Live to Fly Another Day

by Eliza Watson

  “What theft?” I asked.

  Thomas’s blue eyes dimmed. “In 1993. Four blokes rang the doorbell and forced their way into the house. Stole over ten million pounds in artwork.”

  Ten million pounds? I considered Declan’s Christmas painting and sketch of me as priceless works of art, yet they might be worth a hundred bucks. I couldn’t imagine having such valuable artwork hanging on my walls.

  “Weren’t they insured?” As if I had a clue about insuring priceless artwork. I was still looking into affordable health insurance.

  He nodded. “Not sure exactly how they fared, as the alarm wasn’t set. After the theft, Mr. Wood Senior donated some of the more valuable paintings to the Tate museum, wanting them safe even though the new security system was impenetrable.”

  “Pretty ballsy thieves waltzing in and walking off with such valuable artwork,” I said.

  “Happens more than you’d think, even in high security facilities,” Declan said. “Not long ago a Paris museum was robbed while the guards slept, and alarms didn’t go off. Some bloke accessed the Van Gogh Museum with a ladder, breaking in through a window.”

  “A car drove through the patio doors of a Scotland home not long ago and made off with millions in artwork,” Thomas said.

  “Did they ever catch the thieves here?” I asked.

  The gardener shook his head, rubbing a hand over his stubbly chin. “Not long after that, the family needed funds for repairs, but George’s mother feared if the house was open to the public, people would steal even more. Now, if it was donated to the National Trust, George may be able to remain in residence, but the place isn’t so big that he could close off a private wing. Even if George could afford to donate it rather than selling it, the National Trust likely wouldn’t accept it with all the needed repairs. Not like Queen Victoria slept in the master bedroom. No real historical significance attached to the home. George’s grandfather, Arthur Daly, bought it in the 1860s with the fortune he’d made from coal and iron.” Thomas slathered berry jam on a slice of bread and took a bite.

  I shook my head in dismay, trying to process everything. “I’m so sorry if I wasn’t clear in my e-mail that we were coming today. It was all just so sudden. I didn’t even have the chance to make reservations. Is there a hotel or B and B nearby we can stay at?”

  “Nonsense. George would insist you stay here. There are several bedrooms upstairs.”

  With beds?

  I took a bite of bread. The familiar taste of the moist dense bread with a crumbly crust brought back memories of Grandma’s sunny-yellow kitchen filled with the scent of fresh-baked goods. “Just like my grandma used to make.” Mom had made it for the first time in years this past Christmas.

  “I bake George a loaf every week. I’ve been bringing him some in the hospital.”

  Rather than George’s wife having baked it as he’d claimed.

  “When did Diana pass away?”

  “The bloody wench died? Alleluia.” Thomas made the sign of the cross. “May she rot in hell.”

  Um, how hadn’t Thomas known she’d died if he worked and lived on the estate?

  “Sorry. When the nurse said she’d been gone several years, I’d assumed she’d died.”

  The man’s smile faded. “My apologies. My enthusiasm over her death must seem quite inappropriate, but I never cared for the woman. None of us did, except George. She somehow had him fooled until after his mother’s death, when she ran off with the bank account and the family’s solicitor. George had considered opening the house to the public to pay for repairs. Diana panicked that she’d lose her place in society once people learned the estate was in ruins. He became quite depressed and never pursued the possibility of opening the house, claiming he was honoring his mother’s wishes.

  “Diana was greedy like his cousins, who assumed George would leave them the estate as he didn’t have an heir. They were livid when they learned the place is going on the market. Where were they when the roof needed repairs and the electrical rewiring? You know what insurance alone costs on a place like this? The demise of the estate began with the art theft, and that bloody woman took what little they had left.”

  A loud bark brought Thomas to his feet.

  “Sorry. That’s our dog, Mac.”

  Our dog?

  Declan quirked an intrigued brow.

  Another bark, and I stood. “I should check on him.”

  Thomas smiled. “Will be nice to have a dog around. Haven’t had one since Diana ran off with Freddie, their cocker spaniel.”

  Wretched woman! Diana running off with George’s dog was even more unforgivable than her stealing his money.

  We walked outside to find Mac sitting in a bed of flattened flowers.

  My gaze darted to Thomas. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No worries. She’s a precious little thing.” He gave Mac a pat. “What’s her name?”

  “Mac. It’s a he.”

  Damn tutu.

  “Naughty,” I scolded Mac. “Why can’t you be more like Esmé?”

  I suddenly realized I’d been comparing Mac to Esmé a lot lately. Same as how Mom used to compare me to Rachel. Why can’t your grades be as good as your sister’s? Why can’t you keep your room clean like your sister’s? So I’d been shocked when Mom had recently told me she feared I was becoming like Rachel, losing my fun-loving spirit and turning into a stressed-out workaholic. I gave Mac a pat on the head, apologizing for being one of those mothers.

  Declan grabbed the suitcases from the car, and Thomas led us up the staircase to the second floor. I imagined elegantly dressed women sashaying down the stairs, making a grand entrance to greet dinner guests. When we reached the top, I paused and took in the view below, picturing the empty walls filled with artwork, the floor with antique furnishings. How sad.

  The long hallway was dark until Thomas opened the second door and sunshine poured through the curtainless windows. A thick crack ran across the blue wall from the hardwood floor to the white crown molding. A brown water stain had caused the white ceiling paint to peel, and pieces of paint and plaster had dropped to the floor, landing next to a silver bucket waiting to catch water. Being in England, the chance for rain was quite good. I’d have to keep an eye on that bucket.

  The room was the size of my apartment. A faded oil painting of the estate hung on the wall over the head of a four-poster bed with a blue quilt. A wooden rocking horse sat in a corner. It reminded me of My Little Pony and the toys Mom had thankfully boxed up and stored in the basement despite me insisting she could give them to charity. I pictured Grandma rocking George to sleep in the wooden chair, with a blue afghan draped over the back. My eyes watered.

  “I’ll just need to change the bedding,” Thomas said.

  “If you give us the sheets, we’ll take care of that.”

  “First I’ll get some heat going.” He bent down and turned the knob on the rusted cast-iron wall radiator.

  I tried to stop shivering so he wouldn’t feel the need to heat the place on my behalf. I gestured to the fireplace. “A fire is fine.”

  “You’ll need a bit of heat when you wake up in the morning.”

  “I don’t want to run up the fuel bill.” It likely cost a fortune just to heat this room. “My mom always kept the thermostat low, and if we complained, she’d tell us to put on a sweater.” But Rachel was a wimp. She’d freeze her butt off here.

  “I’ll keep it low.” He gave me a wink. “Besides, a bit of heat helps remove the dampness.”

  Setting this room on fire couldn’t get rid of the dampness.

  Declan set down my suitcase. “Another room close by, is there?”

  I shot him a baffled look.

  “We aren’t sleeping together with your mum here.”

  “I’m a grown woman. If I want to sleep with you, I will. She’s not that naïve. She knows we sleep together.”

  I’d made the mature decision that I was being open and honest with Mom about my relationship with Declan, unl
ike everything I’d hidden from her about Andy.

  “Not with her right in the house, we don’t.”

  Thomas cleared his throat, looking embarrassed by our conversation. “We have two more furnished bedrooms. George couldn’t bear to see his parents’ rooms cleaned out.”

  Parents’ rooms? They hadn’t slept together?

  “I guess I’ll be sharing a bed with Rachel.”

  Declan’s nervousness over meeting my mom was quickly going from endearing to annoying. But I wasn’t going to argue about it further in front of poor Thomas. He led Declan to his room.

  I swept a hand over the wooden rocking horse. Had losing the family estate caused George to lose his will to live? Was that why he’d succumbed to pneumonia? That and the cold, damp house? He’d spent his entire life on the Daly Estate. He should be able to die here. The place was part of George’s identity, part of who he was. I could tell by the way he talked about it. George being evicted from the Daly Estate would be like me being deported from Ireland. It had taken me twenty-four years to find my place in the world.

  With a bit of luck, maybe we’d both end up being able to live where we belonged.

  Chapter Six

  Mac and I waited outside for Declan so we could head into Dalwick for groceries. We couldn’t all survive on Grandma’s delicious brown bread. The dog attempted to detour toward the lilac shrubs and flowerbed. “You’ve done enough damage.” I directed him over to the Venus de Milo, where Thomas was pruning some stray leaves and twigs from her curvy figure.

  “That is absolutely incredible,” I said, admiring the shrub. “How long did it take to design?”

  “Almost five years. It’s actually two shrubs grown together, framed, and trained to grow up and mature to the point of shaping. It requires a frequent prune here and there.”

  “Did you go to school for it?”

  “A family trade. Passed down from my grandfather. My topiary has won several awards and been featured in numerous magazines.” Thomas wore a proud look, gazing longingly at his work of art. His smile faded. “That was before the theft. Now, I do it more for the relaxation than the recognition.” His somber tone said he’d welcome the attention if he were once again permitted to show his shrubs.

  Declan walked out the front door.

  “We’ll be back in a bit,” I said.

  “You can leave the little fella here if you’d like. Be nice to have the company.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He gave Mac a pat on the head. “You can be my apprentice.”

  Surprisingly, Mac sat, agreeing to stay. Behaving was another thing. I shot him a warning look that he better not be naughty. I joined Declan, eyeing his jeans with disapproval. Not that his butt didn’t look incredible in a pair of Levi’s, but he wore jeans all the time.

  “Where’s the kilt?”

  “A bit cool for a kilt, I’d say. And it’s absolutely bitter inside the house.”

  “You’re from Ireland. Suck it up and put the skirt back on.”

  Declan’s gaze narrowed. “A skirt, ya say?”

  “Sorry. Put the kilt back on.”

  He gestured to my sweater. “While you’re wearing a wool jumper?”

  “I’m not first-generation Irish.”

  “You’re from Wisconsin.”

  I let out a defeated sigh, heading over to the car. “I wish there was something we could do to help George, but I might be in worse financial shape than he is.”

  “He’ll make a load of quid off the sale of the estate even if it needs repairs. Too bad he couldn’t get a TV show to film here. He’d be grand. There’s a castle near my parents’ that rents haunted rooms to ghost-hunter shows or anyone willing to pay the price”—Declan waggled his fingers in a mysterious manner—“and stay the night.”

  I peered at the vacant upstairs windows, and a chill slithered up my spine. “This place better not be haunted after I just stayed at one of the most haunted hotels in the world, in Prague.”

  “I went to a music festival at that castle a few years ago. They need to be creative to keep the place going.”

  “I wouldn’t have a clue how to arrange a music fest. And I think poor Thomas would have a stroke when people trampled through his gardens and flowerbeds at Woodstock UK.”

  “Also attended a mate’s wedding there. These grounds would make a brilliant wedding venue if it weren’t March.”

  “Would give Thomas the chance to show off his shrubs. But you heard what he said. George refuses to open the place up to the public, and you certainly can’t rely on England’s weather to hold all events outdoors.” I let out a depressed sigh. “Let’s go buy groceries and some lottery tickets.”

  * * *

  Dalwick was a picture-postcard village. If it wasn’t in a tourism brochure, it should be. Ivy and lush foliage covered a stone bridge spanning across a gurgling river where two young boys were attempting to skip rocks across the moving water. Red and green wooden benches encouraged people to enjoy the view from the grassy banks. A fancy iron scrollwork sign advertised a busy café housed in a stone building next to Nicole’s Vintage Finds. Nicole’s finds had found their way from the shop onto the patch of grass in front. Speckled with water spots and traces of dirt, the teacups and saucers, dessert plates, and serving dishes had apparently been outside more than a night.

  Clear packaging tape paired matching teacups and saucers, while mismatched ones filled bins, allowing people to piece together their own sets. I checked the bottom of several cups, finding them all made in England rather than at my Flannery rellies’ factory in County Wicklow. I chose a pink set with an English cottage design. A steal for three pounds.

  “I must have this.” It would be a nice addition to my quickly growing teacup collection. I walked over to the shop. A closed sign hung on the door. “Crap.”

  “Can pay on your honor.” Declan pointed to a weathered wooden box by the door for depositing payments.

  “Wow, pretty trusting.” I dropped coins in the box.

  “Small town.”

  We strolled hand in hand down the narrow road, encountering a shop window displaying an oil painting of the town’s bridge and river.

  “Let’s give it a look,” Declan said.

  It was a positive sign that he was still showing an interest in art. Declan sketching me in Prague had been a big step forward in our relationship. He hadn’t drawn or painted since Shauna’s death three years ago.

  We popped inside the gallery where a refined-looking woman—thirtyish, in a pink sheath dress, dark hair pulled up on top of her head—was talking to an older couple in casual clothing. She gave us a smile and continued their conversation.

  The painting in the window cost five hundred pounds.

  “Yikes, that’s out of my budget.”

  “That attitude is precisely why I could never make a living painting. The artist likely spent several days, or weeks, creating an original such as that. Not much of a wage, I’d say. Yet buyers still think it’s too dear.”

  “I’m sure it’s worth the price. I just couldn’t afford it.” As I walked out, my gaze narrowed on a flyer by the door advertising a countywide art festival with a gallery hop, including this one. “Too bad we won’t be here in two weeks.”

  The flyer highlighted a local castle opening to the public for the occasion. Like the Ireland castle Declan had mentioned, which held special events to stay afloat…

  “What if we were here in two weeks? What if we coincided an event at George’s with this art festival?” My mind raced with ideas. “Like incorporating the estate’s art theft slant? Mindy mentioned in Prague that her client does murder-mystery dinners. What if we did one where people have to solve the art theft? Maybe someone would miraculously solve the crime for real. Crack a cold case.”

  Declan’s lips curled into a teasing smile. “Moving up from finding stolen macaroons to stolen artwork, are ya? That would bring a bit of media attention to the estate and attract visitors.”


  Actually, I hadn’t found the macaroons in Prague. They’d found me. The thief had panicked over possibly getting caught and returned them to the hotel’s cooler. Yet I’d caught the thief. Thanks to sheer luck.

  “You could paint reproductions of the stolen artwork to hang on the walls”—I framed the air with my hands, setting the scene—“and then several go missing. Who took them? Yet that’d be a lot of paintings to crank out in two weeks.”

  I wasn’t sure if Declan was prepared for such an extensive endeavor. It would be nice for him to keep up the momentum. To reignite the passion he’d once had, using his natural talent.

  He nodded. “I could easily paint two a day.”

  “A day?”

  “I’m a bit rusty. A great forger can crank out a Monet in a few hours. I’m not a forger, but the paintings wouldn’t have to be perfect. Nobody would be knowing the difference.”

  “You could paint fakes for people to buy as souvenirs. Art buffs would go wild over a fake stolen painting. Is that legal to paint masterpieces and sell them? I don’t want you getting banned from England by more than car rental agencies.”

  “It’s legal unless I try to pass them off as the real thing.”

  The couple who’d been chatting with the saleswoman walked out, and she offered us assistance.

  “Would you know how we could get in touch with the person in charge of the festival?” Declan asked.

  She nodded, walking over to her desk. “Are you interested in participating? Do you run a gallery?”

  “The Daly Estate might be,” Declan said.

  She arched a perfect brow. “Really?” She handed him a business card for the festival’s organizer. “The Daly house would definitely be a draw. The place has quite a mysterious reputation. Locals would be curious to peek inside. I’d be curious to see their art collection.”

  It was a bit late for that.

  “None of the stolen paintings ever showed up on the black market?” Declan asked.

  “Not that I ever heard. I was quite young when the theft occurred.”