The Mighty Quinns: Conor

“Shhh!” Conor hissed. “You’ll wake Liam.”

Seamus chuckled and patted Brendan’s knee. “That’s right, boyo. You listen to your da on this. Women are trouble for the likes of us Quinns.”

“Da, it’s time for us to get to bed,” Conor said, weary of the same old cautionary tale. “We have school.”

Dylan and Brendan both moaned and rolled their eyes, but Seamus wagged his finger. “Conor is right. Besides, I’ve got a powerful thirst that only a pint of Guinness can quench.” He ruffled their hair, then pushed off the bed and headed toward the front door.

Conor hurried after him. “Da, we need to talk. Can’t you stay in tonight?”

His father waved him off. “You sound like an old woman, Con. Don’t be a nag. We can talk in the morning.” With that, Seamus grabbed his jacket and slipped out into the storm, leaving his son with nothing more than a cold draft and an uneasy shiver. Defeated, Conor turned and walked back to the bedroom. Dylan and Brendan had already climbed into their bunk beds. Conor turned off the lights and flopped down on the mattress in the corner, drawing the blankets up to his chin to ward off the chill.

He was almost asleep when a small voice came out of the darkness. “What was she like, Con?” Brendan asked, repeating a question he’d been asking nearly every night for the past few months.

“Tell us again,” Dylan pleaded. “Tell us about Ma.”

Conor wasn’t sure why they suddenly needed to hear. Maybe they sensed how fragile their life had become, how easily it could all fall apart. “She was a fine and beautiful woman,” Conor said. “Her hair was dark, nearly black like ours. And she had eyes the color of the sea, green and blue put together.”

“I remember the necklace,” Dylan murmured. “She always wore a beautiful necklace that had jewels that sparkled in the light.”

“Tell us about her laugh,” Brendan said. “I like that story.”

“Tell the story about the soda bread, when you fed it to Mrs. Smalley’s wee dog and Ma caught you. I like that one.”

So Conor spun his tale, lulling his brothers to sleep with visions of their mother, the beautiful Fiona Quinn. But unlike his father’s stories, Conor didn’t have to embellish. Every word he spoke was pure truth. And though Conor knew that love for a woman was a sign of weakness and trouble for any Quinn, he didn’t heed his father’s warning. For, in a secret corner of his heart, he’d always love his mother and that would make him strong.

1

THE SHOT CAME out of nowhere, shattering the plate-glass window of Ford-Farrell Antiques into thousands of pieces. At first, Olivia Farrell thought one of the display cases had fallen over, or a crystal vase had tipped off a shelf. But then a second shot rang out, the bullet whizzing by her head and embedding itself into the wall with a soft hiss and thud. Frantic, she glanced up to find shards of glass tumbling into the window display around a Federal-era breakfront.

Her first impulse was to throw herself over the breakfront, a rare piece valued at over $60,000. After all, the multipaned doors still contained all original glass! And the piece would be virtually worthless to her discerning clientele if it contained any scratches on the exquisitely preserved marquetry. But then, common sense took over and she dove for cover behind a rather overblown chaise longue in the Victorian style, a piece that might actually benefit from a few bullet holes.

“Oh, damn,” she murmured, not sure what to do next. Should she run? Should she hide? She certainly couldn’t shoot back since she didn’t own a gun. She thought about locking the front door, but then whoever was shooting could just walk through the gaping hole in her plate-glass window. “Why didn’t I listen? Why did I sneak out?”

Pushing up from the floor, she gauged the distance between her location and the back door of the gallery. But what if they were waiting for her in the alley? Since she wasn’t familiar with wiseguy protocol, she had no idea whether her unseen assassins were determined to kill her at all costs or whether they’d regroup and try again later. Then again, they’d missed. Maybe they’d just meant to scare her.

“Phone,” she murmured, reaching into her jacket pocket to pull out the sleek little cell phone she always carried. “Nine-one-one.” She punched in the number and immediately began to pray. Perhaps she should just play dead, in case they burst into the shop, guns blazing.

Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes and her hand trembled as she waited for the emergency operator to answer. But she refused to give in to fear, pushing back the tears and summoning up her courage. She’d taught herself to control her emotions, to maintain a cool demeanor, but that was for business purposes only. Maybe a gunshot through the window was a good excuse for a little hysteria.

None of this would have happened if she’d just kept her mouth shut, if she’d just turned around and walked away that night a few months back. But she’d been scared back then, scared that everything she’d worked so hard to achieve was about to be taken from her.

The closest she’d ever come to breaking the law was fudging a few numbers on her tax return and ignoring the speed limit on the I-90. Now her business records had been impounded, her past scrutinized, her partner thrown in jail, and her reputation left nearly in tatters. She was a material witness in a murder and money-laundering trial against a very dangerous man—a man who obviously thought nothing of killing her before she had a chance to tell her story in court.

Olivia listened as the operator came on the line, then quickly gave her location and a brief description of what had happened. The operator asked her to stay on the line and she listened distractedly as the woman tried to keep her calm. Olivia had always heard that when someone came close to death, their life passed before their eyes. All she could think about was how she hated feeling so vulnerable, so dependent on someone else’s help.

“Just keep talking to me, ma’am,” the operator urged.

“What should I talk about?” Olivia asked, her voice edgy. The only subject that came to mind was how quickly her life had changed in such a short time. Two months ago, she’d been on top of the game, Boston’s most successful antiques dealer. She travelled all over the country, searching out the finest American antiques for her shop. Her client list read like a Who’s Who of East Coast society. And she’d recently been named to the board of one of Boston’s most prestigious historical societies. There was even talk that she might be asked to appear on the public television show Antiques Caravan.

All this for a girl who’d grown up not on Beacon Hill, but in a working-class neighborhood of Boston. But she’d risen above her rather common beginnings, leaving her past far behind and creating a whole new identity for herself—a wonderful, exciting identity, filled with travel and parties and influential friends. And financial security. She had saved only one thing from her childhood—an interest in anything one hundred years old or older.

“My parents were antique fanatics,” she murmured to the operator, surrendering to the memory. “They used to haul me from auction to auction as a child, eeking out a living with a tiny little secondhand shop on the North End. We never knew where the next meal was coming from, never knew if we’d scrape together enough to pay the rent. It was frightening for a child, that uncertainty.”

“Don’t be frightened,” the operator said. “The police are on their way.”

“When I got older,” Olivia continued, “they turned to me for authentication and I became an expert in 18th- and 19th-century New England furniture makers. My parents never had a very good eye for fine antiques and when I was just out of high school, they decided to try the restaurant business, managing a truck stop off the interstate in Jacksonville, Florida.”

“The police are just a few minutes away, Ms. Farrell.”

She continued talking, the sound of her own voice soothing her fears. As long as she could talk, then she was still alive and the fear couldn’t consume her. “I stayed behind to attend college. I worked three different jobs for pocket change. I lived from hand to mouth for nearly my entire freshman year at Boston College, scraping to pay tuition and rent. I hated that. And then I found my very first ‘treasure,’ a Sheraton chair I bought for $15.00 at a tag sale and resold for $4,000.00 at a consignment auction.”

From that moment on, Olivia had paid for her college education by buying and selling antiques. She discovered she had an uncanny eye for spotting valuable pieces in the most unlikely places—garage sales, thrift shops, estate auctions. She could tell a reproduction from an original at fifty paces and was a skilled bidder.

“Even though I majored in art at Boston College, I fell naturally into a career in antiques. I rented my first showroom space the year I graduated. Six years later, I formed a partnership with one of my clients. Kevin Ford was a man with money. I thought I had it made. He bought a beautiful retail space on Charles Street at the base of Beacon Hill.” Olivia sighed. “How could I have been so naive?”

“The police will be there in approximately thirty seconds, ma’am,” the operator said.

Olivia could already hear the sirens in the distance over the traffic outside the gallery. But even the police couldn’t get her out of the mess she’d made of her life. She blamed herself for this whole thing. When Kevin bought the building, she’d had her doubts. Though he was wealthy, he certainly didn’t have the millions to buy retail space on Charles Street. But all Olivia could see was the next stage in her meteoric rise to the top of Boston society—and all the business that would come her way.

Had she trusted her instincts, she might have realized that Kevin Ford’s bottomless wallet came from underworld connections. That fact had been proved when Olivia overheard a late-night conversation between Ford and one of Ford’s most important clients, Red Keenan—a man she later learned was a Boston crime boss who’d ordered a handful of murders last year alone.

The sound of more glass smashing made her jump and she prepared herself for the worst. But then a familiar voice brought a rush of relief. “Ms. Farrell? Are you all right?”

Olivia poked her head up over the back of the chaise. She waved weakly at Assistant District Attorney Elliott Shulman, the man in charge of the murder case against Red Keenan. “I—I’m still alive,” she said.

He hurried through the shop and helped her to her feet. “This is just unacceptable,” he muttered. “Where was the police protection I ordered?”

“They’re still parked outside my flat,” Olivia murmured, a warm flush flooding her face.

Shulman gasped. “You went out without telling them?”

She nodded, her spine stiffening at his censorious tone. “I—I just needed to get some work done. The shop has been closed for almost two months. I have bills to pay, antiques to sell. If I don’t work with my clients, they’ll go someplace else.”

Shulman grabbed her by the elbow and led her toward the front door, his fingers firm on her arm. “Well, you’ve seen what Red Keenan is capable of, Ms. Farrell. Maybe now you’ll listen to us and take his threats seriously?”

Olivia yanked her arm from his grasp. “I still don’t understand why he’d want me dead. Kevin can testify to the whole sordid business. I just overheard them talking. And I didn’t hear that much.”

“As I told you before, Ms. Farrell, your partner isn’t talking. You’re the only witness who can put the two of them together. After what happened tonight, we’re going to have to hide you. Somewhere safe, out of town.”

Olivia gasped. “I—I just can’t leave. Look at this mess. Who’s going to repair the window? I can’t let the weather come in. These antiques are valuable. And what about my clients? This could ruin me financially!”

“We’ll call someone to replace the window right away. Until then, I’ll leave a patrolman outside. You’re coming with me down to the station until we find a safe house for you.”

Olivia grabbed her coat and purse from a circa 1830 primitive wardrobe next to her desk, then reluctantly followed Shulman to the front door. Maybe it was time to go into hiding. It was only for a couple of weeks, until the trial started. At least she’d feel safe again. When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she gave her keys to the patrolman and murmured detailed instructions on the security code. When she finished, she closed her eyes and drew a long breath.

“Promise me I’ll have my old life back soon,” she said, trying to still the tremor in her voice.

“We’ll do our best, Ms. Farrell.”