Heron's Cove

by Carla Neggers

  He tried to push himself up, then sank back into the mud. “Julianne?”

  “She’s fine. Screaming your name, brother.”

  Andy swore at him and Colin figured that was a good sign. He heard men’s voices and glanced behind him, saw Julianne with Mike and Kevin. Colin started to wave to his brothers, but they raced into the water, Julianne sprinting back onto the dock.

  Mike fell in opposite Colin, on Andy’s right side, Kevin at his head. They got up under him, lifting him, then waited as another swell rolled in. As the wave motion raised the dock, they freed Andy’s legs.

  “Let’s get him up onto the dock,” Mike said.

  Moving in unison, they heaved him up onto the, dock, laying him flat on the dry wood. He shivered, moaned, swore some more, but Julianne was there, pulling off her sweater, only the lower edge wet. She draped it over Andy, not waiting for one of his three brothers to tell her what to do as they climbed onto the dock.

  She raised her eyes to them. “I helped with beached dolphins. It’s not that different.”

  “Ambulance is on the way,” Kevin said, then squatted down and took a look at the lump behind Andy’s ear. “How’d that happen?”

  “Blindsided,” Andy said, his teeth chattering as he clutched Julianne’s sweater to him.

  Mike frowned down at him. “Bad spot to get hit. You probably went right out. Took a few lobster pots with you, got caught under the dock.”

  “You’re lucky Julianne came over here when she did,” Colin said. “What were you doing?”

  “I was stacking traps, waiting for Jules.” Andy shivered, then moaned, as if his shivering made him hurt worse; his speech was slightly slurred with the onset of hypothermia. “Damn, my head feels like it’s going to explode.”

  “Go easy,” Mike said.

  “I wasn’t paying attention. Next thing, you’re pulling me out from under the damn dock and I’m freezing my ass off.”

  Kevin stood up. “Where were you stacking the traps?”

  Andy shut his eyes, his lips still purple. “By Hurley’s boathouse. I don’t…”

  “You ended up in the water by the dock,” Colin said.

  “I must have… Hell.” Andy tried to sit up, cursed in pain and stayed down on his back. “I think I heard something. I can’t remember.”

  “Warm up,” Mike said. “You’ll remember more when your body temperature is back to normal.”

  Julianne sprang to her feet and frowned at Kevin, then Colin. “We need to check with anyone who was on the docks, at Hurley’s, in the parking lot. Someone must have seen something, right?” She caught herself. “Sorry. You guys know what to do.”

  Kevin, always the most patient Donovan, touched her shoulder. “What about you, Julianne?”

  “Me? I didn’t see anything. And I didn’t hit him. I swear.”

  Mike grinned at her. “You were just muttering about drowning him from one end of the harbor to the other.”

  “What were you doing, watching me?”

  Mike nodded back toward the waterfront restaurant. “We saw you.”

  Kevin tried to intercede. “Julianne—”

  “Bastards,” she said. “Every damn one of you. You’re all bastards.”

  Mike shrugged off his jacket and put it over her shoulders. “Andy’ll be okay. You did good today, kid.”

  She fought back tears, then pulled off Mike’s coat and added it to her sweater atop Andy. He unearthed a hand from under the layers and placed it on her muddy ankle. “Thanks, Jules. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t found me.”

  “You’d have drowned,” she said, sniffling back more tears.

  An ambulance and town cruiser arrived on the boat launch.

  “I’ll check on Father Bracken,” Mike said.

  Kevin glanced at Colin. “You’re getting in touch with Emma?”

  He nodded. “On my way to Heron’s Cove now.”

  * * *

  Apple cider was as quintessentially Maine as bean-hole suppers, Finian thought as he set a plastic jug of cider on the kitchen table in the rectory. But what an odd thing. He’d walked over to the rectory after morning mass, and there was the cider on his back doorstep, along with a sheet of thick white sketch paper rolled up and tied with a purple velvet ribbon. A note card was clipped to it: “Compliments of Tatiana Pavlova, Firebird Boutique, London.”

  Finian was about to untie the ribbon when Mike Donovan materialized in the screen door. “Thought you were going to keep your doors locked,” the eldest Donovan said, entering the kitchen.

  “At night,” Finian said, “and I refuse to lock my church office when I’m there, so don’t even ask.”

  Mike frowned at the note. “What’s that?”

  Finian could tell something was wrong, given Mike’s grim look and his sodden jeans. “It can wait. You—”

  “Just tell me,” Mike said, glancing at the note card.

  Finian explained, and when he finished his tale, Mike withdrew a small jackknife from a pocket and cut the ribbon on the sketch. “Let’s have a look,” he said, unrolling it on the table. He grabbed the salt and pepper shakers and set them on corners diagonally across from each other, then eyed the pencil sketch. “A falcon? A guy?”

  “So it appears.” The sketch took up the entire page and wasn’t elaborate but was beyond anything Finian knew that he could accomplish. “It looks as if the falcon transforms into a handsome man. A prince, possibly.”

  “Is the prince supposed to be you?” Mike asked.

  Finian sighed, mystified. “I have no idea.”

  “Why would this Tatiana Pavlova leave you a sketch and a jug of cider?”

  “Again, Mike, I have no idea.”

  He gave a curt nod. “All right. I’ll call Kevin and Colin. Tell them. Did you see her?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Just a handful of people at mass.” Finian shifted his attention from the sketch to the man next to him. “What’s happened?”

  “Andy was attacked down by Hurley’s,” Mike said. “He’ll be okay.”

  Finian waited for him to continue, but Mike Donovan was nothing if not succinct. “Shall I pour us some cider and you can tell me—”

  “Don’t touch the cider.”

  The intensity of his words, his tight look, reminded Finian of Colin during his hunt for Sister Joan’s killer. Finian felt his heartbeat quicken, his palms sweat. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Loan me your cell phone. Mine got wet.”

  “When Andy was attacked?”

  “After. We weren’t there when he got hit.”

  “He was in the water, then,” Finian said, handing over his cell phone.

  Mike nodded but didn’t elaborate as he punched in a number. In another moment, he spoke to Kevin Donovan, the marine patrol officer. “Finian’s okay. We need to find out if Emma’s Russian friend Tatiana Pavlova had cider and a sketch delivered to Saint Patrick’s rectory or if she delivered them herself. And why.”

  As Mike explained the situation in more detail to his youngest brother, Finian sank into a chair at the table, looking at the lovely sketch and the cider with its charming, distinctive label from a local cider press.

  What was this life he had embraced when a gift from a young artist could provoke such suspicion and fear, not just in Mike Donovan, Finian thought, but in himself, too?

  Mike disconnected, in no better spirits. “Kevin found cider, sketches and notes from Tatiana for him, Andy and me in the back of his truck.”

  “Not for Colin?”

  “He’s checking Colin’s house now. If you rated a personal delivery, maybe he did, too.”

  “But Tatiana has only met Colin and me,” Finian said thoughtfully. “Not that you and your youngest brothers aren’t deserving of a gift.”

  “But it’s odd,” Mike said, dialing his phone again.

  “You’re calling Colin?”

  “He’s on his way to Heron’s Cove. He can c
heck with Tatiana and figure this out.”

  Finian hoped so. Parishioners sometimes dropped off gifts for him. Homemade breads and cakes, the occasional stew, fresh vegetables from their gardens. He had never thought twice about anything they offered.

  He sighed, even as he noticed that the cider looked as if it had already been opened.

  When Mike didn’t get through to Colin, he left a curt message and disconnected, impatient. “There’s no cell service for a stretch along the coast above Heron’s Cove. He’s probably there.”

  “What do we do now?” Finian asked.

  “We wait.”

  * * *

  Colin left a message for Emma and texted her before he hit a dead zone with his cell phone. When he came out of it just above Heron’s Cove, she still hadn’t responded. He saw that Mike, Kevin and Matt Yankowski had all called during the ten minutes he had no service. He didn’t check his voice mail, just hit Yank’s number.

  Yank answered on the first ring. “Where are you?”

  “A mile out of Heron’s Cove. Have you talked to Emma this morning?”

  “Not yet. What—”

  “You first.”

  “We’ve been looking into Vladimir Bulgov’s activity in London in April. We checked his financial records. He bought a little something for himself at the Firebird Boutique. By itself, it’s not earth-shattering. He’s Russian, and the Firebird’s premier designer is Russian-born and does work inspired by Russian folklore and fairy tales and such. Only now she’s in Heron’s Cove.”

  “Tatiana Pavlova has met my friend Vlad.”

  “Almost certainly,” Yank said. Colin noticed a sailboat, its white sails sparkling against the blue water and clear blue sky. “My brother Andy was attacked in Rock Point this morning.”

  Yank remained silent as Colin filled him in, then said, “You’re sure your brother didn’t just trip over a lobster pot?”

  “Whoever hit him knew what he was doing.”

  “You didn’t see anything?”

  “Not a thing. It happened before Kevin, Mike and I met for breakfast. We’re lucky Julianne found Andy when she did. Cold water, high tide, a hit on the head—”

  “Not a good combination. Keep me posted. You’re okay?”

  “All set. I got my feet wet but I’ll dry out. No alligators and poisonous snakes in Rock Point.”

  He disconnected, and as he pulled in front of the Sharpe house, Mike called again. “I’m with Finian Bracken. We’re good. This Russian designer is either eccentric as hell, or something’s up.”

  Colin was ready to jump through the phone but managed not to interrupt Mike’s explanation. Cider? Falcons? What was Tatiana Pavlova thinking?

  “I thought it was weird,” Mike said as he wrapped up, “especially so soon after Andy got bashed in the head.”

  “And Kevin says we all got cider and a sketch?”

  “Yeah. Yours is on your back doorstep. I don’t want anyone touching the cider. Call me paranoid if you want.”

  “Not today,” Colin said.

  He hung up with Mike and climbed out of his truck. The carpenters had left the front door to the Sharpe house open as they hauled out old kitchen cabinets, wallboard, insulation and whatever else one would expect to find in the walls of a hundred-year-old house. Colin headed up the walk as he returned Kevin’s call.

  His youngest brother gave a quick update. The local police were going over every inch of the Rock Point waterfront, every boat, every lobster pot, every damn rock, for any evidence of who had attacked Andy and why. He was getting checked out at the emergency room, but Kevin was confident he wouldn’t be admitted.

  “He’s arguing with Julianne,” Kevin said. “She still wants her boat back. You’ve talked to Mike?”

  “Yeah,” Colin said.

  Kevin didn’t like the gifts, either. Why wouldn’t Tatiana at least have said a quick hello? From what Colin had seen of her, she wasn’t shy.

  He disconnected and went into the house but Emma wasn’t there. He stifled an edge of worry as he choked on the stirred-up dust and debris and ducked out to the back porch.

  The Nightingale was still moored next door.

  He could drive over to Lucas Sharpe’s house in the village, bust in its door and see what he could find on the Sharpes and Dmitri Rusakov. Same with the parents’ house, which was serving as the temporary offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery while they were in London and Wendell Sharpe’s home was under renovation. Bust in its door, see what was what.

  Emma probably wouldn’t like that.

  Colin walked down to the yard. Hydrangea petals had blown off and were scattered over the grass like burgundy-colored snowflakes. Heron’s Cove was a pretty place, and he did fine at the docks and in a few of the regular places—a couple of bars, a clam shack—but he had never been comfortable there the way he was in Rock Point. He wondered if the reverse was true for Emma. He had liked having her at his house last night, and not just because of the sex, although that was a big part of it. He had liked talking to her about what color to paint the walls, and watching her roll her eyes when she discovered he still more-or-less only had beer in his refrigerator.

  He wanted to know more about her family, what it was like growing up as a Sharpe. They couldn’t have just sat around talking art heists all the time.

  Then again, maybe they had, Colin thought, heading down to the docks to see if Emma was with her Russian friends, and if any of them knew about falcon sketches, cider and the attack on his brother.

  22

  “WATCH YOURSELF, LUCAS,” Emma said as she paused on the pier where the Nightingale was moored. “Tatiana had a chance to tell us Vladimir Bulgov had commissioned those nesting dolls from her, and she didn’t.”

  “The man in the picture is Dmitri Rusakov?”

  “Definitely.” She had received his email with the pictures when she arrived in Heron’s Cove. “I don’t recognize the woman with him. It must have been twenty years ago, at least.”

  “Around the time that Granddad was in Moscow, then.” Lucas sounded calm but also intensely focused. “I’ll ask him about her.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Almost to Killarney. Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

  Emma gripped her phone as she approached the gangway onto the Nightingale. She didn’t see anyone up on the sky deck, or in the lounge. Were Dmitri and Ivan watching her, wondering who she was talking to, what she was learning about them and their real reasons for being in Heron’s Cove?

  She envisioned Lucas driving on the twisting road to Killarney in southwest Ireland and heard his tense sigh. “Is the girl in the picture Tatiana Pavlova?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell for sure but that’s my guess.”

  “If the woman’s her mother and she was involved with the Rusakov collection somehow, that could explain Tatiana’s interest.”

  “Yes, it could,” Emma said half to herself. “The original collection that Granddad investigated included a nightingale pendant. I don’t know if Natalie ended up with it and what you saw in Tatiana’s workroom is a different nightingale. If it’s not—if it’s part of the Rusakov collection—then how and when did she get it?”

  “Good question. I hope Granddad can help with an answer.”

  “If you’re being followed—”

  “I’d know it on this damn road,” he said.

  “Just be careful. Don’t take any chances.”

  “You, too, Emma. Sorry. I forgot for a second that you’re an FBI agent.”

  Lucas promised to stay in touch but when he disconnected, Emma had to push back a surge of worry for her brother and grandfather. She mounted the gangway, losing her already weak cell-phone signal as she walked onto the cool main deck. She expected a crewmember to turn up but saw no one in the dimly lit corridor.

  The door to Natalie Warren’s guest cabin was open. Emma stood in the doorway. Natalie was zipping up a suitcase on her bed and jumped, startled, before Emma had a chance to annou
nce her presence. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, grabbing at her chest even as she smiled. “I didn’t hear you. Please, come in.”

  Emma entered the elegant stateroom but stayed by the door. “Where is everyone? I just walked right on board.”

  “The crew’s getting the boat ready to sail. Is sail even the right word? Dmitri invited me to sail with him down to the Bahamas, but I have to get back home. I think he’s up on the top deck somewhere.”

  “Is Ivan on board?”

  “I haven’t seen him, but I’m sure he’s around. We had a visit earlier this morning from Tatiana Pavlova. I…um…” Natalie faltered, as if she weren’t quite sure what to say. “I guess you two have met already.”

  “She came here on her own?”

  Natalie nodded. “Of course, what else? Dmitri or Ivan dragged her on board?”

  “Invited her,” Emma said.

  “Oh, right. It was your tone—or maybe I’m just out of sorts. This trip hasn’t gone the way I thought it would. Tatiana had her back up about the collection. She’d heard I was bringing it here, to discuss it with you and your family. She didn’t say how she heard, but her work brings her into contact with appraisers, auction houses, other designers. I’d been asking around but I thought I’d been discreet. I guess not that discreet.”

  “Who all was here—you, Dmitri, Ivan?”

  “Not Ivan,” Natalie said. “I don’t know where he was. I think Tatiana’s a bit of a character. Of course, now I want to see the Firebird Boutique.”

  “You’ve never been there?”

  “No, never.”

  “I see you’re packed,” Emma said, nodding to the suitcase still on the bed. “When are you leaving?”

  “Any minute. I’ve said goodbye to Dmitri already. I don’t think he was that serious about inviting me to join him in the Bahamas.” Natalie grabbed a brush off the dresser and ran it quickly through her pale hair, which she then deftly pulled back with a tortoise-shell clip. She added in a mock conspiratorial whisper, “I think he has a girlfriend down there.”