Harbor Island - Carla Neggers

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onto West Cedar. A friend of mine is staying there.”

      He cocked a brow at her. “What friend?”

      Color rose in Maisie’s tear-stained cheeks. “His name’s Oliver Fairbairn. He’s a mythologist. He worked as a consultant on one of my films. We got to talking on the set one day—he inspired my interest in Celtic Ireland.”

      “He’s Irish?”

      “English, actually. His expertise isn’t restricted to Ireland or even to Celtic myths and legends. They’re what I latched on to.”

      “Where is he now?” Emma asked.

      “He went out for a walk. He doesn’t live here—he stays here when he’s in town. Most of the time that’s when I’m in town, too. I’m mobile, but I’ve been in Boston a lot this fall, mostly to pull together plans for the island. Oliver’s latest movie-consulting job ended in October, and he took the opportunity to do some research in Boston. He comes and goes. As Dad mentioned, he’s been back and forth a lot, too. He lives in Malibu. He grew up here, though.”

      “Got it,” Colin said. “Have the police talked to Mr. Fairbairn?”

      “I don’t know. Not that I know of.”

      “Was he at your brunch at the marina this morning?”

      “He was invited,” Maisie said. “Of course, there was no brunch. We were about to get started when the police descended and we found out about Rachel.”

      She looked out the window at the courtyard. Darkness was descending fast now. She seemed more tired and preoccupied now than in shock and disbelief.

      Emma moved from the table and stood next to her. “Have you settled anything for your movie—time period, location, theme, characters?”

      “I was still casting a wide net when Rachel told me about Declan’s Cross. I did some cursory research. I could see why the theft caught her interest, but I was captivated by Saint Declan. I’d love to visit Ardmore, where he established his monastery.” Maisie smiled sadly, her energy clearly fading. “The photos I’ve seen on the internet are intriguing. Is it as beautiful as it seems?”

      “As far as I’m concerned, it is,” Emma said.

      “It seems like such a leap to get from a theft in a small Irish village ten years ago to Rachel’s death this morning. It must be hard to take things step by step in a criminal investigation and not get ahead of yourself.” Maisie’s eyes narrowed, her gaze again turning cool. “Does your grandfather’s involvement complicate your role, Agent Sharpe?”

      Emma had no intention of answering the question. Maisie Bristol might look as if she cut her own hair and had just flunked high school algebra, but Emma could see her tackling Hollywood and coming out on top.

      She drew a business card from her jacket and placed it on the table. “Call me if you think of anything else, or if you want to talk more.”

      Maisie had gone pale again. She didn’t pick up the card. She bit down on her lower lip as she touched the black lettering. “The FBI. My God.” She seemed to force herself to breathe. “I get sick to my stomach and maybe a little bitchy—maybe a lot bitchy—when I think that something I did could have led to Rachel’s death. Rachel said the murder in Declan’s Cross last week has been solved and the killer is dead. That investigation is all wrapped up, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, it is.”

      “You say that with such certainty.”

      “Call anytime, Maisie,” Emma said. “Day or night.”

      Her shoulders slumped but she gave a small nod. “Thank you.”

       9

      After they left the Bristol house, Colin walked with Emma back to the Taj Hotel. They needed to talk with Aoife O’Byrne now that Lucy Yankowski had been found in Aoife’s Dublin studio. At least, Emma needed to talk to the Irish artist. Colin decided he could wait when he glanced in the bar off the Taj lobby and spotted Finian Bracken at a small table by the fire.

      Of all people, Colin thought.

      Finian was from the southwest Irish coast but lately resided in Maine as the parish priest in Colin’s hometown of Rock Point. He was also good friends with Sean Murphy, the Irish detective who had walked into Aoife’s studio earlier with Matt Yankowski.

      Had Murphy called Finian to look in on Aoife?

      Or had Aoife called him?

      A man Colin didn’t recognize was sitting across the table from Finian. Emma hit the up button for the elevator. Colin nodded to the bar. “I’ll go talk whiskey with Fin and find out who his new friend is.”

      Emma nodded. “I’ll meet you back here after I talk with Aoife. She’s expecting me.”

      The elevator doors opened, and Colin waited as Emma disappeared inside. Then he stepped into the quiet, dimly lit bar.

      “Please,” Finian said, motioning to a cushioned chair, “join us.”

      That was the plan, but Colin kept his remark to himself as he pulled out the chair and sat down. Although Finian was in his priest duds, he still managed to remind Colin of Bono. “Hello, Fin. Who’s your friend here?”

      Finian, a whiskey expert as well as a priest, formerly an executive at Bracken Distillers, had only a glass of water with a slice of lemon in front of him. “Actually, I didn’t get his name.”

      “Oliver Fairbairn,” the man said in a distinct English accent, raising his glass and swirling its amber contents. “A Scotch-drinking mythologist. And you are?”

      Finian supplied the answer. “This is my friend Colin Donovan, Oliver.”

      The Brit leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re an FBI agent.” He sat back immediately. “I wish I could say I had a nose for American federal agents, but I don’t. Maisie just texted me. She said you and another agent—Emma Sharpe—asked about me. That was Agent Sharpe who came in with you? I gather she doesn’t want to join us.”

      Oliver Fairbairn either wasn’t on his first Scotch or was pretending not to be. He had unruly dark blond hair and blue-green eyes and wore a rumpled shirt under a wool vest, with gray wool trousers and a trench coat on the back of his chair. He looked to be in his late thirties even if he was dressed as if he’d stepped out of the pages of a Sherlock Holmes novel.

      He sipped his drink. “Scotch or a tall Irish, Agent Donovan?”

      “I’m good, thanks.”

      “I prefer Scotch to Irish whiskey, but our good Father here tells me the peated Bracken 15 year old stands up to the best single-malt Scotch. A rare thing, a peated Irish whiskey.”

      “The Bracken stands up as far as I’m concerned,” Colin said. “Not that my palate is particularly sophisticated.”

      “I’ll have to try Bracken 15 one day, then,” Fairbairn said. “Right now, I’m quite content with my Glenfiddich 18 year old. Glenfiddich is Scottish Gaelic. It means valley of the deer. Doesn’t that conjure up beautiful images?”

      “It certainly does,” Finian said with an awkward glance at Colin.

      Colin didn’t soften his look. His Irish friend had no business being here, and he obviously knew it. He could have at least alerted Colin that he was on the way. Finian Bracken, however, would have his own reasons for his choices. He was in his late thirties, a late-vocation priest ordained only a year ago. They’d become friends since Finian’s arrival in Rock Point in June to fill in for Saint Patrick’s regular priest, who was on a yearlong sabbatical in Ireland.

      Seven years ago—long before Colin knew him—Finian had been the happily married father of two

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