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

storm. Perhaps they could appear to float. In any case, I see the power of Saint Declan’s story not in its literal truth but in its human truth.”
    â€œNow you sound like Finian.”
    â€œAlso the name of an Irish saint,” Oliver said with a wink. “There’s no chance of you entering a convent, is there?”
    Mary laughed. “None at all. I’d have said there was no chance of Finian entering the priesthood, but obviously he did.”
    â€œHe’s a very good priest.”
    â€œHe was a good whiskey man, too. And a good father and husband.”
    â€œYou don’t approve of his vocation?”
    â€œIt’s not for me to approve or disapprove.”
    â€œBut you don’t approve.”
    She sighed. “Let’s go back to discussing art. It’s much safer, don’t you think?”
    â€œThat all depends,” Oliver said.
    â€œOh, right—helps not to be a thief or the victim of a thief.”
    He said nothing. The lane descended steeply into the village with its brightly painted homes and shops. Mary found herself wishing again she were staying here through the weekend, enjoying the spa at the O’Byrne House Hotel, indulging in scones, whiskey and full Irish breakfasts. She could wander to Ardmore with its sand beach, stunning cliff walk and impressive medieval round tower. Saint Declan was said to have been buried there. She was almost sorry she was leaving for Dublin and a long flight to Boston in the morning. She didn’t need to go to Maine.
    Except she did. Deep inside her, she knew she did.
    â€œThe Sharpes came up in a conversation last week,” she said as she and Oliver turned off the lane at a bookshop, its front painted a vivid shade of red. “An American woman on a tour at the distillery mentioned them. We chatted for a few minutes after the tour. She said she was fascinated by Killarney’s history, but she herself knows more about ancient Greece and Rome. She said she inherited a passion for antiquities from her mother, who was once a Sharpe client. Small world, isn’t it?”
    â€œAntiquities and whiskey. A good combination, I would think.”
    Mary felt heat rush to her face, but she glanced at Oliver and realized he wasn’t making fun of her. “I tend to chat with visitors between tours, lectures and tastings.”
    â€œYou’re gregarious by nature.”
    â€œI know much more about whiskey than I do antiquities. This woman was aware I have a brother in Maine who’s friends with the Sharpes. It seemed odd at first, but then she explained that she chose our distillery to visit because of the connection.”
    â€œDo you recall her name?” Oliver asked.
    â€œClaudia Deverell. I made a point of remembering. She visited the distillery on Friday, but I don’t know how long she was in Ireland. She said she lives in London most of the time. Do you know her, by chance?”
    â€œWe met at a party on Sunday, as a matter of fact. Small world. I can’t say I’ve run into her before then. Have you told anyone else about her visit?”
    Mary paused, noting a few pedestrians out in the village enjoying the fine spring day. The hotel was a short distance up the street. She suddenly couldn’t wait to be there. She felt unsettled, as if she might have said too much to this charming, eccentric Englishman. She had been warned about him, after all.
    â€œI haven’t said a word to anyone,” she said finally. “I don’t know why I mentioned her to you. Because she lives in London and knows the Sharpes, I suppose.”
    â€œThe Sharpes are an intriguing lot.”
    Mary forced herself to take in her surroundings—a passing car, the scent of roses from a trellis on a small house painted a rich yellow. Best to change the subject, she decided. “Finian’s promised to take me sightseeing in Maine,” she said cheerfully.
    Oliver eyed her a split second