Impostor's Lure

by Carla Neggers

  Escape? How would she escape?

  She could hear water dripping. She hadn’t turned off the faucet all the way.

  She lay still. She needed to sleep.

  Just sleep.

  Then she’d find a way out of here.

  9

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Verity Blackwood’s overdose, her scheduled meeting with Emma’s grandfather in London, her husband’s last-minute flight cancellation, a recent murder and the Blackwoods’ connection to Adalyn McDermott’s new friends had changed everything. Emma could see it in Matt Yankowski’s face when she sat opposite him in his office. Behind him, Boston Harbor glistened under a hazy sky. “What if we’re not dealing with a mother-daughter fight and we have a missing prosecutor on our hands?” He didn’t wait for an answer, clearly didn’t expect one. “Where are Oliver York and Henrietta Balfour now?”

  “Oliver’s farm,” Emma said.

  “Your grandfather?”

  “On his way to Ireland.”

  “He tell you that?”

  She shook her head. “Oliver did. I left Granddad a voice mail asking him to call me.”

  “What do we know about this Stefan Petrescu?”

  “I only know what Oliver told me.” Emma paused. She’d learned to be as concise and precise as possible with Yank when he was trying to get a read on a situation. He’d go for details later. “I hadn’t heard of Mr. Petrescu until Oliver’s call. His murder wasn’t on my radar.”

  “A Romanian linguist. What kind of enemies would a linguist have?” Yank sighed, glanced behind him. The HIT offices were discreet, but their harbor view was impressive. “Heat’s supposed to break today. Lucy doesn’t mind it. Reminds her of Northern Virginia.” He swiveled back to face Emma. “Were Graham and Verity Blackwood on your radar before you got word of her overdose this morning?”

  “No.” But she knew what Yank was asking. “My grandfather didn’t tell me he was meeting Verity in London—or that he was going to London, for that matter.”

  “Not unusual for him,” Yank said.

  It wasn’t a question but Emma responded. “He’s accustomed to doing what he wants, when he wants, without letting anyone else know unless it suits him.”

  A grudging smile from her boss. “Old codger. I’m going to be like that when I’m in my eighties. Or is he in his nineties now?”

  “Eighties and fit in mind and body, according to him. I speak with him at least once a week.”

  “Flying to London at the last minute...”

  “He would remind us that Ireland is an island. Flying isn’t unusual.”

  “I guess it’s better than having him behind the wheel.” Yank drummed his desk with two fingers. “The American artists Henrietta and Oliver mentioned—what’s the story with them?”

  “Fletcher and Ophelia Campbell. We met their son, Rex, last night. Their primary residence is in southeast New Hampshire, about an hour north of Boston. Ophelia died of cancer there in April. Two weeks later Fletcher set fire to his studio in an old barn on the property.”

  “Accident?”

  “He has Alzheimer’s,” Emma said. “He’s more well-known than his wife, but he’s too ill to paint anymore. I did a quick check of news accounts of the fire after Oliver called. Apparently, Fletcher was stirring the fire in the woodstove in his studio and hot coals fell out. The barn’s two hundred years old. It wouldn’t take much for a fire to spread.”

  “Was he hurt?” Yank asked.

  “Minor smoke inhalation. Rex was at the house and called the fire department. The studio didn’t burn down completely, but a number of the Campbells’ works and paintings in their personal art collection were badly damaged or destroyed.”

  “Fletcher in a home now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if Sharpe Fine Art Recovery has ever worked with the Campbells. I don’t know why Verity Blackwood would specifically contact my grandfather.” Emma glanced past Yank at the hazy sky. A cold front was supposed to move through later that afternoon, bringing with it cooler, drier air. She shifted her focus back to Yank, still with his dark eyes narrowed on her. “I’ll find out.”

  “Did Oliver offer any thoughts on where we might find Graham Blackwood?”

  “He speculated Graham might have stayed to go fishing on his own, but that was based purely on a photograph of him in fishing clothes. I suspect Henrietta will follow up with MI5 on Stefan Petrescu. I didn’t speak with her but I’m not sure what she would say with Oliver there.”

  “Those two.” Yank left it at that. “Do you know this art conservationist Adalyn McDermott is working for—Jolie Romero? I didn’t get a good fix on her last night at dinner. Rex, either.”

  “I don’t know much about her.”

  “Good reputation?”

  “Yes. Tamara asked about her yesterday.”

  “Checking out the daughter’s new job, new friends?”

  “She also mentioned the convent and their work in art conservation, and my family.”

  Yank got to his feet and came around his desk. His utilitarian office suited his pragmatic approach to his work. His one personal item was a framed photograph from last fall of Lucy in Ardmore, a historic village on the south Irish coast. She’d gone to Ireland alone, trying to figure out herself—her marriage. Yank’s move to Boston—the way he’d handled it with his wife—had nearly destroyed fifteen years of marriage.

  “Sam checked with Tamara’s office in Washington,” Yank said. “She pushed hard to clear the decks so she could take off for three weeks without interruptions.”

  “Can her office reach her in an emergency?” Emma asked.

  “By phone, assuming she turns it on. She delegated another prosecutor to handle emergencies in her absence. No one’s expecting any problems while she’s away. She didn’t leave an itinerary with her assistant. She said she didn’t have one beyond hitting the road and heading ‘down east’ and going from there.”

  “Down east. Maine, then.”

  “It’s a popular spot in summer.” Yank started for his open office door. “I want to know if there’s a connection between Tamara McDermott not showing up for dinner last night and this situation with the Blackwoods. I want to know where Graham Blackwood is. I want to know he’s safe. I want to know why he didn’t get on that flight with his wife at the last minute, what he knows about her overdose and the details of their relationship with the Campbells, Jolie Romero and Adalyn McDermott.”

  Emma eased to her feet. “I’d like to go over to Jolie Romero’s studio in Porter Square.”

  Yank nodded. “Take Colin.” He paused, inhaling deeply, his concern evident. “We don’t know that whatever is going on with this British couple and your grandfather has anything to do with Tamara and Adalyn. I’m good with Tamara leaving early on vacation because she had a fight with her daughter.”

  “That’d be a positive outcome,” Emma said.

  “I want us to find Tamara having popovers at Jordan Pond.”

  Yank shut his door after Emma left his office. She found Sam Padgett at a table in the open-layout area in the center of the main floor of HIT’s dedicated waterfront offices. He was alone, the rest of the team in their offices, the conference room or on the road. Despite his no-nonsense approach to his work, Sam was a man with a keen sense of humor. He was dark, tall and ultra-fit, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, suit jacket laid neatly on the table next to him. He was in his element with the Boston heat wave. “Tamara’s rental apartment is getting cleaned for a new tenant as we speak,” he said. “Adalyn stopped by to make sure everything was set and her mother didn’t leave anything behind—except the note, which she grabbed. Colin sent me his photo of it. Tamara’s state of mind when she wrote it isn’t obvious to me. I have the contact info of the owner of the apartment. I’ll talk to him and see what he has to tell us.” />
  “That sounds good,” Emma said. “I’ll let you know what we find out at Jolie Romero’s studio. Yank’s picturing Tamara having popovers at Acadia. I like that image.”

  “Popovers? Acadia? Do I want to know?”

  “Acadia National Park. It’s in Maine. You can have warm popovers and tea at tables on a lawn overlooking Jordan Pond.”

  “Got it,” Sam said. “I’ve never had a popover.”

  Emma left him to his work and whatever he wanted to learn about Acadia, Jordan Pond and popovers. She collected Colin from her small office. He wore a light gray suit, white shirt and a blue tie, with thick-soled shoes that wouldn’t slow him down in a chase on foot. They’d walk the short distance to their apartment and take her car to Cambridge. She asked him to drive. She wanted time to think.

  She checked her messages, but she had nothing else from Henrietta and Oliver, and nothing yet from her grandfather.

  Colin glanced at her. “Your granddad’s still AWOL?”

  “I assume he’ll get in touch once he lands in Dublin. And no,” Emma added, “I didn’t confirm he’s actually on his flight.”

  * * *

  Emma was familiar with Porter Square and Jolie Romero’s work in art restoration, conservation and preservation, but she’d never been to her studio, located on the first floor of her 1930s house on a residential street. “Please, have a look around, ask any questions you’d like,” Jolie said, gesturing broadly with one hand. “I store a few things in my apartment on the second floor when I run out of room down here. I rent out the top-floor apartment. Adalyn has it now. She’s still getting settled. We do most of our work here in the front room. The lab’s in back for the fussy work. It has the appropriate climate controls. I hate air-conditioning and only use it when the heat’s unbearable—as it will be by noon, I’m sure.”

  “It’s a great space,” Emma said. Given her own background in art conservation, she recognized supplies and equipment for cleaning, repairing, protecting and preserving works of art—brushes, gloves, specialized cloths, backing materials, microscopes, photographic equipment, chemicals, technical lamps, easels.

  Jolie smiled, but she was visibly tense with two FBI agents in her workspace. “Thanks, it suits me and my work. I keep things more casual here than Sister Joan did with her conservation work.”

  “You two knew each other?” Emma asked.

  “We ran into each other a number of times over the years. She was a perfectionist, but that’s why she was so extraordinary at her work. I saw her last August. We were at a conference together in Boston. Then a few weeks later she was gone...murdered...” Jolie brushed her fingertips across a scratched metal worktable. “She’s missed.”

  “Very much so.”

  Sister Joan Mary Fabriani had been Emma’s mentor and friend, an exacting art conservationist and a dedicated, kind member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. Eleven months ago, Emma had discovered Sister Joan minutes after she’d been knifed to death at her convent on the southern Maine coast. She glanced at Colin, standing by the front door. They’d met in the days after Sister Joan’s murder.

  “Sister Joan could handle a Picasso with ease,” Jolie said. “She’d relish it. I probably could, too, but I wouldn’t relish it—I wouldn’t want to touch it, not anymore. In my brash younger days, I suppose. But you’re not here about Sister Joan. I heard about last night. Adalyn’s embarrassed by her mother’s behavior, but there’s no cause for alarm, is there? I gather she got herself into a snit and took off early. Nothing more to it.”

  “Have you heard from her?” Emma asked.

  “No, but I wouldn’t. Adalyn was down here a little while ago and hadn’t heard from her, either. She showed me the note her mother left. At least it’s something. She’ll be down in a minute. She’s a godsend. She’s a quick learner, and her expertise with archival evidence and research is helping with a client—Rex Campbell, as a matter of fact. I don’t know if you heard about the fire at his father’s studio. All I can say is it’s a hell of a mess to sort through.” Jolie eased onto a high task chair. “How can I help?”

  Colin checked out a seating area by the front windows, with two club chairs and a small round table stacked haphazardly with art magazines. “Who else works here?”

  “No one at the moment,” Jolie said. “I hire freelancers when I need to, and I’ll take on a couple of interns in the fall. August is quiet. I have the Campbell paintings salvaged from the fire, but not much else. I was in England for a few weeks—part of the work I’m doing for Rex.” She paused, adjusting her position. She had on a black tunic and leggings, not as dramatic an outfit as last night. “And I live alone,” she added. “I’ve never married and I’m not in a relationship.” She smiled, a touch of color in her cheeks. “There. Got that out of the way.”

  “You’ve had your studio here for a while,” Emma said.

  “Twenty years. I started my career at a museum in New York, but I grew up in Arlington and couldn’t wait to come back to the Boston area. I wanted to be closer to my mother. She was widowed—she’s gone now. She was something of a painter herself. That’s one of her works there.” Jolie nodded to an oil still life, a classic scene of apples in a wooden bowl. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  Emma took a closer look. “It is.” She smiled. “I love apples.”

  “Mom picked them herself. She inspired me to get into this work. I handle a wide range of art, but I have a soft spot for works by accomplished amateurs like my mother. Their monetary value is generally of less importance than their sentimental value.”

  “Where do the Campbells fit in?” Emma asked.

  “Fletcher’s paintings in particular are in high demand, and have been for a good long time. Now that he’s unable to paint and Ophelia is gone, Rex thinks of himself as a caretaker of any works they left behind—or owned, for that matter. That’s the approach I take here. I do my best to protect art for future generations. I’m always mindful that anything I work on will outlast me. Sister Joan shared that attitude.”

  Emma moved back from the still life. “Did you work with the Campbells before the fire?”

  “I’ve known them for years, but they never were a client until the fire. I’m still sorting through the paintings that survived and assessing the damage and what I can reasonably do. I don’t want to make any precipitous moves. It’s quite an undertaking.” Jolie shuddered. “It’s like running a burn unit for paintings.”

  Emma pointed at a watercolor on an easel by a window, its image—a simple farmhouse table—barely visible under a film of grime and soot from the fire. “Is that one of the damaged paintings from Fletcher Campbell’s studio?”

  Jolie nodded. “It’s one of Ophelia’s last works. It’s filthy, obviously, but it’s mostly on the surface. There’s no damage from the heat and the flames. It shouldn’t be too difficult to restore it to what it looked like before the fire.”

  “Did she paint at the studio?” Emma asked.

  “No, mostly at a cottage on the property. Rex brought this painting into the studio because it seemed to help settle his father after her death. She knew Fletcher’s mind was failing and didn’t want to leave him, but she knew she was terminal. All I can say is thank God for Rex.” Jolie waved a hand, as if dismissing the sad topic from her mind. “I think of myself as an art doctor. My first priority is to do no harm. You must understand that, Special Agent Sharpe.”

  “I do. It’s painstaking work.”

  “The rewards are often only ones I can see. I can’t restore the rescued Campbell paintings to their original condition, but I don’t want to do extensive retouching—we want what’s there to be the artist’s work not mine. It’s a shame, really. Ophelia and Fletcher were careless with storing their art. I warned them, but they were always on the go. Then the fire...” Jolie turned from the watercolor, shaking her head. “I keep reminding myself no one was hurt and th
e house and guest cottage didn’t catch fire, and for that we can be grateful.”

  “What were you doing in England?” Colin asked.

  His abrupt question clearly caught Jolie off guard. “The Campbells have a cottage in Oxford. That’s how Rex and I met Adalyn, as a matter of fact. We were all at a dinner hosted by mutual friends. Rex was in Oxford to start the process to close up the cottage, and I flew out to help him sort through canvases. I thought I might find something that would help me with my salvage work here, but most of the paintings were half-finished or junk from friends Fletcher and Ophelia indulged. Fletcher didn’t have a huge inventory of his own work. His paintings tended to sell fast once he put one on the market.”

  Emma touched a boar-bristle brush. “How long were you in England?”

  “Almost three weeks. I started in London and then stayed in Oxford for a few days. I flew back here the day after Adalyn two weeks ago. Anyway—Adalyn and I got on well at the dinner, and her skills and needs dovetailed with my needs and what I could offer. I got her card, met with her in London and here we are.”

  “An apartment and a job,” Emma said. “This dinner—where was it?”

  “What does it matter? Never mind. Sorry. The Blackwood home,” Jolie added quickly. “Verity and Graham Blackwood.”

  Emma heard rapid footsteps on the stairs in the front entry, and in a moment, Adalyn McDermott burst into the studio. She was flushed, breathing hard. “Agent Sharpe, Agent Donovan—nothing’s happened—”

  “We don’t have any news on your mother,” Emma said.

  Adalyn exhaled in obvious relief and smiled awkwardly at Jolie. “I’m sorry. I warned you something like this could happen when you hired me. It’s the price one pays for hiring the daughter of a federal prosecutor. The price I pay for being one.”

  “It’s okay, Adalyn,” Jolie said. “It keeps things interesting.”

  “Thanks, that’s decent of you. Last night was awkward when my mother stood us up, but her note says it all, doesn’t it? I’m past it. She just left twelve hours or whatever earlier than her original plan. I hope the break’s good for her.”