Three Fates

really, and would put more of a hitch in her stride than his. Obliging, he went to the phone and called the front desk to relay the situation.
    He even stayed with her when management and security came. He patted her hand while she spoke to them, cooperatively gave his own version of the evening and his name and address, his passport number.
    He had, essentially, nothing to hide.
    It was nearly two A.M. before he made it back to his own room. He had a long, neat whiskey. Brooded over another.
    When Tia woke the next morning, muzzy-brained, he was gone. All that was left to assure her he’d existed in the first place was a note slipped under her door.
    Tia, I hope you’re feeling steadier this morning. I’m sorry but I’ve had to change my plans and will have already left Helsinki when you read this. The best of luck with the rest of your traveling. I’ll be in touch when I can. Malachi.
    She sighed, sat on the edge of the bed and decided she’d never see him again.

Three
     
     
     
     
    M ALACHI called for a meeting the minute he arrived back in Cobh. Due to the import, schedules were hastily rearranged and concerned parties made themselves available.
    He stood at the head of the table as he relayed to his partners the events that took place during his stay in Finland.
    When the tale was told, he sat, picked up his cup of tea.
    “Well, you dimwit, why didn’t you stay and give her another push?”
    Since this came from the youngest partner, who also happened to be his sister, Malachi didn’t take particular offense. The meeting table, in the Sullivan tradition, was the kitchen table. Before he answered, he got to his feet again, took the biscuit tin off the counter and helped himself.
    “First, because pushing would’ve done more harm than good. The woman has more brains than a cabbage, Becca. If I’d nudged her about the statues right after she’d had her room tossed, she might very well have thought I’d had something to do with the matter. Which,” he added with a scowl, “I suppose I did, indirectly.”
    “We can’t blame ourselves for that. We aren’t hooligans, after all, or thieves.” Gideon was the middle child, nearly dead center at not quite two years younger than Malachi, not quite two older than Rebecca. This accident of birth had, more often than not, put him in the position of playing peacemaker between them.
    He was his brother’s match in height and build, but had inherited his mother’s coloring. The lean, hollow-cheeked features of the Sullivans were stamped on his face, but his were set off with jet-black hair and Viking blue eyes.
    He was, in his way, the most fastidious of the lot. He preferred having everything lined up in tidy columns, and because of it—though Malachi had more of a talent with figures—did duty as family bookkeeper.
    “The trip wasn’t wasted,” he went on. “Neither the time nor the expense of it. You made contact with her, and now we’ve reason to believe we’re not alone in our belief that she might be a likely contact to the Fates.”
    “We don’t know if she is or isn’t,” Rebecca disagreed. “Because it’s plain as rain it was Malachi who led them to her. Better if you’d gone hunting for the one who’d broken into her room instead of running back home.”
    “And how, Mata Hari, would you suggest I do that?” Malachi queried.
    “Look for clues,” she said with a sweep of arms. “Interrogate hotel staff. Do something. ”
    “If only I’d remembered to pack my magnifying glass and deerstalker hat.”
    Exasperated, she sighed. She could see the sense of what he’d done, but when it came to a choice between sense and action, Rebecca would always toss sense. “All I see is we’re out the price of the travel, and no better off than we were before you had your little fling with the Yank.”
    “We didn’t have a fling,” Malachi said with the edge of temper in his voice.
    “Well, whose fault is that?” she shot back. “Seems to me you’d’ve gotten more out of her if you’d softened her up in bed.”
    “Rebecca.” The quiet censure came from the balance of power. Eileen Sullivan might have birthed three strong-willed children, but she had been, and always would be, the power.
    “Ma, the man’s thirty-one years old,” Rebecca stated sweetly. “Surely you’re aware he’s had sex before.”
    Eileen was a pretty, tidy woman who took great pride in her family and her home. And when necessary, ruled both with an iron