Carla Neggers by Declan's Cross Page A

done whatever ecclesiastic string-pulling he’d needed to do and in June was off to Maine to replace Father Callaghan for the year.
    Sean supposed the good Father Callaghan was somewhere in Ireland. He was due to return to Rock Point next June.
    Not always easy to go back, was it?
    Shaking off his ruminating, Sean noticed Kitty was frowning at him again. Ordinarily he wasn’t the type to ruminate. He said, “I went out to Fin’s cottage once, a year after Sally and the girls died.” He recalled that Fin had been dead drunk. Pasty, shaking. Not at peace with God then, for certain. Sean was of no mind to mention the incident. “It’s a small place, but it’s done up just right. Sally’s influence, I imagine.”
    Kitty sighed heavily. “I expect so.”
    It wasn’t a time he liked to revisit. He changed the subject. “Where are your FBI agents now?”
    “Upstairs, I think. They had lunch here. When I saw the Sharpe name, I assumed they might be here about the theft—some new development, perhaps—but they’re seeing about this marine biologist friend of theirs who’s renting your cottage. Fin’s doing, I’ve gathered.”
    “He was worried about Julianne, I think.”
    “We emailed this morning, but you know how circumspect he can be,” Kitty said. “Father Callaghan never mentioned the Sharpes and FBI agents when he was here.”
    Sean shrugged. “Why would he?”
    “Always so practical,” she said with a bit of a sniff. “I suppose you’re right, though. The theft’s not as well-known as it was ten years ago, but it’s still a curiosity for some. It’ll never be solved.” Her eyes darkened on Sean. “I expect you know that better than most.”
    “Because I’m a detective, or because I’m Paddy Murphy’s nephew?”
    He thought he’d kept any harshness or sarcasm out of his tone, but Kitty nonetheless looked taken aback, as if she didn’t know if she should slap him or run from him. “Neither. Both. I don’t know. It makes no difference. Excuse me,” she said, crisp. “I’ve work to do.”
    “I won’t keep you, then.”
    She took a breath, but her eyes were fixed on the bar where Sean had chatted with her son. Her expression softened. “This lot Philip’s diving with—they’re all right, Sean?”
    “I’m just a farmer these days, Kitty.”
    “Even your sheep don’t believe that,” she said with a scoff, then moved on behind the bar. She was still clearly worried about her son, but Sean knew she would never admit as much to him, or ask him to intervene.
    He lingered just long enough to notice the light shining on her black hair. He could see her on a long, lazy morning six years ago, sleeping as the sun rose. Her black hair had gleamed then, too. She’d looked comfortable again in her own skin, excited about what was next for her. She’d told him she’d remembered all the reasons why she had fallen for him the first time and had forgotten all the reasons why they had gone their separate ways.
    Sean exited through the bar lounge, welcoming the cool air and wind.
    Kitty was a smart woman. She wouldn’t forget again.
    * * *
    Sean stopped just past the bookshop, far enough from the O’Byrne House Hotel and its maddening owner that he could think straight again. He paid little attention to the familiar surroundings as he debated whether to call Fin Bracken about his FBI friends. He finally decided against it. It had never been easy to get information out of Fin and less so now that he was a priest. Instead he phoned Eamon Carrick’s brother, Ronan, a garda in Dublin and a member of the underwater diving unit that served the entire Republic of Ireland.
    Ronan picked up almost immediately. “Sean Murphy. What a surprise. How are the sheep, my friend?”
    “Bleating even as we speak.”
    “Bleeding? Dear God. What have you done to them?”
    “ Bleating. Baaing. You know.” Sean had no idea if Ronan were serious or joking. “Never mind. It was just something to