the handiest weapon—Seamus’s own shovel.”
“I’d wager that’s how the gardaí would see it,” Billy agreed.
“Would anyone have noticed someone sneaking around the property?”
“I’d be well surprised. The family wanted their privacy, and they made sure the house was set well back from the road, from the beginning. You’ve never seen it from the road, have you?” When Maura shook her head, he added, “The only other way in is from the harbor.”
“By boat? I hadn’t thought of that. Are there lots of boaters around in the summer?”
“Not for the fun of it. Most who stop here are serious about their fishing, and powerboats upset the fish. There’d be fishing boats over to Union Hall, but they don’t come up here, they go out to the open water. Some fancy yachts at Glandore, now, but why would they stop in here?”
“Billy, if you don’t know, I won’t even try to guess.” Maura grinned at Billy, then asked skeptically, “Can you see Althea doing it?”
“She’s very sure of what she’s after, though I can’t see her swinging that shovel. But it could be that she has a friend to help her—or an enemy who’s after the same thing she’s looking for.”
“I wondered about that. Well, let the gardaí figure it out. But tell me, who else around here could Althea ask about this painting of hers? If she still wants to find it, after what’s happened.”
“Him.” Billy tipped his head at a newcomer who had just entered.
Maura sized up the newcomer quickly: about six feet tall, past thirty but wearing it well, and . . . hot. Maybe a little too pretty for her taste, but undeniably good-looking. From the look on Rose’s face, Maura knew this had to be Harry Townsend. She stood up and walked over to the bar, conscious of the man’s frank appraisal of her. At least he wasn’t ogling teenage Rose, who was staring mutely at him from behind the counter.
The man smiled, showing very white teeth. “I heard Old Mick passed on. Would you be the new owner, then?”
Maura extended her hand. “I am. Maura Donovan.”
He shook it, holding it a fraction of a second too long. “American, by the accent. Yours must be an interesting story. I look forward to hearing it.”
“And you must be Harry Townsend.”
“Bang on. Called down by the Skibbereen gardaí to sort out this sad mess at Mycroft House. Poor Seamus—he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, flies maybe, if they got into the roses. But no person. I can’t quite wrap my mind around it, that he’s dead.”
“Have you talked to the gardaí already?” Maura asked.
“I was on my way there when I thought I might stop in for a quick pint. I’ve been on the road for hours now and I needed the break.”
Maura studied him but didn’t move.
Harry looked deeply into her eyes. “That pint?”
Maura shook herself. “Of course. What’ll you have?” The door swung open again and Althea bustled in, carrying a couple of bags. “You know what, the food there didn’t look half bad. I . . .” Then she noticed Harry, slouching gracefully against the bar as he waited for his pint—and he noticed her.
Maura’s mouth twitched. “Althea Melville, meet Harry, the heir of the Townsends.”
“Well, hello,” Althea purred. “What a pleasure.”
Maura passed Harry his pint and settled back to watch Althea go to work on him.
Chapter 6
F or once Maura regretted that the pub was beginning to fill up with both Friday regulars and a smattering of less-familiar faces who all clearly wanted to talk about the murder, because she was enjoying watching the soap opera unfolding in front of her. The presence of Harry Townsend in the midst of the crowd provided an added spark, and Maura guessed that he wouldn’t have to pay for many drinks. He looked to be great craic, as the locals would say. As Harry drained his pint, he turned to the group. “I’ve an appointment with a sergeant in Skibbereen, and I must call in on my poor auntie and make
“I’d wager that’s how the gardaí would see it,” Billy agreed.
“Would anyone have noticed someone sneaking around the property?”
“I’d be well surprised. The family wanted their privacy, and they made sure the house was set well back from the road, from the beginning. You’ve never seen it from the road, have you?” When Maura shook her head, he added, “The only other way in is from the harbor.”
“By boat? I hadn’t thought of that. Are there lots of boaters around in the summer?”
“Not for the fun of it. Most who stop here are serious about their fishing, and powerboats upset the fish. There’d be fishing boats over to Union Hall, but they don’t come up here, they go out to the open water. Some fancy yachts at Glandore, now, but why would they stop in here?”
“Billy, if you don’t know, I won’t even try to guess.” Maura grinned at Billy, then asked skeptically, “Can you see Althea doing it?”
“She’s very sure of what she’s after, though I can’t see her swinging that shovel. But it could be that she has a friend to help her—or an enemy who’s after the same thing she’s looking for.”
“I wondered about that. Well, let the gardaí figure it out. But tell me, who else around here could Althea ask about this painting of hers? If she still wants to find it, after what’s happened.”
“Him.” Billy tipped his head at a newcomer who had just entered.
Maura sized up the newcomer quickly: about six feet tall, past thirty but wearing it well, and . . . hot. Maybe a little too pretty for her taste, but undeniably good-looking. From the look on Rose’s face, Maura knew this had to be Harry Townsend. She stood up and walked over to the bar, conscious of the man’s frank appraisal of her. At least he wasn’t ogling teenage Rose, who was staring mutely at him from behind the counter.
The man smiled, showing very white teeth. “I heard Old Mick passed on. Would you be the new owner, then?”
Maura extended her hand. “I am. Maura Donovan.”
He shook it, holding it a fraction of a second too long. “American, by the accent. Yours must be an interesting story. I look forward to hearing it.”
“And you must be Harry Townsend.”
“Bang on. Called down by the Skibbereen gardaí to sort out this sad mess at Mycroft House. Poor Seamus—he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, flies maybe, if they got into the roses. But no person. I can’t quite wrap my mind around it, that he’s dead.”
“Have you talked to the gardaí already?” Maura asked.
“I was on my way there when I thought I might stop in for a quick pint. I’ve been on the road for hours now and I needed the break.”
Maura studied him but didn’t move.
Harry looked deeply into her eyes. “That pint?”
Maura shook herself. “Of course. What’ll you have?” The door swung open again and Althea bustled in, carrying a couple of bags. “You know what, the food there didn’t look half bad. I . . .” Then she noticed Harry, slouching gracefully against the bar as he waited for his pint—and he noticed her.
Maura’s mouth twitched. “Althea Melville, meet Harry, the heir of the Townsends.”
“Well, hello,” Althea purred. “What a pleasure.”
Maura passed Harry his pint and settled back to watch Althea go to work on him.
Chapter 6
F or once Maura regretted that the pub was beginning to fill up with both Friday regulars and a smattering of less-familiar faces who all clearly wanted to talk about the murder, because she was enjoying watching the soap opera unfolding in front of her. The presence of Harry Townsend in the midst of the crowd provided an added spark, and Maura guessed that he wouldn’t have to pay for many drinks. He looked to be great craic, as the locals would say. As Harry drained his pint, he turned to the group. “I’ve an appointment with a sergeant in Skibbereen, and I must call in on my poor auntie and make
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