Out of habit, Maura looked up when the door to the bistro opened and was surprised to see Sean Murphy. He scanned the room, lighted on their table, and came over quickly. “Mick said yeh’d be here. Can I have a word?”

“Hi, Sean. You’ve met Helen Jenkins, I know, but I don’t think you know that she’s my mother.”

Sean’s expression of shock was impossible to hide. “I thought yer mother . . . Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Jenkins, but Maura never said . . .”

Helen laughed. “She didn’t know. And I didn’t tell her until we met at that station of yours. Please, sit down—we’re not in any hurry. Is this about the . . . death?”

“It is,” Sean said, pulling out a seat for himself. “I’m glad to find yeh together, for it’s the two of you I want to talk to. Mrs. Jenkins?” he began.

“Make it Helen, please,” she protested.

Sean came straight to the point. “Helen, then. How long did you work with John?”

“About five years.”

“And did you have a friendly relationship?”

Helen suddenly looked wary. “What do you mean?”

Sean looked perplexed, then realized what his question might have sounded like. He blushed. “I mean to say, did you talk about yer personal lives? Have dinner with his family? Send holiday cards?”

Helen relaxed a bit. “No, not really. It was a working relationship, no more.”

The lone waitress arrived with Helen’s and Maura’s food, and Sean asked for a coffee. When she withdrew, Sean said carefully, “Did he ever speak of his early years?”

“Not that I remember.” Helen paused for a moment to think. “Looking back, it was as though his life started at Harvard—that’s where he went to college, and a Harvard degree means something in the business world. He never talked about his childhood or his parents. But most of us didn’t—our interactions were always professional. We respected each other’s privacy as coworkers. Why are you asking this now?”

Sean leaned forward. “We’ve found little in his current life that might have led to his death. His employees, like yerself, haven’t shed any light either. We’ve learned a bit about your company with the help of John’s assistant, Andrew, but we’ve had no satisfaction there. So that got me to wonderin’ if we might do well to look back a bit further.”

“Why?” Helen asked.

“We’re looking at all the possibilities, Mrs., uh, Helen. Seems yer boss didn’t speak of his past to anyone, including yerself, as you’ve just said. Was he hidin’ something?”

“I can’t imagine what. I suppose he might have had a juvenile record, but that would have been expunged when he became an adult. That could explain why he never mentioned his past. Within our financial community, he was a very public figure. In fact, I’d say he thrived on the attention. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

Maura had stayed silent as Sean directed his questions to her mother, but finally she spoke up. “Sean, I’m guessing you’ve got an idea of some kind. Does this come from the inspector, or are you acting on your own?”

Sean blushed again. “The times we’ve worked together, you and me, Maura, have got me lookin’ at things in a different way. Most of the crimes we see here are simple and easy to solve. But sometimes you have to look deeper—‘outside the box,’ isn’t that what you say in the States?”

“Yeah, okay. What are you thinking?” Maura prompted.

“That the man had somethin’ to hide, somethin’ he didn’t want people around him to know about. We’ve dug through his present and come up dry. I’d like to see what we can find in his past. These days yeh can look up anything on the Internet, including the man’s hat size and whether he has an ingrown toenail. But back when Byrne was a boy? Not so much, especially when we aren’t sure of the dates and places we do have. We’re doin’ our job lookin’ at the past few years, but before that won’t be so easy.”

“Where are you looking?” Helen asked suddenly. “You in the guards here can’t exactly hop on a plane and do some research in . . . wherever he came from. Where did he come from, do you know?”

“His passport says he was born in New York—that’d be the state—USA.”

“Hmm,” Helen said. “I never knew that. I don’t think he ever mentioned it. But that doesn’t help you much, does it? I mean, if he was born in Manhattan, that’s a pretty large place.”

“It is that. We’ve only just begun our search, and it may not give us any answers, but I wanted to take a look at it.”

“What about Harvard?” Helen asked. “That’s the one thing he did talk about. Have you gotten in touch with them?”

Sean was staring at Helen. “Do yeh know, I never thought of that. How would I do it? Just ring them up and ask about one of their students from twenty-some years ago?”

Helen smiled. “Well, I doubt they’d share much with you. But listen—maybe I can help. I’ll have to put together some sort of obituary for John, and I’m pretty sure they’d talk to me. Unless you’d rather handle it yourself?”

Sean looked momentarily confused. “I’ve no right or authority to contact an American university and ask for information about a one-time student who might or might not have been killed.”

“So let Helen—she has a good reason. John must show up on some kind of college record that’s available to the public, and Helen can find it faster than you could.”

Sean looked back and forth between Helen and Maura and seemed to come to a decision. “Yeh’re right. Helen, I would be grateful if you could ask your questions of Harvard and pass on whatever you find to me.”

“I’ll call in the morning, then. I’m glad I can help.”

Sean looked at his watch. “Sorry, ladies, but I promised me ma I’d be home for supper, and I’m already late. If you remember anything else, ring us at the station, will yeh? And I’ll let you know if we learn anything new.”

“Of course,” Helen said, “and I’ll call and ask for you if I learn anything. Do you have any idea when we might be able to go home?”

“That I can’t say, but I’m hopin’ it won’t be more than a few days. Ta.” He strode out to the now-dark street.

When he was gone, Helen commented, “My, they’re making policemen awfully young these days.”

“He’s my age, more or less,” Maura said. “He’s been through the academy or whatever they call it here, and he’s been working a couple of years already.”

Helen sighed. “He still seems awfully young to me. Innocent, if that’s possible. Or maybe I’m thinking that you seem older than he is, whatever his age.”

“I’ve led a different life. And maybe you’ve noticed that there is a kind of innocence here in Ireland, even among the police.”

“Interesting. No romantic sparks there?”

“I’m not looking for anything romantic. Not right now.” And she was pretty sure if it ever happened, it wouldn’t be with Sean, although she liked him as a friend. Mick, on the other hand . . . “Thanks for offering to help him with Harvard. I don’t think it ever would have occurred to him, not that it’s his fault. Look, I should be getting back to the pub.”

Helen drained her coffee, then waved for the check. “You know, you really are a workaholic.”

“Because I work hard to make my business successful? Isn’t that what you do?”

“I suppose. I admire your energy, and I can only imagine what the place was like when you first arrived. But you have to leave a little room for other things. And people.”

“I guess. I’m not sure what else I’d do if I wasn’t working at the pub. It’s mostly farming around here. Cattle, some sheep.”

Helen laughed. “I’ll admit I can’t see you herding cattle, much less milking them. But surely there’s something you care about?”

“I’m still looking. I’ve had a lot to sort out since I got here.” Including what happened with you and my father. “I wasn’t even sure I wanted to stay.”

“Do you think you will?”

“Maybe. There’s nothing for me back in Boston. Here I’m my own boss, and I think I like it.”

Helen smiled. “Now that I can understand.”

Helen begged off returning to the pub, saying she was tired, and Maura crossed the street and went back to Sullivan’s. Sunday nights were always quiet at Sullivan’s unless there was a big sports event or something like it. They didn’t close until eleven, so she could put in a couple of hours tending bar before heading home.

There were few people in the pub, mostly a tight cluster around one of the corner tables, and when she came around to the back of the bar, one of her steadiest patrons, Seamus Burke, came over quickly, asked for another pint, then leaned an elbow on the bar while he waited. “So, what do yer gardaí pals have to say about the dead man at Crann Mor?”

Well, Sean had come looking for her at Sullivan’s, so Seamus had made the logical assumption that the gardaí were talking to her. How long had he been hanging out waiting for her? “What’re people saying?” Maura asked cautiously.

“That his death was no accident,” Seamus said quickly. “That his head was bashed in with—depending on who’s tellin’ the story—a rock, a tree limb, a shillelagh, or a hurling stick. There’s some that say he was strangled and hittin’ his head was just a bonus. Of course, there’s always poison, which works with any of those. Maybe he was poisoned just so somebody could hit him in the head. I think we’ve put the heart attack idea to bed. Am I gettin’ warm?”

Maura had to laugh. “So it’s safe to say that everyone believes he was murdered?”

“Oh, we passed that point a while back. We know how the gardaí work, but they agree, am I right?”

“Officially? They won’t say until the postmortem’s done, but they’re investigating as if it was a murder. Better safe than sorry, I guess. So, have you and your mates lined up assorted candidates for the killer, including somebody who plays sports with one or another stick? Man or woman? What’s the betting?” Maura topped off his pint.

“Could go either way, could it not? A strong woman coulda done the deed with the rock or the branch. A man would more likely choose the shillelagh or the hurling stick.”

Maura had to wonder how many people went wandering around in the dark outside of Skibbereen carrying a shillelagh or a hurling stick. She’d never seen either one, as far as she could remember. “He wasn’t robbed, you know,” Maura said and wondered if Sean would approve of her sharing details. “He had a fat wallet and a nice watch on him.”

“And what would you be meanin’ by that? That the motive wasn’t robbery but somethin’ else?”

“I didn’t mean anything! I just thought you should include that fact in your little betting pool. Seamus, have your pals talked about motive?”

“We don’t know the man well enough to guess, and no one around these parts knew him. It’s easier to talk about the ‘how’ than the ‘why.’”

“I think the gardaí feel the same way. How many of you are in this betting pool?”

“Half a dozen, mebbe. Helps us pass the time. And it came in handy in that last case, wouldn’t yeh say?”

Maura sighed. “Well, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes just talking about things kind of jogs people’s memories. You all have any favorites so far?”

Seamus took a long pull from his fresh pint before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a small battered notebook, which he opened with a flourish. “There’s somewhere between six and ten possibles, dependin’ on how we count ’em, we think. Are yeh wantin’ to hear them?”

“Of course I am!” Maura told him firmly.