To say I fretted over that photo and the possibility I’d underestimated and perhaps missed a motive on Caroline’s part? Without the means to find out the truth at my disposal, I might as well have set my anxiety level on pending apocalypse and left it to explode.
But what possible motive could have driven Caroline to kill Jameson Kale? How did I even connect her to him prior to the event, because in order to stockpile that clearly deadly venom surely she would have had to have time and planning?
Unless she’d stolen some as a gag when she volunteered at the zoo in Dallas? I could only imagine she would have been discovered or had the venom seized on her flight home? I couldn’t help returning to the O’Sheas and the fact that, as a Reading resident, the most logical piece of the jigsaw I hadn’t slipped into place was the fact maybe, somehow, Caroline had fallen in with that most criminal of families. She grew up here, didn’t she? Was raised during the days of Patterson control over Reading. I poked into her parents, but mom Judy was a housewife and dad Stephen a tradesman. Well, he could have been tied to The Orange, perhaps, to Malcolm Murray. Though, when I looked at the family photo featured on the home page of one of our local photographers, they seemed more a rather frumpy and unassuming trio. With no siblings to speak of, Caroline’s friends as ordinary as she was, the only thing that made her stand out was a) her internship at the Dallas Zoo three summers ago in her senior year and b) the fact she loved poker and couldn’t wait to get out of Reading to work in her career field of choice.
Neither of which screamed murderer to me.
Manslaughterer. Oh, fecking heck.
Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time an innocent young woman was sucked into a life of crime. Right, because sneaking into the local pool after hours and taking tongue-out pics with her friends as proof or drinking a stolen beer way too fast and getting caught on camera upchucking said beer into Cutter Lake was the express lane to criminal activity.
Sigh.
I needed to talk to her. There was no way around it. In order to eliminate her, I had to ask her about the snake.
I intended to text Kit and, instead, found my fingertip hovering over a number I hadn’t called in a while. Not because I hadn’t wanted to talk to him, but because my godfather, former O’Shea lieutenant Malcolm Murry, had left Reading to have his happily ever after with his true love, Siobhan Doyle, and interrupting them after they spent a lifetime waiting to be together felt cruel, intrusive.
And yet, here I was, thinking about hitting speed dial.
Hating myself for my weakness, telling the part of me that tsked over my choice I’d only take a second of his time, I dialed, held my breath, almost hung up. Except he answered after the first ring, that Irish accent cheery.
“Fee, my lass!” He was obviously happy to hear from me. For now.
“Malcolm.” I had to sound pathetic, I was sure of it. “How are you and Siobhan?” Way to pretend you care, Fiona Fleming.
He chuckled on the other end of the line. “My sweet, she’s resting happily in the lake house while I’m looking at the dry and dusty interior of my favorite haunt.”
Wait, what? “You’re in Reading?” What were they doing here? And more importantly, why was he at The Orange after closing it months ago?
“You and I have a talk ahead of us,” he said. “Are you home, my Fee, or at that silly office of yours?” His accent had grown thicker with his return to Ireland, though he sounded the happiest I’d ever heard him.
“Home,” I said. “At Crew’s.”
“I’ll be there in a wink.” Malcolm hung up on me before I could say a word and I sat in rigid silence for five long and agonizing minutes before he helped himself through my front door without even knocking.
I immediately hugged him, his small, lean frame still strong inside his navy-blue pea coat, silver beard and hair freshly trimmed, those bright, green eyes that missed nothing sparkling at me when he let me go.
And he wasn’t alone, the towering, suited and wool-coated bulk of Darius Smith (surname remaining suspect) nodding to me with a little smile that I knew meant the giant bodyguard was happy to see me breaking his stony expression. Considering he’d been my protector for a short time, I’d grown rather fond of him despite his lurking job, and I hugged him, too, to Darius’s surprise. I inhaled the scent of wool and fresh mint as he engulfed me in his huge embrace before gently letting me go like if he moved too fast, he’d hurt me by accident.
“The fact you’re both here is equally awesome and worrisome, you know that, right?” I took coats and hung them up while my godfather greeted the joyful Petunia (visitors meant snacks and snacks meant treats for her highness) and Darius did his best to loom in a corner and stay out of the way like a statue who’d been misplaced at some point and was forgotten. I dragged the big man into the living room and sat him down in Crew’s favorite recliner before sitting next to Malcolm on the sofa. “Beer?”
He waved off the offer, Darius inclining his head in thanks but no thanks, while the lean Irishman sat back with his ankle on his opposite knee and beamed at me.
“Nice to hear my presence is equally appreciated as it is dreaded, even now.” He laughed out loud, Darius’s tentative smile rather adorable. I’d held the man’s head while he puked over the side of a boat, so we kind of had a friendship going on. I was happy he’d loosened up somewhat, at least with me, and realized I’d missed both of them since they’d left Reading.
And was still trepidatious. So yeah, Malcolm had his wish.
“I know why you called me, lass,” he said. “Miss Eve mentioned you’d be likely doing so since she’d seen you a time or two. Fee.” He leaned forward suddenly, face creasing in concern. “I’d heard of your illness. Your father assured Siobhan and I you were recovered, but are you well?”
Why did that make me choke up? “Thanks for asking,” I said, patting the hands that reached for me, that held mine a moment. “I’m okay, I promise. But I think I’m done with close calls.”
He grunted softly, touched my cheek with soft fingertips. “I only have one Fiona left,” he whispered, his own voice cracking with emotion unexpressed.
Yeah, not going there, to his own daughter I was named for and all that came to pass thanks to her.
Nope. Not.
Movement near the kitchen caught my attention, Petunia huffing a faint woof of surprise and, when I turned and realized Malcolm had brought one more guest, one who’d snuck in the back door of Crew’s little house and now smiled at me from the archway to the back hallway, I didn’t smile back.
Eve had to earn my good humor and she wasn’t even coming close at the moment.
“Fee,” Malcolm said, nodding to her like he wished I’d relent, “things are happening you don’t know about, lass. Things Miss Eve needs to handle without your interference.”
“It’s all right, Malcolm,” Even waved off his defense of her while I hated the sinking feeling in my gut that the deferential way he looked at her, spoke to her, meant he wasn’t home for the goodness of his health. Or Siobhan’s.
“You’re getting back in,” I said, my gut suddenly in knots, tone of voice dead and dull in my own ears.
Malcolm’s hands clutched mine tighter, smile as genuine and rather boyish as I’d ever seen it.
“My choice,” he said. “Whether I like it or not, Reading is home, has been for a very long time. I love Ireland, but this place.” He let out a gusty sigh before his expression darkened. “You know I don’t like leaving things undone.”
Did I ever.
“You have questions,” Eve said, not bothering to shed her coat, standing there in her Goth finery with her hands in her pockets, her expression not exactly kind but not antagonistic either. “About the case.” She stressed that last sentence because it was clear to me, she wasn’t here to fill me in on what was really going on in my town.
I nodded, let her have her silence on that matter. Might even forgive her a little if she helped me figure out who killed Jameson Kale. Her family, ideally.
But I could tell from the faint frown that tugged her black brows together she wasn’t going to hand me the O’Sheas on a plate. At least, not in this case.
“Caroline had nothing to do with the family,” she said. “And we had nothing to do with Jameson Kale’s death.” She hesitated then, though she’d confirmed with that “we” she was firmly back in the O’Shea loving and deadly embrace. “To my knowledge.”
Ah, a caveat. Awesome.
“Meaning someone from the family could be connected but you don’t know about it.” I didn’t mean to jab her with her own inadequacies, but don’t sneak into my house and pretend you can help me while stealing my godfather and think I’m going to let you get away with anything but the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the freaking, painful and personal truth.
“Are the O’Sheas the sponsors for the event?” Money was a motive.
She nodded. “Emile’s front money will be returned to him, but the entry fees go to the major sponsor. Which happens to be a front company owned by the family.”
She was being cooperative, so I relented a little. “Is Emile connected?”
Eve laughed at that. “No,” she said, relief rising though I hadn’t thought I worried. But come on, Fee. I hadn’t reached out to Emile since I was kicked out, had I? Because I was afraid of what he might have done and who he might be tied to, calling it annoyance at his choice of companions but knowing in my heart I’d worried I’d failed someone who’d duped me.
I owed him a giant apology, even if it was only in my head.
“But his friends, on the other hand.” I stiffened at that little tidbit, almost delighted, disappointed in myself at just how justified I felt hating the brother and sister Hawthorne duo that much more for their choice of business partners.
“Sloane and Scarlett,” I said, just to confirm.
Eve nodded, black makeup crinkling around her eyes as she laughed. “They amuse me as much as they clearly irritate you, Fee.”
Yeah, she was hilarious. “Why did you go back, Eve?” When I’d talked to her last, she was happy as Libby Kim, working for Grace Fiore, in the international fashion industry and free of her lifelong ties to her criminal family.
Eve didn’t answer right away, her humor falling away, but neither did she react with anger, just level and steady confidence.
“I’m tired of running,” she said at last. “And there are things I need to do, Fee. People who need to understand I’m not who they want me to be. The only way I can ensure my safety is to finally stand up to my family. Running got me the freedom I needed to sort myself out. But going back is the source of my true liberation.”
I think I understood, might have run away from a few things a time or two myself only to be forced to face them down and come out stronger for it on the other end.
I nodded regardless, the last of my resentment toward her for keeping secrets just like everyone else in my life dying off. If anyone had the right to play her cards close to her chest? It was Eve O’Shea.
As long as she stayed one of the good guys, that was.
“So, is this how things usually go if a tournament is canceled mid-play?” Sounded sketchy to me, all the player’s money being kept by the sponsor.
“Not at all.” That was Malcolm and his lovely Irish voice. “There was a clause snuck all secret-like into the contract no one noticed. I can guess maybe there was a plan to end the tournament before the final game and whatever plan they had in mind was superseded by Jameson’s death.”
“We’re sure his murder wasn’t the plan?” I held onto the fact that it might have been manslaughter and waited them out.
“As far as I can find out,” Eve said. “The fact Robert Carlisle was the one to deliver the news, however, tells me the family had a plan in place, definitely. Maybe even with Jameson’s continuing cooperation despite his claims to the contrary.”
Maybe Jameson was planning to sell them out, ultimately. Didn’t write the O’Sheas off in my book.
Then again, there were, it seemed, more likely suspects on my list, and clinging to the O’Sheas because, frankly, I couldn’t freaking stand them? Only meant I was being sloppy and might miss the real killer/attempted murderer/venom deliverer thanks to my stubbornness.
I wasn’t above admitting I had a hard-headed as a mule problem.
“I’m worried about you, lass,” Malcolm said then, glancing at Darius who instantly stood again, at attention, hands folded in front of him. “Robert Carlisle has a hate-on for you more powerful than anything I’ve witnessed, and I’ve seen a lot in my day.” Well, that was nice to know. Not shocking or anything, but not reassuring, either, if Malcolm was worried. “I want to leave Darius with you again, to watch over you. Until this is all over.”
Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. I waved the bodyguard off with a head shake. “I can take care of myself.” Sure, I could. Proved it over and over again while almost dying how many times? Hush, doubt. “And I have a feeling you’re going to need Darius more than I am.”
Neither Eve nor the sighing Irishman argued with me.
Way to reassure, you two.
***