4

      AN ELFIN-FACED, black-haired Kitty O’Byrne Doyle showed Emma and Colin to their room on the second floor of the graceful, ivy-covered O’Byrne House Hotel. Once a private residence owned by Kitty’s uncle, the boutique hotel occupied a scenic stretch of south Irish coast in the small village of Declan’s Cross. “Fin Bracken is a great friend of mine,” Kitty said as she set the door key on a gleaming mahogany side table in the attractive room. “I saw you were from Maine and emailed him on the off chance he knew you. He said he did and told me I should take good care of you. That sounds like Fin, doesn’t it?”

      Emma started to assure Kitty there was no need to go to any trouble on their account, but Colin grinned and said, “It does sound like him. He’s stayed here?”

      “He’s had a drink or two here. We haven’t been open quite a year yet.” Kitty adjusted a tie on a drape of a tall window overlooking the hotel’s extensive gardens and, beyond, the Celtic Sea. “Fin’s well?”

      “He just survived his first authentic Maine bean-hole supper,” Colin said.

      Kitty turned from the window. “Heavens. That sounds ominous. Dare I ask?”

      “You dig a hole, light a fire in it, add a cast-iron pot of beans and let them bake. After twenty-four hours or so, you dig them up and serve them. It’s a Maine tradition.”

      “So is wild blueberry pie,” Emma added with a smile.

      “I’ll be sure to try them both if I’m ever in Maine,” Kitty said. “I’ll let you two get settled. Let me know if you need anything.”

      Emma followed her to the door. “Did Finian mention that a friend of ours from Rock Point is arriving in Declan’s Cross today?”

      Kitty’s hand faltered on the door latch. She was in her late thirties, in a chunky wool sweater and a slim skirt in a dark blue that matched her eyes. “Yes—yes, Fin told me about her. A marine biologist. He put her in touch with a local man. Sean Murphy.” She recovered her emotions. “Your friend is staying at a cottage on the Murphy sheep farm. It’s up on Shepherd Head.”

      “Walking distance?” Colin asked.

      “It’s a good walk, if you don’t mind hills. Easiest is to go through the garden and out the back gate. Don’t go right—go left, all the way down to the bookshop. You can’t miss it. It’s painted red. You can go straight or go right. Don’t go straight. Turn right up the hill, continue on past the cliffs, then bear left. The cottage is just there.” She smiled, her cheeks pink. “It’s easier than I make it sound. You’ll have no trouble at all.”

      Emma thanked her. Kitty glanced around the room as if for a final inspection and then withdrew. When the door closed, Colin said, “She knows who you are.”

      “You beam ‘FBI’ more than I do.”

      “I don’t mean FBI. I mean that our Kitty recognized the Sharpe name. As in Wendell Sharpe and Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.”

      “I assumed she would, actually.” Emma walked over to the window and looked out at the sea, quiet under a blue-gray sky. “It’s a pretty hotel, isn’t it? Contemporary Irish art and clean, cheerful colors. I like it. John O’Byrne, Kitty’s uncle, left this place to Kitty and her younger sister, Aoife. Aoife’s an accomplished artist. I think some of the art in the hotel is hers.”

      “They’re from Declan’s Cross?”

      Emma shook her head. “They grew up in Dublin. Their uncle was the eldest of seven. I think he was in his forties already when they were born. I never met him.”

      “Your grandfather did?”

      “Yes.”

      Colin stood next to her at the window. “Good view.”

      He wasn’t interested in the view. She could tell. “What else is on your mind?”

      “What do you know about our Kitty and our sheep farmer?”

      “Not as much as you think I do, and not as much as I’d like.”

      “An Emma Sharpe answer if I’ve ever heard one.” He looked out the window as if the view of gardens and sea offered answers. He’d done the driving to Declan’s Cross, stopping only once. “It’s too early for lunch and way too early for whiskey.”

      “We can walk up to the Murphy farm and have a look at Julianne’s cottage,” Emma said. “She’ll be here soon if she’s not already. Or I could go up there on my own, in case she’s in no mood to deal with a Donovan.”

      Colin moved back from the window. “She and Andy got in over their heads. Just one of those things.”

      “Maybe to Andy.”

      “We all warned him about breaking her heart. Mike, Kevin and I. He didn’t listen. A family trait. After that, we stayed out of it. I’m not worried about Julianne’s state of mind. She’s tough. She’s more likely to shoot me than shoot herself.”

      “That’s what you see on the exterior,” Emma said, zipping her rain jacket. “She’s not going to let you all see how hurt she is by what happened between her and Andy.”

      “The Maroneys are all proud and stubborn.” Colin grabbed the room key off the table and opened the door. “After you.”

      Emma went past him into the hall. He shut the door behind them, slid the key into his jacket pocket and touched her cheek. “Being here brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

      “My work with Granddad in Dublin was an intense time for me. I was at a crossroads, sure I had made the right decision in leaving the sisters but not sure what came next.” She raised her eyes to his. “Not unlike what you’re going through now.”

      “Taking tourists on puffin tours was on your list of new career possibilities?”

      She rolled her eyes and bit back a smile. He would always try to make her laugh, despite the seriousness of what was on her mind—or his. Since the arrests of his arms traffickers and the breakup of their network, he’d been half jokingly talking about quitting the FBI and setting himself up as a tour boat operator off the coast of Maine, maybe returning to lobstering to supplement his income.

      She understood the temptations of a different life.