“Yeah, Fin. We will. Who am I to argue with a priest?”
Finian scoffed. “You argue with me all the time.”
Despite Finian’s attempt at humor, Colin could feel his friend’s uneasiness as he walked away—and his own. They hadn’t spent much time around Timothy Sharpe and weren’t used to his struggle with chronic pain. Colin reminded himself he didn’t know what, if anything, his father-in-law’s troubles had to do with the Blackwoods and a missing federal prosecutor.
Emma joined him by the display of pottery bowls. “Adalyn was with Verity Blackwood on Friday but she didn’t come into the shop. One of the sisters was arriving to teach a brush lettering class and spoke with her outside. Adalyn asked about the class. It was an innocuous conversation, but the sister remembered Adalyn because she mentioned her friend had rented a house out by the convent.”
“Did the sister speak with Verity?” Colin asked.
“Just a nod as Verity was leaving.”
“Brush lettering. Calligraphy? That’ll be next for my mother.” He pointed at the pottery display. “She made that salad bowl.”
“It’s not a salad bowl, Colin. It’s a decorative work.”
“Oh.”
She smiled. “You knew that.”
“Good for Mom, though, getting down here to take pottery lessons.” They went outside, got back in the car. The streets were crowded with tourists enjoying the beautiful day. “I’d rather be on the water if I were a tourist, but I’m sure the shop owners appreciate the business.”
“People are lining up for tour boats,” Emma said.
Cap’n Colin. His road not taken. Sometimes he thought Emma had actually taken the road that should have remained one not taken in becoming a nun, but he was glad she’d gotten Sister Brigid out of her system. “On to Sharpe Fine Art Recovery?”
“I want to hear what Lucas has to say about Granddad and his banshee, and if he’s heard from him.”
“Still nothing from him?”
“A text telling me he’s fine.”
“Maybe he is fine.”
She glanced at him, her expression tight. “I hope so.”
* * *
They found Lucas on the docks behind the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery offices, almost to the marina next door. Colin spotted him first. Emma, he knew, wouldn’t be looking for her brother down by the boats. He was a runner, and dedicated to his work with Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. But he nodded to a good-looking cruiser. “I’m thinking about buying a boat. Surprise, huh? Nothing fancy. I’ve lived in Heron’s Cove all my life, and I’ve never owned a boat.”
“We Sharpes aren’t known for our boating skills,” Emma said.
Her brother grinned. “That could change. Maybe I’ll get you to go in with me.”
“More likely Colin would. I can watch you sail off while I set up my easel on the back porch.”
“I did say you could paint there anytime.”
“I’m a terrible watercolorist, but Sister Cecilia says she has hope.”
“You enjoy it,” Colin said.
“A neutral answer if ever there was one,” Emma said.
“Painting’s meditative for you,” her brother said. “It takes just enough concentration your mind can’t wander off too far into the weeds or get too deep into the stress that comes with your job.”
Colin didn’t comment. Emma had told him she painted as much as possible when he was away, working undercover. Not a gibe. Just a fact.
“Great day today,” Lucas said. “I hate to be inside. I went for a long run early. But you’re not here to talk about running or the weather. Do you want to talk here or go up to my office?”
Emma leaned against a post in front of a Boston whaler that had seen better days. “Have you heard from Granddad today?”
“Text on my run. He said he’ll be at his pub with the lads soon and not to fret.”
“Did he mention hearing a banshee?”
Lucas frowned. “No, why?”
“It came up with Sean Murphy. What about you? Have you heard a banshee recently?”
“Me? Not recently, not ever. Granddad would hear one before I did. I’d pass it off as the wind or a bird even if I did hear one.”
“Banshees are said to be loyal to one family.”
“Yeah, great. Emma, what’s this about?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Worried about Granddad, I guess.”
“That’d just piss him off, but I get it. He’s not himself. I think this woman’s overdose Sunday night got to him. She’s lucky to be alive—and she is alive thanks to Granddad’s persistent nature. He could have gone to bed. Housekeeping would have found Verity Blackwood dead in the morning. Did she intend to overdose or was she trying to get high and went too far?”
“Police are still investigating,” Emma said.
“Granddad doesn’t believe she was deliberately trying to harm herself. He believes someone set her up to take the drugs, hoping she’d die or be incapacitated. It’s hard for Granddad to fathom that a young woman with so much to live for would do that to herself.”
Emma nodded. “I hope it’s never easy for any of us to fathom, no matter who it is.”
“Agreed. Hard to fathom someone slipping her opioids, too.”
“What about Dad? How’s his mood?”
“We spoke last night, after the detectives took our statements, and he stopped by a little while ago. He didn’t mention hearing a banshee if that’s your next question.”
“He’s struggling with pain,” Emma said.
Her brother sighed. “It’s obvious but you know how it is. We don’t talk about it. That’s the deal, because it just draws his mind to it—even if I can see he’s in pain he might not be thinking about it. He said he wants to walk out to the gazebo once it’s released as a crime scene. He thinks he might remember something, but I think he just wants to go out there. He’s worried he missed something. Bothers him that the Blackwoods were in such distress and he didn’t see it.”
Colin touched the thick rope that tied the whaler to the post. “Did you check the Sharpe files for any references to the Campbells or Stefan Petrescu, the Romanian linguist who was killed on his way back from London a few weeks ago?”
“I did. Zip.”
“Would you have everything?”
“You mean would Granddad have met with them and not told me? It’s possible, but I think he’d have said something by now. Do you think this linguist’s murder is related to Graham Blackwood’s murder?”
“I didn’t say Graham was murdered.”
“It’s all over the village.” Lucas was matter-of-fact as he squinted out toward the ocean. “He was friends with Stefan Petrescu. I checked with my mother, too, and she doesn’t recall meeting any of them when they lived in London—Petrescu, the Blackwoods or the Campbells.”
“Where’s your father now?” Colin asked.
“I don’t know. He might have headed to the gazebo.” Lucas hesitated. “He doesn’t have regular hours. I’ve offered him an office but he doesn’t want one. When he’s here, he’ll find an empty desk, sit at the kitchen table or go out onto the porch. He and my mother have only been back from London a short time. We’re still sorting things out. Anything else?”
Emma shook her head and thanked him. She eased next to Colin as they watched Lucas jump up to the retaining wall to the Sharpe backyard. Lucas was steady and analytical, like his younger sister, but he and their grandfather shared a decided impatience.
A tour boat chugged past them toward the channel that would take it out to the ocean. Its upper and lower decks were crowded with passengers. Colin heard the guide on the loudspeaker. He was explaining what a tidal river was, but he’d go into the history of Heron’s Cove and point out the expensive houses on Ocean Avenue, talk about what kind of wildlife they would see on
the ocean, the various types of boats—whatever might interest people visiting the Maine coast.
“Not a bad life, being a tour boat guide,” Emma said next to him.
He slung an arm over her shoulders. “Not a bad life at all. How are you, Mrs. Donovan?”
“I want to head to the Campbell farm and talk to Adalyn McDermott.”
“Yank should be there by now. Do you want to try your grandfather again?”
“He’ll be with his buddies at the pub soon. He knows I want to talk to him, but he also knows I’ll have spoken with Lucas and Finian—and that I’ll call Sean Murphy if I feel the need.”
“No place the poor bastard can hide,” Colin said with a grin.
She smiled back at him. “Damn right.”
“Would the sisters know much about forgeries?”
“They would recognize an obvious forgery, but they wouldn’t know much if anything about the contemporary market for forgeries. An artist might copy a work of art or imitate a particular artist to learn technique or even to sell what they produce—but never by passing it off as someone else’s work.”
“Signing the painting must make a difference.”
Emma nodded. “My grandfather has dealt with forgers and forgeries both past and present in his career. I don’t know how much my father and Lucas have.”
“So it would make sense for your father to put Verity Blackwood in touch with Wendell.”
“That’s right.”
“Got it,” Colin said. “Drop me off at the Blackwoods’ rental house. I’ll check in with Kevin while you check in with Yank and Adalyn. We’ll stay in touch.”
“Sounds good. It’s only a thirty-or forty-minute drive to the Campbell farm. I can be back here in time for chowder at Hurley’s. And whiskey,” she added, “to celebrate Tamara McDermott’s safe landing in Yarmouth.”
20
London, England
A blur of people...beeps...tubes...
I’m in a hospital bed. I have an intravenous tube running out of my arm. Not just one tube. Multiple tubes. Why? I don’t understand.
“What’s happened to me?”
I hear my hoarse whisper, but I don’t know if anyone else can. If anyone else is here. What if I’m not in hospital? What if I’m dead?
I shut my eyes. The lids feel swollen and heavy, as if they’re filled with fluids. I try to lift my arm but I can’t, or I just don’t. I’m not sure which it is.
Transient damage...
Where did I hear that?
No permanent damage to the brain, lungs, liver, kidneys.
“Mrs. Blackwood should make a full recovery.”
I remember now. That’s what the doctor said. I’m sure of it. I didn’t dream it.
I’ll be all right.
But what happened to me?
Oxycodone.
I’m propped against pillows in my hospital bed. I’m sure the doctors said I overdosed on oxycodone. They’re worried I did it on purpose.
A suicide attempt.
Me.
I wouldn’t want to kill myself, would I?
Why would I?
Is there something I don’t remember? Can’t, because of the overdose?
Panic surges through me, unexpected, vicious. It’s as if I’m being grabbed by my feet and yanked underwater. I can’t breathe. I want to rip the tubes out of me. I want to run.
“Graham!”
A nurse appears at my side. I see now that my IV tubes are hooked up to a machine that takes my vital signs, and there’s oxygen... I was given oxygen... I remember now...
The nurse asks me how I’m doing.
My panic eases. “Graham. My husband.” My voice still is little more than a hoarse whisper. “Where is he?”
“Just try to relax, Mrs. Blackwood.”
“He stayed in Maine and I returned to London.” I pause, sinking into my pillow. I try to grab snippets of memory, put them together—make sense of where I am. Figure out what’s happened to me. “I’m in London, yes?”
The nurse nods. “Yes, you’re in London. You’re doing well.”
She’s pretty. She has bright red hair and freckles. She seems so young.
I feel myself drifting off.
Graham...
Did my husband try to kill me?
21
Oliver hadn’t been in a hospital since he was eight, after his escape from his would-be killers. His grandparents had died peacefully at home. He often wondered if they’d made sure of that, given his trauma. Verity Blackwood looked distraught and shaken though she was sitting up, the thin white hospital sheets and blankets neatly tucked around her, only the shoulders of her gown visible. Her color was less deathly than on Sunday night, but she nonetheless looked seriously unwell, if improved since they’d found her at Claridge’s.
Oliver was perfectly happy to let Henrietta take the lead. She gave Verity a brisk yet kind smile. “Thank you for speaking with us.”
“My doctor said it would be all right provided I don’t overtire myself. She understands that I need answers, and I want to help. Graham...” Verity cleared her throat. “I know he’s dead.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Blackwood,” Henrietta said.
“Me, too. It’s hard to believe. I understand you’re friends with Wendell Sharpe. If not for him—for you and Mr. York—I might not have been found in time. Thank you.” Verity’s gaze remained fixed on Henrietta. “You administered CPR?”
“Mmm. One of those things one learns these days. How are you feeling?”
“Strange. It’s the only word I can think of at the moment. Where is Mr. Sharpe?”
“He’s returned to Ireland,” Oliver said. “He sends you his well wishes.”
“Thank you. My husband...”
Verity seemed to want them to tell her what had happened to him, but Oliver wasn’t touching that one. He was confident Henrietta would skate past it, too. They’d promised the doctor and the police they would avoid mention of Graham Blackwood’s death. Henrietta had promised, at least. Oliver had gone for coffee. He suspected she’d used her MI5 credentials to get them in to see Verity, and he didn’t want to muck things up.
Henrietta placed a vase of flowers on Verity’s bedside table. Grabbing the bouquet had been Oliver’s idea, actually. Gardener though she was, Henrietta was in MI5 mode and had breezed past the flower shop without a second thought.
She picked a brown-edged leaf off a cheerful gerbera daisy and tossed it in a small bin. “We won’t keep you long, Mrs. Blackwood.”
“Verity,” she whispered. “Please.”
Henrietta smiled. “Of course. If at any moment you want us to leave, we will. Say the word or lift your hand, and we’ll be gone. Oliver and I stopped at your house in Oxford yesterday. We both have homes in the Cotswolds. The back door was open—Oliver thought he smelled gas and we went in to check. We noticed you own a Fletcher Campbell painting.”
“My husband bought it. The painting you saw isn’t Fletcher Campbell’s work.” She gasped, her eyes widening. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“But it’s what you believe?” Henrietta asked calmly.
Verity sank against her pillows. “Yes.”
She reached for a water glass with a cover and a straw. She fumbled a bit but managed. She took a sip and set the glass back on her table, almost missing. She settled back against her pillows.
Henrietta waited a few beats, but Verity didn’t go on. “Is the painting the reason you wanted to talk to Wendell Sharpe?” Henrietta asked finally.
Verity nodded but didn’t elaborate.
Oliver appreciated Henrietta’s smooth manner, caring without coming across as insincere. She had impressive skills, but she also drew on her nature, her core decency and generosity of spirit. “Verity, what do you know
about the painting in your drawing room? It’s signed by Fletcher Campbell.”
“He might have signed it. That doesn’t mean it’s his work.”
“Was it a gift?”
“No. Graham bought it. I had nothing to do with the purchase. He didn’t consult me. He insisted it’s one of Fletcher’s last works.”
Henrietta pushed Verity’s water glass back from its precarious position at the edge of the table. “How did you conclude it’s not authentic?”
“That’s my theory. I don’t have proof. I became suspicious a few weeks ago at a dinner party we hosted at our house. We invited Rex—Fletcher’s son—and Jolie Romero, a mutual friend, and Adalyn McDermott, a young intern.” Verity shut her eyes, sunken, as if she’d never get enough sleep again. “And Stefan... Stefan Petrescu.”
“The Romanian linguist who was later killed,” Henrietta said.
“A week later. Yes.” Verity opened her eyes and fastened her gaze on Henrietta. “Stefan said something...” She faltered, turning so that her right cheek was against the pillow. “It doesn’t matter now. I didn’t tell anyone I had questions about the painting. Graham was happy with it. I didn’t know if he realized it might not be Fletcher’s work and simply didn’t care.”
“You used the word forgery with Wendell,” Oliver pointed out.
Verity nodded. “A forgery is illegal. An imitation, fake or a copy might not be. That’s how I think of it. I was going to get into more detail with him when we met.” She sat up abruptly, her breathing rapid, as if she’d just run a hard 5K. “I assure you I wouldn’t kill myself over a fraudulent painting. I didn’t attempt suicide. I don’t know what happened.”
“Did Fletcher paint other scenes of the River Cherwell?” Henrietta asked.
“I think so, yes. He said he wanted to do a series. I don’t know how far he got with it.” Verity adjusted her position, her hair stringy as it dropped down her front. “I finally told Graham I had questions about the painting on Saturday as we were leaving Boston. He found out I was meeting Tamara McDermott, Adalyn’s mother, and wanted to know what was on my mind. I suggested we get the painting appraised—get an independent, expert, objective opinion. I never assumed anything nefarious had happened. I thought it might just have been a mistake and Graham picked up the wrong painting.”
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