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  She rarely solved crimes. Usually she was the one confirming for the authorities that a crime had been committed.

  “Did the policem—”

  “The Guard.”

  “Pardon me, the Guard, did they give you a number I could call?”

  “The detective sergeant is coming around in a few minutes, so we’d best prepare for company. Do you know where the nice teapot is?”

  “I do. I don’t think it’s ever moved.”

  “And why would it?”

  Melissa took the pretty china teapot out of one of the high glass-fronted cabinets with her right hand. “If you thought I had dangerous skeletal remains in my luggage, why did you invite the Guard for tea?”

  “And how could I not? It would be highly suspicious if I didn’t. Highly. But don’t worry, I had an escape plan for you.”

  “You did?” Melissa put the pot on the table and grabbed a tray.

  She laughed as her grandmother outlined the escape plan. It was good to laugh. It was good to be home.

  * * * *

  “Dr. Heavey?” The detective sergeant wiped his feet before crossing the threshold into the house. He was a heavy-set man with a pronounced brow ridge and high cheekbones in an overall flat face. He had the fair coloring common in Ireland, but his eyes were brown. Melissa stared at him. Though he probably looked normal to anyone else, his face intrigued her.

  “You have a very vertical chin and no maxillary prognathism, but fair coloring.” Melissa examined each feature, mentally stripping away flesh to reveal bone. “You have a grandparent who is Asian.”

  “Uh, well, no. My grandmother was Indian.”

  “As I said, Asian. You have a few distinctly Mongoloid features.”

  There was a loud “AHEM” from the front room. Melissa jumped and remembered her manners.

  “I’m Dr. Melissa Heavey. How do you do, Sergeant?”

  “I’m well, thank you for having me.” He was looking at her oddly and speaking with deliberate care. “The name’s Detective Sergeant Oren.”

  “And please, call me Melissa.” She added her best, most normal, smile.

  Melissa led the sergeant into the formal front room. She’d only been in it a handful of times, as it was reserved for special guests. A detective sergeant come to talk about bones was certainly on that list. Melissa had changed from her jeans and Chinese jacket into black trousers and a green sweater. Her grandmother had changed too, into brown wool slacks, a cream sweater and her good gold jewelry.

  “Detective Sergeant Oren, this is my grandmother, Bridget Ferguson.”

  “It’s a pleasure, ma’am.”

  Her grandmother nodded as if she were the Queen welcoming someone to her palace. Melissa took a seat by her, and after a quick look around, the detective sergeant chose the chair across from them.

  “Tea, Detective Sergeant?”

  Her grandmother poured the tea, adding milk and sugar to specification and passing cups.

  Melissa bit down on her curiosity. Beside her, she could feel her grandmother vibrating with the need to know.

  She’d grown up hearing “you need to know this” or “you’ve no need to know that”. That need to know, which was clearly a family trait, had driven her academic interests, leading to a career where she addressed other people’s need to know—”I need to know if my brother/father/son is there, if he’s dead.”

  “You mentioned something to my grandmother about bones?” Melissa asked after they’d all taken a sip of tea.

  “Ah yes, you see, we have a bit of an unusual case, and we were hoping you might help us.”

  Melissa opened her mouth, but her grandmother beat her to it. “My granddaughter is here resting and recuperating after nearly being killed doing important humanitarian work.”

  Melissa wanted to both hug and shush the older woman.

  The detective sergeant looked startled. “Ah, well then.”

  “May I ask who recommended me?” Melissa said.

  “Adam O’Connell—he’s the state pathologist.”

  “Of course, I’ve met him several times. Did he need a consult?”

  “No, and there’s our problem. Based on the photos, he thinks the bodies are at least seventy years old, so even if he had the time or money, he might not handle the case.”

  “He looked at photos?” Photos were rarely enough to go on with bones that hadn’t been cleaned.

  “We found bones in a hotel out in the countryside. A place called Glenncailty.”

  “Valley of the Lost,” Bridget translated.

  “It’s more than my department can handle, and we’ve plenty of things that need investigation. I was hoping Dublin could help, but they too have more urgent matters.”

  “That’s understandable,” Melissa said when the detective sergeant paused.

  “What could be more important than laying someone to rest?” Bridget humphed. “It seems the Dublin Gardaí don’t have their priorities straight.”

  Before Detective Sergeant Oren could say anything, Melissa spoke up. “Very few governments have the kind of forensic manpower it takes to sort through human remains, and people are always surprised at how often a body too old or too decomposed for the pathologist to work with turns up.” She turned back to the detective. “But why isn’t the National Museum handling this? If the bones are old, they should go to the museum.”

  “The museum has been hurt by the budget. They said they might be able to send someone out in a few months.”

  If the museum planned to examine the bones, Melissa wasn’t sure why Oren was here. “I spent some time at the National Museum and I’m sure they’ll do a wonderful job.”

  The detective sergeant shifted, setting his cup down. “I didn’t realize you were on holidays. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  Bridget clicked her tongue. “You don’t want to wait for the museum people.” She set her cup down and rubbed her hands together. “There’s something special about these, isn’t there? Something that means it can’t wait.”

  He looked uncomfortable and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The owner of the place where they were found has asked that this be taken care of right away. He offered to pay for the investigation himself.”

  Melissa and Bridget exchanged a look. This owner must be politically connected in order to get the Gardaí and museum to agree to this. And he clearly wanted these bones dealt with ASAP.

  Melissa looked back at the detective sergeant. “If the bones are very old, you may need an archaeologist, not an anthropologist.”

  “No, the bones aren’t so old as that—one of them has on a green dress, and the furniture is like something you’d see now.”

  “The furniture?” Melissa sat back. “Where exactly were these bones found?”

  He looked down, cleared his throat and then said, “The bodies were in a room that had been bricked shut. It was a nursery—we think it’s a woman and two children.”

  In unison Melissa and her grandmother sucked in a breath.

  “When do you want her there?” Bridget said. “I’ll help her pack.”

  * * * *

  Melissa checked the directions she’d printed off the hotel’s website, then turned left off the main road. She was well out of Dublin in the Irish countryside. The road was lined with old trees and stone fences. Everything was green and soft after the hard, gray edges of London and Dublin. The road descended into a little valley, switchbacking its way down. She came around a corner and caught sight of the castle, which she recognized from the pictures on the website. The stones seemed as much a part of the landscape as the trees that lined the walls of the valley. Golden afternoon light gilded the windows.

  Behind and around the main structure she saw several smaller buildings. It had said on the website that Glenncailty Castle was actually an old fortified manor home, which had once served as the seat of the English lord sent to rule this area before the Republic of Ireland won its independence. It was now owned by a local family and had only rec
ently been reopened to the public. The structures around it were probably accessory buildings that had once been part of the estate.

  From the look of the place it was certainly old enough to have some secrets. As she reached the bottom of the valley, she saw that long shadows covered half the glen, the dark patches a deep, velvety green-black, while the sun-drenched parts were a happy kelly green. She shivered a little as she followed the signs toward the castle and slowed as the curved drive took her past the wide front steps and iron-bound double doors. There were three main buildings, the center one appearing to be at least three stories, with smaller wings on either side, connected by covered glass hallways.

  She headed into the parking area, which was hidden by trees. Grabbing her equipment kit, she hopped out and headed for the front doors, ignoring the little shiver of unease that went through her. She’d been to far worse and more dangerous places than this. Her kit was in her left hand—she’d grabbed it from the passenger seat out of habit. She hadn’t made it more than a few steps before pain from the weight of what she carried made her elbow and shoulder ache. She switched hands, flexing her left arm as she started up the steps.

  The doors proved a challenge, too heavy for her weak left arm to manage. Hooking her arm through the pull, she used her body weight to heave it open, then slid inside, leading with her right shoulder. It would have been simpler to put the toolbox down or to ring the bell above the plaque that said “Céad Mile Fáilte, Please Ring Bell For Assistance,” but it wasn’t about easy, it was about proving to herself that she could still do everything she’d been able to do before the injury.

  She was standing in a lovely foyer. Though the outside of the building looked almost medieval, the inside was decorated and furnished in a style she associated with some of the stately homes of England. The floor was a check pattern. Unlike floors found in modern dwellings, the blocks of black and white were actual stones, not facing or tile. The walls were mint green with white wainscoting and the ceiling was at least two stories up, with high windows letting in the light.

  “Dr. Heavey?”

  Directly across from the doors was a grand wood staircase. The wood was dark and polished to a high sheen, the carpet runner understated. She examined it the way she would a jumble of bones, trying to pinpoint the things that broke pattern.

  “Dr. Heavey? I’m Sorcha—”

  “The floors are original, the stairs have been rebuilt.” She turned to look at the redheaded woman that waited by a desk on the left-hand side of the foyer. “Am I right?”

  “Yes, you are. These stone floors are original.” The redhead continued to smile, her expression both bland and welcoming. She had classically Caucasian bone structure—nose, chin and forehead all curved, and with the slightest hint of an overbite. “The structure had been neglected for many years and almost all the wood detailing had to be replaced, including the grand stairs. We did reclaim some doors, such as the main doors you just came through, and a few others. I will provide you with a castle map that includes the history of the building and of Glenncailty.”

  Melissa held out her hand. “I’m Melissa Heavey. Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m Sorcha Kerrigan, guest relations manager here at Glenncailty.” The redhead took her hand. “We’re pleased and honored to have you with us.”

  “I doubt that. I’m here because you found human remains when you weren’t looking for them. You weren’t, were you?” She’d been under the impression that this was an unhappy—to them—accident. But maybe they, like so many people Melissa had met over the years, were looking for someone, both dreading and hoping that they’d find the remains.

  “I assure you our discovery was accidental rather than deliberate.” She was smiling, but her brows drew together slightly, as if she were troubled, which was understandable. “If you’ll follow me, we can discuss your accommodation options.”

  “It’s better to find them by accident,” she assured the other woman, hoping to ease her frown. “It’s worse when you’re looking for a body you can’t find.”

  “Of course,” Sorcha agreed, so readily that Melissa was sure she only said it to humor her. “I have several options for accommodation—”

  “I’m not worried about that.” Melissa set her heavy black case on the registration desk to give her right arm a break. “Where are the bones?”

  “Detective Sergeant Oren called. He’s busy at the moment but said he’ll stop by at the end of his shift, which will be about six o’clock. Until then I’m afraid I can’t show you to the…” Sorcha’s pleasant smile faded, and for a moment there was terrible sadness on her face. She licked her lips, before finishing, “…the bones.”

  From the way Sorcha spoke, Melissa was sure she’d seen them. Most people found dead bodies gruesome but fascinating until they got up close to one or touched one. There was always a moment when their intellect wasn’t able to shield them from the reality that what they were looking at had once been a person no different from them. Once that intellectual filter came down, curiosity was usually replaced by horror.

  She needed to get started. “But I’m here now.” She stared at Sorcha. Experience and experimentation had taught her that steady, unwavering eye contact made people uncomfortable and usually resulted in Melissa getting exactly what she wanted.

  “I’m aware of that.” Sorcha stared back at her, her face once more a calm mask.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “I have to wait to see the bones, don’t I?” Melissa said, disgruntled that her plan hadn’t worked.

  “Yes, Dr. Heavey, you do.”

  She sighed. “Very well then, I’ll research between now and then. Can I have that map you mentioned?” She’d read through everything she could find online about the castle and the area, but details would mean more now that she was actually here.

  “First let me check you in.” Sorcha went around behind the desk and pulled out a key. “The only available room is in our west wing. We’ve relocated other guests due to those rooms’ proximity to the remains. If you’re uncomfortable with the idea of being so close, I can recommend someplace in Cailtytown, the village at the other end of the glen.”

  So they’d had to close down part of the hotel and move people, which cost money. No wonder they’d decided to pay her to be here rather than wait. “I’d rather be by the bones.” Sleeping in a hotel room near a few old bones couldn’t be worse than sleeping in a tent only feet from a mass grave in Africa.

  “Very well.” They went through some paperwork before Melissa was given a key. “The room is not available at this time, but I can show you to either our library or—”

  “Is there someplace quiet I could get a bite to eat while I read?” She’d been researching and hunting down equipment for the past day and had only stopped to eat when her grandmother put food in front of her, and even then she usually got distracted.

  “Our pub is open but is not known for being quiet. Our award-winning restaurant doesn’t open until five, but I could show you to a table, and perhaps you could order from the pub.”

  “That will work.” She hefted the case, tucking the key into the Nepalese butterfly pants she was wearing. “I’m ready.”

  Sorcha led her to a doorway on the right side of the foyer, which opened onto the end of a long hall. Midway down the hall was a beautiful wood and glass door. Gold script on the door said only The Restaurant. Sorcha had to speak to someone through her radio before the doors were unlocked from the inside.

  The suit-clad maître d’ spoke with Sorcha for a moment before leading Melissa to a secluded table in a front corner of the beautiful high-ceilinged restaurant. It was a little dim, and cold radiated off the stone wall at her back, but she was well away from the other tables, the only thing near her a small server’s station.

  The maître d’ approached. “Mademoiselle, welcome to The Restaurant at Glenncailty. I regret that at this time the kitchen isn’t open. Perhaps I could offer you a complementary apérit
if until it does.” He had a slight French accent, and everything about him said tasteful elegance.

  The last thing she needed was a drink. “I thought the woman who showed me here mentioned that you had a pub. Would it be possible for me to see the pub menu? I promise that after that I won’t be any trouble. I was only hoping to get a little supper and some quiet before I…” She trailed off, not sure who knew about what had been found in the building. “Before I get to work.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle.”

  The maître d’ left, and Melissa pushed aside the napkin, glass and silverware, unfolding the Glenncailty Castle brochure.

  Chapter 2

  Out of the corner of his eye Tristan saw Kris slide down one of the busy kitchen aisles. The maître d’s mouth was pursed, which was as close as the elegant man came to having a tantrum.

  He turned away from the salmon fillets en papillote they were preparing for that night’s special.

  “Kris,” he called out, and the other man turned. “What’s wrong?” he asked in French.

  Kris shrugged. That wasn’t a good sign. With a curse, Tristan put a piece of plastic wrap and a damp towel over the dough he was working with, heading to a quieter corner of the kitchen where Kris met him.

  “There’s a woman in the restaurant,” Kris said.

  “We’re not open. Throw her out.”

  “I cannot. Sorcha brought her here, and the woman, she says she needed a quiet place to work.”

  “Then she can go to the library.” Tristan liked and respected the guest relations manager, but the restaurant and the kitchen were his domain.

  “I think she came about the bones.”

  The bones. Tristan cursed. He was sick unto death of hearing about these bones. The Irish were so dramatic, getting upset over a few ghosts and bones. They should go to Paris—the whole city sat atop bones and the French weren’t thrown into a tizzy by it. But the police, the Gardaí, had closed the west wing until they were dealt with, and that risked the whole hotel and what he was trying to build here.