The Whisper

“You look worried,” Lizzie said.

Josie nibbled on one last bite of bread, liberally spread with Irish butter. “I have this terrible sense of foreboding.” She realized what a ridiculous and unhelpful thing that was to say and attempted a smile to cover for herself. “Perhaps it’s just due to an impending bad night on the sofa.”

“Don’t worry about Keira and me, all right? Do what you have to do.” Lizzie leaned back, as at ease in the simple Irish pub as she was in one of her family’s hotels—or Will Davenport’s mansion in the Scottish Highlands. “Keira and I can check with Colm Dermott in Cork on our way to Dublin and ask him about Sophie. We’ll be fine.”

Josie had no doubt about their abilities, but they would also follow a lead if one came to them. They were curious about Scoop Wisdom’s archaeologist. Just because he was a police officer who’d just recovered from serious injuries sustained in a bomb blast and just because Myles had been at Keira’s cottage didn’t mean there was any danger in asking questions about Sophie Malone.

Didn’t mean there wasn’t, either, Josie thought, tempted to order Irish whiskey to go with her soup and bread.

Keira twisted her hands together, as if they’d gone too long already without holding brushes and pencils. “It’s not as if I don’t have time to kill,” she said wistfully. “I haven’t a single image in my head to draw or paint.”

Josie recognized her new friend’s malaise for what it was—painter’s block. Perhaps a trip to Cork and Dublin would be a good distraction. It certainly wasn’t on the face of it unsafe, but as they headed out onto the dark, quiet lane, Josie couldn’t suppress what she could only describe as a chill up her spine.

She blamed Myles Fletcher and wished she’d ordered that whiskey after all.

6

Shannon, Ireland

S coop eased into the security line at Shannon Airport before the long flight back across the Atlantic. He’d stayed in a lousy hotel a few miles from the airport, its saving grace a full Irish breakfast that had helped chase off his bad dreams about scary dogs and mean fairies.

Definitely good to be heading home.

He spotted red hair about ten people ahead of him and immediately thought of Sophie Malone—not a reassuring sign of his state of mind before a seven-hour flight. He took another look, figuring he had to be wrong, but there she was—the redheaded archaeologist he’d met yesterday morning and a British spy had warned him about yesterday afternoon.

She grabbed a bin, turned and waved, smiling as if she’d expected to find him behind her in a line at the airport.

Scoop got through security and caught up with her in the busy duty-free shop. She wore slim black pants and a long dark gray sweater, a contrast to her muddy hiking clothes and bright blue rain jacket of yesterday. Her hair was pulled back but still had a wild look to it. He’d showered, shaved and put on his most comfortable khakis and lightweight sweater.

“We must be on the same flight,” he said.

“Lucky us.” She opened the glass door of a cooler and reached inside. “Water?”

“Yeah, thanks. Did you drive in this morning?”

She nodded. “My folks are staying in Kenmare. I took their rental car back, and they kept my car. They’re taking off for a few days to hike the Kerry Way. Doesn’t that sound idyllic?”

“You mean more idyllic than spending the day on a crowded flight across the Atlantic?”

“You have a wry sense of humor, Scoop,” Sophie said, leading the way to the cash registers with two bottles of water. She’d bought the biggest size. “The head-winds add time to flying west. It’s so much easier flying to Ireland than flying home from Ireland.”

“You seem like an experienced traveler.”

“I guess so. In some ways it feels as if I’m leaving home rather than going home.”

Scoop reached for his wallet, but she shook her head, insisting on paying for both bottles of water herself. As she fished out euros, his cell phone vibrated in the front pocket of his carry-on pack. He stepped out of the line and took the call.

“According to one of Will’s friends in London,” Josie Goodwin said, “Sophie Malone is booked on the same flight to Boston as you are.”

“So she is,” Scoop said.

“Standing right there, is she?”

“Yep. What friend in London?”

“Lord Davenport knows all kinds. I also learned that Dr. Malone met just last week with an octogenarian expert in art theft.”

“Is he another of Davenport’s London friends?”

“Not exactly. Our octogenarian’s name is Wendell Sharpe. He frequently consults with INTERPOL. He and Dr. Malone had tea at the Rush Hotel off St. Stephen’s Green in Dublin. Odd coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Not after yesterday. What did they discuss?”

“I don’t know yet. She’s a legitimate academic. Quite well respected. She recently completed her dissertation and a postdoctoral fellowship here in Ireland. Her field is the Celtic Iron Age, particularly in Ireland and Great Britain. She’s an expert in Celtic visual arts.”

“Does she like sugar in her tea?”

“Lemon,” Josie said.

Scoop had no idea if she were kidding. “Who does she know in Ireland? Who are her friends here?”

“We’re working on that.”

“We?”

Josie sighed. “Keira has painter’s block, and Lizzie’s bored.”

“They aren’t law enforcement,” Scoop said. “Or spies.”

“Neither am I. I work for a British aristocrat. I plan his fishing and golf trips.”

“Where are you three now?”

“Keira and Lizzie are en route to Dublin via Cork. I’m still at Keira’s cottage.”

Collecting reports from her spy friends, no doubt. Scoop noticed Sophie had finished paying for the water and was heading toward him. He had a sudden bad feeling about her—Myles’s visit, what she was holding back. “Stay put,” he told Josie. “Get Lizzie and Keira back there. You can all chase rainbows and drink Guinness.”

“You can be quite annoying, can’t you, Detective Wisdom?”

“What? I wouldn’t mind chasing rainbows and drinking Guinness.”

But Josie Goodwin had hung up.

Sophie joined him and handed him his bottle of water. “Try to drink every drop on the flight,” she said, shoving her own bottle into an outer compartment of her shoulder bag. “It’ll help.”

“Mostly I was passed out on pain meds on my flight from Boston to Scotland.” Except when he and Bob O’Reilly, who was in the seat next to him, had discussed how a bomb had ended up on Abigail’s back porch. Scoop slid his phone back in his carry-on. “Guess who that call was about?”

“No idea.”