Impostor's Lure

by Carla Neggers

  “It would be better if we could reach her.”

  “Understatement, Dad, but going dark was part of her plan.”

  “I guess.”

  His heavy tone underscored his obvious uneasiness. He wasn’t the type to leap to conclusions, but he had to be tempted. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m okay. I’m sorry about Verity, but I’m optimistic she’ll make a full recovery.”

  “And Graham—”

  “He’ll turn up,” she said. “Did Agent Yankowski call just to update you?”

  “He offered to keep an eye on you.”

  Oh, great. “I’m managing, Dad. Please don’t worry. I answered all the FBI’s questions.”

  “Don’t lie to them. It’s a felony to lie to the FBI. You don’t have to talk to them. You have a right to have an attorney present. It’s a wise idea to exercise that right.”

  A bit late now. Adalyn felt like a thirteen-year-old caught sneaking into a six-pack. “Dad, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “That’s not the point. Next time anyone in law enforcement wants to talk to you, call me.”

  “Dad—”

  “Adalyn. Call me. Promise.”

  “Okay, okay, I promise, but I don’t know anything about the drugs Verity took or why Graham didn’t go back to London with her. He’s probably just fishing and kayaking in Maine. That wouldn’t be Verity’s thing.”

  When they disconnected, Adalyn felt no sense of relief that he’d called, mostly because nothing he said changed anything. She jumped on the subway to Boston, not sure exactly where she’d end up.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Adalyn stood outside Lucy Yankowski’s hole-in-the-wall knitting shop on Newbury Street. She started to feel better the minute she arrived at the skinny, classic Back Bay brownstone. She pushed open the glass door and went into the cozy shop with its cubbies of yarn, racks of knitting books, shelves of knitting supplies and a big, red-painted table with mix-and-match chairs for classes and workshops.

  Adalyn smiled at Lucy, who got up from an antique rolltop oak desk. She was dressed smartly but casually in slim pants and a linen top. “From clinical psychologist to knitting,” Adalyn said. “Works somehow, doesn’t it?”

  “For me it does. Good to see you, Adalyn.”

  “Thanks. Isn’t Newbury Street expensive for a knitting shop?”

  “Rents aren’t cheap but it’s a great location. We’re off to a decent start, but August isn’t the high season for knitting projects.”

  “I imagine it’s not.” Adalyn flipped open a pattern book on the table. Baby clothes. “I don’t know how to knit. My grandmother taught my mother, but neither of them taught me. Gran died when I was in high school. I could learn to knit baby blankets, couldn’t I? My friends will be having babies soon. I could get a head start. Knit up an inventory of cute little blankets.”

  “Start with one small blanket, maybe,” Lucy said.

  “Can you teach yourself how to knit?”

  “People do.”

  “It’d be more fun to take a class. Maybe I’ll sign up for one here this winter, if I have time with work and school.” Adalyn moved to the cubbies and eyed a fuzzy twist of raspberry-colored yarn. It’d make an adorable baby blanket. “I’d love just to unpack the yarn and put it on the shelves. Who taught you to knit?”

  “My grandmother,” Lucy said. “My father’s mother.”

  “Did knitting help you with the stress of your work when you were a psychologist?”

  She smiled. “Knitting helps with everything.”

  “If you know how. I bet it’s not any fun if you get your yarn all in tangles and drop stitches and make a mess of things.”

  “Then you start over.”

  “Ah, is that how it works?” Adalyn grinned, feeling more relaxed. “I probably should take up something less sedentary since I work with documents. I did tons of walking in London. I haven’t done as much since I’ve been back. I’ve been so busy getting moved in, and it took the longest time for me to adjust to being on East Coast time again after three months. Did you hear about my friend from England who overdosed?”

  “Matt told me,” Lucy said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s hard to believe. I just saw her and she was fine. Do you have to tell Agent Yankowski I’m here?”

  “I don’t have to but—”

  “But you will.” Adalyn immediately regretted interrupting. “I understand. Really. Is it tough being married to an FBI agent?”

  “It can be tough being married to anyone, I suppose.”

  “Now there’s an answer.”

  Adalyn moved to a cubby that contained neutral-colored alpaca yarns. What about llamas? Was there llama yarn? She had no idea. Everything in the upscale shop appeared to be of the highest quality, organic, sustainable—just what you’d want if you were tucked into an expensive Back Bay apartment on a cold night with your knitting needles. She didn’t mean to be condescending, but who else would be shopping here?

  She shifted from the yarn cubbies to a display of knitting needles. She’d never seen so many. “I’m having a hard time digesting Verity’s overdose.” Her voice was low, as if she hadn’t wanted to say what she’d just said. What a mess I am. She fingered a set of wooden knitting needles. “I didn’t see it coming.”

  “It’s a shock,” Lucy said. “It’ll take time to sink in. Be patient with yourself.”

  “I wish I’d done something. What if it was attempted suicide?”

  “She’s getting good care. Her doctors will tend to her.”

  “Do you think Graham knows? Did Matt say anything—”

  “I can have him call you.”

  Adalyn put up a hand. “No, it’s okay. I guess I don’t need to know, do I? I’m curious, though.”

  “And you’re concerned about your friend,” Lucy said.

  “Not the best start to being twenty-one, is it?”

  Lucy shut the baby clothes knitting book and set it in a stand. “I remember when twenty-one felt so grown-up. Now it seems so young. I wanted everything to be perfect at twenty-one, and it wasn’t. It never is.”

  “Is that what you used to tell your patients?”

  “I’m not speaking to you as a psychologist, Adalyn. I’m a friend.”

  Her way of saying their conversation wasn’t confidential. Adalyn hated how irritated she felt. It had to be nerves—shock, fear. Her mother’s weird, annoying, inexplicable behavior. She almost wanted something to be wrong, just so Jolie and Rex wouldn’t have to know her mother was the type of person to take off without a word and skip her only daughter’s twenty-first birthday dinner. It wasn’t fair to take out her frustration on Lucy. She was a kind, decent woman married to a hard-driving FBI agent who’d whisked her from her home and work in Northern Virginia to a new life in Boston, running a fabulous little knitting shop, reinventing herself.

  “I wish I’d brought Verity here last week,” Adalyn said. “She’d love this shop.”

  “I hope she returns to Boston and I have a chance to meet her then.”

  “People recover from serious drug overdoses. I know that, but what if she has permanent brain damage? What if she can’t walk, can’t read—can’t hear? I’d rather die.”

  “That’s an understandable reaction.”

  Lucy adjusted a chair at the table. She didn’t seem awkward at all. Her training, Adalyn supposed. “But don’t put myself in Verity’s shoes, right? That’s what my mother would say if she were here. I should go. I should buy something first, though. I’ve taken up your time—”

  “It’s okay. Stop in anytime, Adalyn. As you can see, I’m not swamped with walk-ins.”

  She didn’t seem worried about her lack of customers, either. “Thank you, Lucy. I guess I needed to talk to someone. It’s soothing to be in here. You�
�re soothing. The shop will do great once word gets out. Tell Matt—Agent Yankowski—I said hi, okay?”

  “I will do so.” Lucy opened the door. “At least the heat is supposed to break today. I’m tired of the grumbling. You and I have been through Washington summers.”

  “This isn’t so bad compared to DC, but compared to London—” Adalyn forced a smile. “I could do with a nice, cool, misting London rain right now.”

  Another quick goodbye and Adalyn was on her way down the stairs. Knitting. She was going to learn and whip up cute little blankets with the coziest yarn Lucy offered that would also be safe for babies.

  She checked her phone. Still nothing from her mother.

  She shoved her phone back in her bag, resisting the urge to turn it off or throw it into a trash can. Maybe that was what her mother had done with her phone. She felt good about resisting, since the last thing she wanted right now was to think of herself as a chip off the old maternal block.

  If not for Verity’s overdose, would the FBI have knocked on Jolie’s studio door that morning? Adalyn found herself wishing Graham and Verity had stayed in England last week. “Please let Verity be okay,” she whispered to herself.

  She ducked into a coffee shop. A cold brew and a veggie quiche on her own, and she’d be back to herself. She’d review every word she’d said to Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan, but she was sure she hadn’t lied to them, even if she hadn’t told them every single thing. They hadn’t asked, had they? She could call her father and go over everything with him, but that was asking for trouble. He’d call some lawyer friend in Boston or be on a plane to Boston himself within the hour, and she just wanted to enjoy her lunch and not think about her mother, Stefan Petrescu and the Blackwoods.

  11

  Heron’s Cove, Maine

  Emma took a call from Sam Padgett in the parking lot behind the inn next to Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. Children were tossing stones into the tidal river. A pair of kayakers paddled toward the narrow channel leading to the Atlantic. Most of the working and pleasure boats that moored on the river were out for the day. Emma welcomed the cooler, salt-tinged coastal Maine air, the cry of seagulls, the putter of a lobster boat—familiar, comfortable sights, smells and sounds.

  “I texted you and Colin the car rental information for both Tamara McDermott and Graham Blackwood,” Sam said. “Tamara rented her car for three weeks and indicated she’d be taking it to Nova Scotia. Graham planned to return his car later today.”

  “Did he reschedule his flight?”

  “Not yet.”

  Emma edged toward the low hedges that separated the Sharpe backyard from the parking lot. Colin was already up on the retaining wall, looking out at the water. He’d been a marine patrol officer before heading to Quantico. Before that, through high school and college, a lobsterman. “Tamara would probably take a ferry to Nova Scotia.”

  “We’re checking to see if she has a reservation,” Sam said.

  No surprise. He and the HIT team were thorough. “I reached the owner of the apartment Tamara rented in Boston. Nothing to offer,” Sam added. “I did a quick check on the Blackwoods. Graham started his think tank five years ago and funded it himself to get it off the ground. He keeps it going through speaking and consulting fees and the occasional donation. It has no staff to speak of. He hires virtual assistants and temps when needed. The Blackwoods seem to live beneath their means.”

  “Oliver said the Blackwood home is nice but not grand.”

  “Oliver. I didn’t mention his name when I spoke to Scotland Yard.”

  Their British art thief wasn’t one of Sam’s favorites, either. Emma let it go. “Anything else, Sam?”

  “Most of the money’s from the Blackwoods. Verity comes from more modest means. Father was a university administrator, mother was a homemaker. No kids.”

  “I suppose they could be planning to start a family.”

  “Hope for me yet,” Sam said. “Graham traveled to the US twice in the past eighteen months on think tank business. Washington, DC, and New York. Not to Boston. No indication he met with anyone from DOJ, including Tamara McDermott.”

  “Did you get anything on Stefan Petrescu when you spoke with Scotland Yard?”

  “He was an occasional consultant with the think tank on culture and language. He had a wide range of knowledge, but his main expertise was in Eastern European languages and dialects. He was shot on his way home to Oxford from London two weeks ago.”

  “British police are going to want anything we have,” Emma said.

  “They already told me that. They believe Petrescu was targeted. He always stopped in the same spot to stretch his legs on the drive home from London. Everyone knew in his circle of friends and colleagues. His friends teased him about it.” Sam paused. “The Blackwoods aren’t under suspicion at the moment.”

  “Their friend’s death prompted them to come to the US. Any drug connection?”

  “Not yet. The detectives will take another look, given Verity’s overdose.”

  “Makes sense.” Emma started through the hedges, a route she’d taken hundreds of times to visit her grandparents. “Anything else, Sam?”

  “I spoke with Tamara’s boss. She’s been working flat-out for months and was overdue for a break. She’s had threats against her but nothing active or credible. Boss doesn’t think she’s the type to go off the beam. Does think she’s been under personal strain since she and her husband split.”

  That was all Sam had. “Thanks,” Emma said. “We’ll stay in touch.”

  She and Colin met on the soft grass behind the gray-shingled house where Wendell Sharpe had started his art detective business sixty years ago. Where he and his wife had raised a son, indulged two grandchildren and enjoyed more than forty years together. Lucas, Emma’s older brother, ran Sharpe Fine Art Recovery now that their grandfather was semiretired in Dublin. He’d had the old house gutted to the studs and renovated it to a high standard. No more offices that felt like bedrooms, or bathrooms with claw-foot tubs. Although small, Sharpe Fine Art Recovery was a state-of-the-art business ready for its next half century.

  Emma filled Colin in on her call with Sam. “We can’t get tunnel vision,” she said when she finished. “Tamara could simply have left early for vacation.”

  They started across the yard. Emma waved to her father and brother on the back porch, the one part of the house unchanged since the renovations. She went ahead of Colin up the stairs. Timothy and Lucas Sharpe looked like father and son, but Emma shared the Sharpe fair coloring if not the lanky build.

  “Not a bad place to work,” she said, smiling.

  “We do have the life,” Lucas said. “No complaints today, anyway. Talk to me in February.”

  He’d never expected to run the family business on his own, but he’d taken to the role—although no one would call Wendell Sharpe fully retired. Timothy Sharpe, on the other hand, had given up any operational position after a debilitating fall on the ice when Emma was in her teens. He focused on research and analysis, and didn’t keep regular hours. He and her mother had returned to Heron’s Cove that spring after a year in London, a change of scenery they’d hoped would help him cope with the chronic pain he’d endured since his mishap.

  Emma gave her father a quick hug, but she could tell from his stiff movements, the tightness around his mouth and the gray cast to his skin that he was in pain. He pointed at three quart-size green cardboard boxes of wild blueberries lined up on a small table by the back door. “You’d think we were expecting you,” he said. “I know how much you love wild blueberries.”

  She laughed. “August in Maine.”

  “Your mother and I got out early, before the heat built up. She did most of the work but I did all right. We went to the patch out by the beach where we used to take you and Lucas when you were small.”

  “I remember,” Emma said. “They loo
k fantastic.”

  “You’ll have to take two quarts. They freeze well. Lucas isn’t interested.”

  Her brother grinned at her. “I’m interested in you taking a quart and bringing it back as a pie.”

  “Nothing I’d like better.” Pie-baking was her favorite homebody activity to de-stress and enjoy herself. It beat cleaning.

  “But it’s not why you’re here.” Lucas nodded to Colin, now his brother-in-law. “You’ve got that look, Special Agent Donovan.”

  “It’s the suit,” Colin said. “How are you, Lucas?”

  “All right. Granddad emailed Dad and me a little while ago. He told us about Verity Blackwood, and he said he was flying back to Ireland and not to worry. I can show you the email if you’d like.”

  Colin motioned toward the back door. “Why don’t I check with the receptionist? She’ll have it, won’t she?”

  Lucas nodded. “No problem.”

  Emma watched Colin go inside. The porch led into the brand-new kitchen. Only the view was the same as when her grandmother had taught her how to bake pies. Lucas had carved out a suite for their grandfather should he ever return to Maine—but he never would, not to live. Dublin was home now. That he hadn’t copied Emma on the email didn’t offend her. She wasn’t a part of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. He was okay. That was all that mattered.

  She’d called ahead. Lucas knew why she was here. But it was her father who turned to her. “The Blackwoods rented a house out by the cove near the convent. We don’t know them. Verity stopped here on Friday, and I ran into her on Saturday on my walk.”

  Emma sat on a chair by the table with the blueberries. “Details, please.”

  Lucas leaned against the porch rail, his back to the yard and the river. “I wasn’t here on Friday. I was at lunch in the village. Verity dropped in just after noon. She introduced herself to Ginny, our new receptionist. She didn’t have an appointment and didn’t make one, and she didn’t say what she wanted, if anything. Occasionally we get drop-ins who just want to see the place—especially in high tourist season. Granddad would argue the point, but he’s something of a legend these days. Ginny says Verity stayed about five minutes, and she was here on her own. If her husband was with her, he waited outside. Ginny didn’t see him or anyone else.”