offices of the foundation named in honor of Owen Garrison's sister were located on the second and third floors. Dorothy Garrison's drowning death off the coast of Maine at fourteen was connected, indirectly, to the death of Christopher Browning, Abigail's first husband, eight years ago--four days into their honeymoon.
Lizzie Rush had a point about ripple effects, Scoop thought.
The Rushes would have put Bob up at any of their hotels, too, but he was staying here, in his niece's attic apartment.
Bright autumn sunshine streamed through the tall windows that looked across busy Beacon Street to the Common, crawling with tourists, shoppers, kids and dogs. The gold-domed Massachusetts State House was a few doors up the street.
Bob cut his gaze over to Scoop. 'You have your head screwed on straight with this Sophie Malone?'
Scoop shrugged. 'More or less.'
'She's not one of these women who come and go in your life. Whatever's going on with you two isn't the same.'
'It doesn't matter. I can do my job.'
'You're not on the case,' Bob said. 'I'm not, either. That prick Yarborough threatened to report me when I showed up at the museum this morning.'
'You'd have done the same.'
'Yeah, probably.'
That was the end of that. Scoop noticed Fiona O'Reilly waiting for traffic on the other side of Beacon, some kind of instrument case slung over one shoulder. 'As far as we can tell, Percy Carlisle hasn't boarded a flight to the U.S. since Sophie saw him in Ireland.'
'Maybe he sprouted wings,' Bob said. 'The way things are going, nothing would surprise me. Anyone wanting to fry, hang or drown us has had multiple opportunities.'
'That's just a theory.'
'I know, I know.' He nodded out the window. 'Here comes Fiona with her violin. She's not getting any better on that thing. Either that or I just don't like violin music.'
'We can go talk somewhere else.'
'Nah.' He continued to stare out the window as Fiona, blonde hair flying, ran across the street. 'We've all turned into shit magnets, Scoop. I thought it was Abigail. Widowed, kidnapped, John March's only daughter. It's not just her. It's you and me, too.'
'It's not always the enemies you know that get you,' Scoop said. 'Sometimes it's ones you don't know.'
'Most of the time. Talk to me, Scoop. Talk to Abigail and me.'
'She's here?'
He nodded. 'She and Owen got back late last night.'
Owen Garrison entered the drawing room at the same time that Fiona came through the front door, smiling easily, as if she had nothing on her mind but a few hours of practicing in a quiet, pretty setting. She set her violin down and grabbed tall, angular Owen in a big hug. He looked over the top of her head at Bob and Scoop. 'Abigail's upstairs. I'll stay down here with Fi.'
Scoop led the way. He could feel a pull of pain in his hip now. He hadn't noticed any pain when he'd half carried Acosta down the hall. Worse had been hearing the running water, hearing Sophie yell for help--not knowing what was going on, if he'd get to her in time. He hadn't told her that.
He hadn't told her that he'd fallen in love with her. It was just that simple. Love at first sight. Him. Who'd have thought it?
He came to the attic landing and entered the small apartment. Abigail was on her feet. 'Scoop,' she said, hugging him. 'I've missed you.'
He laughed. 'Yeah, right, let me go tell Owen--'
She grinned at him, a spark in her dark eyes--her father's eyes. 'You know what I mean. Well, you look better than when I saw you at the wedding.'
Bob grinned. 'He reminds me of Herman Munster.' He nodded toward Abigail as he addressed Scoop. 'Looks pretty good, doesn't she? Being rich and married agrees with her. You'd never know she was kidnapped and nearly killed a month ago.'
Abigail rolled her eyes. 'At least you didn't make a pregnancy joke. The first one who does, I shoot.'
'I'll consider that fair warning,' Scoop said.
He pulled out a chair at the small table where Keira used to draw and paint. Bob hadn't done much to the place. He sat at the table, too. Pads and pencils were stacked to one side. Scoop felt a tug of emotion. He, Abigail and Bob had bought the triple-decker together because they'd all needed a place to live and were looking at the same time, and it'd been a way to pool their resources in Boston's expensive real estate market. As different as they were--in temperament, background, likes and dislikes--they'd become friends. When one would be chewing on a problem, they'd get out the pads and pens and a six-pack and brainstorm.
The past year had turned their lives upside down and changed them forever.
Abigail sat between the two men. Her baby was due in six months. Talk about big changes, Scoop thought.
'Did your father ever mention Sophie Malone to you?' he asked.
'No, but that wouldn't be unusual. He's always tried to keep a firewall between his job and his family. It hasn't worked very well, though, has it?' Abigail was quiet a moment. 'Strange how things work out sometimes.'
'I don't think this was strange,' Scoop said.
'Destined?'
He shook his head. 'Deliberate. What happened at the Carlisle Museum seven years ago and on that island a year ago and what happened here in Boston this past summer are all of a piece.'
Bob distributed the pads and pencils. 'We can take our time,' he said. 'Fiona will be practicing that damn violin for at least a couple hours. You can save me from having to go down there.'
Abigail seemed comfortable to be back in her role as a detective. 'All right,' she said. 'Let's see what we've got.'
26
Josie was yawning when Tim O'Donovan arrived in the pub in which she and Myles had situated themselves for most of the day, with breaks for walks back to the pier and disturbing calls from Boston. Another violent attack on a police officer. She and Myles both had felt stunningly useless. Seamus Harrigan had met with them briefly, essentially to tell them to stay out of the investigation. By dark, even Myles had seemed ready to give up and return to Dublin. He could look dead tired--he could
O'Donovan wasn't performing that night but had popped in for a Guinness. He looked as if he had, indeed, spent the day at sea. 'I thought you'd gone back to London,' he said, pulling up a low stool to their table.
'It's been a decidedly frustrating day,' Josie said. 'Do you mind if I come straight to the point? We'd like you to go over the time line of Sophie's adventure with us in more detail. For instance, how did she find the cave on this visit to the island but not on the earlier visits?'
'It's at the center of the island. She hadn't got that far before.'
'So she stumbles on this cave, and here's a Celtic treasure, right at her feet?' Josie raised her eyebrows skeptically. 'Even if no one but one priest every generation knows this story of yours, don't you think someone in the past thousand or so years would have stumbled on this cauldron by now?'
'Stranger things have happened. Celtic hoards have been found in lakes, streams and rivers right where they were offered to the gods hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Farmers have come across Celtic treasure plowing their fields. Why in 1894 and not 1794?'
Myles tipped back in his chair. 'Others could have known what you and Sophie were up to.'
