“What?” she demanded.

Seamus was grinning again. “Are yeh gonna fill us in on who she was?”

He seemed to see this whole thing as one big game, and that annoyed Maura. Plus Ellen’s and Siobhan’s secrets were not hers to share. “No. I don’t have to tell you anything, much less everything. Ever heard about privacy, Seamus?”

“There’s some would call it keepin’ secrets.” His smile faded just a bit.

“Well, I’ve got a right to do that too. Just to be clear: I do not know why John Byrne died or who might have wanted him dead. I’ll tell you as soon as I do know and the gardaí say I can. Is that all right with you?”

“It’ll have to do, now, won’t it? No need to bite my head off.”

“Sorry, Seamus,” she called after his retreating back. Clearly this mess was getting to her. She’d collected a pot full of secrets, but she couldn’t say whether any of them pointed to why John Byrne was dead.

Rose returned bearing food for everyone. “Thought yeh’d be hungry too, Maura, unless you ate at that fancy place.”

“Thanks, Rose.” Maura looked up to see Sean Murphy hovering outside. He gestured for her to join him outside. She waved to Seamus to catch his attention, and when he turned toward her, she said, “Seamus, I’ll be talking to Garda Murphy for a few minutes if you want to press your ear to the glass and see if you can overhear anything.”

Seamus grinned at her. “Ah, go on with yeh. Just report the good parts when yeh come back.”

Maura grabbed up a sandwich and went out to greet Sean. “Sorry—have you eaten? I just got back from the hotel and Rose brought lunch.”

“No worries,” he said. “Go on and eat yer lunch. I wanted to let yeh know yer ma heard back from Harvard, and we talked with a few of our cop friends in New York, and it looks like we had most of it right, thanks to you. Harvard University reported that the young John Byrne was awarded the”—Sean pulled a small pad from his pocked and checked a note—“‘Hiberno-American Scholarship for Special Scholars.’ Created the year before John started at the college, and he was the first one to get it, though they’re still handin’ out money fer it. The college’ll be checkin’ the list of original contributors.”

“Figures,” Maura said. “I bet if anyone higher up in the gardaí looked into it, they’d find some of the donors were ‘connected,’ if you get my meaning.”

“I’ve no doubt. But who’s to say the scholarship was illegal? Surely John did nothing wrong.”

“I know. And good for him—he might have had some help getting in with this shiny new scholarship most likely funded by his dad and his dad’s buddies, but he seems to have proved himself.”

“So it seems. And there’s no police record for John in the States—not in Cambridge or New York or Chicago—save a parking ticket or two, which he paid. Have yeh anythin’ new?”

Maura thought about what Siobhan and Ellen had told her, and her promise to keep that information to herself. “Sean, I’m not part of the gardaí, right?” When he shook his head, she went on: “Say somebody tells me something, and I promise not to share it with your lot unless I think it’s really important. Is that illegal?”

Sean didn’t answer immediately, instead studying Maura’s face. Finally he said, “Are yeh tellin’ me that you know something, but you’ve decided it’s not important to this investigation?”

“Sort of,” Maura admitted.

Sean didn’t look happy. “If it was anybody but you, I’d be angry. But I’ve come to trust yer judgment. If it turns out yeh guessed wrong, yeh’ll bring yer information to us, will yeh not?”

“Of course I will. By the way, Seamus in there is all over me to give him some hints or information or names. Can I throw him John’s early story and the Harvard stuff?”

“No worries—it’s all public information, if yeh know where to look. Maura, are yeh sure yeh’ve got nothin’ to move this forward?”

“Mostly sure. Have you talked to the people near Dunmanway?”

“We’ve chatted with the gardaí there. Still, as best we know John Byrne had no contact with that lot on this recent trip. Hard to say if any of ’em knew he was around. Have yeh heard anythin’ different?”

“No.” Maura felt a stab of despair. “Sean, how long before you simply stamp this case as closed and walk away?”

“Maura, a suspicious death in Ireland is never closed—yeh’ve seen that yerself not long ago. Call it what yeh will, people still talk about it for a long time. The gardaí won’t let it go. We’re nowhere near done with this death.”

“I guess that’s good. It means you can always hope for justice. I’ll let you know if I hear anything useful.” Maura refused to put Siobhan O’Mahoney’s and Ellen Buckley’s secrets in that category just yet.

“Thanks, Maura. I’ll be on my way then. Take care.”

“I will. Thanks, Sean. And good work with getting the info out of Harvard!” she called out as he walked away.

When Maura walked back into Sullivan’s, still clutching her uneaten sandwich, she said quickly, “Sorry, folks, nothing new to report. Well, maybe a little. You knew that John went to New York to join his father there. Looks like Dad and his friends set up a scholarship for John to go to Harvard, but anything after that he accomplished on his own. Seamus, how are the odds on your betting pool?”

“Why, do yeh want a piece of it?”

“I could put in a bet just to throw you guys off, you know.”

“Ah, Maura, yeh’re breakin’ me heart. Yeh wouldn’t do that to us, would yeh? We’re only after havin’ a bit of fun.”

One of Seamus’s friends called out, “The butler did it.” The others laughed, and Maura rolled her eyes.

“Guys, there is no butler in this,” Maura told him. “But you’ve still got a lot of people at Crann Mor to consider. Maybe John was a lousy tipper. Maybe the whole staff got together and threw him down the hill because he was a cheapskate. Or say John was a bird watcher and thought he heard some rare Irish night bird in the woods and lost his footing when he was chasing it down. Chew on those ideas for a while.”

The pub was not too busy for the rest of the day. Any unfamiliar faces might have been due to curiosity about John Byrne’s death—maybe they figured they could pry more information out of people at a small pub not too far away from the scene. By mid-afternoon, Maura was flagging—she wasn’t used to all this running around and trying to think of how to ask questions without making people angry. She made herself a cup of coffee and retreated to the back room and leaned against the bar. She couldn’t say she was surprised when Mick followed her in, then leaned next to her.

“Are yeh all right?”

In what way? she was tempted to reply. “Sure, I’m fine, except that it seems like it wears me out to try to talk and think at the same time. And then there’s trying to figure out who I can tell what without messing things up.”

“The gardaí are no further along?”

“Sean’s found a bit about Byrne’s time in the US, but it doesn’t seem to move things forward. Seems like John caught a lucky break in New York, took off running, and never looked back. Now he’s dead. As far as anybody knows, he hadn’t been back here in over twenty years. Most of what we know comes from Bridget and Billy. Funny how long people around here remember things or people. Do you think that will last? That we’ll know who was who, who was related, and what they ate for dinner in a couple of decades?” She waved her hand in front of her face. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just tired.”

“It’s been only four days since the man died. Yeh can’t say there’s no progress.”

“I guess not. But don’t try to cheer me up.” She paused. “I’m sorry—I guess this thing with my mother is still nagging at me, mainly because it’s so unfinished. Maybe I’m using this blasted death as an excuse to avoid talking with her, at least about anything that doesn’t involve the death. Does that make me a bad person?”

“No, it makes yeh human.”

“You mean, if I want to I can just tell her to go back to wherever she came from so I can go back to business as usual?”

“Yeh can. Up to you.”

After a long pause, Maura said in a small voice, “No, I can’t. It’s not that easy. She’s my mother.”

“I know,” he said, looking at his feet. “Maura, I tried to walk away from me own life. Look where it’s got me.”

Maura couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “God, we’re both messes. Maybe we deserve each other.”

Mick smiled. “Could be yeh’re right.” He reached out and pulled her closer, mindful of the open door to the main room. “If I can help, you’ve only to ask.”

Maura laid her head against his shoulder briefly. “I know.”