Carla Neggers - Liar's Key

“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.