Kate looked at him. He’d answered a question that had been floating around in her brain since they’d started talking. There was something about the way he said Moruadh’s name, the look on his face as he spoke about her. But Moruadh had once confessed that she was only attracted to good-looking men and, while there was a certain appealing quality about him, Hugh Fitzpatrick was far from handsome.
“That surprises you, doesn’t it?” He was watching her face. “I can see that it does. Thinking that I couldn’t possibly be her type, weren’t you? A beautiful girl like Moruadh could have anyone. Why Hugh Fitzpatrick, who doesn’t have two pennies to rub together? That’s what you’re thinking.”
“I don’t like being told what I’m thinking,” Kate said. Especially when it happens to be right. “And you’re absolutely wrong.” She felt her face color. “If I looked surprised, it’s because I don’t remember her mentioning your name.”
Fitzpatrick seemed unconvinced. His face had darkened. Kate felt a tension that hadn’t been there moments before.
“I’ve always thought that there are two types of women,” he said after a moment. “Those who can’t see beyond pretty faces like Maguire’s and those who can.”
“Listen, Hugh,” she said, feeling rebuked, “in my fantasies I’m a tall, well-endowed blonde named Ingrid. Men flock to me.” She paused to let that sink in. “My reality is a long, long way removed from that. So don’t think I’m unaware of what it’s like to be judged on appearance.”
His broad smile, and the way his eyes lingered on her face told her that he’d read into her remark something she hadn’t intended. They were two drab birds in a gaudy flock, the look said, sensitive and under-valued. Let’s appreciate each other, it said. Kate yawned. The bar had almost emptied out. There were other things she wanted to ask him, but they could wait for another day.
Fitzpatrick was only one source, so it was too early for gloating, but she felt encouraged by what she’d learned so far. Clearly her theory about how Moruadh died wasn’t as off base as her editor at Modern World believed. Establishing her credibility with Tom was important if she ever wanted to move from the financially precarious world of freelance assignments to the more stable and lucrative staff job he’d hinted might be coming up. Still, he’d teased her for her stubborn refusal to accept the accidental death verdict. “Kate the Intrepid,” he’d laughed. “Relentless in her crusade to prove that beneath every male chest lurks a murderous and dowardly black heart. News flash, kid. Accidents happen.”
Kate drained her glass. Yeah, and husbands get away with murder. In the end, she’d worn Tom down and he’d given her the assignment. The trip had maxed out her credit card, but if she left Ireland knowing the truth about Moruadh’s death, it was worth the expense. And if she wrote a good article, Tom might even offer her a full-time position.
“You’re here for how long?” Hugh asked.
“Ten days.”
“There’s a lot to see. Galway is interesting. Would you like to go out one evening? We could have something to eat, talk a bit more. Hear some music.”
“Thanks.” Not wanting to step on his feelings again, or to mislead him, she hesitated. “But I really need to focus on the article.” She feigned a yawn. “And if I don’t get to the place where I’m staying, I’m going to fall asleep. My body clock is still on California time.”
Disappointment flickered in his eyes. “Are you interested in looking at the letters Moruadh sent to me?”
“Sure. I’ve got interviews scheduled for the next few days, but I could come by your office.”
“Right.” He appeared to be about to say something else, then he leaned across the table. “Maguire’s guilty, Kate.” His voice was low, impassioned. “He murdered Moruadh. He thinks he’s free and clear, that he got away with it, but he’s wrong. If it had happened today, under the watch of the new superintendent, he would be behind bars, but we can still make that happen. The two of us—”
“Hold on a second.” Startled by his sudden intensity, Kate leaned back in her chair, widening the distance between them. His eyes, dark and deep set, seemed to bore into her as though by sheer concentration he could make her believe. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. I still have a lot of people to talk to before I reach any conclusions.”
“What can I tell you to convince you?”
“What you’ve told me already has been helpful, but I’m going to need more than that.” Across the room, the remaining patrons were getting in their last curious looks at her before they toddled off into the night. “For starters, I want to talk to Maguire himself.”
“Sure, and Maguire will turn on his charm, and you’ll believe whatever he chooses to tell you.”
She met his eyes for a moment. “Obviously you don’t know me.”
KATE REMAINED at the table after Fitzpatrick left, making a few quick notes while the information was still fresh in her mind. Engrossed in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the bartender until he reached for the empty glasses.
“Anything else for you?” he asked.
“No.” With a yawn, she gathered up her notebook and purse. “Well, actually, you could tell me how to get to the Pot o’ Gold. It’s the B&B I’m staying in.”
“I know it well,” he said. “My wife runs the place. Just around the corner, you can’t miss it.”
Kate thanked him and dropped a handful of coins on the table. As she started toward the door, he called out to her.
“Listen, love, are you married?”
Kate stared at him. God, he had to be sixty. Was he trying to pick her up?
“Oh, not for me.” He laughed, obviously seeing the shock on her face. “My wife.”
“Your wife?”
“My wife. Look, do yourself a favor. When you get to the house and she asks you, tell her you are, otherwise she’ll have you engaged to a pig farmer faster than you can say Lisdoonvarna.”
“Lisdoonwhat?”
“Exactly. Married with two kiddies, tell her. Better yet, say you’ve a bun in the oven.”
Kate smiled and stepped out into the night. After the warm smokiness of the pub, the air hit her like a cold blast. She darted down the narrow alley behind Dooley’s to the muddy patch of grass where she’d parked. Vapor streaming from her mouth, she put the purse on the roof of the car while she unlocked the door. Inside, she buckled her seat belt then remembered the purse and got out to retrieve it. The car’s sudden movement sent the purse sliding from the roof and into a puddle of water. Naturally, she’d neglected to fasten it.
A tube of lipstick glinted up at her from the murky water; the apple that she’d saved from the flight bobbed and sank. As she bent down to retrieve her floating passport and airline ticket, the day seemed to cave in on her and she felt herself on the edge of hysteria—not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
She picked everything up and got back in the car again. As she started the ignition, a combination of fatigue and jet lag and—why not admit it?—loneliness left her suddenly so desolate and empty that her chest hurt. Married. No, she wasn’t married. If falling in love with the right guy was a college course, she would have flunked half a dozen times. A Love 101 dropout, auditing courses on Intro to Celibacy and Elements of Spinsterhood.
For a moment she just sat there with the windshield fogging, the car shuddering beneath her. Here she was in a rental car in some dark alley in a remote village thousands of miles from home and no one was waiting back in Santa Monica for her to call and say she’d arrived safely. No one was counting the days until she