Rock Point (Sharpe & Donovan) Read Free Page A

he and Declan had returned to life, just outside Killarney. An important business matter had come up and Sally and the girls had started their sailing holiday without him. He would join them at their first stop that evening. He hadn’t been enthusiastic about sailing, but Sally had thought it would be a grand adventure for them and the girls.
    It was Garda Murphy who’d told Finian his wife and daughters were dead.
    And who’d suspected him of having killed them.
    * * *
    It wasn’t as full an Irish breakfast as Sean had promised because, it turned out, the tomatoes had spoiled. Finian didn’t mind, but Sean shook his head and sighed. “I miss my grilled tomatoes.”
    He was only half joking. Finian poured more tea. “Next time.”
    “I think the rotten ones are from the last time I was down. Paddy doesn’t stay up here as much. He’s thinking about converting this place into a bed-and-breakfast or a holiday home. Can you imagine?”
    “You could book it to people wanting an authentic Irish experience,” Finian said with a smile.
    Paddy Murphy, Sean’s uncle, had been born in the simple farmhouse and had lived there until just a few months ago, when he’d moved into an apartment in the village. He was in his seventies, a longtime widower with no children. Sean’s father was gone now, too. Sean wasn’t a big talker, but Finian had pieced together the Murphy family story over a pint or a glass of whiskey. Finian’s heavy-drinking days were in the past, and Sean had never been one for over imbibing. He was a driven man but one of great control.
    Yet Finian could see that something was eating at his friend. It had to be this investigation. This favor. This name he wanted. He’d gone up to bed last night without telling Finian more. Finian had slept in a small bedroom off the kitchen, the barn just out back. Nonetheless, Sean had heard the distressed ewe first—a farmer’s instincts or, more likely, an intercom system between the barn and his bedroom.
    “You didn’t invite me here to help with the sheep,” Finian said finally.
    “That would be the day, wouldn’t it? You might have grown up on a farm, but that didn’t make you a farmer.”
    “Nor did it make you one, Sean.” Finian picked at the last of his grilled mushrooms. He’d had more of an appetite than he’d expected. Helping birth a lamb must have contributed. “You asked me here because of this name you want. Tell me more. If I can help, I will.”
    Sean settled back in his chair. “I’m looking for a man who’s been in touch with you. Not as a priest. As a Bracken.”
    “I’m always a priest, Sean.”
    “I know that. I mean this man worked for Bracken Distillers.”
    “Ah. I see. He doesn’t work for us any longer?”
    “I don’t think so. He contacted me a few days ago but wouldn’t give me his name. He’d said he’d call again, but he didn’t.”
    “Why don’t you ask Declan about him?”
    Sean scratched the side of his mouth. “It’s not that simple.” He leaned forward over the table. “This man called me because he knew you and I were friends. He sought you out because you’re a Bracken and for no other reason. What did he tell you?”
    “I haven’t said I know the man you’re talking about.”
    “But you do.”
    He did, indeed. Becan Kennedy was an itinerant carpenter who had done small jobs at the distillery over the winter and then moved on. Last week, Finian had stopped at the distillery, in his priest’s garb. Becan had stopped by to do a few small touchups on a project he’d finished in February. He’d pulled him aside and asked to talk to him, in confidence.
    They’d walked down to a field and old shed out behind the main distillery buildings. Becan had explained he was mixed up with “a bad lot” and deeply troubled by “some things” he knew. He didn’t want to go to prison. He didn’t want to anger his unsavory friends. He didn’t want to get in deeper with them. Finian had encouraged him to