She set her glass on the table. “Thanks for letting us know. He didn’t mention Declan’s Cross to my father and brother, and he blew off my messages altogether. It’s late in Ireland now. I’ll call him tomorrow. At least he’s with people who care about him.”
As were they, Colin thought as he tuned in to their surroundings. Hurley’s was more crowded than it would be in the dead of winter, but it wasn’t a tourist hot spot. It was rustic, set up on pilings, allowing the tide to run under its floorboards. Its busy summer season helped it to stay open during winter. Out-of-town visitors discovered it by happenstance or word of mouth, not through any guidebook recommendations. Most of the food was okay. Some of it was amazing, particularly its doughnuts, chowders and fresh local fish. Right now, though, Colin was satisfied with his good Irish whiskey.
He got a text from Sam Padgett. TM is booked on Portland-to-Yarmouth CAT tomorrow.
Tamara McDermott booking the high-speed ferry made sense but Colin wasn’t relieved by the message. It only confirmed what they’d learned about her plans to go to Nova Scotia, and provided a more specific time line. Sam would have someone at the ferry and checking area lodging. Colin didn’t have to ask. He glanced at Emma, who’d received the same text. She set her phone aside and picked up her whiskey again. She didn’t look relieved, either.
Colin responded to Sam. Thanks. You still at the office?
Yep. You?
Hurley’s.
Lousy day. Later.
Colin realized he had no idea how Sam dealt with the aftermath of a day like today. They’d had a few beers and laughs together and Sam had been at their wedding in June, but he wasn’t big on sharing anything except his opinions of New England life and weather. Colin swiped to his photos of Tamara McDermott and the Blackwoods. At this point, despite the situation with the Blackwoods, Tamara’s vanishing act could be what her ex-husband and daughter had convinced themselves it was—an early departure for a planned vacation.
Colin showed Finian the photos, starting with the Blackwoods. “Do you recognize either of them, Fin?”
He shook his head. “No, sorry.”
“What about her?” Colin swiped to Tamara McDermott. “Have you seen her before?”
“I haven’t.” Finian peered at the photo. “Is one of these photos of the person you found today? I don’t know if it was a man or a woman.”
Colin slipped his phone into his jacket. “Do you recognize the names Verity Blackwood, Graham Blackwood or Tamara McDermott?”
Finian frowned, then slowly shook his head. “It’s disconcerting when I realize you know far more about a situation—a death—than you’re telling me. Is there a reason I should know these people?”
“You’re the local priest, and a local nun helped us find a body near the convent. Timothy Sharpe walks out there on a regular basis and ran into the woman Wendell found overdosed in London.”
“Ah. I see.”
No doubt he did. “Fin, if you have any information that can help us—”
“I wish I did.”
Their waiter, the nephew of a lobsterman Colin knew, arrived at their table and took their orders for haddock chowder. Colin picked up his whiskey. “Has Oliver York been in touch lately?”
Finian didn’t look as surprised as he might have. “Not in several weeks.”
“You don’t seem shocked I’m asking about him,” Colin said.
“I’ve learned to take things as they come, given the work you and Emma do.”
“But?”
“Wendell told Aoife that Oliver and Henrietta were with him last night. I haven’t spoken with Oliver myself. I know you two have an unusual friendship—”
“Oliver’s not my friend.” Colin pointed his whiskey glass at Finian. “You two, though. You’re friends.”
“Does Oliver have friends?” Finian turned to Emma. “Do you consider him a friend, Emma?”
“He’s likable,” she said.
Finian smiled at her. “A diplomatic answer. I suppose Henrietta Balfour considers herself a friend. Oliver told me she can knock back the smokiest, peatiest Scotch without breaking a sweat.”
“Sounds about right,” Colin said.
They shifted the conversation to plans for Andy Donovan and Julianne Maroney’s fall wedding. “They’ve settled on a church wedding followed by a reception at your parents’ inn,” Finian said.
Colin nodded. His parents had converted an old sea captain’s house on the harbor into an inn. His father, a retired police officer, had taken to his role as innkeeper. He loved getting up early to make fresh muffins for their guests. Colin’s mother was one of Finian’s many parishioners who adored their Irish priest—Franny Maroney, Julianne’s grandmother, was another. Colin couldn’t think of any woman in Rock Point who didn’t adore Finian Bracken.
“Frank and Rosemary insist they’re delighted to have two sons marry in the same year,” Finian added. “Andy says they’ve been lighting candles to make it happen. I wondered why your father has been coming to church. I expect Mike will be next. Kevin—he’s on this death investigation?”
“Yes,” Colin said without elaborating.
The chowders arrived, steaming, bursting with chunks of fresh haddock and potatoes, pats of butter melting into the milky broth. Perfection, Colin thought, noting the steam was turning Emma’s cheeks a healthy pink. Chowder was what she needed. The weather was turning cooler, drier. A nice evening on the southern Maine coast. It was almost midnight in England and Ireland, but he’d have no problem getting Oliver out of bed to answer questions. Even if Emma had the patience to wait until morning, Colin didn’t. To him, Oliver was an unrepentant serial art thief, no matter his tragic past and the return of the stolen art. Charming and cheeky, though, the man was hard to resist, and he did have contacts, insights and expertise that had helped British intelligence with multiple cases, including serious counterterrorism investigations.
They skipped dessert and limited themselves to one whiskey. Finian had walked to the harbor but turned down Colin’s offer of a lift to the rectory, instead setting out across the small parking lot. “One day we’ll have to bring him good news,” Colin said, standing next to Emma.
“He married us in June and danced at the reception. That was a good day.”
Colin took her hand and pulled her close. “It was a spectacular day.”
“But you want to walk back with him.”
He watched their solitary friend cross the parking lot and nodded. “See you back at the house.”
“I’ll take care of the blueberries.”
Blueberries...their visit to Maine had started with freshly picked wild blueberries. Colin sighed, kissed her on the cheek and went to catch up with Finian.
* * *
Colin walked with Finian past small houses on the quiet streets above the harbor. “Maine summers are glorious,” Finian said. “I’m sorry about this man who died, Colin. I’d rather you and Emma were in Rock Point for a pleasant break instead.”
“Her father gave us two quarts of wild blueberries. Emma will enjoy them. He and Faye picked them this morning.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Colin angled a look at his friend. “What, Fin?”
“Timothy Sharpe suffers from chronic pain. It’s nothing you don’t know. Sometimes it’s worse.”
“Lately?”
Finian sighed. “Worse. He manages, and then he’ll experience breakthrough pain. That’s what’s happening now. Aoife thinks Wendell knows, or at least senses it.”
“Interesting she called you,” Colin said.
“She’s the one who spoke to him. If it’d been Sean, he’d have called. Sean will take Wendell to Dublin in the morning. If he’s hiding anything, Sean will get it out of him. Aoife didn’t think he was. She thought he was simply melancholy.”
“Finding a
young woman near death can do that, and now her husband’s dead.” Colin left it there as they crossed a narrow street. “Ever think you misunderstood back when you decided to become a priest and God whispered, saying Aoife O’Byrne instead of Father Fin.”
Finian glanced at him. “A calling doesn’t work that way, Colin. At least it didn’t for me. I also went through a rigorous discernment process.”
“Who did the discerning?”
“Colin...”
“Sorry. I’m being an annoying ass when I’m trying to be a friend. I respect your calling, Fin. I respect that you took a vow, but it’s not a prison sentence. You can change your mind.”
“I’m where I’m meant to be.”
“Don’t say that because of me, Fin. Because of the work I do. Whether you leave the priesthood or stay, we’ll be friends.”
Finian paused in front of the rectory. “You’re preparing for another undercover assignment.”
“Emma and I found a dead man today. His wife’s fighting for her life in London.”
“If you’d like another drink, come in, but Emma will be waiting for you.”
“She’s tackling those blueberries.”
Finian smiled. “Good night, my friend.”
He walked to the side entrance of the rectory, a small Victorian house that needed work. St. Patrick’s next door had been built in the nineteenth century as a Baptist church. It, too, needed work. Colin waited until Finian went inside, shutting the door behind him. He could feel his friend’s loneliness. Discernment or no discernment, Finian Bracken was far from his home in Ireland—his twin brother who’d gone into the whiskey business with him, his three sisters, his nieces and nephews, friends, colleagues...and beautiful, creative Aoife O’Byrne, famous, dedicated to her art and fighting a forbidden love.
Colin groaned. Where had all that come from? It was far more than he wanted or needed to get into. Finding Graham Blackwood had affected him.
Then again, the day such a thing didn’t get to him, he’d quit law enforcement.
He continued the few blocks to the small Craftsman-style house he’d bought before he’d met Emma, fallen in love with her, married her. His calling? He’d ask Fin Bracken someday, preferably over whiskey. Like his Irish friend, he knew he was where he was meant to be.
Emma had already put a pie together with one of the quarts of wild blueberries her parents had picked and had it in the oven. The other quart was safely in the freezer for Thanksgiving. While rushing around the kitchen, she’d managed to get flour everywhere, including on her cheeks. In her element, Colin thought with a smile. She’d opened windows. “I want to talk to Oliver,” she said. “I want to talk to Henrietta Balfour, too.”
“If Henrietta knows anything we don’t, she might not tell us.”
Emma rinsed off her floury hands at the sink. “MI5, garden design and Oliver York. She does lead a complicated life.”
“Think she and Oliver are genuine?”
“Their relationship?” Emma reached for a towel and dried her hands. “Yes, I do. Not that MI5 wouldn’t put her up to faking a romance with him. I just think if they tried, she’d tell them to shove off.”
“Piss off I think is the relevant phrase.”
“One you’ve had used on you by an annoyed British counterpart?”
“More than once. I like Henrietta. I like Oliver, too, for that matter. I just wish he wasn’t a thief.” Colin brushed his lips across the top of Emma’s head, felt the softness of her hair. He could smell the salt in it, faint but unmistakable. And the flour. Not so faint. “Sister Cecilia told me she believes she was meant to find Graham Blackwood’s body.”
“I wished I’d ordered her to go back to the convent.”
“I think she sees today as part of her spiritual growth and healing from her ordeal last fall.”
“Wow. I hadn’t...” Emma draped her arms over his shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Didn’t expect such depth and wisdom from me, did you?” He grinned at her. “It’s the whiskey.”
“You didn’t have that much.”
“Then it’s the by-product of hanging around with priests and nuns and such. So, what do you say—do you want to call Oliver tonight or wait until tomorrow?”
“Tonight.”
“Wendell?”
“Still best to wait until first thing in the morning. The second I have half an eyelid open, I’m calling him.”
Colin wondered if she’d sleep at all tonight. “I don’t have a good feeling about Tamara,” he said.
“I don’t, either.” She sank her head against his chest. “We’ll find her. Her office is checking her cell phone calls and talking with friends and colleagues in Washington. Sam’s on it, and you know what he’s like. He doesn’t let go.”
“Sam doesn’t like being called dogged.”
“He is dogged, though. I guess we all are in our own way, or Yank wouldn’t have chosen us for HIT.”
“He didn’t choose me. He shoehorned me onto his team to keep me from getting him in trouble.”
“To keep you out of trouble.”
“Ha, right.” Their levity faded quickly. Colin put an arm around his wife. Hell, he loved saying that word, thinking it...knowing it was a fact now. He and Emma Sharpe were married. They’d be sitting in this spot in fifty years, listening to seagulls and enjoying the breeze through the screened windows. He held her tighter. “Whatever is going on, Tamara hasn’t left much of a trail.”
“Barely a crumb. Her visit yesterday felt personal, not professional, but I suppose that makes sense because she was inviting us to her daughter’s birthday dinner. She didn’t mention Stefan Petrescu, but his death and Adalyn’s having met him must have been on her mind. I want to know more about Verity’s interest in forgeries.”
“Do you want to try Oliver on your phone or give him a scare and use mine?”
Emma rolled her eyes and smiled. “You two. I’ll use my phone.”
“Make it a video call. I want to see the whites of his eyes.”
She laughed. “Video calls with Oliver York are my default. I always want to see the whites of his eyes.”
Oliver took Emma’s call from the living room of his Cotswolds farm. Colin recognized the ugly dog painting above the mantel from his and Emma’s visit in June, in the midst of Oliver’s reckoning with the two men who’d killed his parents and kidnapped him as a boy.
“Sorry to call so late,” Emma said.
Oliver yawned, his tawny hair sticking up in spots. “You caught me dozing on the couch. Do I have dog hair on me? Alfred’s been up here. He’s incorrigible. Martin spoils him. He blames me whenever Alfred acts up, of course, but it’s not my doing. But you don’t want to hear about dog hair. It’s late here. I’m about to have a good Scotch and go to bed.” He leaned closer to the screen. “Oh. I see you’re in Colin’s dreary fishing village. He’s with you?”
Emma smiled. “At my side.”
“Better a shedding dog at my side. Hello, Agent Donovan.”
Colin leaned to his right so that his face was on Oliver’s screen. “Hello, Oliver.”
The English thief and MI5 informant—or whatever they called him—went on a bit more about his wire-fox terrier, Irish whiskey and the lateness of the hour. “Henrietta’s at her aunt’s house. Well, it’s her house now, but I can still see Posey Balfour in the gardens. Henrietta said she had hours of deadheading to do. Flowers, Colin. Not people.”
Colin didn’t smile. He rarely did with Oliver. “She’s not still at it, is she?”
“No idea. She’s staying at her house. Alfred’s itching to be off to Martin’s cottage. I’ll be here alone.” His green eyes, a different, lighter shade than Emma’s green, stayed focused on the screen. “It’s not as if I’m not used to being alone.”
Melodrama, but Colin wasn’t as naturally s
ympathetic to Oliver as Emma was, whether it was her background as a Sharpe, her years with the sisters or Oliver himself. She frowned at him. “You and Henrietta...”
“Childhood mates who took each other for granted and now don’t, but we have headwinds. If we didn’t, I wouldn’t be on a midnight video chat with two FBI agents.” Oliver settled back in the overstuffed couch, an updated relic from his grandparents’ day. He’d changed little in the house since their deaths when he was at Oxford. He’d immediately dropped out, but he hadn’t immediately taken to stealing art—at least as far as Colin knew. “What’s on your mind, Emma?”
She started to tell him about Graham Blackwood’s death, but he already knew. Emma wasn’t surprised given Oliver’s relationship with Henrietta Balfour. After last night, she would make a point to know. The Blackwoods were British citizens, after all.
Oliver made a face. “Is this all a sordid drug story? Graham Blackwood buys a stash of illegal opioids in Maine, gives them to his wife, goes off to meet his dealer for more and gets whacked?”
“Have you told us everything you know about last night, Oliver?”
“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. “There wasn’t much to tell. I doubt Henrietta knows more than I do, but it’s always possible. The same with Wendell. We never had the chance to speak with Mrs. Blackwood. I wish we had.”
Emma’s expression softened. “How is she doing?”
Oliver sighed with what struck Colin as genuine empathy. “She was still unable to speak on the last update two hours ago. I don’t know if it’s because she’s sedated or impaired or what might be going on.”
“Who gave you the update?” Colin asked.
“Oh, no one directly involved in the investigation—not the hospital or the police, I mean.”
“Henrietta?”
“I don’t know if I’m supposed to say.” He leaned close to the screen. “MI5 must have this place bugged, don’t you think?”
Emma looked mildly amused. Colin couldn’t get there. Oliver was growing on him but he still could grate.
“Henrietta has many excellent contacts,” Emma said, diplomatic.
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