The Whisper by Carla Neggers Page A

lifestyle. She’d sublet it to an actress friend for the summer, but she’d departed in early September for a role in Chattanooga.
    Taryn had placed a round table by the full-size paned windows that looked onto the charming courtyard, where neighbors had set out pots of flowers. A perfunctory kitchen, with downsized appliances, occupied one windowless wall. On the opposite wall a low sectional anchored the seating area in front of a nonworking fireplace.
    No cockroaches scurried on the hardwood floor, which Sophie took as a hopeful sign. She’d forgotten just how low the ceilings were. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but she hadn’t been wild about small, cramped spaces even before her brush with death in an Irish cave. Her experience at archaeological sites had forced her to learn how to deal with them.
    She dragged her backpack into the bedroom, its sole window level with the street. She unpacked and, restless after her hours with a suspicious Boston detective behind her, dived into cleaning the apartment from top to bottom. She mopped, scrubbed, vacuumed, put fresh sheets on the bed, dug out clean towels and debated walking to the grocery for a few provisions. Taryn’s actress friend had left mustard, salsa and carrots in the fridge and an unopened pint of vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Not terribly promising.
    Sophie abandoned thoughts of food and instead changed into leggings and an oversize T-shirt and set out on a run, winding her way over to the Charles River Esplanade. It was early evening, gray but not raining. She didn’t push hard. After three miles, she felt less jet-lagged, less a stranger in a strange land and slowed to an easy jog back up Beacon Hill.
    She took a shower, slipped into a skirt, a sweater and flats and headed out again. She didn’t feel like cooking. She wasn’t even sure she felt like eating, but she walked down to Charles Street to the Whitcomb, the Rush family’s Boston hotel.
    Good-looking, tawny-haired Jeremiah Rush stood up from the antique reception desk in the lobby. “Sophie Malone!”
    “Hey, Jeremiah. Long time.”
    He stepped out from behind the desk, his dark gray suit clearly expensive and fitting his lean frame perfectly. “I thought you might turn up. Lizzie called this morning and said you were on your way back to Boston.”
    “Lizzie? How did she know?”
    “A Boston cop she ran into in Ireland,” Jeremiah said, no sign he considered the call from his cousin odd. “She didn’t go into detail.”
    “What’s Lizzie doing in Ireland anyway?”
    He grinned. “Who knows?”
    “Did she ask you to report back should I turn up?”
    “She did, indeed.”
    Sophie supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to undergo a certain amount of scrutiny after she’d encountered Scoop Wisdom yesterday, but she hadn’t expected Lizzie Rush to be on her case. Had the call he’d taken at the airport that morning been from her?
    “It’s great to see you, Sophie,” Jeremiah said. “I hear it’s Dr. Malone now. Congratulations.”
    “Thanks.” She relaxed some. “It’s good to see you, Jeremiah. I just got in.”
    “Guinness beckons, does it? It’s on the house. I remember when you’d be doing homework on your break. You had more drive than I ever did in school. Have to celebrate your milestone, right?”
    “Definitely. Thank you. Join me if you can get away from the desk.”
    “I will. Oh, and I should warn you.” He lowered his voice, as if he were telling her something he shouldn’t. “The cop who told Lizzie about you is staying here. Detective Wisdom. I just checked him in.”
    Sophie glanced at the stairs down to Morrigan’s, the hotel’s upscale Irish bar named for Lizzie’s Irish mother. “Is he down there now?”
    “Not at the moment. I thought since you’re both just back from Ireland…” Jeremiah didn’t finish. “I should know better than to try to figure out what all Lizzie’s up to. Enjoy your drink.”
    Sophie thanked him again and trotted