Maura woke up early on Saturday morning. She didn’t need to get to the pub until ten or so, so she wandered out her front door and took a deep breath. Spring was definitely happening, apparently scented with manure. It was, after all, a dairy region, so there were cows. Cows had never figured in Maura’s day-to-day experience until she had landed in Cork, and she was still kind of wary of them. They were big and, to her mind, unpredictable, even if they had rather small brains. And they all produced large amounts of manure—Maura had learned quickly not to wander through a pretty meadow without watching where she put her feet.

She strolled down to the end of the lane that led to her cottage and looked in all directions at the crossroads. She could see a lone car passing along the bog road at the bottom of the hill, and there were a few clusters of cows grazing here and there. Small flowers bloomed in the hedges, and scattered clumps of daffodils made cheerful splashes of color as they bobbed in the wind.

Maura spied Bridget in her small front yard, poking yet again at her large pots with what must be a trowel, and decided to head down the hill to say hello. When she neared, she called out, “Are you trying to grow something?”

“And good mornin’ to yeh, Maura. Yes, every year I have high hopes fer just a bit of color outside my front door, and every year the weeds do me in. But I keep hopin’. Are yeh a gardener at all?”

“Me? No way. I could never even keep an African violet alive on a windowsill.”

“Would yeh be wantin’ to start now? It’s Ireland—nature will take care of the waterin’ for yeh.”

“What should I be planting? Not potatoes, I hope.”

“Plant somethin’ that gives yeh pleasure to watch as it grows. If yeh can, stop by the farmers’ market—they have plants there, and they’ll be happy to tell yeh what to do with them.”

“I don’t get over to Skib much on a Saturday—I’m always working.” Although plenty of people had told her great things about the once-a-week market. Maybe she should check it out.

“Sure and yeh can take a break for lunch, can’t you? And it’s a grand place to talk with people and see what’s what. Mick can tell yeh. He takes me over when I feel up to it, nearer to summer.” Bridget gave one last exasperated poke at the dirt in a pot, then said, “Sit down fer a bit, unless yer running off already?”

“Happy to. Has Mick told you about the Crann Mor people who came to call?”

Bridget perked up noticeably. “That he has not! That’s the big hotel now, isn’t it? It was an O’Donovan estate, years past, but that line is gone now. What are they wantin’ with yeh?”

Maura explained quickly what the group had proposed, or at least suggested, and finished up with her own hesitations. Bridget took her time in answering. “Yeh sound like yeh don’t want to do it,” she said.

One more person who seemed to be reading her mind. “I know. The problem is, I don’t know what I feel. Part of me says no, but I wonder if that’s for the right reasons. Another part of me says it’s the smart thing to do, but what do I know? Those people are important and rich and they know what they’re doing. It doesn’t matter to them if they drive my pub into the ground or change it to match what their idea of what a cute Irish pub should be. But I don’t want to blow the chance if it could do some good.”

“And what’s my grandson got to say about it?”

“Well, he hasn’t exactly talked to them—mostly he listened when they came by the pub. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s kind of leaning toward saying yes. Bridget, can I ask you something? I mean, something personal about Mick? You can tell me to mind my own business if you want, but you’ve kind of hinted about . . . Well, is there something I need to know?”

Bridget cocked her head at Maura, curious. “If yeh’ve a question, ask away.”

“Why does Mick stick around, working in a small place that’s seen better days? It’s not like there are a lot of prospects in Leap or even Skibbereen. Couldn’t he do better for himself in a bigger place like Cork?”

“Ah, Maura, there are times I’ve wondered if it’s me that’s holdin’ him back. He looks after me. His sister’s too busy with her own children and her job, so it falls to Mick. But there’s more to it than that . . .” Bridget’s voice trailed off.

Maura didn’t want to interrupt her. Bridget kept dropping hints about something in Mick’s life that he hadn’t shared with her. How big was this something that might or might not be keeping him stuck at Sullivan’s? Did she have a right to know? She wanted to keep the pub staffed up, especially as summer was approaching. But Mick clearly could be doing other things. Should she ask him?

Finally Bridget said, “Maura, leave it be fer now. It’s his story to tell. If these hotel people make yeh an offer, things might change. But I wouldn’t go lookin’ to hurry things up.”

In spite of herself, Maura smiled. “That’s pretty much what Billy said. I’ve been a city girl all my life, and I’m used to things moving faster. But that’s not the ways things are here, is it?”

“In this corner of the world, things most often work themselves out. Listen to what these hotel people have to say, will yeh? I don’t hold with changin’ things just for the sake of change, but yeh need to think of what’s best fer yer business.”

“Don’t worry, Bridget—I will. I guess I should feel good that they might want me—I must be doing something right with the pub.” Maura stood up. “I’m going to the village. I’ll say hi to Mick for you, okay?”

“You do that, but tell him I don’t need anythin’ right now. He’ll come by to see me to church in the mornin’, I expect.”

“I’ll let him know. You know, you should come by and hear the music at the pub sometime. Maybe we could do a session after church on a Sunday afternoon and bring in a different crowd, and you could come to that. If it doesn’t get in the way of everyone’s Sunday dinner.”

“It’s worth thinkin’ about, I’d guess. Ta, then, Maura.”

Maura went back up the hill to retrieve her car, still wondering what Mick was hiding. Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was happy passing his days in Sullivan’s and visiting his grandmother. There were worse ways to live. She still had to learn to stop applying Boston standards to rural Ireland. The sun was shining; the flowers were blooming. Chill out, Maura!

She was first to arrive at the pub and left the front door open wide to get some fresh air into the place. She went to the back room to open a door there as well, hoping the air would flow through. When she returned to the front, she was surprised to see Garda Sean Murphy standing hesitantly on the threshold.

“Good morning, Sean!” Maura said. “Can I get you a coffee?”

Sean took a hesitant step into the room but didn’t smile. “Sorry, Maura, but this is official business, yeh might say. There’s been a death at Crann Mor. Do yeh know the place?”

A death? It couldn’t be something as simple as a heart attack, not when Sean looked so serious. But what could it have to do with her? “I saw it for the first time yesterday—I was invited to lunch there. What happened?”

Sean nodded as if to confirm to himself that what she had told him matched what he knew. “Did you meet John Byrne?”

“Not yesterday. My lunch was with one of his coworkers, Helen Jenkins. But I did meet John on Thursday. He and his whole crew came here to Sullivan’s to look it over. What’s this about?”

“John Byrne was found dead on the grounds early this morning by one of the groundskeepers.”

So now most likely I won’t have to make the decision that’s been worrying me, Maura thought and immediately felt ashamed. “Why are you telling me, Sean?”

“Of course we’re talkin’ to the folk that were travelin’ with him as well as the staff at the hotel. But Mrs. Jenkins asked to speak with you before she told us her story, and I’ve come to take you over to the station if yer willin’.”

That was odd. Did Helen need an alibi? Maura could account for her activities only between noon and two. “I don’t know why she’d need to talk to me—I left there about two yesterday after lunch. When did John die?”

“Late yesterday, it seems. After he’d had his supper.”

So she had nothing that would help Helen. “If you think it will help, I’ll be happy to come with you. Just let me leave a note so people will know where I am.”

“That’s fine, Maura.” Sean looked oddly relieved that she hadn’t argued.

What had he expected? Maura wondered. And why would Helen want to talk with her first? Maura went around to the back of the bar and scrounged up a pad and a pencil, and she wrote a brief note. She was sure Mick and Jimmy could cover, and she couldn’t possibly need to stay long at the Skibbereen station, could she? John’s death had nothing to do with her.

“Ready,” she announced, weighting the note down on the bar with an empty glass so it wouldn’t get lost. Sean led the way out the front, and Maura locked the door behind her—she decided not to worry about the back door; Mick would be in soon enough. Once in the car, an awkward silence fell. Maura wasn’t sure what questions she could ask about John or what Sean could tell her. The weather was the only safe topic she could think of, and that seemed like a stupid thing to discuss on the way to a police station to talk about a death.

“How’s your new sergeant settling in?” she finally ventured.

“He’s not a local man,” Sean said, tight-lipped, as if that explained anything. Which, Maura realized, it did—so much of the local police work she’d seen had been based on knowing who was who and how they were related.

The drive took no more than ten minutes, and Sean lapsed into silence for the rest of the trip, which was unlike him. If she hadn’t known she was innocent of anything remotely like wrongdoing, Maura might have been nervous. Still, she counted Sean as a friend, and his silence unsettled her. Of course the gardaí took any death seriously, and from Sean’s attitude, she was willing to bet that it was possible that this death was not natural. But where the heck did she fit? She’d met the dead man exactly once.

Sean parked alongside the station building. Maura climbed out of the car, but Sean moved quickly to accompany her as she started for the door. She knew the way all too well, and she was surprised that he thought he needed to escort her. But this was his party, so she followed his lead. Sean nodded to the young garda behind the desk in the tiny vestibule, and Maura smiled at him, recognizing him from past visits, but Sean just kept going toward the conference room on the other side of the building. He opened the door for her, and she found herself facing Detective Inspector Patrick Hurley, or officially detective superintendent, head of the gardaí in Skibbereen. There was no one else in the room.

“Thank you, Sean,” the detective said, dismissing him. Sean left, shutting the door quietly behind him. Detective Hurley waited until he was gone before speaking. “Maura, you must be wondering what’s going on, and I can’t blame you for it. Let me explain.”

“Okay,” Maura said cautiously. “Sean said John Byrne was found dead at Crann Mor?”

“Yes. We’ve only begun looking into the circumstances, but there are elements that don’t make a lot of sense to us. I understand you met with him the day before yesterday?”

“Yes. He came to the pub with his team, I guess to check it out. He was thinking about some sort of business arrangement with Sullivan’s, although we never got to details.”

“And you visited the hotel yesterday?”

“Yes. I was invited by Helen Jenkins, who worked with him. I’d never seen the place before. We had lunch, she showed me around a little, and I went back to the pub. When did he die?”

“We haven’t narrowed it down yet, but well past the time you were there. Don’t worry—we don’t suspect you of anything.”

Even though she’d expected that, it was still good to hear him say it. “So why am I here?”

“Whenever there is an unexplained death—in this case, when a body is found—the gardaí must contact the regional coroner. This does not mean there is a crime involved, only that the cause of death is unknown. It is the gardaí’s responsibility to gather any relevant information to pass on to the coroner. Naturally, we started our investigation by speaking to the man’s colleagues at the hotel. Helen Jenkins is apparently one of his senior associates and is closely involved in the Crann Mor project.”

“And?”

“Once she learned of his death, she asked to speak to you before she answered any of our questions.”

That made no sense to Maura. “Sean told me that. Why does she want to talk to me?”

“She declined to say, but she was very clear about it. So I sent Sean over to collect you, and we met with the other members of Byrne’s group in the interim.”

That was only the two assistants, Maura recalled. “Is Helen a suspect?”

“The man’s body was found only a couple of hours ago, at first light, and we can’t be sure as to the cause of death yet, much less who might have wanted to do him harm. That is not the responsibility of the gardaí, although we may form our own opinions. Do you have any objection to meeting with Mrs. Jenkins?”

“No, of course not. Will you be there?”

“She asked to speak privately with you first but promised to tell us what she knows after that.”

Maura shook her head, hoping to clear it. “Look, Detective, I have no idea what any of this is about, but I’ll be happy to talk to her if it helps.”

“Excellent. I’ll bring her in. And if she happens to be suspicious, you can tell her that we’re not recording anything you may say to each other. Currently we are only collecting information, and we’ll respect your privacy.”

“Good to know,” Maura said, feeling like she’d wandered through the looking glass. “Are we doing this now?”

“If you don’t mind. I’ll bring her to you.”