Impostor's Lure

by Carla Neggers

  “I saw her around eight the next morning,” their father said, pacing. He touched a fingertip to a blueberry stain on his knuckle. “I was on my morning walk—I went through the village and out to the convent. It’s one of my usual routes. It’s quiet roads to the house the Blackwoods rented. I often turn around there, but sometimes I continue onto a trail to the old stone gazebo that used to be part of the estate the convent took over. The trail gets rough. A lot of tree roots and rocks. Cell coverage is spotty out there, so I don’t go that far often.”

  “I know the house you’re talking about,” Emma said. “Is that where you ran into Verity?”

  He nodded. “I’d just gone past the house onto the trail. I was feeling great and wanted to take advantage of the good weather. I don’t know if Verity saw me on walks earlier in the week, but she knew who I was. She said she’d seen Faye and me in the village on Friday afternoon when she was at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart’s shop. She was looking at pottery and mentioned she’d stopped here. One of the sisters identified us.”

  Emma picked a tiny leaf out of one of the quarts of blueberries. “Which sister, do you know?”

  “I didn’t ask. Verity said she was interested in the sisters’ work. That’s why she and her husband chose that particular house. They were thrilled it was available. We had a brief conversation. I didn’t think much of it, to be honest. She said she was returning to London that evening and wanted to get some questions answered about forgeries. It’s not my area of expertise.” He paused, balling his hands into fists, and cleared his throat. “I put her in touch with Dad—with your grandfather. I gave her his name, phone number and email. I wrote them down. I carry a Field Notes journal and a pencil with me on my walks, in case I have any brilliant ideas. I rarely do, but sometimes I jot down something I think of and don’t want to forget, or I sketch a bird or flower I want to look up later.”

  “Tell me about Verity, Dad,” Emma said. “How did she strike you?”

  “She wanted answers to her questions, but she didn’t appear to be upset. She wasn’t obviously under the influence of narcotics.” He opened his fists, breathed out. “I’m familiar with the signs, given my own medical history. Except for an interest in forgeries, she seemed like a happy, ordinary tourist enjoying a few days on the Maine coast. She had on a moose T-shirt she’d picked up in the village. She got a big kick out of it. She asked if her sport sandals would be suitable for kayaking. The rental house comes with two sit-on-top ocean kayaks. She said she and her husband wanted to go paddling before they headed to the airport.”

  Emma found a loose stem in the blueberries. “Did you see Graham, her husband?”

  Her father shook his head. “I didn’t see anyone else. Verity apologized for interrupting my walk. She said she didn’t want to take up my time with her questions.” He smiled slightly. “I thought she had kayaking and her last day in Maine on her mind.”

  Lucas stood straight. “Did she seem troubled to you, Dad?”

  “Not really, no. I’d have done more to help her.”

  “Did she mention any names to you?” Emma asked him.

  “Lucas, your grandfather, Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, the name of the shop where she bought the T-shirt and her husband. Do you know how she’s doing, Emma?”

  She took her tiny leaf and stem to the porch rail and tossed them into the grass. “Doctors are optimistic she’ll survive. Graham Blackwood didn’t go back to London with her. He canceled his flight at the last minute. We want to find him. Did Verity say anything that might help?”

  “No,” her father said. “Nothing.”

  Emma dug out her phone and swiped to a photograph of Verity Blackwood. “Dad, is this the woman you met on Saturday?”

  He glanced at the photo and nodded. “That’s her.”

  She slid the phone into the pocket of her lightweight jacket. “Are you both familiar with Fletcher and Ophelia Campbell?”

  “Of course,” Lucas said. “They’ve never been clients if that’s your next question.”

  “Could Granddad have worked with them and not told you?”

  “It’s possible but unlikely. Dad? Is that right as far as you know?”

  He nodded, a pinched look to his eyes now. “I don’t know why they’d have reason to hire us. What’s this about, Emma?”

  “What about the name Stefan Petrescu?”

  No recognition. Emma didn’t provide further details and swiped to a photo of Tamara McDermott. She showed it to her father and brother, but they didn’t recognize her and hadn’t seen her, certainly not in the past few days. Emma tucked her phone back in her jacket. “If you see her or Graham or discover any additional information on them, get in touch with me right away, okay?”

  “Sure, Emma,” her father said. He looked spent. He gestured vaguely toward the porch stairs. “Okay if I run along?”

  “It’s fine. Thanks for your help.”

  “I’m sorry about Mrs. Blackwood. I hope she pulls through.” He blew Emma a kiss and winked, managing a smile. “Love you, Special Agent Sharpe.”

  “Love you, too, Dad.”

  Lucas stood next to her as they watched their father limp down the stairs and shuffle across the small lawn, then squeeze between the hedges to the parking lot. “I helped him bring up the blueberries,” Lucas said. “He’ll be done for the day now.”

  “Is he in more pain than usual?”

  “Probably. All the signs are there. He won’t say, and I won’t ask.”

  That was the unspoken agreement between them and their father. If he wanted to talk about how he was feeling, he’d initiate that conversation. He didn’t want them asking. He didn’t take their not asking as a sign they didn’t care but as respecting his wishes. He didn’t want pain to dominate their relationship. It had consequences, but, as he put it, so did everything in life. He didn’t minimize his condition, but he did what he could to manage it in ways that suited him. Acupuncture, yoga, physical therapy, relaxation techniques. Anything to keep him off prescription pain medication.

  “Anything else?” her brother asked her.

  “Just blueberry related.”

  He grinned at her. “Take them if you’d like.”

  “I’ll leave a quart for you to give away, unless you get the unlikely urge to bake. I’ll freeze at least one quart and make a pie at Thanksgiving.”

  “Works for me, but there’s no chance I’ll get the urge to bake.” Lucas was visibly more relaxed. “I’ll let you know if I hear from Granddad. Keep me posted as you’re able, okay?”

  She promised she would. She grabbed her two quarts of blueberries and followed him through the kitchen to the office, in the front room where their grandfather had launched Sharpe Fine Art Recovery as a young museum guard and the son of Irish immigrant domestics. Lucas said goodbye and headed upstairs to his office overlooking the water. Colin had gone outside to wait. Ginny Bosko, the newly hired receptionist, confirmed Lucas’s version of her story and nodded when Emma showed her Verity’s photo. “That’s her. That’s the woman who was here on Friday.” Ginny was in her early twenties, with a strong interest in taking on more administrative duties at Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. “It’s good to finally meet you and Agent Donovan.”

  Emma thanked her and joined Colin out front. He squinted at her in the sunlight. “You came out of this with blueberries.”

  “They’re still warm from the sun.”

  “I can smell the pie already.”

  “The Blackwoods rented the last house between the village and the convent.”

  He nodded. “I know the one.”

  * * *

  A stiff breeze caught the ends of Emma’s hair and whipped a few strands into her face. She brushed them aside, and Colin noticed her eyes had taken on the blues of the ocean in front of her. Waves washed onto seaweed-covered rocks and subme
rged tide pools. He was familiar with this stretch of jagged Maine coastline. A trail led through rugosa-rose bushes down to a cove formed, in part, by the small peninsula that belonged to the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. Its buildings weren’t visible from where he and Emma stood.

  “I haven’t been out here in a long time,” she said. “I used to take a trail down the hill from the convent, through the woods. It connected with this trail. I’d walk out here and into the village. My father’s route in reverse.”

  “Were you sneaking out of the convent?”

  “No. Thinking.”

  Colin wasn’t surprised. She was analytical, thoughtful. He was more reactive, tended to rely on his instincts, tempered by training and experience. Emma could jump into action when necessary.

  “I’d visit my parents in the village, walk out to Ocean Ave. to see Lucas, get an ice cream. Sometimes I’d kayak here in the cove.”

  “In your nun’s habit?”

  “It was very practical.”

  “More than this suit. If I’d known you back then, I could have shown you my favorite spots to kayak.”

  She smiled at him. “I bet you could have.”

  “Even if I thought you were cute, I’d have respected you as Sister Brigid.” He nodded toward the convent, a former Victorian estate the Sisters of the Joyful Heart had purchased decades ago. It’d been crumbling, but they’d gone to work, transforming it bit by bit into the restful, beautiful place it was now. “Who knows, maybe we’re dealing with forger nuns.”

  Emma sighed. “I appreciate your sense of humor. I do.”

  He grinned at her. “We make a good team.”

  No argument from her. “We don’t know if Verity Blackwood’s questions about forgeries have anything to do with her overdose or Graham’s decision to stay here—or with Tamara McDermott’s behavior.”

  “Could be a husband-wife situation—a fight over money, art, duplicity, secrets.” Colin shrugged, turning away from the water. “Interesting they chose this rental house.”

  They’d parked in a turnaround on the narrow dead-end road. The house was modern with decks and floor-to-ceiling windows. The ocean views alone would guarantee a high rental or selling price. Emma started across the road. Colin fell in behind her. They stopped at a navy blue Mercedes SUV in the driveway. “Graham’s rental,” Emma said.

  Colin peered through the driver’s window. He could see plastic water bottles, a rental agreement, an orange rain jacket. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Colin.” Emma stared at the ground between the car and the house. “That’s a syringe.”

  He moved in closer to her. The syringe lay in the grass by the driveway, as if someone had dropped it on the way inside. “Drugs?”

  “Oliver said it looked as if Verity took pills. He didn’t see any syringes in her hotel room.”

  “Maybe the police found some when they searched it.”

  She stood straight, another gust of wind blowing through her hair. “I suppose Verity could have injected herself somewhere else and tossed the evidence before she arrived at the hotel, but if it was enough for an overdose—” Emma shook her head. “I doubt that’s what happened.”

  “Pills and an injection, maybe. Add a glass of wine, and you’ve got a deadly opioid nightcap.”

  “Or she does pills and Graham does injections.”

  They could speculate the rest of the day. Colin left the syringe where it was and stepped onto a stone walk that led to a side entrance. The door stood wide open. There wasn’t a screen door. “I see it,” Emma said behind him.

  He stood in the doorway. “Mr. Blackwood? Graham? It’s Special Agent Colin Donovan with the FBI. I’m with Special Agent Emma Sharpe. We’d like to talk to you. Make sure you’re okay.”

  No response. Colin called again. Still nothing. He glanced at Emma, and she nodded. With the syringe, and Verity Blackwood fighting for her life in a London hospital, they went into the house.

  They checked the lower level. Two bedrooms, shared bath, utility room. Untouched, from the looks of them. They returned to the side entrance and headed up open stairs to the main level. They came directly to a large living-dining room with tall windows and glass doors opening onto a deck that took advantage of the location with its views of the ocean. The only signs anyone had been there were a few out-of-place pillows and rumpled cushions on a large sectional. A dining table, which seated eight, appeared untouched. The kitchen, off the dining area, had a few more signs of life. Coffee mug in the sink, stray grounds and toast crumbs on the counter, gray hoodie hanging on the back of a bar stool.

  They didn’t linger, instead continuing down a short hall to the master suite. It had windows on three sides, including the front with its ocean view, but the shades were drawn. A suitcase was open on the bed, empty, as if ready for its owner to pack up. A man’s clothes were neatly stacked on the bed next to the suitcase. Colin glanced in the master bathroom. Used white towels were draped on the side of the tub and over the door to the separate shower. Shaving gear and other personal items were in a kit open on the sink, ready to be zipped up for packing.

  “House is clear,” Emma said. “Where’s our British tourist?”

  They returned to the main room. Colin looked out at the water, choppy with the stiffening breeze ahead of the cold front. No intruder, no one in distress, no drugs out in the open. “It’s a nice spot. Naturalized yard in back. Ocean in front. Dead end, so no passing traffic.”

  Emma stood next to him. “It’s early enough he could be taking a spin on a kayak before heading to Boston and a long flight to London.”

  “That’s what I’d do. Is it what Graham Blackwood would do?”

  “He hasn’t booked his return flight yet. I don’t have a good sense of him. The cove is a great spot for kayaking.”

  They headed back down the stairs and out the side door. They checked a small shed, which, too, stood open. It contained the usual paraphernalia of a Maine summer home.

  Emma pointed at a bright orange sit-on-top kayak leaned up against a wall. “Only one kayak. Verity told my father there were two kayaks. Maybe Kevin will have reports of injured kayakers?”

  “Yeah. I’ll call him in a sec.”

  She ducked out of the shed. Colin walked with her across the narrow road to the water’s edge. He looked down the road toward the village. She looked toward the convent.

  Nothing.

  “Car’s here,” Colin said. “If Graham took off on a kayak, he must have launched from close by the house.”

  “Unless someone picked him up, or stole the kayak, or he wants us to think he’s disappeared or—” Emma sighed. “Or aliens beamed him up to their spaceship.”

  “There’s always that.”

  “If he launched here and he’s inexperienced, I would think he wouldn’t go too far beyond the cove. It gets rough out toward the tip of the peninsula. It’s possible he could have paddled toward the village, but why would he?”

  “It’d be a haul,” Colin said. “Then again, he isn’t here. The kayak in the shed has good stability for ocean conditions. It wouldn’t tip over easily. The weather’s been decent the past few days. Graham wouldn’t have encountered difficult conditions.”

  “No fog, even,” Emma said.

  “I’ve plucked dozens of kayakers out of the water after they got caught in unexpected fog. Kevin has, too. That’s not what happened to Graham Blackwood.”

  “Going to call Kevin now?”

  Colin already had his phone out. He gave his brother, a state marine patrol officer, the basics. “Be there in five,” Kevin said. He’d get in touch with the local police, too.

  Emma had her arms crossed on her chest. She stood on a boulder above the swirling tide. “Are we dealing with a kayak trip gone wrong or something else?” She glanced back at Colin. “If Graham is out on the water, when did he leave? T
he wind could have caught the door, but why not lock up behind him? Was he in a hurry? Meeting someone? High on opioids?”

  “A lot of questions,” Colin said. “We’ll get answers.”

  “Maybe a friend of the owners borrowed the kayak and Graham is somewhere else altogether.” She stared at the cove as a swell broke onto shore. “Maybe we’ll find Graham having a picnic on the rocks. Maybe he walked into the village to buy himself a moose T-shirt.”

  “Better than getting high on opioids and landing himself in real trouble.”

  “Where’s our prosecutor? She could have stopped here on the way to Nova Scotia to talk to Graham. Kevin and the local police will check, see if anyone noticed her, her rental car—it’s not as noticeable as Graham’s Mercedes, but this is a quiet area. It might have stood out. Not many people out on the water now. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to be out on these waves.” She angled Colin a look. “I bet you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Not on a day like today. In November, I’d probably mind. What do you want to do, Emma?”

  She stepped down from her boulder onto the road. “I’ll go up to the convent.”

  “Do you want to take the car?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not far. I’ll walk.”

  “If you wait until Kevin gets here, I’ll go with you.”

  “If I wait, he’s not going to want me to go up there.”

  “There’s that.” Colin decided not to argue with her. “I’ll fill Kevin in. He’ll get it. The sisters lost one of their own less than a year ago. They won’t take well to a man missing so close to them.”

  “No, they won’t,” Emma said, her back already to him as she started down the trail toward the cove and her old convent.

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