The woman hands him something—an envelope, maybe?—before disappearing into the crowd of tourists like smoke in a hurricane.
“It may not be Rex,” I tell Nettie, already calculating the distance between us and my next potential source of information, “but I have a feeling I’m about to learn something regarding this case after all.”
When a man with a forehead tattoo starts having secret meetings at Irish castles, someone has definitely got more secrets than sense, and I’m about to find out exactly what Mark Sterling’s marriage is hiding behind all that permanent ink.
CHAPTER 17
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Nettie and Candy as they hover near the Blarney Castle gift shop like tourists experiencing withdrawal from overpriced souvenir therapy and possibly contemplating whether they really need seventeen different types of shamrock-themed merchandise.
“Famous last words,” Nettie says my way while adjusting herIRISH I WAS DRUNKsweater with the swagger of a woman who’s witnessed my investigative instincts in action. “Your magnetic attraction to suspicious behavior at tourist attractions is more reliable than the ship’s GPS system.”
“I’m just going to buy postcards,” I lie with enough conviction to make just about anyone believe I’ve never told a lie in my life. Or at least I hope Mark believes it, in the event he heard.
“Postcards don’t usually require stalking men with forehead tattoos,” Candy points out with cotton candy sweetness that somehow makes the observation more damning than if she’d just called me a lunatic with boundary issues. And I certainly hope that Mark didn’t hear that either.
“Details.” I wave them off, already speeding my way to Mark Sterling, who’s standing by the ancient stone walls looking like he’s mentally reviewing everything incriminating he’s ever said or done. And I don’t know who that woman was that just handed himsomething, but she looked like trouble. Trouble in a designer coat, but still.
The afternoon air carries the scent of damp Irish earth mixed with the tourist-friendly aroma of overpriced coffee from the castle café, while the distant sound of cameras clicking mingles with excited chatter in twelve different languages. A tour guide’s voice drifts across the grounds, explaining something about medieval architecture to people who are probably more interested in selfie opportunities than historical accuracy.
Mark Sterling stands near a weathered stone wall, his cringyI’M MARRIEDtattoo catching the filtered sunlight like a billboard for marital complications. The man looks rattled—not justI kissed an ancient rock and survived rattled, butsomeone just threatened my comfortable existencerattled.
Time to find out what’s shaking his carefully constructed world other than commitment issues.
“Excuse me.” I approach with a friendly confidence that hopefully suggests I’m definitely not about to interrogate a potential murder witness. “Aren’t you from our cruise? TheEmerald Queen?” I want to add the floating palace of romantic complications—but don’t. This guy has enough going on.
Mark startles like I’ve just announced his browser history over the castle’s public address system. His hand flies instinctively to his forehead, covering the tattoo with the shame of a husband who’s spent months perfecting the gesture.
“Do I know you?” he asks with a suspicious politeness. I take it he’s learned to be cautious about unexpected conversations—the hard way.
“I believe we met at the welcome party,” I say gently, offering my most sympathetic smile. “The one where things got a bit awkward with the chocolate fountain incident. I’m Trixie Baxter, professional bystander and accidental witness to cruise ship drama.”
His shoulders relax slightly as he recognizes me. “Right, you’re the woman who was standing there when—” He shudders. “What a nightmare that whole evening turned out to be.”
“I can only imagine.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “How areyou managing?”
Mark’s laugh carries no humor whatsoever. “I know how it looks,” he says, gesturing helplessly at his tattooed forehead and giving me a look that suggests he’s given up on his dignity entirely. “Trust me, it wasn’t my first choice for self-expression.”
The vulnerability in his voice surprises me. I expected defensiveness, maybe hostility. Instead, I’m getting raw honesty from a man who looks like he’s been carrying the weight of his poor decisions across two continents and an ocean.
“We all make choices we’d rather forget,” I offer with genuine sympathy, because despite my suspicious nature, there’s something heartbreaking about a man who’s literally branded himself with his failures. For a moment, I envision Stanton running around our old stomping grounds of the country club back in Brambleberry Bay with those words emblazoned on his forehead and shake my head. Some of those women would consider it an open invite. I clear my throat as Mark comes back into focus. “However, most of us don’t have to wear reminders of regretful decisions on our foreheads.” For the entertainment of passing strangers and confused tourists.
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Mark runs his hand through his hair, a gesture that does absolutely nothing to hide the tattoo but seems to bring him comfort anyway. “I had an affair. That’s why this exists.” He gestures to his forehead with the kind of resignation usually reserved for discussing terminal diagnoses. “I did it, and now I have to pay.”
The confession hangs in the Irish air like expensive perfume mixed with regret and possibly the scent of approaching thunderstorms, and I get the feeling I’m witnessing something far more complex than simple marital drama—I’m witnessing the kind of dysfunction that requires professional intervention and possibly its own tell-all book. I admit, I’d read it.
“I genuinely love her,” he continues, his voice cracking with emotion that no amount of acting could fake. “What I did... it was the biggest mistake of my life. I’ll do anything to keep my marriage to Claudette intact.”
There’s something about the way he says the wordanythingthat makes my detective radar ping. Men who are willing to do anything sometimes choose very permanent solutions to temporary problems,especially when those problems involve people who know too much about their past mistakes. Not that he seems to be hiding anything about his past.
“That’s... that’s actually really touching,” I say, and I mean it. “A lot of couples wouldn’t survive something like that. You two must have something special.”
“We did. Wedo.” Mark’s expression shifts and becomes more complicated by the second. “Lavender and Claudette were close friends. Really close. Before everything went sideways like a bad carnival ride.”
The casual way he drops this bombshell makes me wonder if the Blarney Stone actually did give him the gift of inadvertent revelation, or if spending months with a forehead tattoo has simply destroyed his ability to keep secrets like a normal person.
“Really?” I try to keep my voice neutral, although my brain is doing victory laps around the castle grounds. “They seemed like such different people.”
Complete opposites, actually. Like vampires and garlic, but with better shoes.
