Free Rock Point (Sharpe & Donovan) by Carla Neggers Page A

hotel with an excellent whiskey selection. “Ardmore is quite beautiful.”
    “Sea cliffs, a sand beach, fascinating ruins. It’s a wonderful place even if you don’t give a fig about an early-medieval Irish saint.”
    “But you chose to stay here in Declan’s Cross,” Sean said.
    “Another intriguing place.” Father Callaghan glanced around the bar lounge, its half-dozen tables and upholstered chairs and sofas empty as yet on the quiet evening. “I wanted to indulge myself and spend a couple nights here. I’m in the smallest guest room, but the O’Byrne is still the most luxurious accommodation on my itinerary. It’s been perfect. It only opened as a hotel last fall. It used to be a private home. Quite a history. I assume you know it?”
    Sean buried his face in his Guinness, leaving Finian to answer. “We do, of course, sure. It was the country home of the current owner’s uncle, John O’Byrne, who died a few years ago.”
    “A thief broke in here ten years ago, before it was a hotel, obviously, and made off with a fortune in art,” Father Callaghan said. “The case has never been solved. A tiny, picturesque Irish village, a crumbling Irish mansion on the sea, an old widower with a taste for art—it’d make a great Hollywood movie.”
    He eyed Finian and Sean as if to see how they’d react. Sean set down his pint and made no comment. He was a strong, fit man, dark-haired and blue-eyed, dedicated to his work as a member of an elite detective unit in Dublin but still a child of Declan’s Cross. Finian was more angular, his dark hair straighter, his eyes a darker blue, his roots in southwest Ireland—he wasn’t as intimate with the details of the theft at the O’Byrne house as Sean would be.
    With an almost imperceptible shrug, Father Callaghan continued. “The thief made off with three Irish landscape paintings and an old Celtic cross. Sneaked in through that door there.” He pointed to French doors that led out to the terrace and gardens. “I gather it happened on one of your dark and stormy Irish nights.”
    Finian smiled, liking the American. Sean remained quiet, whether because he was from Declan’s Cross or because he was a detective, Finian didn’t know. He said, “November, in fact.”
    Finian’s answer seemed to satisfy Father Callaghan. The American priest’s two nights at the O’Byrne House Hotel, he further explained, were an indulgence he’d saved for the end of his trip. The hotel had opened to rave reviews, its restaurant, spa, rooms, gardens and service all meeting the test of even the most exacting and discerning guests. Finian had to admit he still had an affinity for fine hotels. He couldn’t call it a weakness when he thought about the many good people he knew who worked so hard and invested so much to provide their guests with a pleasant respite.
    Kitty O’Byrne Doyle, John O’Byrne’s niece and the proprietor of the O’Byrne House Hotel, had made herself scarce when Finian had arrived with Sean. No surprise there, although Finian had more suspicions than facts about the history between handsome Garda Detective Murphy and blue-eyed, black-haired, no-nonsense Kitty.
    “How do you like being a priest so far?” Father Callaghan asked.
    Finian welcomed the change in subject. “Is it something I’m to like or dislike?”
    “Ah. You really are new. If you can remember this one thing in parish work, it’ll save you a lot of trouble.” The American eyed his empty glass on the polished wood bar. “Sometimes you’re the first one to know something. Sometimes you’re the last one to know. Sometimes you’re the only one to know. Do your best to recognize which it is, and then forgive yourself when you get it wrong—because even if most times you get it right, there will be times when you will get it wrong.”
    It seemed like sound advice to Finian.
    Kitty swept into the lounge and went behind the bar. She wore a simple black dress that made her look at once