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the playboy of West Cork, or at least this small corner of it. But it was hard for her to see how his romantic liaisons could have anything to do with poor Seamus’s murder. Seamus was his employee, one he seldom saw, and he worked for pennies. Maura could see no motive for Harry, but then, she had no motive for anyone else either.
    She let her thoughts run wild. Maybe Harry had stumbled upon Seamus with a girl from the village, and the girl had looked upset about it. Or maybe Seamus hadn’t known when to stop. What would Harry have done? But if that had been the case, then there’d be a girl, who would talk . . .
    Maura, get a grip!
Here she went, condemning poor Seamus, whom she’d never met. Ridiculous! Who was it that had said the simplest solution was usually the right one? But what was the simplest solution here? The Townsend household had more or less kept to themselves and muddled along for quite a while. It was too much to believe that Althea’s appearance was not connected to their sudden notoriety. Which kind of hinted that the painting might actually exist. But was finding it—or keeping it hidden—worth killing for?
    Maura finished her supper quickly, left some euros on the bar, and went back to Sullivan’s. The crowd had grown. Maura spotted Althea in a corner, talking with two men who were hanging on her every word. Jimmy was working the room and Mick was behind the bar, chatting with a red-haired woman Maura had never seen before, though she and Mick clearly knew each other, from the way they were bantering.
    Mick looked up and saw Maura, then beckoned her over. “Ah, there you are, Maura. Come meet Gillian Callanan, our resident artist. She’s just back for the summer.”
    Gillian had turned when Mick called out to Maura, and now she extended her hand. She was a few years older than herself—early thirties?—and casually dressed, her red hair cut short and carelessly mussed. Maura could tell she was tall even while she sat on a bar stool. “Mick’s been filling me in on what’s happened in the last few months. I’m glad you decided to keep the place going, Maura—I’d miss it. Although I’d guess you’re quite the change from Old Mick.”
    Maura slid onto a bar stool next to Gillian. “You knew Old Mick?”
    “Everybody knew Old Mick—he was a local institution. The place won’t be the same without him.”
    “I never met him, but his legend lives on. I know I can’t fill his shoes, but there was definitely some room for improvement. So far all I’ve managed to do is clean the place and update the accounting. You live around here?”
    “Part of the year, at least. I spend the winters in Dublin, but my family’s from one of the townlands, and I rent a place near here, summers—costs too much to keep it warm in the winter.”
    “Mick said you’re an artist?”
    “I am that. I make pretty pictures for the tourists, which pays the bills, and paintings that please me the rest of the year, which don’t sell near as well. But I get by, with the odd paying job or two. I was trying to talk Mick into hanging a few in here, looking to sell them, but he said you’re the boss and to talk to you.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Maura glanced at Mick. “Can I see some of your work?”
    “Of course. Stop by my place in the morning, if you don’t mind the mess. Like Mick said, I’m just back this minute from Dublin.”
    “I’ll do that, if you’ll tell me how to get to your place. I still get lost in the lanes around here, especially after dark.”
    “You’re living up at Knockskagh, are you? I’m just over the hill from you, at the old creamery in Ballinlough, by the water. Half of it is falling down, but there’s plenty of room, and I love the light there.”
    “Sure, I know where that is. But I’ll take the long way around—I’m not a fan of the road down that hill. It’s in rough shape.” Gillian probably wouldn’t know about her run-in with a thug who tried to shove her car down