“Olivia’s maid tried to kill me.”
Silence. “If this is some sort of joke…”
“No joke. Olivia’s maid tried to kill me tonight.”
“Which maid? She had several.”
“Maire something. I don’t know her last name. She tricked me into coming out to the Dunmullach distillery.”
“What the bloody hell is it with you and abandoned buildings?”
Gethsemane ignored the question. “She rigged the catwalk and took out the bolts that screwed it to the wall. It fell and I fell. Luckily, I landed in one of the mash tuns. I almost drowned.” She said a silent thank you to Captain Lochlan. “But if I’d hit the ground I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
More silence.
“You believe me, don’t you?”
“If it was anyone but you I’d say you were coddin’ and I’d arrest you for it. But I have no trouble believing someone tried to kill you.”
She deserved that. Hearing it pissed her off, but she deserved it.
“Where are you now?” O’Reilly asked. “Are you someplace safe?”
“I’m home at the cottage. Jackson’s here with me.”
“Did you see Maire?”
“No, she called me. I, admittedly unwisely, went out to the distillery on my own.” One of these days she’d heed Tchaikovsky’s warning. She told the inspector about the will Maire claimed to have. “I figured she’d sell it to the other bidder if I didn’t act fast. I assume she meant Curtis Boyle. He certainly doesn’t want Olivia’s will found. He’ll inherit the wind and nothing else if it is.”
“Did you see anyone else at the distillery?”
“Just Hank Wayne and Ray Delaney. Hank’s thinking of buying it. Ray was showing him around. They helped me out of the tun. Well, Ray did.”
“Maire’s probably in Ballytuam. A bit out of my jurisdiction, but since the actual crime happened here I think I can convince the fellas over there to let me take the lead. Unless you want me to turn this over to the homicide unit.”
“If I’d wanted to be ridiculed, belittled, and humiliated I would have called them directly.”
“All right, let me make a couple of calls and I’ll head over there. I’ll start at Essex House. As long as she phoned you in secret, no one can connect her to the distillery. She’ll have no reason to run.”
“I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, you’re not,” Jackson said behind her.
“You stay out of this.”
“You pulled me into this,” O’Reilly said.
“Not you. I was talking to Jackson. And I am going with you. Imagine Maire’s reaction when you confront her and I walk into the room not dead.”
“The woman tried to murder you.”
“Long distance. She’s not going to do anything with a guard or three standing there.” O’Reilly’s heavy sigh drifted across the line. She imagined him, eyes closed, fingers massaging a temple. “You admit I have a point?” she asked.
“No, I’m reminding myself that if I don’t take you with me, you’ll find a way to go yourself and it’ll probably be a way that will lead to more trouble. Put your brother-in-law on the phone. Maybe I can talk sense to him.”
“I will not put Jackson on the phone.” Jackson tried to grab the receiver. She ducked out of his reach. “I am not some helpless delicate flower who’s going to wilt if you look at her cross-eyed. I’m not going to sit here and wring my hands while two big strong men decide how best to protect me from fire-breathing dragons.”
“Oh, for feck’s—” A faint thud followed the expletive. What had he thrown? “How did my investigating your attempted assassination—which is not my department, may I remind you—turn into some sort of feminist manifesto?”
“I’m sorry, Niall. You’re right. You’re the police and I should leave this to you—Jackson’s nodding his head—but you’ve known me long enough to know I’m not good at sitting back and letting others do the heavy lifting. It’s not in my nature.”
“I remember.”
“I’m not suggesting I go off like a lone wolf and confront Maire.” Although if she ever did get her alone, what she’d like to do to the frizzy-haired cow would have homicide on her case. “But with other people present, gardaí present, what harm could come? In fact, me being with you, where you can keep an eye on me, is a lot safer than me being way out here at the cottage all by myself with Maire unaccounted for.”
“You’re not by yourself,” Jackson said. “I’m here.”
Gethsemane shushed him. “What if she’s not at Essex House? What if she went to the distillery and found out I’m not dead? What if she’s lying in wait on the cliffs or up at the lighthouse biding her time until another opportunity—”
“Don’t oversell it,” O’Reilly said. “Fine, you can come with me. Bring Jackson, too, just in case your nonsense about Maire lying in wait isn’t nonsense. But understand, you do as I tell you. If I sense the situation is even remotely getting out of hand, if there’s even the hint of danger—”
“I’ll wait in the car like a good girl. I promise.”
O’Reilly snorted. “You know lying to the police is a serious offense. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Be ready.”
She hung up to find Jackson frowning down at her, arms crossed. “Don’t start. It’s not as if we’re going after Ma Barker.”
“I feel sorry for any fire-breathing dragons we encounter. You’ll skin them and turn them into a purse and matching shoes inside of ten minutes.”
“Tell me again what happened.” O’Reilly kept his eyes on the road as he sped toward Essex House.
Gethsemane repeated her story of the phone call, the envelope, the catwalk’s collapse, the foul liquid in the mash tun. Once again, she omitted the captain’s rescue. She also didn’t tell him about the welts on her palms from gripping the railing or the bruises she’d noticed when she showered or how the sludge she’d washed away clogged the shower drain.
Jackson, in the backseat, hid his face in his hands. “Lord, Sissy, what’s with this place? Your attempted murder, Andrew Perryman’s murder, Olivia’s unexplained death all in the same week. Southeast D.C. is safer.”
“The medical examiner ruled Olivia’s death a homicide,” O’Reilly said. “She had bruises on her upper back and shoulders. The bruises corresponded to hands.” He nodded at Gethsemane. “Hands belonging to someone much taller than you. You couldn’t have reached high enough to push her with enough force to send her over the balcony railing. Which is why the guards never arrested you.” He smiled a dimpled grin. “Sissy.”
Gethsemane mouthed the words, “Don’t. Even.” Aloud she said, “Someone could have told me.”
“The Ballytuam gardaí kept a lot of information from the public. They didn’t want to jeopardize ongoing investigations.”
“Investigations, plural?”
“Olivia’s murder and the art fraud scheme. They knew fake pieces were being sold through local auction houses, pieces from famous collections. They didn’t know whether the collectors were in on the scam or if someone else with access to the artworks was substituting fakes without the collectors’ knowledge. They also didn’t know if or how Olivia’s death was connected.”
“The Creech miniature could have been swapped for a fake at the auction house,” Jackson said. “Any number of people could have accessed it if Ms. Ryan and her house were involved in the scheme. Things get trickier if the auction house wasn’t knowingly involved, but the switch is still doable. The Freeman sampler’s a different story. It was never out of Essex House and never on public display. A limited number of people knew Olivia owned it. The forger would have to know the sampler existed, know where in the house it was located, obtain detailed descriptions of it, sneak into Olivia’s office without her knowing, and make the switch.
Couldn’t be done without Olivia’s involvement.”
“But if Olivia was involved, she’d never have willed the Freeman sampler to your museum,” Gethsemane said. “She was not a stupid woman. But someone else who lived in the house, someone with unlimited access to Olivia’s office, could have made the switch. Someone whose presence would not only not raise eyebrows but would be expected.”
“Who?” Jackson asked.
“A maid. Maire lives in Essex House. She has unlimited, untimed access to everything. And she probably gets a good look at the artwork when she dusts the frames.”
“If she was involved, she must have had help,” Jackson said. “I admit I didn’t know her, but the few times I saw her she didn’t strike me as a skilled forger, and I don’t think she’s often invited to attend auctions.”
“Ryan’s involvement in the scam is unequivocal. We haven’t pinpointed exactly who at the house is mixed up in this, yet, but we have a short list of suspects.”
“I bet that assistant is on the list,” Gethsemane interjected. “Something about him rubs me wrong.”
“Maybe three or four other auction houses and galleries in Ballytuam are in on it, too,” O’Reilly said.
“Including Andrew Perryman’s gallery?”
O’Reilly nodded. “The Economic Crime Bureau ran an undercover investigation out of Ballytuam. Besides the regular guards, the Bureau borrowed operatives from other agencies, sent them to auctions and gallery openings and galas and whatnot to try to suss out leads. But the art world is tighter than a nun’s—tough to break into.” O’Reilly met Jackson’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “They appreciated your help, Dr. Applethwaite, even though you gave it under duress. The contacts you provided will be key in setting up dealers trying to unload fakes.”
O’Reilly turned onto the road that passed by the Ballytuam train station. “It’s not too late. I can drop you both at the station and you can catch the train back to Dunmullach.”
“And I can buy us both plane tickets home,” Jackson said. “You need to come away to a safer place, Sissy, someplace with a lower body count. D.C., east L.A., New York.”
“Jackson Applethwaite, did my parents raise any quitters?”
“No.”
“Has my mother ever quit anything once she’s started on it? Did my father, when he was alive?”
“No.”
“In all the tales you’ve heard about my long line of ancestors, did you ever hear anything that gave you the indication that any of them ever quit fighting no matter how heinous the crap thrown in their faces?”
“No.”
“If you want to leave, Niall can drop you at the station. I’m staying.”
“Dr. Applethwaite.” O’Reilly grinned in the rearview mirror. “In all the years you’ve known Sissy, have you ever won an argument with her?”
“No.”
“There they are.”
O’Reilly pointed to the Ballytuam police car waiting in front of Essex House. Its occupants got out as O’Reilly’s car pulled into the drive. Gethsemane recognized two of the four. Yseult Grennan standing near the house’s entrance didn’t surprise Gethsemane. The man standing next to her did. Kenneth O’Connor, the buyer’s agent. How’d he fit into this? Was he part of the undercover investigation? One of the undercover agents? Maybe her Secret Squirrel joke hadn’t been such a joke after all.
The third person wore a police uniform. He held O’Reilly’s door for him as he introduced the fourth, a thin man in a boring gray suit, as Inspector Mulroney of the garda’s Bureau of Economic Crime. O’Reilly introduced Jackson and Gethsemane.
Yseult shook O’Reilly’s hand.
“Niall, always a pleasure. You remember Special Agent O’Connor.”
The two men greeted each other. Yseult and Kenneth acknowledged Gethsemane and Jackson while the uniformed garda rang the bell. A butler answered and the group followed him inside.
Gethsemane whispered to Kenneth, “Tell me again what kind of agent you are.”
“Did I say ‘buyer’s’? I meant FBI.”
“Her, too?” Gethsemane nodded at Yseult.
“Her, too. Our art crimes unit loaned Yseult and me to the Ballytuam gardaí, us being from the ould sod originally.”
Did Frankie know his ex-wife worked for the American feds? Would she dare ask him?
Inspector Mulroney spoke to the butler. “We need to speak to Maire Fitzgerald.”
“Maire’s not here, sir. No one’s seen her since yesterday. We’ve been looking for her. She didn’t say anything about going away.”
Another maid, a brunette who looked just out of high school, poked her head around the corner. “She’s cleared out her things.” She blushed when everyone turned toward her. “Begging your pardon for interrupting. I share a room with Maire, least I did. Lots of her clothes and all her jewelry is gone and so’s a case. I don’t think she’s coming back.”
“Jewelry?” Yseult asked. “What jewelry did she have?”
“She had lots of nice bits and bobs. Earrings, a bracelet, a couple of necklaces. She claimed they were real, but I didn’t believe her. How could they be? I know how much she makes. You’d be lucky to buy a toy from a kiddie shop on our salary. I bet they were cubic zirconia. She said she inherited them, but I didn’t believe that either. Who’d she have to inherit from? She came from a long line of nobodies who didn’t have a piss pot to leave to anyone. I figured she bought ’em herself with money she got from some fella who was getting a leg over, or she nicked ’em from somewhere. Lady Muck got notions. Shite flies high when it’s hit with a stick.” She blushed. “’Scuse my language.”
“Will you take us to your room?” Yseult asked.
“Sure, it’s this way.”
The group followed the young woman. “Where’s Mr. Delaney?” Gethsemane asked her as she led them through several hallways, past the kitchen, and down a flight of back stairs. “He managed the staff; he’s sure to know next of kin, previous employers. Maybe he can tell us where Maire might have gone.”
“Sorry, miss, haven’t seen him since this morning.” She stopped in front of a small brown door about a third of the way along a hall lined with identical doors. “Here we are.” She opened the door to a small Spartan double-bedded room. Twin dressers, end tables, and a wardrobe comprised the only other furniture. Disarrayed sheets covered one of the beds. The other hadn’t been slept in. Partially open drawers in the dresser next to it revealed absent contents. The dresser top lay empty.
“She stole my case.” The young maid pointed to the top of the wardrobe at a worn purple hard-sided suitcase. “I had a matching set, present from me uncle.”
“She’s cleared out,” the uniformed garda announced.
“We see that,” Inspector Mulroney said. “Question is, where’s she got to?”
“And who helped her?” O’Reilly asked. “I just don’t see her pulling off art fraud and attempted murder by herself.”
“I don’t see her pulling off art fraud at all,” Kenneth said.
“What do you mean?”
“Yseult and I have been trying to break this ring for a year and a half now. We’ve investigated everyone even tangentially connected: Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle, Ms. Ryan and her employees at the auction house, Andrew Perryman, Ronan Leary. Maire never came up in connection with anything. Never saw her at an auction, never saw her name on a gallery’s client list, never saw her name on any known art criminals’ holiday card lists. Never even bought a ticket to the local art museum. As far as we can tell, she has nothing to do with the art world.”
“But there’s an insider, you said so yourself, someone with access to the works, someone who knows where they are and how to move them.”
“Yes, there is an insider. It’s just not Maire.”
“The missing will’s another story,” Yseult said. “We can’
t tie it to our case. Maire may well have stolen it herself or may be working with whoever did.”
“My money’s on Curtis Boyle for that one,” O’Reilly said. “He’s the only one with any reason to get rid of it. Everyone else benefitted from the will’s existence.”
“Shall I call the station to have them send someone ’round to see Curtis Boyle, sir?” the uniform asked his superior. He received an affirmative and left the room.
“Mind if we look ’round, luv?” Kenneth asked the maid. She reddened and consented to the search.
“Not much to see.” Inspector Mulroney pawed through the wardrobe. “Some clothes, few pair of shoes.”
“Those are mine, sir.” The maid snatched a skimpy red-sequined dress from the policeman. “Mostly. Maire used the other half of the wardrobe.”
“Nothing there but a moth-eaten skirt.”
“Nothing in the drawers either.” O’Reilly pushed against one, but it wouldn’t shut. He pushed harder and slammed his leg against it. It remained open a few inches despite his efforts.
“Something must be stuck,” Yseult said.
O’Reilly removed the drawer and reached into the space. He pulled out a crumpled magazine.
Gethsemane recognized it. “It’s the Christeby’s magazine. The issue featuring the ContempoPop auction. I keep seeing it.”
“Where did you see it?” Yseult asked.
“At the Perryman Gallery and in Olivia’s office. I also heard Hank Wayne talking about the auction. He met Andrew there, I think, or at least worked with him. And he thought he recognized Ray, but Ray denied ever being in New York.”
“What’s the magazine doing stuffed behind a drawer in the maid’s room?” O’Reilly held it out for the young maid to see. “Do you recognize this?”
“No, sir. I’ve never seen it before. If it’s one of Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle’s art magazines, I never had nothing to do with those. Maire took care of the missus’s office.”
Inspector Mulroney addressed Yseult and Kenneth, “You’re positive Maire’s not involved in art fraud?” They assured him they were. “Who has access to this room besides you and your roommate?” he asked the maid.
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