The Whisper. Carla Neggers

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      “You have a wry sense of humor, Scoop,” Sophie said, leading the way to the cash registers with two bottles of water. She’d bought the biggest size. “The head-winds add time to flying west. It’s so much easier flying to Ireland than flying home from Ireland.”

      “You seem like an experienced traveler.”

      “I guess so. In some ways it feels as if I’m leaving home rather than going home.”

      Scoop reached for his wallet, but she shook her head, insisting on paying for both bottles of water herself. As she fished out euros, his cell phone vibrated in the front pocket of his carry-on pack. He stepped out of the line and took the call.

      “According to one of Will’s friends in London,” Josie Goodwin said, “Sophie Malone is booked on the same flight to Boston as you are.”

      “So she is,” Scoop said.

      “Standing right there, is she?”

      “Yep. What friend in London?”

      “Lord Davenport knows all kinds. I also learned that Dr. Malone met just last week with an octogenarian expert in art theft.”

      “Is he another of Davenport’s London friends?”

      “Not exactly. Our octogenarian’s name is Wendell Sharpe. He frequently consults with INTERPOL. He and Dr. Malone had tea at the Rush Hotel off St. Stephen’s Green in Dublin. Odd coincidence, don’t you think?”

      “Not after yesterday. What did they discuss?”

      “I don’t know yet. She’s a legitimate academic. Quite well respected. She recently completed her dissertation and a postdoctoral fellowship here in Ireland. Her field is the Celtic Iron Age, particularly in Ireland and Great Britain. She’s an expert in Celtic visual arts.”

      “Does she like sugar in her tea?”

      “Lemon,” Josie said.

      Scoop had no idea if she were kidding. “Who does she know in Ireland? Who are her friends here?”

      “We’re working on that.”

      “We?”

      Josie sighed. “Keira has painter’s block, and Lizzie’s bored.”

      “They aren’t law enforcement,” Scoop said. “Or spies.”

      “Neither am I. I work for a British aristocrat. I plan his fishing and golf trips.”

      “Where are you three now?”

      “Keira and Lizzie are en route to Dublin via Cork. I’m still at Keira’s cottage.”

      Collecting reports from her spy friends, no doubt. Scoop noticed Sophie had finished paying for the water and was heading toward him. He had a sudden bad feeling about her—Myles’s visit, what she was holding back. “Stay put,” he told Josie. “Get Lizzie and Keira back there. You can all chase rainbows and drink Guinness.”

      “You can be quite annoying, can’t you, Detective Wisdom?”

      “What? I wouldn’t mind chasing rainbows and drinking Guinness.”

      But Josie Goodwin had hung up.

      Sophie joined him and handed him his bottle of water. “Try to drink every drop on the flight,” she said, shoving her own bottle into an outer compartment of her shoulder bag. “It’ll help.”

      “Mostly I was passed out on pain meds on my flight from Boston to Scotland.” Except when he and Bob O’Reilly, who was in the seat next to him, had discussed how a bomb had ended up on Abigail’s back porch. Scoop slid his phone back in his carry-on. “Guess who that call was about?”

      “No idea.”

      Her body language indicated she knew exactly who. He tucked the huge water bottle into his pack. “It was about a certain Sophie Malone, Ph.D.”

      “Who would be calling about me?”

      “A friend here in Ireland.” Not a lie, technically, although he’d only met Josie Goodwin three weeks ago at Abigail’s wedding. “I’m cautious these days.”

      “So you’re checking me out?” She paused, narrowing those bright blue eyes on him. Her freckles didn’t stand out as much in the artificial airport light. After a couple of beats, she nodded thoughtfully. “All right. That makes sense. You’re a detective who just went through an awful experience. I’m from Boston, I’m an archaeologist and I interrupted your visit to the ruin where a serial killer terrorized a friend of yours.”

      “Plus you’re hiding something.”

      “Aren’t we all?” She seemed unperturbed by his skepticism as she hoisted her bag back onto a slender shoulder, strands of red hair dropping into her face. “Where are you sitting?”

      “Row 40.”

      “I’m way up front. Just as well, don’t you think?” She smiled at him. “I have a feeling if I were any closer, I’d be a distraction.”

      Looking at her, all Scoop could think was that he had to get out of Ireland and back to his home turf. He let his gaze linger on her longer than was necessary, or wise, but she didn’t seem to notice. It had to be the fairies. He was attracted to cops, prosecutors, the occasional crime-lab technician. Not red-headed experts on the Iron Age.

      “This friend who called,” she said. “Is it Keira Sullivan?”

      “Doesn’t matter, does it?”

      “Keira and I are going to be working together on the Boston-Cork conference, and Colm Dermott and I are colleagues. If you’ve planted ideas in their heads about my hiding something, I probably should know.”

      “Hell of a small world, isn’t it? I didn’t plant ideas in anyone’s heads. I’m not here to screw things up for you. You seem like the type who needs to stay busy.”

      “I suppose I am. I suspect you are, too.”

      He grinned at her. “See? Something in common.” They passed a rack of Irish souvenirs on their way out of the duty-free shop. “You didn’t show up at that ruin yesterday just out of professional curiosity.”

      “And you know this how?”

      “Instinct.”

      Her eyes sparked with challenge. “Ah.”

      He set his pack on an empty chair and didn’t let her doubt faze him. “You have some kind of personal stake in what happened there. You volunteered for the conference. Why? Something to do with Jay Augustine? Did you do business with our jailed serial killer?”

      “You’ve been away from your job a long time. I’m sure it’ll be good to get back to work and have real cases to focus on.”

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