Liar's Key by Carla Neggers Read Free Book Online Page A

worked it.
    â€œI love listening to the lambs,” Oliver said. “Can you hear them?”
    Mary smiled without looking at him. “I can.”
    â€œI have a farm in England. I inherited it from my grandparents.”
    â€œIt’s in the Cotswolds, isn’t it? I’ve been there—to the Cotswolds, I mean. Obviously I haven’t been to your farm. I did one of those inn-to-inn walking tours.”
    â€œMore rambling,” Oliver said with a wry smile. “You went on your own?”
    â€œYes. It was after the deaths of my sister-in-law and nieces in a sailing accident. I was on summer break before my final year at university in Cork. I needed...” Mary broke off, searching for the right words. “I suppose you could say my solitary walk in the English countryside was good for the soul. Are you here in Ireland alone?”
    The wind caught the ends of his tawny hair. “I am, yes.”
    â€œIs your visit because of mythology or because of the dangerous types you know?”
    â€œPerhaps both.”
    He spoke lightly, but Mary detected an edgy undertone, as if her question had struck a nerve. She wondered if his response might be the truth. “When did you arrive in Ireland?” she asked.
    â€œYesterday. I flew into Dublin.”
    â€œAnd you’re leaving tonight. That’s a brief visit.”
    â€œI’d hoped to see Wendell Sharpe but discovered he’d already left for America. Do you know him?”
    â€œNot personally, no.”
    â€œHe’s gone home to Maine for the first time in years. He’s attending the open house for the new Sharpe Fine Art Recovery offices.”
    â€œWonderful,” Mary said. “Fin and I will be there. Did you know the Sharpes investigated an art theft at the O’Byrne house about ten years ago?”
    â€œI’ve heard,” Oliver said.
    â€œIt wasn’t a hotel then. Kitty’s uncle owned it. It was a drafty old place, I understand. The thief made off with several valuable artworks, including two landscapes by Jack Butler Yeats that are worth a fortune now.”
    â€œHe was the younger brother of William Butler Yeats. A talented family.”
    â€œMost of the stolen works mysteriously reappeared last fall.” Mary could hear the drama in her voice, but she didn’t care. It was a captivating tale. “Only a landscape painting of the crosses and ruin out on the headland is still missing. It’s unsigned and probably of little value. Some people think it’s an early work by Aoife O’Byrne, but she hasn’t claimed it. She says she became an artist in part because of the theft.”
    â€œI’m a great fan of her work.” Oliver looked out at the sea, past a narrow strip of pasture between the lane and the cliffs. “I own one of her porpoise paintings.”
    Mary hadn’t known that but hid her surprise. “Aoife was at the gathering in February, too. You two, you aren’t...”
    â€œWe’re friends. At least I think of her as a friend. I’m a simple mythologist, Mary.”
    â€œI doubt there’s much about you that’s simple.” She nodded back toward the church ruin. “Do you have a particular interest in the three crosses on the hilltop?”
    â€œI’m not working on a scholarly paper, if that’s what you mean. The church that’s in ruin is named after Saint Declan. This is Saint Declan country. He’s one of the great patron saints of Ireland.” Oliver smiled, the hint of awkwardness a moment ago vanishing. “Fin’s twin brother is named Declan.”
    â€œIt’s a traditional Irish name,” Mary said. “I’m not religious. I certainly don’t believe Saint Declan was led to this part of Ireland by a bell atop a boulder floating on the Irish Sea.”
    â€œNot literally, perhaps—”
    â€œRocks sink.”
    â€œBut think of rocks flung about in a fierce