Impostor's Lure

by Carla Neggers

  Verity squirmed, averting her eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, go on, please. It’s a difficult time, Verity. I don’t need to tell you. Talking can help. Getting things out. How do you know about the affair?”

  “Affair might be too strong a word. Ophelia told me. She assumed I’d find out through idle or malicious gossip, and she wanted me to know it was nothing. She was much older than Graham, but she was an incredibly alive and sexy woman right up until the end. She knew how to make a man feel special. I imagine Fletcher was like that with women. He’s eighty-one now and his mind’s gone. It’s sad, really. Rex and Jolie are good with him, but you can tell he misses Ophelia. She was only sixty-nine when she died...” Verity’s voice trailed off. “I never told Graham I knew about their affair.”

  Henrietta glanced at Oliver, but he kept his face expressionless. He was out of his realm when it came to extramarital affairs, illicit relationships—the lot. “We’re not here to judge,” she said.

  “I’m not sure it would have worked between Graham and me if not for Ophelia. Fletcher had multiple liaisons. I wouldn’t call it an open marriage, but they were devoted to each other in their own way.”

  “Did Fletcher know about Ophelia and Graham?”

  Verity shrugged. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

  “What about their son—Rex?” Oliver asked. “Was he aware of his parents’ extramarital affairs?”

  “I wouldn’t know but I can’t imagine he wasn’t aware. Everyone knew, and Rex has managed their business affairs since he left college. Discovering unseemly human behavior is one of the hazards of working for family, I suppose.”

  Verity drank more tea, some of it dribbling down her chin. She brushed at it with a hand. Oliver glanced around the quiet hospital room. He’d love to go another thirty years before he entered a hospital again. “Verity,” he said gently, turning to her. “When did you notice Fletcher’s mind was beginning to fail him?”

  She gave a tight shake of the head. “I didn’t notice.”

  “Even if his illness was rapid onset, there likely were early signs. His wife must have noticed.”

  “Ophelia would never have told anyone if she had noticed.”

  “Not even Graham?” Henrietta asked.

  Verity hesitated. “I doubt it, but I couldn’t say for certain.”

  Henrietta leaned forward, toward Verity. “Is it possible Ophelia painted the landscape Graham bought and kept the original? Perhaps she realized she was dying, and she saw Fletcher’s mind was failing. She knew they’d never saved for a rainy day, but now one was upon them. She couldn’t count on him to keep producing salable works. This way she could profit twice—let Graham buy the fake and then sell the authentic version. She could pretend it was part of a series. She knew Graham wouldn’t ask questions.”

  “Could she pull it off?” Oliver asked. “Could Ophelia imitate or copy her husband’s work?”

  Verity’s face drained of color. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know. If it got around she did or even considered it, that could undermine the value of all his paintings. But I’m sure this was a one-off and has nothing whatsoever to do with what’s happened.” She thrust her chin up, defiant. “I’d look to Stefan’s and Graham’s work with the British intelligence services if I were the police.”

  “Well, I’m sure they are doing just that,” Henrietta said briskly. “Does Graham own a rifle, by chance?”

  Verity frowned, clearly caught by surprise—as Henrietta intended, no doubt in Oliver’s mind. Finally she bit down on her lower lip, thought a moment and responded. “He inherited an old stalking rifle from his father. I believe it’s the only gun he owns. I never knew his father, but I understand he was a great sportsman. Graham was never that interested in hunting, but he’d go off with friends once in a while to target shoot.”

  Henrietta raised an eyebrow. “Stefan? Fletcher?”

  “I didn’t pay attention,” Verity said coolly.

  “Last question,” Henrietta said. “Was Stefan involved in opioids, Verity? Buying, selling, using? Helping a friend or loved one who was dependent or addicted?”

  “I didn’t get a whiff he was involved in opioids in any capacity. If you don’t mind...” Verity pulled up her blanket. “I’m worn out.”

  “Of course. Thank you for speaking with us again. You’ll be sure to tell the police everything you told us, won’t you?” Henrietta smiled in that gracious, all-innocence way she had. “They’ll be annoyed with us as it is.”

  “Good,” Verity said, the slightest flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Dare I ask who really you are?”

  Henrietta pretended not to hear the question, and Oliver followed her lead. Verity, fading rapidly, didn’t press for an answer. Henrietta wished her well. “If you need anything, Verity, please let the police know. Don’t hesitate a moment.”

  But Verity was already asleep.

  * * *

  Henrietta was raging by the time they reached Oliver’s apartment. “Who would care enough to kill Stefan Petrescu and Graham Blackwood over a forgery? I hope that isn’t what got them killed. It’s not worth it.”

  “What was that bit about a rifle?”

  “Your FBI friend Colin Donovan asked your MI5 friend whose name I shall not utter for ballistics information on Stefan’s death.”

  “Our friends not just my friends.”

  She waved a hand. “Whatever. Was your grandfather a hunter?”

  “In his younger years he liked to go out for a day of bird shooting. He left me a relic of a stalking rifle. I keep up the license, but the rifle’s locked in a vault. I’ve never touched it. Did Freddy leave you any weapons? He would have had access to an arsenal.”

  “My grandfather listened to opera at home.”

  “One can listen to opera and enjoy game hunting.”

  “Well, he didn’t leave me any weapons.”

  “Not even a poison-tipped umbrella?”

  “Oliver...” She sighed. “Sometimes you can be terribly inappropriate, you know.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps Martin can socialize Alfred and me at the same time.”

  “I suspect you’re both incorrigible.”

  “What’s next?”

  “The police need to search the Blackwood house for Graham’s rifle.”

  “You’ll tell them?”

  “As if they’d listen to me. I’m a garden designer.”

  “Mmm. A wonder we got in to speak with Verity Blackwood about forgeries, murder and overdoses.”

  22

  Dublin, Ireland

  Wendell entered his favorite Dublin pub with his phone stuck to his ear, something he’d always sworn he would never do. But Oliver needed to talk to him. “Can you find out if Graham Blackwood owned other paintings that are copies of the original? Could he keep the original in a vault and display the copy?”

  “Anything’s possible but why bother?”

  “I’m alone in the library with an obscure lowlands single malt. Henrietta’s been whisked off to Thames House. That’s my assumption. A car came for her.”

  “At least it didn’t come for you,” Wendell said, easing onto his favorite stool at the bar.

  “I have an evacuation route.”

  No doubt not an exaggeration, given his history as a thief. “Sounds as if you two have been busy. Care to fill me in?”

  He did so, obviously in shortened form. Wendell listened carefully. He had a good mind, but his hearing wasn’t what it once was, and he hadn’t dismissed that creepy banshee shriek from his mind. He didn’t interrupt Oliver, waiting until he finished before speaking. “We need to know who else Stefan Petrescu talked to at that dinner,” Wendell said finally. “Did he share his observations about the Campbell painting with anyone besides Verity? Fletcher Campbell’s a fine painter, but it’s anyone
’s guess if his work will appreciate in value over time.”

  “He’s no Picasso, as Martin would say—who dislikes Picasso, by the way.”

  Wendell smiled. He liked Martin Hambly. Oliver was fortunate to have such a dedicated, capable assistant and good friend. Wendell found himself longing for dinner with his family. Timothy, Faye, Emma, Lucas. What he wouldn’t give for his wife to be there. He missed her every day, but less so here than in Maine.

  Colin. Hell, he’d have to invite his grandson-in-law. Good guy. Solid.

  “Wendell?”

  “Sorry. Figure this out, and maybe MI5 will let you off the hook.”

  “Decide I’ve served my time?”

  “Something like that. Thanks for calling, Oliver. I’m glad Verity Blackwood’s going to make it.” Wendell paused, trying to pin down what he wanted to say. “I think her husband was trying to help people, and it got him killed.”

  “Any evidence to back that up?”

  “I’m an old man having a pint in Dublin. What would I know about evidence?”

  Oliver snorted. “Right. Enjoy your pint.”

  “And you enjoy your Scotch.”

  After Wendell rang off, the barman placed a pint of Guinness in front of him, having anticipated what he’d want. He’d sit here awhile and hope it helped him dismiss his unease. Some of the lads from the neighborhood would be arriving soon, telling stories, laughing at life’s latest absurdities, shaking their heads at its latest outrages or just rattling on about hurling and Gaelic football. They’d snort with amusement if Wendell told them he’d heard a banshee last night. Even if they believed in banshees, they’d all lived too long and seen too much to fear death. Some were men of faith. Some weren’t.

  It wasn’t his own death he feared, Wendell knew.

  He pictured Emma, always in the thick of her FBI investigations. He trusted her training and her abilities, but sometimes he wished she’d become a golf pro.

  The barman sighed. He was in his fifties, celebrating a new grandson. “Are you going to stare that pint into your stomach, Wendell?”

  He picked up the glass and tipped it. “Sláinte.”

  He drank, but he’d missed that first, fresh taste of Guinness. He’d let it sit too long, but it was still good. He set his glass down and wiped the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “All right, Wendell,” the barman said. “Who’s died this time?”

  “I saved a woman’s life in London the other night.”

  “A pretty woman?”

  “As a matter of fact.”

  “It’d be a good deed to save an ugly one but more fun to save a pretty one, eh?”

  Irreverent humor. It was what he needed. “You can get into trouble nowadays for that kind of talk.”

  “Go on, then. Drink up. Tell me about this woman whose life you saved.”

  “She overdosed on opioids.”

  “Ah. God bless her, Wendell. God bless her.”

  He remembered then, the barman—Francis was his name—had nearly lost a son to drugs. “A scourge, these drugs. Have you ever heard a banshee shriek, Francis?”

  “The night my grandmother died. I was just a lad. I’ll never forget it.”

  “Do you believe the banshee was warning you of her death?”

  “There’s no belief to it. It’s what it was.” Francis, a red-faced, portly man, paused, gazing at Wendell. “Did you hear a banshee?”

  “Last night near Ardmore.”

  “You’d better drink up, then, and I’ll pour you another pint.”

  23

  Southeastern New Hampshire

  Adalyn made coffee in the Campbells’ fantastic country kitchen. It was huge and homey, with big windows, scarred counters, a giant pine table. So perfect on such a lousy, miserable day. The weather was fine. Sunny, pleasant. It wasn’t that. Her father was on his way to Boston. There was no stopping him, but she hadn’t really tried. Graham’s death had put him over the top and freaked her out.

  She’d driven up to the Campbell “farm” with Jolie, who’d stayed out late with friends last night and admitted she’d had a bit too much to drink. Verity’s overdose and now Graham’s death had upset her, too. Rex had visited his father, convinced he would sense his friend had died and need comforting. Adalyn felt it was the opposite, that Rex needed comforting.

  But she loved his family farm. It hadn’t been a working farm in the forty years the Campbells had owned it, but it was a spectacular place, on a hillside within easy driving distance from the University of New Hampshire, Portsmouth and Boston. And Maine, Adalyn added silently, thinking of Graham out on the rocks by the convent for who knew how long. A detective had talked to her on the phone last night but wouldn’t reveal many details. He’d probably want to talk to her, Jolie and Rex today. Adalyn had the advantage of having a prosecutor and criminal defense attorney for parents, but she still was unnerved. And so, so sad, she thought, flipping on the coffee maker.

  Matt Yankowski was on his way to hang out with her until her father got there. She didn’t mind having an FBI agent keeping an eye on her. He made her nervous, but it was okay. Right now she just wanted her mother to turn up safe and sound. Her father had checked with a friend in Halifax who was expecting her tonight. All she had to do was show up, and Adalyn could go back to being mad at her for being so thoughtless. What she wouldn’t give for that.

  She sank onto a white-painted chair at the table while the coffee brewed. Her father would camp out on her sofa until police made an arrest, her mother got in touch and their lives returned to normal. She was pleased and grateful for his concern, but she was torn about having him fly up here. I’m twenty-one now.

  Her stress was palpable. It was as if it was in the air. A wonder the rest of the place didn’t catch fire just from her tension. She’d been open with her father about how she felt. I know you and Mom deal with stress, but you’re better at coping than I am.

  It’s difficult when it’s friends...family...

  Verity and Graham were a lovely couple, Dad. Verity’s going to recover, but her life...

  She’ll figure it out. She has friends who will help her.

  She listened to the hiss of the coffee maker. It was an old one. She liked that. As well-off and sophisticated as the Campbells were, they hadn’t adopted every trend of recent years. No fancy espresso maker. She’d worried the house would have a feel of death and illness about it, but it didn’t. Ophelia’s cheerful watercolors hung in the kitchen. A large Fletcher acrylic landscape of the surrounding hills hung in the living room. Otherwise the stark white walls were unadorned, making the house feel clean and bright, showing off the wide-board floors and exposed beams. Rex had said their Oxford cottage was quite different—more contemporary and colorful. Adalyn would have liked to have seen it, but one day in Oxford hadn’t been enough time to get to everything.

  She jumped up two minutes after sitting down and grabbed mismatched mugs off an open shelf. She set them on the counter. Rex and Jolie had gone to the barn that had been Fletcher’s studio—or what was left of it. It hadn’t been condemned, but Adalyn had been shocked at the extent of the damage. Rex hadn’t decided whether to raze the studio altogether or rebuild it. He was debating what to do with the property as a whole now that his mother was gone and his father was in a memory-care home.

  Adalyn hated to think about such things. Rex had assured her he could cope. He’d grown up in private schools and had always known his parents as international people, with this place as their base. It felt like a real home to Adalyn, but Rex said he didn’t have a huge emotional attachment to it. She figured he’d sell it and buy a condo on the Boston waterfront.

  Yank knocked on the screen door. Adalyn jumped, clutching her chest. “You startled me,” she said. “I didn’t hear your car.”

  “I parked down the hill by the—guest
cottage?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I walked up. Nice place. I parked next to a white van. Rex’s?”

  “Jolie’s, actually. She and Rex have both been using it to clear out the barn now that it’s burned.” Adalyn smiled, opening the door. “Come in, please.”

  He stepped inside, the screen door snapping shut behind him. He wore a lightweight gray suit. Dressed for work, Adalyn thought, her heart racing. Her knees buckled, but she managed to steady herself.

  “Where are Rex and Jolie?” he asked.

  “At the barn—Fletcher’s studio. I’ll bring them coffee when it’s ready.”

  “Right.”

  Yank steadied his gaze on her, and she stood back, grasping the edge of the counter, unable to breathe. “You know about my trip to Heron’s Cove.”

  “Tell me about it, Adalyn.”

  Why tell him when he already knew? But it wasn’t a question she articulated to him. The mother superior who’d discovered her and Verity must have said something. They hadn’t seen any other nuns or workers at the convent. “Mother Natalie remembered us?”

  “Seeing how you sneaked onto the property and broke into the tower, yes, she remembered you.”

  “You make it sound worse than it was. It was my first time in a convent. It’s beautiful but I can’t imagine that life.”

  Yank glanced at a watercolor of a vase of lilacs, one of Ophelia Campbell’s paintings. “Whose idea was it to go up there? Yours or Verity Blackwood’s?”

  “Verity’s, but I wanted to—she didn’t have to persuade me.”

  “Did she tell you why she wanted to go there?”

  “Curiosity. I believed her. We both were interested in their work in art conservation, and their convent is in such an incredible spot. We didn’t hurt anyone, do any damage or take anything.” Adalyn hoped she didn’t sound too rehearsed, but she’d spent a good chunk of the night planning what she’d say if asked about their visit. “We stopped at the Sharpe offices in Heron’s Cove, too—except I didn’t go in, just Verity. Then we had lobster rolls at the restaurant across the street and visited the sisters’ shop in the village.”