“Yes, I suppose.”
Finian didn’t sound quite right. Oliver didn’t know if he’d offended his Irish friend. He often didn’t have the right words at hand and would stumble through emotional minefields. Finian was usually amiable and quick-witted, empathetic and comfortable with people—but it was very early in Maine. “Opiate addiction and abuse are rampant, but I have a feeling there’s more to this situation.” Oliver felt more at ease with facts. “I’ve never been to the gazebo where Graham’s body was discovered. Have you, Finian?”
“I haven’t, no. I visit the convent on a regular basis, but I rarely venture beyond the chapel at the motherhouse. I sometimes lead prayer at their retreats.”
“What kind of retreats?”
“Artists, art educators, art conservationists. It depends.”
Oliver couldn’t imagine. “I can think of a thousand things I’d rather do than attend an art retreat at an isolated Maine convent.”
“It’s a stunningly beautiful place, Oliver. You could lead one of their retreats. I can see you teaching Celtic mythology, or teaching tai chi as part of a creative life.”
“Don’t recommend me, please.”
Finian laughed, a good sound to hear. “Oliver...” The seriousness returned. “Oliver, do you believe it’s wise for you to insert yourself into this investigation?”
“I didn’t insert myself into it. I was thrust into it.”
“Wendell Sharpe dragged you and Henrietta into it. Do you think he was entirely candid with you?”
“Candidness isn’t necessarily a part of my relationship with the Sharpes.” Oliver paused, debating how far to go. He didn’t have a solid sense of the boundaries of their friendship. Finian Bracken was a priest, and he was friends with two FBI agents, one of them a Sharpe. “What’s this call about, Finian? Are you doing a bit of meddling yourself?”
“Perhaps.”
Now there was an answer. Oliver sprang to his feet and stepped from the terrace to the garden. “How? What do you know?”
“I don’t know anything and I’ve done nothing. I just...” He didn’t continue.
“Did Emma and Colin warn you against speaking with me?”
“Always, Oliver. Always.”
“Very funny.” Unless he wasn’t trying to be funny? Oliver plunged ahead. “I’d like for you to meet Henrietta. You saw her when you visited the farm earlier this year, but it’s different now that she and I are...well, together. Let us know when you head back across the Atlantic, won’t you? You are always welcome to stay here at the farm.”
“Thank you. I would enjoy seeing Henrietta, of course.”
Oliver plunged in again. “Is love possible for me, Finian?”
“Oliver...what?”
“After the deaths of your wife and two daughters, you concluded love was no longer possible for you, or God decided for you—however you view it. I don’t know. I’ve never asked. I’m not judging.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to understand my calling. We are talking about you.”
He gripped the phone. “What if my traumatic past means love isn’t possible for me?”
“Loving or being loved, Oliver?”
“Not bollixing it up.”
“What about Henrietta?” Finian asked quietly.
Yes, what about her? Oliver felt a surge of warmth. That was a positive sign, wasn’t it? But then came the crawling sense of panic. “I don’t want to hurt her,” he whispered.
“That fear comes with loving someone, Oliver. It’s a part of it.”
“Part of me is still that small lad in the Scottish ruin blaming himself for not saving his parents from two brutal killers. Ah, Finian... Father Bracken... I wish I were a better person.”
“Maybe that’s a part of loving someone, too.” Finian’s voice had softened. “Love can help us become a better person if we let it.”
“Are you speaking to me as a priest or a friend?”
“I’m a priest and I’m your friend. And, my friend, I think we shouldn’t have these calls while you’re watching bees and before I’ve had tea.”
“But you called for a reason, and we’re dancing around it, aren’t we? Did you get the sense Colin and Emma think Verity tried to kill herself?”
“I’ve learned not to try to guess what they’re thinking. Oliver...”
He waited, but Finian didn’t go on. “What is it? How can I help you?”
“You can take care, my friend. If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to get in touch.”
“You can let me know any developments in the investigation into Graham Blackwood’s death, or if you hear any news about the McDermotts and the Campbells.”
“Oliver, I’m not privy—”
“It could happen. You’re a priest. People unburden themselves to you. I just did, and I didn’t mean to. Never mind any of it, will you? It was all nonsense. I finished the Bracken 15 year old last night. I thought I’d finished it last time I was into it, but I found another dram—”
“Taoscán,” Finian said.
Oliver could hear the smile in his friend’s voice at his Irish word. “Goodbye, Finian. Enjoy your tea and morning devotions.”
Once he disconnected, Oliver placed his phone on the table and walked through the late-summer garden. It was Posey’s, really, a classic English cottage garden that Henrietta was making her own bit by bit. She surfaced, flicking plant debris off her front. “I thought I might find you out here doing tai chi. Thank heavens you’re not snipping anything. You were on the phone?”
“Finian Bracken.”
“Regretting he didn’t take a parish in Ireland, I imagine. You can tell me about your conversation on the way. We need to return to London. Verity Blackwood’s condition has improved dramatically overnight.”
“She’s awake?”
“Apparently so.”
“Has she been told about her husband?”
“She will be soon. Now, that’s all I know for the moment. I’ll do my best to get us in to speak with her.” Henrietta gestured vaguely toward the front of the house and the lane. “You’ll drive or shall I?”
“I will.” Oliver swept to the terrace. “We’ll take the Rolls.”
17
Rock Point, Maine
Emma could have managed without milk, eggs and bread in the house—there was, after all, a freshly made wild blueberry pie on the counter—but no coffee put both her and Colin over the top. It was off to Hurley’s, bustling at seven despite the lobster boats having gone out hours ago to check traps. The day’s house-made doughnuts were already running low, given Hurley’s four-thirty opening. Just as well, Emma thought as she and Colin joined Finian Bracken at his table by the windows overlooking the harbor. He had his breviary and a pot of tea as he awaited his breakfast. He’d explained on previous breakfasts together how he’d arranged with Hurley’s to have grilled tomatoes and didn’t mind American sausage and bacon, but he did without mushrooms and puddings for a traditional full Irish breakfast.
It was a gorgeous Maine morning. Bright, clear, dry. Sunlight sparkled on the harbor. Emma wished she and Colin were there under better circumstances. Kevin Donovan had called Colin early, when they were still debating coming down to the harbor for breakfast. Graham Blackwood’s death was caused by a blow to the back of his head, probably with a rock. No obvious candidates had been found near the body. It was a needle-in-the-haystack proposition. Rocks weren’t exactly scarce in the area. The killer could have tossed it into the water anywhere from the trail. Odds of finding it were remote, but they’d do a thorough, appropriate search.
Emma followed Finian’s lead and ordered a full breakfast. Colin did the same. Without waiting for instructions, their waiter had dropped off two mugs of steaming coffee. She dumped half-and-half into hers. Colin took his black. He eyed Finian.
“You’ve got news?”
Finian sighed. “I need to work on my inscrutability. I don’t have much news. Sean Murphy let me know he got Wendell safely to Dublin and personally delivered him to his home.”
“Does Sean think Wendell has told us everything he knows about the Blackwoods?” Colin asked.
“He does, as a matter of fact, but I didn’t ask. He told me, anticipating you’d want to know. He said Wendell was subdued but otherwise himself. He mentioned banshees.”
Colin frowned, coffee mug in hand. “Who, Wendell or Sean?”
“Wendell to Sean. Wendell asked if Sean had heard something that sounded like a banshee last night at his farm in Declan’s Cross.”
Emma waited for more but Finian didn’t continue.
Colin set his coffee on the table. “And Sean said...”
“He said he heard the wind. He didn’t want to argue whether banshees are real or not real. Sean isn’t deep into Irish folklore. Wendell didn’t explain further.”
“My great-grandmother—Granddad’s mother—believed in banshees,” Emma said. “I never knew her, but Granddad told me some of the stories she told him when we worked together in Dublin before I left for Quantico. Banshees are one of the solitary fairies. They’re always female and mostly known for warning of an impending death.”
“Do they cause the death?” Colin asked.
Emma shook her head. “Not according to the tales I know. A banshee is typically loyal to one family through the generations...” She paused as the waiter delivered their breakfasts. “Finian, was my grandfather out on the headland when he heard the banshee?”
Finian nodded. “He walked up there last night.”
“Alone? He loves to walk, but that’s a difficult route for him to tackle alone, in the evening.” Emma had taken the lane that wound up the headland from the village a number of times, including with Colin. “I tell myself if he dies on one of his rambles, he’ll have died doing something he loves. But, still. He could walk with someone.”
“I imagine Sean, Kitty and Aoife were keeping an eye on him,” Finian said. “Your grandfather had a terrible shock. It’s good he’s home. Will the police investigating yesterday’s death want to speak with him?”
“Probably,” Colin said.
They started their breakfasts and changed the subject to the weather—always a good topic in New England, Emma thought—and the latest Rock Point news. She listened, but she wanted to speak with her grandfather, hear his voice, reassure herself he was all right. Could Verity Blackwood have told him anything that in retrospect could help with understanding why and how her husband was killed, and who was responsible?
Colin had finished his breakfast and just had more coffee poured when he received a call. He touched Emma’s shoulder. “I have to take this,” he said, getting to his feet.
She watched him walk across the restaurant and out the door. Kevin? Yank?
No.
His MI5 contact, a mysterious man with a tangled connection to Colin through his deep-cover work. Emma had few details. Information was on a need-to-know basis, and she didn’t need to know.
“I spoke with Oliver York early this morning,” Finian said.
“Oliver? Why?”
“It was innocuous, but I know how you are with him. Colin, especially.”
“I notice you waited until he was on a call to mention Oliver.”
Finian smiled. “I did, didn’t I? Oliver’s sorting out his life. He’s allowed the past to dictate so much of what he’s done until now.”
“Are you two friends?”
“I suppose we are, in a way.” Finian’s blue eyes narrowed on the harbor, the tide out, exposing mud, stones, seaweed, tiny crabs and periwinkles. “I do my best not to get distracted from my duties here in Rock Point.”
“Thank you for your concern for my grandfather,” Emma said.
“Did this man yesterday have opioids in his system? Can you tell me that much?”
“I don’t know if he did or didn’t. The postmortem will include a toxicology screening followed by a full toxicology report. We’ll know more then.”
Finian nodded, solemn. “I’m not an expert, but I know that what is considered a therapeutic dose for someone who has built up a tolerance can be fatal for a new user.”
“My father, for instance.”
“I didn’t have him specifically in mind.”
Emma glanced out at the view. Two kayakers were making their way along the edge of the harbor. She ached to be out on the water, but that time would come. She and Colin had kayaking on their list of must-dos for the summer. She pulled her gaze from the kayakers and turned to Finian. “I don’t know if Graham was on opioids, or if Verity got the opioids she took here or in London.”
Finian shifted awkwardly in his chair and poured more tea. “The gazebo, the cove, the house the Blackwoods rented—are they known for drug deals?”
“I have no idea,” Emma said.
“I’m not aware of any drug dealing anywhere near the convent.”
“I’m not, either.”
He let out a breath. “That’s good. I’ll leave the investigating to the detectives.” He abandoned his tea and stood, kissed her on the cheek. “I have sick calls this morning to the hospital, but I’ll check on Sister Cecilia today. Be well, my friend.”
“We’ll stay in touch,” Emma said.
She watched him leave, wondering if he’d said all he knew or was on his mind—about her grandfather, her father, Oliver, opioids. He’d never even hint at anything told to him in confession. It would be a violation of the seal of confession. Chats with friends were different, but he was still circumspect by nature.
She’d finished her coffee by the time Colin returned from his phone call. “More coffee?” she asked him.
“I’m getting some to go, and I’ve claimed the last two doughnuts.”
“I just ate a gigantic breakfast. I can’t eat another bite.”
He grinned at her. “Who said I planned to share? Come on. I’ll fill you in on my call on our way back to the house. Your folks or the convent first?”
“My folks. I’ll bring them the pie.”
* * *
“Stefan Petrescu was killed with a Rigby .275, a classic English medium game-hunting rifle,” Colin said as he and Emma started onto the coastal route to Heron’s Cove. She was driving. “Or stalking rifle, as my English friend put it. It was a single shot to the chest with a round-nosed 140-grain bullet. That’s the original cartridge for a Rigby. It’s fairly accurate up to fifty yards.”
“I’ve seen a Rigby,” Emma said. “I’ve never fired one.”
“I have.” He didn’t elaborate. “It’s a classic rifle—the sort one keeps in the family. It’s very manageable, and it’s perfectly legal in the UK with the appropriate firearms certificate.”
“Which would have to be renewed every five years.”
“Heavier, more modern bullets are available, but that’s not what was used to kill Petrescu.”
“Anything else?” Emma asked.
“They haven’t ruled out a poacher who hit the wrong target, but it’s not the leading theory. There were no drugs in Petrescu’s system or found in his possession.”
Emma nodded. They passed joggers, bikers, people carting kayaks to the water. A normal Maine summer morning. No one was in yet when they reached Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. She continued into Heron’s Cove village with its cedar-shingled shops and restaurants on narrow streets. She turned up a side street, away from the water, and finally stopped in front of her parents’ two-story Victorian house. They’d had the clapboards painted a cheerful yellow after her father’s fall, as if to say chronic pain wouldn’t defeat them—a decorating fork in the eye to the fates. Except for adding a downstairs bedroom, the house was largely unchanged from Emma’s childhood.
> They’d agreed Emma would speak with her parents alone.
“Give your folks my love,” Colin said.
Emma got out of the car, grabbing the pie from the back seat. She headed up the front walk, where her mother was sweeping the steps. She was dressed in a sun hat, a tan linen top and wide-legged tan linen capris. “Emma,” she said, smiling. “This is a pleasant surprise.” But her smile vanished quickly. “I’m so sorry about yesterday. We were going to drop by to see you and Colin, but we knew you’d be busy. That’s Colin in the car?”
“He sends his love. He wanted to give us a chance to talk. We can’t stay. Yesterday was a long day and—”
“And you’re working. I understand. Is that a blueberry pie under that foil?”
“I claimed some of the berries you and Dad picked yesterday morning.”
“Excellent. It’s been so hot, it’ll be wonderful to have pie. I haven’t done any baking since we moved back from London. I’ve been obsessed with getting the yard in shape. Your father says I look like a pirate in these pants, but they’re beyond comfortable.”
Emma laughed. “You could do worse than a pirate. Is Dad here?”
“He’s out for his morning walk. He went out past the offices. He won’t go near the spot where you and Sister Cecilia found that poor man. I don’t know how you stand the work you do sometimes. It’s still a crime scene, isn’t it?”
“Very likely.”
Emma watched her mother sweep a pile of debris—mostly leaves and twigs—into the yard, shaded by an ancient sugar maple and an elm clinging to life. The house had served as Sharpe headquarters while the offices were undergoing renovation, but her parents had quickly reclaimed their home once they returned from England. Her mother had added her touches—hanging baskets of begonias and ivy at the front door, a riot of colorful zinnias along the hedges, an herbal wreath. She’d washed windows and curtains and had the rugs cleaned. As far as Emma knew, her parents were thrilled to be back in Heron’s Cove.
“Dad says walking helps him more than anything else he does,” her mother added.
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