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.
Killarney
County Kerry, Ireland
Colin Donovan was admiring a giant rhododendron with a profusion of white blossoms and thinking of his fiancée, who would appreciate the rhodie more than he did, when Sean Murphy called and ruined his afternoon. Maybe his evening. Maybe his entire Irish excursion. All it took was the mention of Oliver York.
“I’m getting an instant headache,” Colin said.
“I live to give the FBI headaches,” Sean said, his natural humor intact. “Where are you?”
“Killarney.”
“Meet me at the Bracken distillery in two hours.”
The Irish detective clicked off. Colin slid his phone back in his jacket. He’d alerted Sean to his presence in Ireland as a professional courtesy, but he wasn’t there on FBI business. He was there to plan his honeymoon. He’d put it off for weeks—months—while he focused on his latest deep-cover mission. He’d been to four countries, coordinating with other federal agencies and local authorities as he chased down an arsenal of shoulder-fired missiles and other goodies that had ended up in the wrong hands. He’d posed as a rogue buyer. The weapons were secured. The bad guys were on the run or under arrest in the USA, and he was in Ireland, looking at rhododendrons.
He walked across the soft grass of an expansive lawn to a walkway and got out his phone again. The early sunshine had given way to gray clouds but no rain yet. He’d didn’t mind. He’d been in hot places. The cool, damp Irish weather was perfect.
He hit the number for Matt Yankowski.
Yank answered on the first ring. “I thought you were taking a couple of days to decompress.”
“That was the plan. I’m walking past flowers right now. I think they’re lavender. I don’t know, though. They’re purple.”
Silence. “What?” Yank asked finally.
“I’m at Muckross House. It’s a part of Killarney National Park. Mansion, gardens, views of one of the famous lakes of Killarney. Didn’t you visit here when you were in Ireland last fall?”
“No.”
“Just proving I was decompressing.”
“Was,” Yank noted.
“Sean Murphy is on his way.”
Yank sighed. “Because Oliver York is in Ireland.”
“Emma?”
“They talked earlier.”
Colin stood by a bench among the flower beds along the attractive walkway. “What do I need to know before Sean gets here?”
Yank filled him in on Gordon Wheelock’s visit that morning with a certain Special Agent Emma Sharpe. “Do you know Wheelock?” Yank asked as he finished.
“By reputation. Legend.”
“A retired agent attending a London party a few days before the Sharpe open house isn’t cause for alarm in and of itself. I don’t like throwing in Oliver York, MI5 and rumors about stolen ancient artifacts, but no point in getting riled up until we know more. Gordy Wheelock and I never got along, but I respected him. I don’t want to see him hurt himself.”
“I hear you,” Colin said.
“Emma’s following up with him. In the meantime, if I were Detective Garda Murphy, and you and Oliver York showed up in my country at the same time, I’d want to talk to you, too. We have no reason to suspect York wasn’t on the level when he told Emma he was in Ireland to see her grandfather and stopped in Declan’s Cross on a whim.”
“All innocence,” Colin said, skeptical.
Yank grunted. “There’s nothing innocent about Oliver York. When he was eight, yes. Now? No.”
“If he’s gone back to London and I decide I need to talk to him after I meet with Sean?”
“Go. I hate to pull you away from the lavender, though.”
“Maybe it’s mint. Mint’s purple, isn’t it? The rhododendrons are impressive. They’re not the invasive kind. Emma explained the difference when we were here last fall.”
“Well, don’t explain it to me. Stay in touch.”
Yank disconnected, and Colin continued on the walk to the cafeteria in a newer building next to the sprawling Victorian mansion. He hadn’t done the mansion tour but he’d read the tour guide. All that stuck was that it had sixty-five rooms and the gardens had been expanded ahead of a visit from Queen Victoria in 1861.
He’d rather be thinking about Queen Victoria’s long-ago visit to Ireland than Oliver York and whatever he was up to now.
Especially if it involved the Sharpes.
Colin went into the modern cafeteria, got rhubarb crumble and a coffee and sat at a small table by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens. It wasn’t crowded. He wished he had Emma with him. She knew her flowers from her time as Sister Brigid. He hadn’t been in touch with her in weeks, out