The Whisper (21 page)

“You’re just scratching the surface, aren’t you?”

She smiled faintly. “It’s difficult to talk about ‘the Celts.’ There are many stories of shape-shifting in Irish mythology. The goddess Maeve is said to have shape-shifted into a hag and a raven, terrorizing and horrifying her enemies. Why are you asking about shape-shifting?”

“I don’t know. Your big black dog in Ireland, maybe.” He changed the subject. “You said the elder Percy Carlisle was an adventurer, but his son isn’t. Was there tension between them?”

“I’ve told you, I didn’t know them that well.”

“But you heard rumors. You worked at an upscale Beacon Hill pub, you did research at their museum, you were majoring in the field that most interested the father.”

“I was a student. I wasn’t on their radar, and I didn’t have a lot of time for rumors. If Percy felt inadequate—if his father made him feel inadequate—I wasn’t that aware of it.”

“‘That’ aware.”

She smiled. “Okay, so I was a little aware, but Percy’s a grown man now with his own interests and accomplishments. He’s married. His father’s gone. If you’re suggesting he engineered the cave last summer as some way to prove himself—” She stopped, shaking her head. “I don’t believe it.”

“Helen doesn’t seem to mind that he’s a bit of a wimp.”

“I don’t think of him as a wimp, and I know you said that just to see my reaction.”

“Never fantasized about Prince Charming Percy Carlisle sweeping you off to his castle in Back Bay?”

“No.”

Scoop almost asked her about fantasizing about a scarred, weight-lifting cop, but he resisted.

She gathered up her materials into both arms and dumped them on the floor in front of the fireplace. “I’ve been wondering if I missed it somehow and Percy Sr. did explore that island on one of his adventures. But I don’t see how. Tim O’Donovan would have known. He and his family have been fishing off the southwest coast of Ireland for decades.”

“Going out there was all your idea?”

She nodded.

“What about the break-in at the museum? How did that affect your relationship with the Carlisles?”

“I had nothing to do with it, and it was a long time ago—”

“Not that long.”

She sighed. “Both Carlisles were uncomfortable around me after that.”

“Did they ever consider you a suspect?”

“No, and neither did the police.” Her voice was calm. “There were rumors—never mind. Rumors don’t matter now.”

“Maybe they do.”

“Police officers dig into people’s most private areas, don’t they?”

“Just doing a job. What rumors?”

“That Percy Sr. was in on the break-in.”

“Motive?”

“He could sell the Homer to a discreet, rich friend and collect insurance on it at the same time. There were rumors he needed cash, but I don’t believe that so much—I don’t believe he was involved at all, but if he had been, it would be because he liked
the risk and he was getting back at someone. He was very…” She paused, obviously searching for the right word. “He could be very rigid and unforgiving.”

“What was his wife like?”

“Quiet, cerebral. The museum was her creation.”

“Married to it and her work there. So we had the near disaster and scandal over the smuggling in Ireland and the firings, the break-in and the heist in Boston. Now you’re an expert in the field Percy Sr. thought of himself as an expert in. You know all this stuff, and Percy Jr. knows you know.”

“That’s why I was surprised when he looked me up a year ago.”

“And your brain didn’t go
ding-ding-ding
after the island experience?”

“No.”

“Did you tell the Irish police about Percy?”

“It didn’t even occur to me. I can’t even say he was still in Ireland at the time. I doubt it.”

“Not the type to chase after you to a remote, rockbound island?”

“Definitely not the type.”

“Why did he come see you in Kenmare? Go through that conversation with me again.”

She debated, then nodded. “Have a seat.”

He listened without interruption while she talked. He wasn’t a lot of things, but he was a damn good listener. And he liked hearing her talk. She was curious, analytical and interested as well as interesting—and it didn’t take long for him to figure out that she hadn’t been waiting for Percy Carlisle to sweep her off her feet. Or any man, for that matter. Sophie Malone, Ph.D., was very much her own person.

She’d just finished when she got a text message. She glanced at her iPhone, then smiled, her blue eyes sparking with obvious
pleasure. “Taryn’s here,” she said as her fingers flew, texting her back. “You get to meet my twin sister. She’s right outside.”

Sophie leaped up and buzzed her in, and thirty seconds later, Taryn Malone was surveying Scoop with eyes as blue and incisive as her sister’s. But she spoke directly to Sophie. “I’m only blowing in here to say hello, then I’m on my way to New York. I’ll be there for two days. Then it’s back to London. How are you? And who is this?”

“This is the detective I told you about,” Sophie said, and made the introductions.

Taryn beamed a smile at him. “So good to meet you, Detective Wisdom.”

“I’ll go for a walk and let you two visit,” he said, looking at Sophie. “Then I’m coming back.”

Taryn gulped in a breath after Scoop left. Sophie held up a hand before her sister could say a word. “I know. What am I doing? I should take Damian’s advice and go back to Ireland and dig in the dirt.”

“No argument from me,” Taryn said, stretching out on the sectional. “I didn’t let Damian know I was coming here. I knew he’d tell me not to. Sophie, are you in trouble with the police?”

She shook her head. “I can’t be. I’ve told them everything and I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Please don’t stay here alone.”

“I’m not. I’m staying at the Whitcomb.”

“Good. Unless—wait. Is this detective staying there, too?”

“For now.”

Taryn moaned as if she were in pain. “I suppose there isn’t a
Malone born who does things the easy way. All right, then. If you’re not in trouble with the cops—if they don’t suspect you of wrongdoing—then let them help.”

“Cliff Rafferty was a police officer, Taryn. Scoop’s a detective. He can’t turn that off even for half a second.”

“Why would you want him to? Never mind. Scratch that. Dumb question now that I’ve seen him.” She rose suddenly, a bundle of nervous energy. “Look, I’d stay if I could, but I have this crazy thing called a living to make. You could come to New York with me.”

“Thanks, but I can’t. I have commitments here.”

“I know. I understand.” Taryn dashed into the bedroom, yanked open the closet and pulled out a pair of black heels, tucking them under one arm as she returned to the living room. “I didn’t think I’d need these. I hope I don’t break an ankle. Oh, Sophie. You’ll stay safe, won’t you? You and I are so different and yet so similar. Do you miss Ireland?”

“Yes, but I’ll go back. Taryn—”

“Don’t go there,” she said, as if she were reading her sister’s mind. “I won’t ask Tim to give up his life, and he won’t ask me to give up mine.”

Sophie leaned against the door jamb. “What would you say if he did ask?”

“He and I are both hopeless romantics. That’s what attracted me to him in the first place, but I have to be practical.”

“Tim’s a romantic?”

Taryn blushed and quickly led the way back out to the street. She had asked her cab to wait. It was just like her to make a separate stop in Boston for something she could easily pick up in New York, but that wasn’t, Sophie knew, really why her sister was there. “Damian’s worried,” Taryn said in a half whisper. “
I’m
worried. I want to trust this detective, but what do you know
about him? What if he’s playing everyone? What if
he’s
actually the one who planted the bomb?”

“He was almost killed—”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t killed, and what a way to fool everyone. You must trust him or you wouldn’t be alone with him.” Taryn straightened abruptly, her hand on the open cab door. “Sophie! Are you falling for him? No, don’t answer. It’s the adrenaline. You bonded during a crisis.”

“It started on the Beara Peninsula,” Sophie admitted.

“Ah. Fairies, then. He’s a total stud, I know—I have eyes—but…” Taryn didn’t finish. “Just be careful, okay?”

“I will. Thanks for stopping by. Have fun in New York.”

“Yes.” She smiled, betraying a rare hint of uncertainty. “I’m not sure it’s what I want.”

“Maybe going there will help you figure that out.”

“I can’t afford to be a romantic about making a living…” Taryn brushed off her uncertainty. “Listen to me. You’re dealing with a real crisis. I’m just in angst mode.”

“I’m here anytime. You know that. If you want to talk about acting and a certain Irish fisherman—”

“Oh, stop. You saw that awful beard. Tim O’Donovan’s
not
the man for me.”

Sophie laughed. “He can quote Yeats by heart.”

“So can Damian, and can you imagine ending up with him?”

That made them both laugh, just as Scoop returned, easing toward the gate back to the courtyard. Taryn glared at him. “Be good to my sister,” she said, and quickly ducked into the cab, shut the door and waved goodbye.

Sophie half expected Scoop to question her about her sister’s visit, but he just walked with her back through the archway to her apartment, letting her go in first. “I bought a few things at
the grocery that I should use up,” she said. “I warned you that I’m not a great cook, but I feel like putting a meal together. I don’t do a bad spaghetti sauce and salad. I mean, who does? I have all the ingredients. I hate to see them go to waste.”

He pulled off his jacket. “I’ll help.”

“Thanks, but just having you here…someone to talk to…makes a difference.” She pulled open the refrigerator. “I spent long hours alone when I was working on my dissertation.”

“What’s it about?”

“Gad. You don’t want to hear
that
.”

He smiled at her. “Give me the short version.”

She talked as she cooked. He stood next to her at the counter, chopping an onion, garlic, a carrot on a thick wooden board. It was a tiny kitchen with the refrigerator, sink and stove all on one wall and not much counter space, but surprisingly efficient and bigger, Sophie thought, than the kitchen had been in her apartment in Cork.

Once she finished describing her dissertation, Scoop asked about her time in Ireland. “I loved it,” she said, watching steam rise from her pot of water for the spaghetti. “I worked hard and was always scrambling to keep the wolf from the door, but I met so many great people there.”

“How long do you think you’ll stay here?”

“My sister’s apartment? I don’t know. What about you—when can you get back into your triple-decker?”

“It’ll be a few months. Depends on whether we decide to make improvements or just focus on repairs. Abigail won’t be back, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I’ll figure something out in the meantime. I can’t stay at the Whitcomb much longer.” He grinned at her. “I’ll be disappointed when I don’t find chocolates on my pillow.”

“You live alone, though?”

“I have two cats but no live-in girlfriend, no ex-wives, no kids.”

She laid dried spaghetti in boiling water, aware of Scoop inches away by the sink. “Cliff Rafferty said you were quite the ladies’ man.”

“I’m never sure what something like that means.”

She liked his response, she decided. It wasn’t defensive, but it wasn’t a total dodge, either—and he hadn’t just pushed her off and told her his love life was none of her damn business. She stood back from the stove while the spaghetti cooked. “Tell me about your cats.”

“They’re stray Russian blues I rescued two years ago.” He got a colander down from a hook. “I was working a case—I’d just started in internal affairs. I nailed a cop for hiring prostitutes on the job. I set up a stakeout, and here were these scrawny little kittens mewing in an alley.”

“Do you have a soft heart, Cyrus Wisdom?”

He laughed, setting the colander in the sink. “It would be a serious mistake for anyone to think that. I took the cats home figuring I’d give them to a friend, but I ended up keeping them. They adopted me more than I adopted them. Bob’s two younger daughters have been taking care of them.”

Her throat tightened with unexpected emotion. “You’ve had a terrible time, Scoop. You’re so strong and so focused on the present—at least you come across that way—that it’s easy to forget what you’ve gone through. Do you want to retire from the Boston Police Department after you put in your twenty or thirty years?”

“You’re thinking about Cliff,” he said.

“I want to know about you.”

“The job’s a good one.”

“Not everything is as it appears to be with you, is it?”

His dark eyes narrowed on her. “If you’re a thief and you’re lying to me—”

“If you’re a bad cop and you’re lying to me…”

She grabbed potholders and poured the spaghetti into the colander, steam from the hot water rising in her face, probably turned her skin red. She set the empty pot back on the stove. The sauce was simmering. The salad was made. Why did she feel so out of her element?

“I’m not a bad cop,” Scoop said, “and I’m not lying to you.”

He caught her in his arms, and Sophie placed her hands on his waist. He was muscular, sexy. Even through his shirt, she could feel the ragged edges of the scars from the bomb. “Scoop…” Rarely at a loss for words, she couldn’t think of what to say. “I’m glad I met you, and I’m glad I met you the way I did.”

“Covered in mud, with a big black dog at your side. Think he’s a shape-shifter?”

She smiled. “Right now anything feels possible.”

His mouth found hers, and this time it wasn’t a light kiss. He drew her against him, lifting her off her feet as they deepened their kiss. “Sophie, Sophie,” he said, lowering his hands to her hips, lifting her higher. He smiled, setting her back down. “Ah, Sophie. I do like saying your name.”

“The sauce is about to boil over.”

He winked at her. “So it is.”

Taryn called later that evening, when Sophie was back in her room at the Whitcomb, her laptop out on her bed as she went over study skills sheets for her tutoring students. “I’m in New York,” Taryn said. “I feel guilty for leaving you alone. Damian’s
threatening to fly up there as soon as he can get away. Do you want me to call Mom and Dad and get them to Boston?”

“No, let them enjoy their hike. And Damian should focus on his job. I’m fine.”

“Where is Scoop Wisdom right now?”

“About ten yards from me.”

“Sophie!”

She smiled. “He’s not stalking me. He’s in the next room at the Whitcomb.”

“I guess that’s good. If there’s anything I can do, call me. Don’t hesitate. I can figure out London.”

“What about Tim O’Donovan?”

Her sister gave a small laugh. “I can’t figure him out at all.”