’s wishing desperately for a murder while you’re about. Something gruesome and mysterious.”

“Get a lot of those around here?”

He sat back, took a contemplative sip of beer. “The last I recall was when old Mrs. O’Riley broke her husband’s head with a skillet when he, once again, came home pissed and smelling of another woman’s perfume. I suppose it was gruesome enough, but not altogether mysterious. That would be about a dozen years back.”

“Not much action in the area for a murder cop.”

“Sadly for Sean, no. He likes to follow your cases, searching out tidbits on his computer. This last? The hologames murder gave him endless thrills.”

“Oh.” She glanced over to where Roarke stood with Sinead, her arm around his waist. And thought of the blade slicing into his side.

“We’ve a parental lock on, so he can’t get the juicier details.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good thing.”

“How bad was he hurt, my cousin? The media didn’t have much on that-which is, I suppose, how he wanted it.”

His blood, warm, sliding through her shaking fingers. “Bad enough.”

Seamus nodded, lips pursed as he studied Roarke. “He’s not at all his father’s son, is he then?”

“Not where it counts.”

Irish picnics, Eve discovered, went on for hours, as did the Irish summer day, and included music, dancing, and general carryings-on till well after the stars winked on.

“We’ve kept you up late.” Sinead walked them upstairs, this time wrapping an arm around Eve’s waist.

Eve never knew exactly what to do when people looped their arms around her-unless it was combat, or Roarke.

“After all your travels, too. Barely giving you time to unpack, and none at all to settle in.”

“It was a nice party.”

“It was, it was, yes. And now my Seamus talked Roarke into going out in the field in the morning.” She gave Eve a little squeeze. At the signal, Eve glanced back at Roarke.