She turned from the paintings. 'Was it blood on the torc and the ivy?'
'Yes.'
'At least it wasn't Detective Acosta's blood.' She glanced at Scoop. 'There's much, much more to the Celts than human sacrifice.'
Scoop almost smiled. 'Feeling a little defensive about them?'
'I just don't want to paint too incomplete a picture.'
'Makes sense a killer's not going to pick happy Celtic symbols and whatnot to latch on to, right? What a Celt who's been dead for a couple thousand years would think about what's going on here doesn't matter. I want whoever tried to drown Acosta.' Scoop's expression, although still grim, softened somewhat. 'You did all right in there, Sophie.'
'Detective Acosta wouldn't have been here at all if I hadn't--'
'Don't go there. It won't get you anywhere.'
Probably it wouldn't, Sophie thought. The police would talk to Jeremiah Rush, if they hadn't already, and find out if he'd told anyone else where she was headed. She hugged her arms to herself, suddenly cold again. 'You all are taking another look at the incident with Percy Sr. in Ireland and the break-in here, aren't you?'
'We're taking care of it, Detective Malone.'
She attempted a smile. 'I think I like the sound of Agent Malone better, although my brother would find a way to keep me out of the FBI academy.'
'What about Professor Malone?'
'That has an even better ring to it.'
Helen Carlisle swept into the room, alone, wearing a long, lightweight coat as if she'd just walked in from the street. Her dark hair was pulled back neatly, her red lipstick standing out against her pale skin. 'The director of the museum called me as soon as he could, and I came right away. Thank heavens no one was seriously hurt.'
'Where were you?' Scoop asked.
'The house. Alone. The housekeeper might have seen me if you'd like me to provide an alibi.' When he didn't respond, she turned to Sophie. 'Did someone offer you something to drink? Would you like to sit down?'
'Walking around in here helps.'
'Of course. It's a fantastic museum. It needs updating, but the trustees are working on a long-term plan...' Helen faltered, tears rising in her big eyes. 'I'm trying to put up a brave face, but I feel so vulnerable. I keep thinking the phone will ring, or the door will open, and Percy will be there.' She spun around and faced Scoop. 'I don't believe my husband is involved in whatever's going on, Detective Wisdom. Not for one second.'
'We just want to find him, Mrs. Carlisle,' Scoop said.
She nodded, tightening her coat around her. 'I'm thinking about going to New York for a few days. I just want to be on my own--away from all this. I had a moment of panic about security, but if I were a target, I'd be dead now. It seems to me police officers are more vulnerable than I am. It's frightening, but whatever's going on doesn't really involve me.' She added coolly, 'Or my husband.'
Scoop buttoned up his own jacket. 'Then you're not worried about him?'
'I wouldn't think twice about where he is if not for Cliff's death and now this with Detective Acosta.'
'Did your husband ever mention the break-in here?'
'No, why should he have? You're grasping now, aren't you, Detective? I have to go. I'm meeting the director. I never...' She shuddered, a glamorous, beautiful woman caught in the middle of a violent drama. 'This isn't what I signed on for. I don't know if I'm up to it.'
She didn't wait for a response as she swept back out of the gallery.
Sophie felt her energy flagging. 'I have to stop at the tutoring center...and I promised a friend at BU I'd come by at the same time. I'm teaching a class there next semester.' She reined in her thoughts and focused on Scoop. 'What about you? Are you okay?'
'Yeah, sure.'
'Hauling Detective Acosta around didn't tear open any of your injuries?'
He shook his head. 'All set.'
She smiled. 'Would you tell me if you were about to double over in pain right now?'
It was clearly not what he'd expected her to say, and he smiled back at her. 'Probably not.'
'Are you kicking yourself because you didn't connect the dots and figure out sooner Cliff Rafferty was the police link to those local thugs?'
'That's still an open investigation. Whatever happens, you have your victories and your defeats in this job.' He shrugged. 'You hope the defeats don't get anyone killed.'
'If they do, you'd rather it be yourself who's hurt than someone else?'
He didn't answer. 'Come on. I have my car. I'll drop you off.'
'I don't mind walking.'
Scoop put his arm over her shoulders. 'I can't wait to see you on that Irish panel, arguing with your colleagues about some point of ancient history. Is Celtic archaeology controversial?'
'It can be.'
He laughed softly. 'That's my point. Academics.' He let his arm fall to her waist and held her close. 'You just saved a man's life. The day could have gotten off to a worse start.'
'I guess that's one way to look at it.'
He tilted his head back. 'What's on your mind, Sophie?'
She lifted his hand and touched her fingertips to a jagged scar on his wrist. 'The bomb did this to you. It burned your house. Cliff Rafferty was hanged. Now Frank Acosta was nearly drowned. Our perpetrator seems to be obsessed with Celtic rituals, appropriating bits and pieces of Celtic lore from a variety of sources, jumbling them up to suit his or her needs. Some scholars believe that burning, hanging and drowning represent fire, earth and water--fundamental elements associated with specific Celtic deities. The god Esus with earth, Taranis with fire, Teutates with water.'
'So you don't think the choice of the tub was a coincidence?'
'It might have been quick thinking, since whoever is responsible couldn't have known Detective Acosta would be here this morning. I'm not suggesting there's a coherent strategy or recreation of any particular set of sacrificial rites at work.'
'Jay Augustine wasn't a scholar of the devil and evil,' Scoop said. 'He just latched on to what suited his purposes.'
'To kill.' Sophie could feel the blood draining from her face. 'In 1984, the corpse of a young Celt was discovered in a bog in England. It was extremely well preserved because of the anaerobic conditions. He'd met a terribly violent death. He'd been hit on the head several times--hard enough that he'd have died soon after. But that's not what killed him.'
'Was he burned, hanged or drowned?'
'Garroted, basically. The cord used was still around his neck two thousand years later. A stick had been tucked into the back of it to add to the force of the strangulation. It actually broke his neck.'
'Charming.'
'That wasn't the end of it. Then his throat was cut and his body deposited in the bog. He could have been a willing victim, sacrificing his life for the welfare of the tribe, victory in battle--we don't know. Whatever the purpose of his death, he'd have felt no pain after the initial blow.'
Scoop grimaced. 'And here I thought you just dug up pretty jewelry buried for hundreds of years. Come on. Let's go see your hockey players.'
'I think I will take you up on the offer of a ride over to the tutoring center.'
He slipped an arm around her. 'I thought you might.'
25
After he dropped off Sophie with her hockey players, Scoop parked at the Whitcomb, changed clothes and walked up Beacon Street to the bow-front, early-nineteenth-century Garrison house. He'd gone back to the conference room after she'd left and checked in with Bob O'Reilly. They'd agreed to meet here, in the first-floor drawing room. It was used for meetings, parties and, on occasion, a practice room for Fiona and her friends. The
