Liar's Key. Carla Neggers

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.

      “I’m not interrogating you, Mary.”

      “You are, but we won’t argue about it. Oliver and I chatted about Saint Declan, whiskey and Finian, since they’re friends.”

      Sean grimaced. “I wouldn’t call them friends.”

      “It was a normal conversation, Sean, which, I might add, this is not.” She hesitated, debating how far to go, but she’d never been one to keep her thoughts to herself. “I’ve had a feeling Oliver had something to do with the art stolen from here ten years ago. Is he a source—a consultant with the Garda, or Interpol, perhaps? He can’t be the thief, can he?”

      Sean drank some of his coffee and set the cup carefully in the saucer.

      Mary waited, studying him. She felt her pulse quicken. “Can he? Sean!”

      “Forget Oliver York.” Sean pushed his cup and saucer away from him on the polished wood bar. “Are you driving to Dublin alone?”

      “I am. Oliver offered to switch his flight and drive me if I was too tired or wanted to have a drink before I left Declan’s Cross.”

      Sean’s expression darkened. “Mary Bracken, you can’t—Fin would have my head if I let you—”

      “You don’t have a say in what I do, Detective Garda Murphy.”

      “Provided it’s legal,” he said.

      “Well, of course. In any case, I said no to Oliver’s offer, and, as I’ve already told you, he’s gone, on his way to Cork, which, I needn’t remind you, is a good distance from Dublin. I’m leaving in a few minutes and driving myself. I debated taking the train, but Aoife offered to let me leave my car at her studio in Dublin. She’s here in Declan’s Cross painting for a few weeks.”

      Sean sighed. “You enjoyed riling me up, didn’t you?”

      Mary grinned at him but didn’t let down her guard. “Very much.”

      “Have you told me everything you and Oliver discussed?”

      She relented and told him about the American woman and Oliver’s reaction. Sean’s jaw tightened visibly as she spoke. “Do you know her?” Mary asked when she finished. “This Claudia Deverell?”

      Sean’s jaw seemed to tighten more. “No.” He studied her a moment. “I wish you’d reconsider this trip to Maine, Mary.”

      “I promise I’ll stick close to Fin the entire time.”

      Sean turned