The Whisper. Carla Neggers

      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