Ah, he missed her. She’d died when he was in his twenties, but it might have been yesterday.
He was aware of Aoife watching him with concern.
Everything about Verity Blackwood’s overdose and Graham Blackwood’s death bothered him.
Everything.
Oliver had told him about Graham. I’m not sure I’m supposed to know.
That meant Henrietta Balfour or his MI5 handler had told him. Wendell had nothing to add to what he’d told the detectives last night in London, but they had his contact information if they wanted to reach him. Now that Verity’s husband was dead, they might.
The police in Maine sure as hell knew how to reach him. His FBI granddaughter would see to it.
Emma and a young nun found him, Wendell.
Oliver had sounded shaken.
Drugs. Opioids. Overdoses.
Not Wendell’s world, not his area of expertise.
“My family worries about me if I set foot out of Dublin,” he said.
“By yourself,” Aoife said. “With someone, perhaps they wouldn’t worry so much.”
“A chaperone?” He snorted. “That’ll be the day. You going to rat me out?”
Aoife smiled, her very blue eyes shining with amusement. “That’s not my role in the lives of the Sharpe family, is it?”
“Or anyone’s life. You’re not a snitch. You’ve never said you painted that one landscape that remains unreturned.”
“It’s where it’s meant to be,” she said.
“You think it speaks to our thief’s soul.”
“Perhaps.”
Wendell raised his whiskey glass. He and Aoife had finished the last of a bottle of Bracken 12 year old. His family kept tabs on him now that he was in his eighties. His eightieth birthday had flipped their worry switch. He’d gone from the eccentric private art detective, father and grandfather on his own in Dublin, no problem, no one bugging him to make sure he hadn’t passed out on the bathroom floor, to his family performing regular “wellness checks,” as his daughter-in-law called them. It was one of those things in life that was both annoying and comforting—not that they could do much to help from Maine or Boston if he wandered off and couldn’t find his way home.
Home being his place in Dublin.
He’d been born in Ireland and lived there until the age of two, but he’d returned sixteen years ago to open up offices in Dublin. His wife had died. He’d needed to make a big change in his life. He’d assumed he’d go home to Heron’s Cove one day, but in the weeks before Emma and Colin’s June wedding—on his last visit to Maine—he’d discovered it was the other way around. He’d come home to Ireland. He’d die here, when the time came.
“Do you know anything about Fletcher Campbell?” he asked.
Aoife threw one leg over the other and leaned forward. “An intriguing non sequitur. He’s a well-known American painter.”
“What’s he like?”
“We’ve never met.”
“Reputation,” Wendell said, sensing she was stalling.
“He’s rumored to have an eye for women not his wife. Fletch the Lech. That’s what people call him behind his back, not that he’d care. I’ve never understood artists who use creativity as an excuse for their libertine ways.”
“The guy’s a pig like any other pig. But no denying he’s a great artist?”
“We’ll see if his work stands the test of time.” She leaned back, looking a bit guilty. “I suppose we should use the past tense. I understand he has advanced Alzheimer’s.”
“That’s what I hear, too,” Wendell said. “Any rumors the Campbells were involved in drugs?”
“No, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Every rumor I have heard suggests both Fletcher and Ophelia, his wife, were self-indulgent hedonists. I try not to judge, but that lifestyle is so beyond what I can fathom.”
Wendell drank more of his whiskey. It was damn good stuff. He knew he probably should stick to enjoying his evening and never mind about the Campbells, but Oliver had asked about them. “You live a fairly solitary life yourself,” he said.
Aoife glanced away. “I have Kitty, my nephew, friends.” She shifted back to Wendell. “You’re in a mood, aren’t you? Finish your whiskey, get a good night’s sleep, indulge in a full Irish breakfast and then go home to Dublin and have a pint with the lads. It’s not a bad thing to retire, you know. You can enjoy your status as an art detective legend.”
“For the love of Mary, now I know I’ve got one foot in the grave.”
She laughed. “An art detective of great charm, knowledge and vigor. How’s that?”
“Better. Ever hear rumors of forgeries and the Campbells?”
“Oh, my, no, never.”
“Such rumors alone could distort the market for their work,” Wendell said.
Any spark faded from Aoife’s eyes. “Yes, they could. It’s awkward to say, but with Ophelia’s death and now Fletcher’s illness, there won’t be any more art from them, and that, as you know, is likely to drive up the value of their body of work, particularly Fletcher’s since he’s more highly regarded.”
“The fire at his painting studio in the US destroyed some of their inventory.”
Aoife shuddered. “Terrible to think about. I don’t care if my work goes up in price after I’m gone. I won’t be around for it to matter. But losing unfinished or recently finished work while I’m here—I wouldn’t like that at all.”
“But you’d get through it,” Wendell said.
“I would.”
“You’re resilient. Speaking of which, have you heard from our priest friend lately?”
“No,” she said, perhaps too quickly.
Wendell decided not to push her. There was something there between Aoife O’Byrne and Finian Bracken, an Irish priest who’d found his way to a small parish in the struggling fishing village of Rock Point, Maine. Colin Donovan’s hometown. “Father Bracken officiated at Emma and Colin’s wedding.” Aoife knew that, of course. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay for it.”
“They understood, Wendell. Everyone did.”
“And it’s done now.”
Aoife got up and came around the table to kiss him on the cheek. “Finding that poor woman last night was a shock. Take care, okay? Sean Murphy is at the farm. I’m sure he’ll be happy to drive you back up to Dublin. You’re just staying the night, aren’t you?”
“Just the night,” Wendell said. “I don’t know about a three-hour drive with an Irish detective.”
Aoife grinned. “Oh, no worries, Sean can probably get you to Dublin in two-and-a-half hours.”
She winked and headed back into the hotel.
Sean Murphy owned a farm in Declan’s Cross and was engaged to Aoife’s sister, Kitty, but he was also a senior garda detective in Dublin. He and Finian Bracken were good friends, dating back to Sean’s investigation into the untimely deaths of Finian’s wife and two young daughters in a sailing accident off the Irish coast.
Wendell tossed the rest of his whiskey into the grass next to the stone patio. Anathema, but finishing it would be a mistake tonight. He felt his weariness straight to his bones. He got to his feet, noticing rabbits hopping in the garden. This part of the south Irish coast was Saint Declan country. He was a healer credited with founding Ireland’s first Christian settlement. Some said he was a contemporary of or even predated Saint Patrick. Ruins, holy wells, trails and no small number of miracles were a tribute to his mark in the region more than fifteen hundred years ago.
What mark will I leave?
Wendell shook off the question. He was in a mood. He wasn’t sure what had gripped him since he’d switched his flight from Dublin to Cork, knowing he had to be here in Declan’s Cross. It wasn’t fear of his own death. He’d seen his wife die. He’d held her hand as she’d taken her last breath, and he’d thought...why can’t
I go with her?
He left the stone patio, zipping up his lightweight jacket as he slipped into the village with its brightly painted houses and shops.
The brisk evening air and a good walk.
All he needed. He’d be fine by morning.
* * *
Wendell expected to turn around after a short walk, but he kept going, past the bookshop and up the hill onto the headland above the village. He worked up a sweat, and his heart was racing by the time he reached the open, grass-covered hill at the tip of the headland. Three ornately carved stone Celtic crosses—taller than he was—commanded an impressive view of the sea. It was dusk now, the light slowly leaking out of the summer sky. He couldn’t linger or for sure someone back at the hotel would sound the alarm.
The crosses, an old church ruin, lichen-covered gravestones, pasture, sheep and sea—this was the scene depicted in the one painting Oliver York hadn’t returned to its owner. Although Wendell had never seen it, he was convinced it was an early Aoife O’Byrne work.
And this was the spot where Oliver had stayed that November night a decade ago, hiding with his loot, keeping his demons at bay.
Or maybe not. Maybe his demons had followed him out here. The ruins were similar to the ones he’d escaped as a traumatized eight-year-old.
Two Jack Butler Yeats Irish landscapes, an early, unsigned Aoife O’Byrne landscape and a silver Celtic cross commemorating Saint Declan. Not a bad haul for a night’s work, but Oliver had never profited. The stolen art was back where it belonged, in the O’Byrne House drawing room and above the mantel in the lounge. Except for Aoife’s painting, of course.
Wendell touched the stone of the first cross, carved with knots, circles and swirls and familiar symbols that represented Saint Declan. His staff, his bell, the boulder that had led him to Ardmore, where he’d built his monastery. To this day, the faithful would come to Ardmore for Saint Declan’s healing miracles, particularly with back ailments. Wendell had mentioned it to his son. Could the waters of a holy well or the purported powers of an unusual boulder be any less worthy than some of the other treatments Timothy had pursued over the years? What if one of them helped him, for whatever reason?
As the light faded, Wendell heard a cry that went straight to his bones. It wasn’t a seagull or another seabird, or a sea creature—a porpoise, a whale, a seal.
He knew what it was, this strange, terrible keening.
A warning, an alert.
A promise of death coming to someone he loved.
The cry of a solitary banshee.
I’m from the ancient families of Ireland, Wendell. That means you are, too.
His mother, many decades ago. She’d been a hardworking woman. He’d always appreciated her grit and intelligence, but never more so than in his old age. She’d seen so much of life by twenty, when she’d married his father.
Once you hear the wail of a banshee, my boy, you’ll know it’s real.
He didn’t doubt his mother’s sincerity, but he didn’t believe in such things.
Yet here it was.
The wailing and keening stopped. His soul ached. He held back tears. He exhaled, hoping never to hear such an eerie sound again, whatever its source, whatever its meaning. He walked down the hill and climbed over an ancient stone wall, covered with moss, wildflowers and small trees, out to the lane. He wished now he hadn’t come this far, but maybe he’d been drawn up here by the banshee.
“I should have finished my whiskey.”
Or had less of it, perhaps.
His attempt at humor didn’t help. The lane meandered through a pasture marked off with barbed wire. He clicked his tongue, and a fat sheep lumbered to him. He patted her soft wool. “I don’t have anything for you, lass. I’m not here for you. I’m here for myself.”
She didn’t seem to mind. He left her and continued on his way. If it had been a banshee he’d heard and it had cried for him, he hoped he could wait until he got back to Dublin and die in his own bed.
But as he descended into the village, he knew the banshee hadn’t warned of his death. Emma? Was she in danger? He couldn’t bear the thought.
“Must have been a trick of the wind.”
He wasn’t one to mutter to himself, but the night called for it.
When he reached the hotel, he went in through the front door and straight up the stairs, past the drawing room where the two Jack Butler Yeats paintings were back on the walls. There were more recent works by Aoife O’Byrne, too. Rainbows, sunsets and sunrises, seascapes, laundry hanging on a line—the moodiness, the colors, the eye and the skill of the artist lifted her ordinary Irish scenes into the extraordinary.
Or so people told him. Wendell just liked them.
When he entered his room and shut the door, he felt no sense of relief, no easing of whatever had gripped his soul since discovering Verity Blackwood last night.
It was quiet, at least. No banshee.
Housekeeping had been in and done the turndown. Shades and drapes pulled, throw pillows and bedspread placed on a chair, towels changed. Soft music played on the radio. Wendell had made sure he wasn’t in any of the rooms Emma and Colin had shared during their visits to Declan’s Cross. He hadn’t wanted that image swirling in his head. They were a pair, suited to each other even if no one, including him, would have put them together. He believed to his core that Colin would love, protect and cherish Emma to the end of his days.
As she would him.
Wendell went to the windows and peeked behind a heavy drape. A wisp of a gray cloud had slipped into the evening sky, appropriate somehow, he thought. He let the drape fall back into place and decided he’d skip a nightcap, the piano in the lounge and laughs with other guests and get some sleep, or at least try.
14
Rock Point, Maine
Finian Bracken had seen to whiskey being poured and delivered to his table by the windows at Hurley’s, a fixture on Rock Point harbor. Colin noticed three glasses as he and Emma joined their Irish friend. “I took the liberty when I saw you come through the door,” Finian said. He was in his usual clerical garb, his Kerry accent as rich as it had been his first day in Maine just over a year ago. “I was able to talk Johnny Hurley into stocking a new Bracken Distillers expression. It’s been a day, hasn’t it?”
Colin sat next to Emma, across from Finian. A few sips of the latest Bracken Distillers whiskey, sent by Declan Bracken, Finian’s twin brother in Ireland, were in order. They’d started the distillery together in their early twenties, long before Finian had considered becoming a priest.
Finian had already heard about the discovery of a body out by the convent. Colin wasn’t surprised. He picked up his glass. “It’s been a hell of a day, Fin.”
“How is Sister Cecilia?”
“Shaken but coping,” Emma said.
Finian nodded, his eyes serious, warm with compassion. “I’ll go see her tomorrow.”
He had training in helping people through trauma and his own experience with tragedy. Now, eight years after his wife and two young daughters were killed in a freak sailing accident, he was the sole priest at Rock Point’s struggling Roman Catholic church. A one-year appointment had turned into an indefinite stay. A whiskey man turned priest. It worked. He was educating his FBI friends on the charms of whiskey, particularly Irish whiskey, and upgrading their whiskey tastes in the process. Colin sometimes thought it was part of rather than in addition to Finian’s priestly duties.
Finian raised his glass. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte,” Colin said in unison with Emma as they raised their glasses.
He heard the crack in her voice, noticed the strain in her green eyes. He had considerable experience, given his undercover work, in hiding his true feelings, but finding Graham Blackwood dead had affected him, too. A drug buy gone bad? An accident, given his inexperience kayaking? Still no answe
rs, but Colin knew it was early in the investigation. If Sister Cecilia had, in fact, heard Graham on Sunday while searching for wild mushrooms, who had been with him? Tamara McDermott was a possibility. She’d have had time to get there after she’d left Emma. It was a leap, but Colin wasn’t in charge of the death investigation. He could indulge leaps. What if Tamara had gone to meet Graham and found him dead? What if she’d killed him? Had she planned to get back to Boston for her daughter’s birthday dinner? Where the hell was she now? Had Graham’s killer grabbed her? Killed her? Was her body out there for another young nun to discover?
Colin gulped his whiskey. It wasn’t like him to bombard himself with unanswerable questions.
Finian set his glass on the table. He had angular features, clear, penetrating blue eyes and an amiable manner that made it easy to forget his own suffering, the depths of his knowledge after six years in seminary and just how damn stubborn he could be. He was opinionated about whiskey. In his view, after years maturing in a barrel, a good whiskey deserved to be enjoyed on its own, without water or ice. That he and Colin had become fast friends was as unexpected as it was incontrovertible.
“We’re not much company,” Emma said. “Sorry.”
Finian winked at her. “That’s why we have whiskey.” He ran a fingertip on the rim of his glass. “I have a message for you. Aoife O’Byrne called. She asked me to tell you she had whiskey and a chat with your grandfather.”
“In Dublin? I thought she was still in Declan’s Cross.”
“She is. Wendell is there, too. He’s staying at Kitty’s hotel.”
“Why?”
“He told Aoife to consider him off with the fairies.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Colin asked.
“She thinks finding this woman last night got to him. He asked Aoife about an American artist, Fletcher Campbell. Quite the rake, apparently. She felt guilty for gossiping since he’s terminally ill now.”
Emma sipped her whiskey. “My grandfather has a knack for getting people to tell him things.”
Finian smiled. “I believe many of us have experienced that knack.”
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