The Whisper

“Here and there,” Fletcher said vaguely as he rose, visibly stiff. “It’s my guess that these thugs, including your bad cop, were involved in other illegal activities in Boston, and that’s how they hooked up with Norman Estabrook.”

Scoop stood up from the counter but said nothing. The Brit was the one doing the talking.

Fletcher picked up a rust-colored pencil from the table. “But you were on to a connection between these thugs and a member of the department before Estabrook snatched Abigail, weren’t you, Detective?”

Scoop thought a moment before he responded. “I had a few whispers. Nothing more.”

“I imagine that’s the truth, as far as it goes. Frustrating, when you know some but not enough…” Fletcher let it go at that. “I expect that you’re very good at your job.”

“So are you. You’re more adept than most at lies and deception.”

“That’s why I’m alive, here, trying my hand at a sketch. Let’s spare each other, then, shall we?” He ran his thumb over the sharp tip of the pencil. “I’m impressed with what Keira can do with colored pencils. I’d always thought they were for children, not working artists.” He set the pencil back on the table and flipped through a stack of sketches Keira had started of various bucolic Irish scenes, pausing at one of a shovel laid across an old, muddy wheelbarrow in a garden. “I wouldn’t mind living inside one of these pictures. A green pasture, a stream, prancing lambs. A beautiful fairy princess. What about you, Detective?”

“I grew up on a farm. I liked it, but I’m not nostalgic about that life. What else can you tell me?”

“There’s a woman. An American archaeologist. She’s been doing scholarly work in Ireland and Great Britain for the past several years.”

“Sophie Malone,” Scoop said.

Fletcher glanced at him, then continued, “You ran into her when she was here in the village earlier today, didn’t you?”

“Yep. I did. Red hair, blue jacket. Had a big black dog with her and talked about the wee folk.” Scoop picked up the pencil Fletcher had used and realized it was nearly the same shade as Sophie’s hair. A deliberate choice on the Brit’s part? “The dog wasn’t hers. Want to tell me what’s going on, Fletcher?”

“I wish I knew. I strongly suspect the men our dead billionaire hired were also involved with Jay Augustine. I don’t know in what capacity.”

Nothing legal, Scoop thought, but he said, “Augustine’s a serial killer. Serial killers tend to be solitary.”

“I’m not talking about his violence. Augustine was also a respected dealer in fine art and antiques.”

“What’s that got to do with Sophie Malone?”

Fletcher grinned suddenly. “I’ve no idea. As I said, I haven’t done any research of my own. I suppose Augustine could have consulted her as an expert in his role as a legitimate dealer.”

“Are you linking her to this bad cop?”

“I’m saying her name came up at the same time as the likelihood that a police officer constructed and planted the bomb that exploded at your house last month.” Fletcher walked over to the front window, determined and focused but also obviously past being dead tired. “I wish I could be more helpful.”

“Funny, you and Sophie Malone turning up here within a few hours of each other.”

“Isn’t it, though?” He nodded out the window. “Here we go. Just what we need.”

For all Scoop knew, the big black dog was back with a troop of fairies.

Instead, FBI Special Agent Simon Cahill and Will Davenport—a British lord and another James Bond type—entered through the kitchen door. Casual, irreverent, black-haired Simon and wealthy, regal, fair-haired Will, both around Scoop’s age, in their mid-thirties, were as different in appearance as they were in temperament and background, but they were close friends.

Right behind them was Josie Goodwin. She had on a sleek belted raincoat, her chin-length brown hair pulled back and her mouth set firmly as she shut the door behind her. She pretended to be Will’s able assistant but was undoubtedly SIS herself. Scoop had met Josie and Will at Abigail’s wedding at Davenport’s country house in the Scottish Highlands. Josie, who was in her late thirties, had muttered over hors d’oeuvres at the reception that if she ever saw Myles Fletcher again, she would smother him with a pillow.

As far as Scoop knew, this was their first meeting since Fletcher had slipped undercover two years ago, leaving everyone he knew—including Josie Goodwin and Will Davenport—to think he was dead.

She entered the kitchen without a word and leaned against a counter. Strongly built and obviously well trained, she looked as if she’d have no problem dispatching even a hard-assed spy like Myles Fletcher.

Fletcher ignored her and directed his attention at the two men. “Simon. Will. It’s good to see you.” Finally he turned to Josie and winked at her. “Hello, love.”

“Bastard,” she said, then beamed a friendly smile at Scoop. “You’re looking well, Detective. Much better than at Abigail’s wedding. Some of your scars seem to be fading already.”

“I feel fine,” Scoop said. “I’m ready to get back to work.”

Simon stood by the kitchen door, near Josie’s position at the counter. “Moneypenny here wouldn’t listen to good advice and stay in London. She had to follow us to Ireland.”

She gave Simon a good-natured roll of her eyes.

Across the tiny cottage, Fletcher was at the front window again. “More company.”

Scoop noticed Simon’s expectant, troubled expression, but Will Davenport was more difficult to read. The kitchen door opened on a gust of wind, and flaxen-haired Keira Sullivan entered the cottage, followed in another half second by black-haired Lizzie Rush. They were both thirty, both coming to terms with the dramatic changes in their lives over the past summer. Lizzie was Will Davenport’s new love, and however she and Keira had gotten to the little Irish village, it hadn’t, obviously, been with either him or Simon. Scoop was trained in reading body language, but it didn’t take an expert to detect the tension between the two pairs of lovers.

With a curt nod at Davenport, Keira swept past Simon and greeted Scoop with a kiss on the cheek. “This place agrees with you,” she said, then, without waiting for an answer, turned to Josie. “Lizzie and I were in Dublin. It took a bit of doing on our part to figure out what was going on. I’m glad you could get here.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Josie said dryly.

Fletcher returned to the table of art supplies. He looked less tired as he smiled at Keira. “Your charming cottage suddenly seems very small, indeed, doesn’t it?”

“I have a feeling not for long,” she said, no curtness to her now. Her breathing was shallow, her cornflower-blue eyes filled with fear and anticipation.

Something was up, Scoop thought, observing his half-dozen visitors.

Fletcher picked up the sketch he’d done and handed it to Keira, her hands trembling visibly as she took it. “Here you go,” he said. “It’s an Irish wolfhound. I think of him as a shape-shifter in the midst of going from man to dog. That explains the quirks in my rendition, don’t you think?”

Josie Goodwin snorted from the kitchen. “So does being a bad artist.”

“It’s wonderful,” Keira said, gracious as always.

Lizzie Rush walked over to the unlit stone fireplace and stood with her back to it. She was the director of concierge services for her family’s fifteen boutique hotels, including in Dublin and Boston. She was small and black-haired, with light green eyes and an alertness about her that supported the rumors Scoop had heard that her father wasn’t just a hotelier but also a spy who had taught his only child his tradecraft.

She was the one who’d called Bob O’Reilly with the split-second warning that a bomb was about to go off on Abigail’s back porch.

Davenport, clad in an open trench coat, kept his focus on Fletcher, who had quietly moved away to the front door. Without raising his voice, Will said, “Simon and I are going with you, Myles.”

Fletcher pulled open the door and left without responding. The door shut with a thud behind him. Unless the departing Brit could shape-shift himself into a bird, Scoop figured Fletcher had a vehicle stashed nearby.

Davenport—well educated, well trained and very experienced—looked over at Lizzie, but he didn’t smile or go to her, didn’t speak, just tapped one finger to his lips and blew her a kiss, then turned and headed out after Fletcher.

“Damn Brits,” Simon muttered, then shrugged at Josie. “Sorry, Moneypenny.”

“I had much the same thought.” She stood up from the counter and inhaled sharply as she nodded toward the front door. “You’re going after them, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” There was no irreverence in Simon’s manner now. He was deadly serious. He walked over to Keira by the table of art supplies and half-finished sketches and touched her long, pale hair. “Keira…”

“You have a job to do. Go do it. Stay safe. Keep your friends safe.” She placed Fletcher’s sketch back on the table and caught Simon’s big hand in hers, no sign she was trembling now. “Come back to me soon.”

Simon kissed her but said nothing more as he went after the two British spies.

Once the door shut behind him, Josie let her arms fall to her sides. “All right, then. They’re off, and now it’s just us girls again.”

Scoop raised his eyebrows.

Her strain was evident even as she smiled at him. “Sorry, Detective.”

“Honestly, Scoop,” Keira said, attempting a laugh, “you look even more ferocious these days. Who’d ever know you adopted two stray cats?”

“The cats know,” he said.

Tears shone in her eyes. “They must miss you.”

“They’re in good hands. Your cousins are taking care of them.” Not Fiona but her two younger sisters, who lived with their mother—Bob O’Reilly’s first wife. Scoop tried to keep his tone light. “Your uncle’s having fits. Now Maddie and Jayne want him to adopt cats.”

“I’m just glad yours survived the fire,” Keira said quietly. “When are you going back to Boston?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, deciding on the spot. First the mysterious archaeologist, now British spies and the FBI. Too much was going on for him to justify even one more day in Ireland. Answers weren’t here, in Keira’s idyllic cottage.

Lizzie sank onto the sofa where, in his first days at the cottage, Scoop had lain on his stomach for hours at a stretch, easing himself off medication and trying to remember anything that could help with the investigations back in Boston. She kicked out her legs and propped her feet up on a small coffee table. Although she was a hotel heiress accustomed to five-star surroundings, she didn’t look out of place in the simple cottage. From what Scoop had seen of them, Lizzie Rush and Lord Davenport—who was accustomed to castles—were at home wherever they happened to find themselves.

“I have a room all set for you at our hotel in Boston anytime you want it,” she told Scoop.

“That’s very kind of you, Lizzie, but another detective’s offered me his sleeper sofa.”

“Who?” Keira asked, skeptical.

“Tom Yarborough.”

She sputtered into incredulous laughter. “You two would kill each other.”

Probably true. Yarborough was a homicide detective—Abigail’s partner—and not an easy person on a good day. He hadn’t had a good day in months.

“My family would love to have you at the Whitcomb,” Lizzie said. “Consider it done, Scoop. I’ll text Jeremiah and let him know.”

Jeremiah Rush was the third eldest of Lizzie’s four male Rush cousins. With her father frequently gone and her mother dead since she was an infant, she had practically grown up with them north of Boston.

“What about you three?” Scoop asked, taking in all three women with one look.

“We’ll keep ourselves busy,” Josie said. She opened up the refrigerator, giving an exaggerated shudder of disgust as she shut it again. “Rutabagas and beer do not a meal make.”

“I’ve been eating mostly at the pub,” Scoop said.

“Yes, well, one would hope.”

He went over to the front window and looked out into the fading daylight. The weeks of healing—of being on medical leave, away from his job—finally were getting to him. He turned back to the women. “When did you all get here?”

“Just now,” Keira said. “Lizzie and I came on our own.”

“Chasing Will and Simon?”

Her cheeks turned a deep shade of pink, but Lizzie was the one who spoke. “Not chasing. Following. They tried to divert us with a few days of shopping in Dublin.”

“Guess they had to give it a shot,” Scoop said with a smile.

“I flew from London,” Josie said. “I hired my own car at the airport.”

“Were you following Will and Simon—or Myles?”

She walked briskly to the table Fletcher had vacated and gazed down at his drawing. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m the trusted assistant of Will Davenport, the second son of a beloved marquess. Whatever else you’re thinking is pure fancy.”

Scoop didn’t argue. What Josie Goodwin knew and how she knew it was a matter he preferred to leave to speculation. He shifted to Keira, staring blankly at a sketch she’d started of the tranquil village harbor.

“Do you know an archaeologist named Sophie Malone?” he asked abruptly.

“I’ve heard of her, yes,” Keira said, perking up. “Absolutely. She’s a very well respected archaeologist. She’s volunteered to chair a panel on the Irish Iron Age at the folklore conference in April. The conference is shaping up to be quite an event. It’s good to have something fun to focus on after this summer.” She abandoned her sketch. “Was Dr. Malone here?”

Scoop nodded. “We ran into each other up at the ruin where you found your stone angel. She mentioned she’d talked to Professor Dermott. She didn’t stay long. I could have scared her off.”

“Not you, Scoop,” Keira said, a welcome spark of humor in her eyes.

Lizzie lowered her feet to the floor and sat up straight, frowning at Keira and Scoop. “Did you say Sophie Malone?”

“What,” Scoop said, “am I the last person to know who she is?”

“She worked at the pub at our Boston hotel when she was in college,” Lizzie said, rising. “We’re about the same age. I was in and out of town a lot at the time, but I remember her. We were both interested in all things Irish.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“Not that I recall. She and her twin sister and their older brother were born here in Ireland. Their parents worked in Cork. I took special note, I suppose, because of my mother, who was Irish.” Her tone softened. Shauna Morrigan Rush had died in Dublin under mysterious circumstances when Lizzie was a baby. “Strange, isn’t it? The ripple effects of life.”

Josie, who hadn’t stirred during the exchange, picked up the electric kettle on the counter and lifted the lid as she shoved it under the faucet. “Sophie Malone’s not another of John March’s informal spies, is she?”

“Not that I know of,” Lizzie said. For the better part of a year, she herself had anonymously provided the FBI director with information on Norman Estabrook, who had been a frequent guest at various Rush hotels.

Josie filled the kettle, then plugged it in and switched it on, her movements brisk, efficient. “You do have tea, don’t you, Detective?”

“On the shelf above you.”

She reached up and got down a tin of loose-leaf tea and set it on the counter, her casualness studied, as if she didn’t dare go where her mind wanted to take her. “Did Myles happen to run into this Sophie Malone?” she asked without looking at Scoop.

“I don’t think so, no.”

She turned to him, her gaze direct and unflinching. “But he mentioned her, didn’t he?”

“He had his reasons for coming here.”

Josie opened the tin of tea. Scoop figured that even someone who wasn’t trained in detecting lies and deception—which surely Josie Goodwin was—would guess he hadn’t told all he knew. She didn’t push him further. Keira and Lizzie eyed him but said nothing.

He retreated to the small bedroom and got his suitcase out of the closet. He had the bones of a plan. He’d head to the airport in Shannon and book the first flight he could get to Boston tomorrow.

He was packed in less than ten minutes. When he returned to the main room, Keira had torn off a fresh sheet of sketch paper and placed it in front of her on the pine table. She was staring at it as if she were trying to envision a pretty, happy scene—as if she’d had enough of violence, mystery and adventure and just wanted to hole up with her paints and colored pencils.

Lizzie Rush was back on the sofa, frowning, the spy in the making.

Josie lifted the lid on an old teapot and peered inside. “The tea’s ready, but I gather you’re not staying.”

“No,” Scoop said.

Her deep blue eyes narrowed slightly as she answered. “Safe travels, then.”

“Jeremiah will be expecting you at the Whitcomb,” Lizzie said.

Keira looked up from her blank page. “Tell my uncle not to worry about me.”

Scoop smiled at her. “That’s like telling the rain to stop falling in Ireland. It’s just not going to happen.”

As he headed out the side door, the three women didn’t interrogate him or try to stop him. He didn’t know whether they could guess what he was doing and approved, or if they just were resigned that he’d made up his mind and there’d be no stopping him.

Unlike Simon Cahill and Will Davenport, he had no one to kiss goodbye.

And no one waiting for his return to Boston.

Except his cats, unless they’d decided they preferred the company of Keira’s young cousins.

4

Kenmare, Southwest Ireland

S ophie walked next to her twin sister, Taryn, enjoying the sounds of traditional Irish music drifting from Kenmare pubs on what had turned into a perfect September evening. One last downpour seemed to have done the trick. Fresh from London, Taryn wore slim jeans with flat-heeled black boots and a black sweater that came down to her knees. Although they were fraternal, not identical twins, Taryn also had red hair, but hers was two tones darker and wavier—and easier to manage, Sophie had decided when they were six, because Taryn always seemed to manage it. A few pins and clips, and she looked gorgeous. She had the lead in a new romantic comedy, but her first break had come performing Shakespeare in Boston. She was as dedicated to her acting career as Sophie had ever been to earning her doctorate, or Damian to becoming a federal agent.

With her afternoon of cleaning, cooking and thinking, Sophie had been in her hiking clothes, still encrusted with mud from her trek on the Beara Peninsula, when Taryn arrived. Taryn, however, had seemed unsurprised and hadn’t asked what her sister had been up to. Sophie had quickly changed into jeans, a sweater and walking shoes. They’d set out on foot from their house to the lively village of bars, restaurants and shops.

Sophie paused at a hole-in-the-wall pub on a narrow side street. “Tim O’Donovan and his friends are playing here tonight,” she said.

Taryn’s expression didn’t change. “How nice.”

“Do you want to go in, or shall we choose another pub?”

“This one’s fine.”

Her sister’s nonchalance was totally feigned, Sophie concluded as they entered the warm, noisy pub. A waiter led them to a table against the old brick wall. She and Taryn had done a Kenmare weekend in the spring, indulging themselves at an incredible bayside hotel spa and listening to traditional Irish music every night. Tim had swept them off for a boat ride—one that didn’t go near the tiny island of Sophie’s misadventure. He’d fallen hard for Taryn, and she for him, except she’d never admit as much, even to Sophie. An Irish fisherman didn’t fit into Taryn’s already complicated life.

Just a touch of spring fever, she’d said, flushed as she’d headed to London.

Tim had grumbled that he should have known better than to swoon over a woman who was an actress, an American and Sophie’s twin. Sophie had met him two years ago when she’d spent part of the winter in Kenmare, working on her dissertation. Right from the start, she and Tim had been more like brother and sister. Not the case, she thought, with him and her twin sister.

Taryn peeled off her teal wool scarf; she’d wound it around her neck, making it look easy, sophisticated and sexy all at the same time. She had an unobstructed view of the small stage where Tim and his friends, who looked as if they’d just come from catching dinner, were setting up, but she carefully pretended not to notice them as she and Sophie each ordered a glass of Guinness.

“I spoke to Damian just before I arrived in Kenmare,” Taryn said.

“I’m sure he wishes he could be here.”

“You’re not a credible liar, Sophie. I’m only slightly better because I’m an actor, but lying doesn’t come easily to either of us. Damian said he talked to you earlier today. He sounded put out with you. Are you mixed up in some top-secret FBI investigation?” Even as Sophie thought she was suppressing any visible reaction, her sister gasped. “Sophie! I was just kidding, but you are mixed up in something.”

“No, I’m not. I asked Damian about what’s gone on in Boston this summer. That’s all. It’s natural I’d be curious.”

Sophie had no intention of getting into her experience in the island cave a year ago. Taryn didn’t know—unless Damian had decided to call the guards himself and had found out about it and told Taryn. Which Sophie doubted. She didn’t like keeping secrets from her family, but they’d only worry if they knew, never mind that she’d promised the guards she wouldn’t tell anyone.

“What did Damian tell you about Boston?”

“Nothing much.”

“Sophie—”

Fortunately, their parents entered the pub and joined them at their table. They’d come straight from Dublin. James and Antonia Malone, Sophie thought with affection, were relishing their early retirement, diving into their love of storytelling, music, drama, art and exploring. Their twin daughters’ red hair came from their mother, although the shade was unreliable since she’d started using a near-orange dye now to cover any gray. She was as tall as Taryn but had Sophie’s sense of adventure. A lifelong New Englander, she’d met their father, the son of Irish immigrants, hiking on the Dingle Peninsula in college.

They’d been home in western Massachusetts during her brush with death last year. There was nothing they could do if she’d told them but worry. She’d returned to her work on her dissertation and tried to put the incident behind her.

Tim looked straight at Taryn and gave her a sexy smile as he put his fiddle to his chin. Then he and his friends launched into a rousing, pulse-pounding rendition of “Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye.” Their music was lively and authentic, the perfect counter to a stress-filled day.

Taryn sipped her Guinness, her attention riveted on the musicians. “They’re really good, aren’t they, Sophie?”

“Fantastic.”

The compliment was sincere, but she hoped Tim wouldn’t decide to join them on his break given their earlier talk on the pier. Of course he did, pulling over a low stool and plopping down. Sophie knew that was the risk she’d taken in choosing this particular pub. She trusted him not to tell her family about the island, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t blab about her excursion to the Beara Peninsula that morning.

“The Malones return to our wee village,” he said, grinning.

He obviously wasn’t going to bring up anything awkward. Sophie tried not to look too relieved. Taryn smiled, but she was unusually quiet, letting her sister and parents carry on the conversation with Tim. Their parents had met him on a visit to Kenmare months before he’d fallen hard for Taryn—before he’d let Sophie talk him into dropping her off on the island.

They talked about music and hiking and weather, and he finally got up for his next set. His gaze settled briefly on Sophie, but it was enough. She got the message. He hated withholding information from her family, and he knew she was up to something.

“I head to Boston tomorrow,” she said, pretending she hadn’t already told him. “I’m staying at Taryn’s apartment there.”