The Whisper. Carla Neggers

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      Taryn leaned close to Sophie. “What’s he doing here?”

      “I have no idea,” Sophie said half under her breath. She left her drink on the table and quickly stood up, heading to his table. She dropped onto the chair across from him without waiting to be invited. “Hey, Percy. I didn’t know you were in Ireland.”

      “I only arrived last night. Helen and I were in London.”

      “Is she here with you?”

      He shook his head. “She’s gone back to Boston.”

      A waiter appeared, and Percy ordered coffee, nothing else. He was in his early forties, dressed in a heavy wool cardigan and wide-wale corduroys that bagged on his lanky frame. He had inherited a family fortune and spent most of his time pursuing his interests in travel, art, music, history and genealogy. Sophie had run into him on occasion when she was a student in Boston and had done research at the Carlisle Museum. They’d gotten along without becoming real friends or, certainly, romantically involved. She hadn’t seen him since she’d moved to Ireland to continue her studies—except briefly late last summer when he’d looked her up while he was visiting friends in Killarney.

      “I was in the area and remembered your family has a house here,” Percy said now. “I was on my way there when I saw you and your sister head in here. I was in the car—it took some time to park. I just came from Killarney National Park. For some reason, I’d never been. It’s stunning, isn’t it?”

      “Sure is.” Situated among clear lakes and forested hills, the park was as beautiful and inviting a setting as she could imagine. “I hiked the old Killarney road to Kenmare the other day.”

      “I wish Helen had been with me. She’d have loved it, but she has business in New York to clear up. She’s giving up her job at the auction house there. It’s a big change, but she’s excited about it. We’re moving into my family’s house in Boston, did you know?”

      “I hadn’t heard, no.”

      “Helen’s handling the transition. I’ve maintained the house since my father died, but I never thought I’d live there again.” Percy’s dark eyes lit up. “Helen is a ball of energy. I’m lucky to have her in my life.”

      “I look forward to meeting her.”

      Sophie smiled at his obvious happiness. He and Helen had been married only two months—the first marriage for both. His father—Percy Carlisle Sr.—had been an amateur archaeologist famous for taking off in search of lost treasure. Sophie remembered when he’d invited her into his office in the museum shortly before his death. He’d stood with her at a wall of photographs of his exploits and gone over each one, describing memories, enjoying himself. He’d acknowledged to Sophie that his only son wasn’t nearly as adventurous. “Perhaps it’s just as well,” the old man had said.

      She pulled herself out of her thoughts. Her Guinness was making her head spin. Trekking out to the ruin on the Beara and meeting Scoop Wisdom—scarred, suspicious—had launched her back to her own trauma a year ago with an intensity that had left her off balance, on edge.

      The waiter delivered Percy’s coffee. He took a small sip, keeping the mug in one hand as he nodded to her parents and sister. “I saw Taryn when she played Ophelia in Boston a few years ago. She’s quite amazing.”

      “That she is. She loves her work.”

      “Always a plus.” He set his coffee on the scarred table. “Do you love your work, Sophie?”

      “I do, yes.”

      “I’ve heard you’re involved in the upcoming Boston-Cork conference on Irish folklore. Will that look good on your CV?”

      “Sure, and it’ll be interesting as well as fun.”

      “But it’s unpaid,” he said. “How are you managing these days?”

      “Same as I did throughout graduate school.”

      “Tutoring, fellowships, teaching a class here and there?”

      “Every job’s a real job.”

      “I admire your attitude.” He picked up his mug of coffee. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, Sophie, you’ve only to ask.”

      “Thanks. I appreciate it,” she said. “I’m heading back to Boston tomorrow. I have a few leads on full-time work.”

      “Best of luck to you.” Percy watched the musicians chat among themselves for a few moments. “I considered driving down to the village where Keira Sullivan says she found that stone angel.”

      His comment caught Sophie by surprise. “Do you know Keira?”

      “Only by reputation. Everyone’s still very shaken that Jay Augustine proved to be a killer.” He seemed to wait for Sophie’s reaction. She sat forward, but before she could say anything, he continued, “I wasn’t friends with the Augustines or even close to it. I’d see them socially from time to time at various functions in New York and Boston. Charlotte Augustine’s moved to Hawaii, did you know?”

      “No,” Sophie said.

      “She’s seeking a divorce. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for her to discover she was married to a murderer.” Percy stared into his coffee. “The Boston police and the FBI interviewed me in July, not long after Augustine’s arrest. I wanted you to know so that you don’t get the wrong idea. It was routine. I’d done a few perfectly legitimate deals with him. The police talked to everyone who’d done business with him.”

      “That makes sense, don’t you think?”

      “Of course. I understood completely.” Percy faced her again, his expression cool now, slightly supercilious. “What about you, Sophie? Did you have any dealings with Jay Augustine?”

      “No, none.” She tried to lighten her tone. “No money, remember?”

      But he continued to look troubled and annoyed. “I’m a very careful, experienced collector, Sophie. Very few pieces available on the market today would interest me. My family…my father…” He broke off, sitting back. “Never mind. You probably know as much about my family’s art collection as I do.”

      “I’ve never crawled through your attic—”

      “We don’t keep anything of value in the attic. We are familiar with the protocols for storing and preserving works of art.”

      Sophie sighed. “It was a joke, Percy.” She noticed with relief that the musicians were about to get started again. “Did you buy from the Augustines or sell to them?”

      “Both.”

      “What kind of—”

      “Nothing that would interest you. Nothing Irish. Nothing Celtic.”

      “Percy,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm, “why did you look me up last September?”

      He frowned at her. “Last September? What are you talking about?”

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