'We need to find Percy Carlisle. I suggest we start with Tim O'Donovan.'
'All right, then.'
They continued on foot toward the village and walked out to the pier, but O'Donovan was already off on his boat for the day. Josie debated hiring a boat herself and chasing after him, but she hadn't a clue where to start-- and she didn't particularly care for boats. Myles suggested they return to the Malone house. Not bloody likely, Josie thought. With the dreary weather, they'd be tempted to light a fire and spend the day being utterly useless, which she suspected was Myles's aim.
Instead she decided they ought to head to a quiet pub, sit by the fire and review all they knew. Myles didn't object, and as they walked to the village, she texted Seamus Harrigan to join them at his convenience. In the meantime, maybe they'd get lucky and Percy Carlisle would wander in, or someone who knew him. They had his photo and both she and Myles had committed his face to memory.
'This could end badly,' Josie said.
Myles slung an arm over her shoulder and gave her a good squeeze. 'We'll do all we can to make sure it doesn't.'
24
Sophie woke up far too early and had coffee with Jeremiah Rush in the lobby of the Whitcomb. 'Do you sleep under your desk with your golden retriever? I swear you're here all the time.'
'Now there's a thought. Get a dog's view of the family business.' He grinned at her, clearly no longer the high school kid she'd known when she worked there. 'All's well this morning, Sophie?'
'I hope so.'
'Where's your detective?'
'
'Sparks, Sophie. Sparks.'
'I think something weird happened in the Irish ruin where we met. I'm--I can't explain it.'
'You're crazy about him.'
She sighed. It seemed so soon. So fast. Maybe that was partly because everything else in her life was slow. She'd been in school forever. Her dissertation had taken forever to write. Even archaeology was by its nature painstaking, breakthroughs seldom happening fast or suddenly--certainly not as fast and suddenly as Scoop's entrance into her life. He'd been on the Beara Peninsula for two weeks before they'd run into each other. She'd been in Kenmare most of that time. Maybe being in such close proximity had had an effect.
She smiled at Jeremiah. 'Tell me about what's going on with you these days.'
They chatted a few minutes, Jeremiah making her laugh with tales of his family and hotel life. Finally Sophie refilled her coffee, grabbed a muffin and asked him if he'd let Scoop know she was going to the Carlisle Museum. 'It's a beautiful day,' she said, heading for the exit. 'Tell him I'm walking.'
'You don't think he has you under surveillance?'
'Thanks, Jeremiah, that's just what I needed on my mind.'
'Hey, we're a full-service hotel.'
Charles Street was quiet, the morning air crisp and bright. In no hurry, Sophie turned onto Beacon Street and meandered through the narrow downtown streets with her coffee and muffin, reconnecting with being back in Boston. It was a great walking city, and she loved to walk. She continued past Government Center and on to the waterfront, where the Carlisle Museum was located in a low, renovated brick building on its own wharf. By the time she got there, the main offices were open, although the museum itself wouldn't open until ten. A stone walkway took her through a garden of herbs, wild asters and coneflowers to the administrative entrance.
The receptionist, a young woman with spiky jet-black hair, was new since Sophie had done research at the museum. She recognized Sophie's name. 'I'm majoring in art history,' she said. 'Your article on Irish Iron Age art was assigned reading in one of my classes. Helen Carlisle said you might come by now that you're back from Ireland.'
'Is she here?' Sophie asked.
'Not yet. I'd love to go to Ireland some day. I want to see the Book of Kells in person.'
'I hope you can. My family has a home in Ireland--I won't stay away too long--but it's good to be back in Boston, too.' Sophie motioned toward the corridor behind the receptionist's desk. 'I'd like to take a look around--'
'Sure. Let me know if you need anything. There aren't many people here yet.'
Sophie headed down the wide hall, welcoming the natural light and simplicity of the building's design. From the beginning, the Carlisles had seen the museum as placing equal emphasis on education, research and exhibits. She'd told Scoop the truth about the break-in seven years ago, but if there was some tidbit she hadn't remembered that could help find Percy or explain what had happened to Cliff Rafferty, maybe being back here would help.
She heard a rushing sound--like a wide-open faucet--and paused at the open door to a conference suite. The table wasn't set up for a meeting, nor had anyone dropped off materials, a briefcase, a coat. She remembered the suite had an office, a small kitchen and a full bathroom. Isabel Carlisle had seen to every detail of the conversion of the building, from the exhibit halls to the comfort of the administrative offices.
Sophie entered the main room and crossed over to a hall that led to the kitchen, wondering if someone she knew might be back there cleaning up. It had to be running water she heard.
The kitchen was dark--no sign of anyone there.
The bathroom was farther down the hall. Not wanting to disturb anyone taking a shower before work, she started to turn back to the conference room, but stopped abruptly, noticing the bathroom door was open, water was streaming over the threshold into the hall.
Sophie edged down the hall. Had a toilet or sink stopped up?
Trying to stay clear of the water on the floor, she peeked into the bathroom. Directly ahead of her was a white porcelain pedestal, but the faucet wasn't on and the basin was dry.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man's foot--a black running shoe--and immediately yelled for help, hoping a security guard or the receptionist would hear her. She stepped into the bathroom, the tile floor slippery, more water pouring through the doorway, flooding the bathroom and hall.
A man was shoved headfirst into the overflowing bathtub, his legs askew, hanging over the edge onto the floor. He wasn't struggling. He wasn't moving at all.
If he was still alive, he had to get out of the water fast, or he'd drown. She ran to the tub. The man was dressed in tan slacks and a light blue shirt. She couldn't see his face, but he had dark hair. She didn't see any signs of injury, but she had no choice. She had to move him. She had to get him out of the water.
Grabbing him by the belt, she pulled him up a little, then got her arms around his middle. He was heavy, deadweight. She pushed her feet against the wall, bracing herself as best she could on the wet floor, and lifted him up and out of the tub. Momentum carried her backward, with him on top of her as she went down on her side into the cold water on the floor.
He was moving...
No, he was being lifted off her.
'Sophie.' Scoop's voice. 'You okay?'
She sat up, nodding, breathing hard. 'He was in the tub--'
'Yeah.'
It was Frank Acosta. His skin was pasty and bluish in color, waterlogged. Scoop laid his fellow police officer flat on the floor, checked his airway, his breathing. 'Hell, Frank, don't make me have to do CPR on you.'
Acosta coughed and vomited water, rolling onto his side.
Sophie rose, quickly shut off the faucet. A torc, fashioned out of gold wire, just like the one at Cliff Rafferty's apartment, was broken in half and set on the edge of the tub, along with a clump of vines--ivy--smeared with what appeared to be blood. 'Scoop.'
'I see them.'
Acosta got up onto his knees, groaning, spitting into the pooled water.
