Lucas noticed several sketches of swans cast off under the workbench. “She does best with her stuff at hand?”
“She says she’d spend all her time sorting and cleaning if she had to keep her studio downstairs, within sight of clients. I’d go mad trying to work in here.”
“Where did she train?”
“In Russia and Switzerland, but she’s continued her study here in London, too.” Ursula ran her fingertips over a three-inch square black onyx box. “As with Fabergé before her, it’s not just the precious metals and gems that make Tatiana’s work special. It’s her vision and artistry, her marriage of high art and the everyday. One can find gaudier necklaces and bracelets than anything she’s done.”
Lucas didn’t notice any pictures of family, friends—of Tatiana Pavlova herself.
Ursula Finch frowned next to him, her arms crossed on her chest. “You aren’t investigating a theft, are you?”
“No, not at all.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Although I wouldn’t mind recovering the missing Fabergé Imperial Easter eggs.”
“Who wouldn’t? The House of Fabergé crafted fifty jeweled Easter eggs for Alexander III and Nicholas II. Forty-two survive. One does wonder what happened to the other eight. Malcolm Forbes collected nine of the Imperial Eggs but after his death his family sold them privately to a Russian tycoon. They’re masterpieces.” Ursula unfolded her arms. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Sharpe?”
“Has Tatiana mentioned other collections of Russian jewelry and precious objects?”
“Not that I know of,” Ursula said. “Do you have anything particular in mind?”
Lucas dodged her question. “Does she have any Russian friends here in London?”
“We’re both always so busy with work, but she has many friends. I can’t think if any are Russian. I’m sure there must be but I don’t really know. Why? Does it matter?”
“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Lucas said with a smile. “Thank you.”
Ursula hesitated, as if she were considering pressing him for more details. Then she, too, smiled. “Anytime. If you think of anything else, please call or stop by. Tatiana’s a treasure. I hope you’ll come back when she’s here.”
They returned to the showroom. Lucas thanked Ursula Finch and headed out of the elegant, almost otherworldly Firebird Boutique back into vibrant, bustling London.
He walked back to his hotel and ordered coffee delivered to his room. Once it arrived, he called Emma. “Is it too early for you?”
“I’ve been up for over an hour,” she said.
“Are you in Boston?”
“Heron’s Cove. I slept on a mat on the floor. The carpenters haven’t shut off the water yet, but there’s no heat. It wasn’t too bad.”
“You know you can stay at my house,” Lucas said.
“Thanks, I do know that. It’s fine here. I’m picking out kitchen cabinets before I head to Boston. You didn’t tell me you hadn’t picked them out yet.”
“I did. You just don’t like what I picked and are pretending I dropped the ball.”
She laughed. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. There’s contemporary, Lucas, and there’s ugly. What you picked is ugly. Not that I’m an artist. Have you been to the Firebird Boutique?”
“Just got back.”
“Is Tatiana Pavlova’s work as impressive in person as it is on the Firebird website?”
“It’s fantastic. What about her? Is she as pretty in person?”
“You know I don’t notice such things,” Emma said.
Lucas stood in front of a large window that looked out across Hyde Park toward Buckingham Palace. “How’s Colin?”
He heard his sister take a quick breath.
Lucas felt a twinge of guilt at his teasing tone. “Everything okay? He was gone for a while. You guys met under stressful conditions. You know, adrenaline—”
“Tell me about the Firebird Boutique.”
He didn’t push. He poured more coffee, then sat on the cushioned window seat and told his sister what he had learned about Tatiana Pavlova, as well as his impressions of her, her work and her upscale jewelry and decorative arts boutique.
When he finished, Emma was silent for a few moments. Finally, she said, “You didn’t ask about Dmitri Rusakov, then?”
“Not specifically, no.”
“Lucas…” She took in another audible breath. “Be careful, will you?”
“Always,” he said.
* * *
Lucas met his parents for a late lunch at a pub near his hotel. He sat across from them at a booth, under photographs of nineteenth-century London and beer posters. A television above the bar had on a soccer match. He and his father ordered beer and fish-and-chips. His mother, frowning at them, ordered poached salmon. Timothy and Faye Sharpe were in their late fifties, well liked, interested in other people and down to earth, and Lucas generally enjoyed their company. Years of chronic back and neck pain often made his father restless, but meditation, exercise and a positive outlook helped. He worked as a consultant with Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, focusing on analysis and research, always his strengths. Faye Sharpe was a former elementary art teacher, a quiet, cheerful woman who was ambivalent about her son and daughter specializing in art crimes. Lucas sometimes wondered which kept her awake more nights—Emma as a nun, or Emma as an FBI agent.
She hadn’t even met Colin Donovan yet, unless she had bought lobster from him when he was a teenager or had a run-in with him as a Maine marine patrol officer.
Lucas decided not to bring him up. He chatted with them about generalities and pleasantries—the Dublin weather, his flight to London, the ongoing renovations of the Sharpe house in Heron’s Cove—and waited for his beer to arrive before getting into the substance of his visit, or even mentioning his grandfather or his sister.
He let his father drink some of his beer. His mother, he noted, had ordered white wine, but she didn’t touch it, her eyes narrowed on him as if she knew what was next. He found himself half hoping that whatever she was imagining was worse than what he had to say. Finally, he said, “You remember Emma the year after she left the convent, before she joined the FBI. She worked for Granddad in Dublin.”
“Of course,” his mother said. “She was figuring out what to do with her life, who she wanted to be after she’d given up being Sister Brigid. Working with her grandfather was the perfect opportunity to sort things out.”
His father nodded. “It was a busy year. My dear father worked her so hard she didn’t have time to dwell too much on her situation, overthink things.”
“At one point, Granddad sent her to London to meet with a client, one of the early post–Soviet era Russian tycoons.”
“Dmitri Rusakov,” Timothy Sharpe said with a sigh.
Lucas hadn’t expected such an immediate response. “Anything I should know?”
His mother picked up her wine. “We met Rusakov once at a charity function here in London, about ten years ago. It was several years after Wendell had worked with him on the Russian Art Nouveau collection he discovered in Moscow. I assume you know about that?”
“Some.”
“He’s told us very little.” She tried her wine. “Odd, isn’t it? How someone already so rich and about to become even richer ends up finding a fabulous collection of jewelry and precious objects in his walls.”
His father welcomed the arrival of the two plates of fish-and-chips and dug right in. “Rusakov was embroiled in the Wild West, no-holds-barred mentality of Russian politics and economics. He lives a chaotic, exciting life.”
“I remember at the time wondering if Emma was attracted to him,” Faye Sharpe said.
Lucas leaned forward. “Romantically, you mean? Are we talking about some kind of an affair between her and Rusakov?”
“I don’t know as I’d go that far,” his father said. “Rusakov is a lot older. He’s amassed vast wealth and the responsibilities, influence and problems that come with it, especially
in Russia.”
His mother swiped one of her husband’s fries. “He had a security expert with him that night,” she said. “I don’t remember his name. He was with Rusakov when we met him. Very sexy.”
Timothy Sharpe rolled his eyes. “I didn’t notice.”
“Emma must have. She was coming from a near-cloistered existence. She was figuring out who she was, what she wanted in life. Security, excitement, work. Romance, too, I’m sure.”
“Wait,” Lucas said. “What? I thought Emma was attracted to Rusakov. She and this security guy were an item?”
His father looked uncomfortable. “If there was ever anything between Emma and either one of these men, it didn’t go anywhere, at least on her part.”
Lucas thought back four years. Had he missed anything between Emma and the Russians—romantic or otherwise? He had been focused on work in the U.S. and hadn’t had the time or interest to keep tabs on what his sister and their grandfather were up to in Dublin. At the time, he hadn’t even known if Emma would stay with Sharpe Fine Art Recovery after her year in Dublin, although he had always suspected she wouldn’t.
Emma, he was quite sure, had paid equally little attention to his love life.
He was surprised his parents were aware of her possible romantic interest in the Russians. Usually they were oblivious to that sort of thing, or at least pretended to be. Lucas could remember only a handful of conversations with either of his parents on the possibilities and perils of falling in love. He doubted Emma could remember any more, either.
Just as well, he thought, happy to abandon the subject of his sister’s love interests. “Have you heard of a Russian jewelry designer here in London named Tatiana Pavlova? She’s with the Firebird Boutique. It’s relatively new—it’s a few blocks from here.”
That piqued his father’s interest. “I don’t know the name, no, or the Firebird. Is this why you’re in London?”
Lucas nodded. “Tatiana’s in Heron’s Cove.” He tried some of his fish but didn’t go near the mushy peas on the side of his plate. “She warned Emma that the Rusakov collection has resurfaced and someone’s going to steal it.”
Faye Sharpe frowned. “Steal it? Who would steal it? Someone would have to know about it first. Rusakov never publicized his discovery. Personally, I thought he should have donated it to a museum. It’s not as if he went out and bought the pieces because he loved them.”
“Still,” her husband said, “the collection does belong to him.”
“Maybe not,” Lucas interjected, then related what he’d learned from Emma about the arrival of Dmitri Rusakov, Ivan Alexander and Natalie Warren—and the collection—in Heron’s Cove.
“Sounds like a royal mess,” his father said when Lucas had finished. “I hear Colin Donovan’s back in Maine. How well do you know him, Lucas?”
“Not well. We met a few times after Sister Joan’s death. Then he took off for D.C.”
“That’s where he works,” Faye Sharpe said, her tone neutral. “Another FBI agent. Nothing to be done about it. Of course, we just want both you and Emma to be happy.”
Lucas gave her a quick grin to break some of the tension. “Hell of a burden to put on us, Mom. I figure Colin’s either the best thing to happen to Emma or the worst. I just don’t know which. Maybe she doesn’t, either.”
His father drank the last of his beer. “Oh, she knows. Emma may have changed her path in life a few times, but she always knows her own mind. The Donovans are a solid family. I think I got a speeding ticket or two from the father back in the day.”
Lucas smiled. “Have you been doing any driving in London?”
“Not if I can help it,” he said with a grunt. “Traffic’s terrible. We’re enjoying our year in London but look forward to going home.”
“It’ll be good to have you back when the time comes.” Lucas started to order another beer but decided against it. “Were you aware that Matt Yankowski talked to Emma four years ago when she was still at the convent?”
His mother sighed, shaking her head. “She never said. That’s not unusual for Emma. We weren’t convinced she would ever make her final vows but we tried not to pressure her one way or the other. We would have respected her choice if she had. The FBI…” She grimaced. “The FBI was a surprise in its own way almost as much as the convent was. But that’s in the past. I’m just glad she’s based in Boston now, closer to home.”
Lucas had long suspected that his father’s pain was worse in Heron’s Cove. He would never admit it, but his hometown was a reminder of what he had lost, the costs of his injury to himself and his family. Timothy Sharpe, Lucas knew, blamed himself, at least in part, for Emma’s decision to enter the convent. It was too simplistic to think that she had embraced a religious life because she couldn’t face the reality of their father’s injury and rehabilitation. Her time with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart had been a journey of faith for her, deeply personal…and it was over.
She was Special Agent Sharpe now.
His mother changed the subject. “How’s your grandfather?” she asked.
“He should be settling into a pub in Killarney by now.”
“Killarney?” His father frowned in surprise. “What’s he doing there?”
So Wendell Sharpe hadn’t told his son and daughter-in-law about his “walkabout” and instead had left the job to Lucas.
He decided to order that second beer after all.
His parents took the news of Wendell’s solo trip into the southwest Irish hills better than Lucas had expected. They were more amused and pleased than worried. He felt like a wet blanket.
“You wait, Lucas,” his father said. “When you’re eighty and can go off on a hike on your own, you won’t want your grandson fretting you’ve sunk into a depression.”
“What if he has?”
“Then the Irish hills are just what he needs.”
They headed out together, Lucas noticing his father’s limp, the ashen color around his mouth, the dark circles under his eyes and the pinched look that he got whenever his pain was flaring up. No one mentioned it. They had all learned a long time ago to let him take the lead and define what he needed.
“We’ll take a cab back,” his father said in a low voice.
Once they were on their way, Lucas walked back to his hotel. The perfect day had turned gray, with a fine mist falling. He didn’t mind. He buttoned his jacket, enjoying the scenery and the chance to process what he’d learned from Emma, Ursula Finch and his parents.
As he turned onto busy Park Lane, he glanced back and saw a man making his way down to the subway station on the corner. Tall, fair, shaved head, dark sweater and trousers. Lucas had noticed him outside the pub and slowed as he arrived at his hotel.
The man disappeared down the subway steps.
The doorman asked Lucas if he needed anything.
Lucas shook his head and went into the hotel lobby. Maybe it was lunch with his parents and the talk about Emma and their grandfather’s melancholy—or just the mention of Colin Donovan—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the man with the shaved head had followed him.
Maybe it was none of the above, Lucas thought as he got into the elevator. Maybe it was having two beers at lunch.
13
AFTER A THOROUGHLY unsatisfying visit with Julianne Maroney’s grandmother, Finian Bracken took his BMW for a spin along the southern Maine coast. He rolled down the windows and let in the autumn air. How had he landed up in this blasted place, so far from home and the people he knew and loved?
Starchy Franny Maroney had all but chased him out of her kitchen with a broom. “Mad at God, indeed,” he muttered, slowing the BMW, his one indulgence.
Mrs. Maroney had said she would keep her promise to help with the bean-hole supper. She was on the cleanup detail, and was bringing coleslaw, made from the recipe her now-departed mother had provided St. Patrick’s; it was in the bean-hole supper folder.
Finian thought she had softened slightly as he left, but s
he plunged out her front door and followed him to his car.
“Don’t waste your time visiting me again unless I’m in the hospital about to take my last breath,” she told him in no uncertain terms. “Visit the sick and dying.”
He had resisted a number of quick retorts and said a prayer for her through gritted teeth as he climbed back into his car. Now he wondered if his family and friends had felt much the same when he had been raging after the deaths of his wife and daughters. They were taken from him so young—thirty-three, seven and five. Yet he knew not to compare his loss with that of Franny Maroney. It wasn’t a competition, and her rage—her crisis of faith—was her own and had nothing to do with him.
By the time he parked in the pretty village of Heron’s Cove, Finian had hold of his temper and his frustration with not being able to help an elderly woman so filled with pain. What had he been thinking when he decided on parish work—on thrusting himself upon a small American fishing village?
He found his way to the shop the Sisters of the Joyful Heart ran on a narrow side street in the village. Sister Cecilia greeted him with her usual pleasant smile. “How nice of you to stop by, Father Bracken.”
“Lovely to see you, Sister Cecilia,” Finian said, struggling to return her good cheer.
Sister Cecilia wore the order’s modified habit with a wide white headband holding back her medium-brown hair, an oversize hand-knit sweater, dark-colored tights and black clogs. She lifted a pottery pitcher, painted with a cluster of wild blueberries, from a shelf and dusted underneath it. “Everyone’s buzzing about the fancy yacht that arrived here over the weekend. Have you seen it?”
He nodded. “It’s impossible to miss.”
“It’s owned by a Russian billionaire. I wonder if he’s a Sharpe client. I heard that Emma was on board yesterday, but I haven’t seen her—I think she’s gone to Boston. I’ve been giving her painting lessons.”
“So I’ve heard,” Finian said. “How are the lessons going?”
“Well…they’re going.”
He laughed, relieved to be in the company of the cheerful young sister. Sister Cecilia and Emma had become friends after the terrible events at the convent in September. The Sisters of the Joyful Heart were still grappling with the aftermath of the murder of one of their own, as well as the discovery of a genuine Rembrandt hidden in the convent. The killer had tortured Sister Cecilia, cutting her so that she would bleed to death, but she had prevailed, with the help of Emma and Colin. Her wounds—psychological, physical and spiritual—were healing. She found comfort and purpose in the mission and the charism of her order, and her calling to their work. In a few weeks, she would profess her final vows of chastity, poverty and obedience. Finian had been asked to participate in the ceremony.
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