The Whisper. Carla Neggers
or a fairy prince.
Her left foot sank into a soft spot and almost ended up in the water. Mud stains came to the top of her wellies. “I saw footprints back there,” she said cheerfully, pointing a slender hand in the direction she’d just come. “Since I’ve never run into a cow or a sheep that wears size-twelve shoes, I figured someone else was out here. A fine day for a walk, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Scoop said.
“I don’t mind the outbreaks of rain.” She tilted her head back, letting the mist collect on her face a moment, then smiled at him. “I don’t do well in the sun.”
Scoop stepped down from the threshold and nodded to the dog, still panting at her side. “Yours?”
“No, but he’s a sweetheart. I suppose he could be aggressive if he or someone he cared about felt threatened.”
A warning? Scoop noticed she wore a rain jacket the same shade of blue as her eyes and held an iPhone in one hand, perhaps keeping it available in case she needed to call for help. It would be easy to think it was still 1900 in this part of Ireland, but that would be a mistake. For one thing, the area had decent cell phone coverage.
“Looks as if you two have bonded.”
“I think we have, indeed.” She slipped the iPhone into a jacket pocket. “You’re the detective who saved that girl’s life when the bomb went off at your house in Boston last month—Wisdom, right? Detective Cyrus Wisdom?”
He was instantly on alert, but he kept his voice even. “Most people call me Scoop. And you would be?”
“Sophie—Sophie Malone. We have friends in common,” she said, easing past him to the ruin. The dog stayed by the stream. “I’m from Boston originally. I’m an archaeologist.”
“What kind of archaeologist?”
She smiled. “The barely employed kind. You’re in Ireland to recuperate? I heard you were hurt pretty badly.”
“I ended up here after attending a friend’s wedding in Scotland a few weeks ago.”
“Abigail Browning’s wedding. She’s the detective who was kidnapped when the bomb went off.”
“I know who she is.”
Sophie Malone seemed unfazed by his response. Abigail was still on her extended honeymoon with Owen Garrison, an international search-and-rescue expert with roots in Boston, Texas and Maine. Will Davenport had offered them his house in the Scottish Highlands for their long-awaited wedding, and they’d accepted, quickly gathering family and friends together in early September. Scoop, just out of the hospital, had had no intention of missing the ceremony.
“Wasn’t it too soon for you to fly given your injuries?” Sophie asked.
“I got through it.”
She studied him, her expression suggesting a focused, intelligent mind. He had on a sweatshirt and jeans, but she’d be able to see one of his uglier scars, a purple gash that started under his right ear and snaked around the back of his head. Finally she said, “It must be hard not to be in Boston with the various ongoing investigations. You have all the bad guys, though, right? They’re either dead or under arrest—”
“I thought you said you were an archaeologist. How do you know all this?”
“I keep up with the news.”
That, Scoop decided, wasn’t the entire truth. He was very good—one of the best in the Boston Police Department—at detecting lies and deception, and if Sophie Malone wasn’t exactly lying, she wasn’t exactly telling the truth, either.
She placed her hand on the rough, gray stone of the ruin. “You know Keira Sullivan, don’t you?”
Keira was the folklorist and artist who had discovered the ruin three months ago, on the night of the summer solstice. She was also Lieutenant Bob O’Reilly’s niece. “I do, yes,” Scoop said. “Is Keira one of the friends we have in common?”
“We’ve never met, actually.” Sophie stepped up onto the crumbling threshold of the ruin. “This place has been abandoned for a long time.”
“According to local villagers, the original occupants either died or emigrated during the Great Famine of the 1840s.”
“That would make sense. This part of Ireland was hit hard by the famine and subsequent mass emigration. That’s how my family ended up in the U.S. The Malone side.” She glanced back at Scoop, a spark in her blue eyes. “Tell me, Detective Wisdom, do you believe fairies were here that night with Keira?”
Scoop didn’t answer. Standing in front of an Irish ruin with a scary black dog and a smart, pretty redhead, he could believe just about anything. He took in his surroundings—the fine mist, the multiple shades of green, the rocks, the rush of the stream. His senses were heightened, as if Irish fairies had put a spell on him.
He had never been so in danger of falling in love at first sight.
He gave himself a mental shake. Was he out of his mind? He grinned at Sophie as she stepped down from the ruin. “You’re not a fairy princess yourself, are you?”
She laughed. “That would be Keira. Artist, folklorist and fairy princess.” Sophie’s expression turned more serious. “She wasn’t reckless coming out here alone, you know.”
“Any more than you are being reckless now?”
“Or you,” she countered, then nodded to the dog, who had flopped in the wet grass. “Besides, I have my new friend here. He doesn’t appear to have any quarrel with you. He joined me when I got to the stream. He must be the same dog who helped Keira the night she was trapped here.”
“You didn’t read that in the papers,” Scoop said.
“I live in Ireland,” she said vaguely. She seemed more tentative now. “The man who was also here that night…the serial killer. Jay Augustine. He won’t ever be in a position to hurt anyone else, will he?”
Scoop didn’t answer at once. Just what was he to make of his visitor? Finally he said, “Augustine’s in jail awaiting trial for first-degree murder. He has a good lawyer and he’s not talking, but he’s not going anywhere. He’ll stay behind bars for the rest of his life.”
Sophie’s gaze settled on an uprooted tree off to one side of the ruin. “That’s where he smeared the sheep’s blood, isn’t it?”
Scoop stiffened. “Okay, Sophie Malone. You know a few too many details. Who are you?”
“Sorry.” She pushed her hands through her damp hair. “Being here makes what happened feel real and immediate. I didn’t expect this intense a reaction. Keira and I both know Colm Dermott, the anthropologist organizing the conference on Irish folklore in April. It’s in two parts, one in Cork and one in Boston.”
“I know Colm. Is he the one who told you about the black dog?”
She nodded. “I ran into him last week in Cork. I’ve just completed a postdoctoral fellowship at the university there. I hadn’t paid much attention to what-all went on out here and in Boston.” She took a breath. “I’m glad Keira wasn’t hurt.”
“So am I.”
Sophie looked up sharply, as if his tone had given away some unexpected, hidden feeling—which for all he knew it had—but she quickly turned back toward the cottage, mist glistening on her rain jacket and deep red hair. “Do you believe Keira really did see the stone angel that night?”
“Doesn’t matter what I believe.”
“You’re very concrete, aren’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The story she was researching is so charming—three Irish brothers in a never-ending struggle with fairies over a stone angel. The brothers believe it’ll bring them luck. The fairies believe it’s one of their own turned to stone. Every three