“Did you see Graham on Friday?”
“No.”
“Did Verity mention kayaking to you?”
“She did, as a matter of fact. She said there were two kayaks at their rental house, and Graham was obsessed with learning how to kayak. He’d been in canoes. Is that what happened to him? He fell off his kayak and hit his head or drowned?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation,” Yank said, turning from the painting. “You should have told us about Friday, Adalyn.”
“I didn’t think of it. Will the Maine detectives get mad at you for talking to me?”
“Probably.” He didn’t seem concerned. “How did Verity strike you on Friday?”
“Honestly? Frayed. She’s not usually like that, but she... I don’t know. She was tense. She pretended all was well but it wasn’t. I could see that.”
“Did you tell her so?”
Adalyn shook her head. “I just tried to make it a fun day. She had ulterior motives for everything we did, though, didn’t she? The convent, the Sharpes, the sisters’ shop. What was she after, do you know?”
“Did she strike you as suicidal?”
“Not for a second.”
“She and Graham—”
“No marital problems if that’s your next question. She didn’t kill him. He didn’t drug her. It wasn’t a murder-suicide.”
Yank smiled grudgingly. “Detective McDermott.”
She relaxed, at least enough to feel less combustible. “I think my parents like the idea of my being an archivist.”
Yank seemed more relaxed, too. “Are you seriously considering art crimes?”
“Not committing them.”
He grinned. “Smart aleck.”
“Agent Yankowski...my mother...”
“We’ll find her. Did you tell your mother about your excursion to Maine?”
“No, I didn’t tell anyone, even Rex and Jolie. I only told my mother about Stefan Petrescu. I wasn’t hiding my trip to Heron’s Cove. I just didn’t think to tell her. I thought it might come up at dinner.” Her voice cracked. “I will get a chance to tell her about everything that’s happened since Sunday, won’t I? Did Dad get in touch with you about her friend in Halifax?”
“He did. I’d like to talk to Rex and Jolie.”
“I’m supposed to bring them coffee. I don’t like it in the barn—the painting studio. That’s why I volunteered to make coffee.”
Yank nodded to the mugs on the counter. “I’ll help. Cream and sugar?”
Had he ever helped with coffee? Adalyn pointed at a pottery pitcher and sugar pot on the counter. “We need spoons, too,” she said.
He winked at her. “You got it.”
* * *
Yank didn’t want coffee himself. Adalyn smiled. Why wasn’t she surprised? They set three mugs, cream, sugar and spoons on a tray. She insisted on carrying it herself. They went through an herb garden at the back door and across the lawn to the barn, painted a classic red despite the addition of windows and skylights.
Rex greeted them at the side door, the only safe entrance. “Coffee, perfect.” He took the tray from Adalyn and set it on a table he’d set up by the door after the fire. He nodded to Yank. “Good to see you, Agent Yankowski. Any word on Adalyn’s mother?”
“Not yet,” Yank said.
“She’ll turn up. Jolie’s inside. She thinks she’s found more papers for you, Adalyn. My parents were disorganized, but I swear they kept everything.” Rex added cream to one of the coffees. “Jolie and I are both devastated about Graham. He and my father were good friends. Maybe just as well the Alzheimer’s has advanced to the point Dad wouldn’t retain that Graham is gone.”
Yank picked at peeling paint on the door trim. “How long did your parents know the Blackwoods?”
“They knew Graham for twenty years at least. Verity’s only been in the picture for a couple of years. I’m sure you know my parents didn’t have a monogamous marriage, but my father and Verity never had an affair.” Rex picked up his mug and sipped his coffee. “Trust me, I’d know if they did.”
Adalyn slopped cream into another of the mugs. “Your father was forthright with you about his extramarital relationships?”
“Notches on the belt,” Rex said without any apparent animosity.
She couldn’t imagine. Her father at least had been embarrassed about his affair.
“My mother was more discreet if that’s your next question,” Rex added. “Also less prolific an offender. It’s just who they were. I gave up trying to understand them a long time ago. It’s not how I’m wired, thankfully. But I don’t know what this has to do with the Blackwoods.”
“This place and Oxford their only homes?” Yank asked.
“They rented the cottage in Oxford. They own the farm. They often spent part of the winter in Portugal, New Mexico—they’d do a short-term rental. I became their unofficial travel agent.”
Yank moved to a damaged painting on an easel in light shade. “You’d go with them?”
“Often but not always.”
Adalyn shifted awkwardly by the easel. She had no idea if Yank was making idle conversation in a difficult situation or if he had an agenda. An agenda. FBI agents always have an agenda.
“This your father’s work?” Yank leaned forward, looking more closely at the canvas, whatever image was there now covered in soot and grime. “Some kind of landscape?”
“Dad’s work, yes. It’s in Oxford. He started a series of paintings of the River Cherwell last year, before he and my mother came back here. She knew she was terminal, and then he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.” Rex stared at the painting. “I think Jolie can save it. The underlying work is sound.”
Yank stood straight. “It’s finished?”
Rex nodded. “My father took it home from Oxford and finished it last fall, before he had to stop painting. This is one of my favorites, maybe because it’s one of his last paintings. I’d hate to sell it. My parents were as reckless with their finances as they were with their personal lives, but I managed to get hold of the money reins in time—all is not lost.” He grinned easily. “I don’t have to get a real job yet.”
“The painting Graham and Verity have by your father is a landscape of the River Cherwell,” Adalyn said. “When did he paint that one?”
“Last fall, in Oxford,” Rex said. “Graham bought it before my parents came back home, but he didn’t pick it up until July. I think he held out hope they’d get back to England. Given the circumstances, the painting’s value is likely to increase. Supply and demand, right? I don’t blame Graham if he wanted to make sure I honored his agreement with my father—which, of course, I did.”
“You handle your parents’ business affairs as well as their finances?” Yank asked.
“If you want to call it that. They often sold works without my involvement. I wouldn’t find out until after the fact. My mother was never the artistic or commercial success my father was. Graham wasn’t a fan. She was too feminine and lowbrow for his taste, not that he was any kind of art expert. Verity is more knowledgeable. I never got the impression she was particularly interested in my parents’ work. She’s an old masters type. She organized art exhibitions before she married Graham.”
Yank moved back from the easel. “Did she give up her job voluntarily?”
“Yes, as far as I know. Men don’t demand their wives quit their jobs these days, do they? That’d be an asinine thing to do. Graham was a fair bit older than Verity, but he wasn’t a control freak or a dinosaur.”
“Did he buy just the one painting by your father?”
“I think so. If he bought another, I don’t know about it.”
“I asked at dinner,” Adalyn said, pleased to have something to offer. “Graham told me it was only the one. He joked about needing some artist friends who weren’t as well-known
so their paintings would be cheaper.”
Rex set his coffee back on the tray. “As I mentioned, the painting he owns is likely to increase in value now that my dad is no longer able to work, although who’s to say whose works will be valued in a hundred years. Won’t matter to us. Barring major advances in medicine, we’ll all be dead by then.”
Yank glanced at the old barn again before shifting back to Rex. “Back to last week. You were with the Blackwoods when they visited your father. How’d he do with them?”
Rex bit down on his lower lip, took in a breath and finally nodded. “He was having a good day. He recognized them. They had a normal conversation for a few minutes.” He cleared his throat. “And then it wasn’t normal, and they left and I took him back to his home. It’s just down the road. It’s small and private.”
“How did the Blackwoods handle seeing him?” Yank asked.
“They’re decent people, Agent Yankowski. They weren’t embarrassed for him, or for me. They know he’s ill. Alzheimer’s isn’t a character flaw.”
“Did your parents have anything to do with Graham’s think tank?”
“No, nothing. They were apolitical if that’s your next question. They were way too wrapped up in themselves to notice what was going on in the rest of the world.”
Yank raised his eyebrows. “Matter-of-fact about it, aren’t you?”
“Resigned,” Rex said. “They were what they were. I like to think I inherited the good without the bad, but I’m not perfect by any stretch. Dad was fifty and my mom was thirty-eight when they had me. They were set in their ways by then. So many changes to absorb these past few months.”
Adalyn hated to hear the sadness in his voice. “Graham was a fantastic guy,” she said.
“Yeah.” Rex rubbed the back of his neck as if in pain. “He was energetic, smart, determined. You couldn’t help noticing that about him when you were in his presence. You look at photos of him and you might not get that from them. He’s sort of milquetoast looking. Was. Damn.” He lowered his hand, his gaze on Yank. “I’m having a hard time believing he’s dead. He and my father were men who loved being men and who loved women. Whatever people want to say about my dad—and it’s probably all true—he would totally focus on any woman he was with.”
“How do you know this?” Adalyn asked.
“My mother told me. She said she understood why other women were attracted to him. It was an amazing experience to be with him.” He reddened. “You know? I hate to admit it, but some days I wish I had half my dad’s luck with women.”
Adalyn drank her coffee, wishing she’d kept quiet. But she couldn’t help wanting to know more. “What about Jolie? She never...you know...” She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”
Rex laughed, incredulous. “Jolie? No chance. Not each other’s type. Trust me. I should go find her before her coffee gets cold. Is there anything else, Agent Yankowski?”
“Do you paint?” Yank asked casually.
“Not what my parents would call painting, no. I’ve dabbled. My mother tried to teach me when I was in elementary school. I was hopeless. Nonetheless, I paint every morning from five to six but only for myself. Instead of journaling, I paint.”
“What did you paint this morning?”
“I don’t even know. The sunrise, I guess. I looked out the window and painted what I saw.”
“Original work, then,” Yank said.
“If you want to call painting a sunrise original. I wasn’t copying anything, if that’s what you mean.”
“Have you ever copied a work of art?”
“Tried. It was garbage. I don’t have that spark my father had. My mother didn’t have it, either. She worried about it. I don’t.”
“A good copyist wouldn’t worry about it,” Yank said.
“I wouldn’t know. I have no interest in that sort of thing. Why?”
Jolie came out of the barn, a bandanna tied over her hair, dirt and bits of cobwebs on her dark gray tunic. She looked hot, sweaty and yet, Adalyn thought, totally in her element. She loved this art rescue mission. She brushed her hands off on her hips. “I’ve heard of collectors who display copies of valuable art and keep the original under lock and key. It’s not forgery—it’s all aboveboard. Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping, just overheard you.”
Adalyn sat cross-legged in the shade as Jolie grabbed a mug. The coffee was at best lukewarm by now but she didn’t seem to mind as she took a huge drink.
Yank watched her a moment before turning again to Rex. “Have you or your parents had copies done of your father’s work?”
“No, Agent Yankowski, we haven’t. We’ve never had an issue with forgeries if that’s your next question. Anything else?”
“Where do you paint?”
“In the study at the house. Fortunately, the house was untouched by the fire.” Rex glanced at his watch. “I should get busy. It’s been a rough couple of days with Verity’s overdose and now Graham’s death.”
“Adalyn was in Maine on Friday,” Yank said. “Did you know that?”
“No.”
Jolie looked surprised, too. Adalyn felt like a snake. She glared at Yank. Wasn’t he supposed to be on her side? But she wasn’t going to say that out loud. She rose, adjusting her top just to give herself something to do to keep herself from running. She didn’t even have a car. She couldn’t leave if she wanted to. She turned to Jolie. “Verity and I visited the Sisters of the Joyful Heart convent and Sharpe Fine Art Recovery and had lunch in Heron’s Cove and wandered around a bit.”
“No crime in that,” Rex said, obviously in her defense. Somehow that made it worse—as if she needed a defense.
“Did you go up there?” Yank asked him.
Rex shook his head. “I didn’t, either,” Jolie said. “I was working at the studio.”
“Graham and Verity wanted a break,” Rex added. “It didn’t occur to me to intrude on their time in Maine. Adalyn—” He sighed, shifting to her. “You and Verity are friends. It’s different for you. I’m really sorry about what happened to her.”
She didn’t know what to say. Her father would remind her Yank was an FBI agent and she should err on the side of not saying anything. She watched Yank pluck a dandelion long gone to seed, but there was nothing casual about him. “Have you two ever visited the Sisters of the Joyful Heart?” he asked Rex and Jolie.
“I have,” Jolie said. “Not since Sister Joan’s death, though. I’ve never been to the Sharpe offices. I’m aware of their work, of course.”
Rex was shaking his head. “Not me. Convent, Sharpes. All new to me.”
“Heron’s Cove,” Yank said. “Ever been there?”
“Probably. I’ve been all over the southern Maine coast on weekends. Heron’s Cove is one of those precious towns with shops and clam shacks, isn’t it? I must have been there.”
Adalyn plucked her own dandelion. She wished she could walk through the fields and woods without a care in the world. It was so beautiful up here, but she and her friends were being questioned by an FBI agent. That was what this was, too. If Yank had come up here as a friend, he was also very much a federal law enforcement officer. Did he think her trip to Heron’s Cove had something to do with her mother’s behavior? Why she hadn’t been in touch, why they couldn’t reach her? Adalyn shut her eyes a moment, calmed a surge of panic. She’d be glad when her father arrived. She hated to admit it, but it was true.
“What about your parents?” Yank kept his gaze on Rex. “Sisters of the Joyful Heart, Heron’s Cove. Sharpe Fine Art Recovery offices.”
“No idea,” Rex said. “You can try asking my father. I don’t know if you’ll get a coherent answer from him never mind a reliable one, but it’s a start. He has good days and bad days. He’s a very sick man.”
Yank nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that. He’s at the home?”
> “No—he’s here.” Rex pointed vaguely down the hill. “He’s taking a nap at the cottage. I fetched him before you got here. I won’t be able to bring him up here for much longer. I thought... I don’t know what I thought.”
“We thought he might be able to help with our salvage operation,” Jolie said softly.
“Yeah. He spent a lot of time in his studio. He remembers things I never knew.” Rex waved a hand vaguely. “I should check on him.”
Adalyn hadn’t realized Fletcher was there. She supposed she wouldn’t, since she’d been in the kitchen making coffee. She felt like a fifth wheel but told herself it was to be expected. She didn’t know Jolie or the Campbells well.
“I would like to talk to your father if he’s up to it,” Yank said.
“I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks for answering my questions. Mind if I take a look inside the barn?”
“Of course not,” Rex said. “Be careful, though. It’s not condemned, but it did sustain considerable damage in the fire.”
Yank started to duck into the barn with Jolie, but paused as he glanced back at Adalyn. “Join us?”
Adalyn didn’t like being in the barn. It was sad, smelly—overwhelming. It made sense for her to tackle as much document research here, on scene, as possible, but, emotionally, she’d rather have everything back at Jolie’s Cambridge studio. She shook her head. “I’ll bring the tray back to the kitchen.”
“Hang out here,” Yank said. “I’ll only be a few seconds.”
He made her so nervous. She plopped into the grass and pulled a dandelion out by the roots. The ground was soft enough it came right up. How would Rex ever manage this place on his own? Why would he want to? Sell it, move to the city. That was what she’d do. Maybe Rex didn’t have a choice. She supposed the property still belonged to his father. She had no idea how that worked with Fletcher’s mental incapacity. She hadn’t gotten into that kind of personal detail with Rex.
She debated ignoring Yank’s instructions and taking in the tray, but Rex waved to her from the stone walk that led up to the barn from the cottage and lower parking area. “My dad’s wandered off. Check up there, will you? I’ll check down here. He could be heading back to the home. I’ll call there.”
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