Liar's Key

by Carla Neggers

  Her mother’s words had taken Claudia by surprise. Even Dad?

  Your father’s a fine man, too. A different kind of fine than Wendell. When you’re in financial trouble, you go to Dad. When you’re in real trouble...you go to Wendell.

  She’d ended the conversation there, with no further explanation.

  Maine would be filled with memories, Claudia knew, but she was up to them. More than that, she was ready for them.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” she whispered. “You are.”

  She eased the car into the Newbury Street traffic, feeling less awkward driving on the right than she had when she’d rented the car at the airport on Monday, wondering when she’d see Gordy again—the Sharpe open house, or Boston? She’d misplayed every contact she’d ever had with him, from the very first time she’d met him in London a few weeks after her mother’s death.

  Claudia Deverell? Special Agent Gordon Wheelock. I need you to do something for me.

  She shook her head. She’d called him last week out of strength, not weakness.

  She wouldn’t let him manipulate and intimidate her into doing his bidding this time.

  “No, Gordy. Not this time.”

  * * *

  Claudia drove straight to South Station, where her friend Isabel Greene was already out front, an elegant tapestry weekender bag slung over one shoulder. She and Claudia were driving to Maine together. They’d taken the train to Heathrow together on Monday. Claudia had flown to Boston, Isabel to New York. Isabel had mentioned she planned to take the train to Boston and Claudia had offered to pick her up. A talented mosaic artist, Isabel was entertaining and capable of dispelling any dark mood. They’d have a fun drive to southern Maine.

  Isabel waved, as if Claudia might not see her, and jumped off the curb, pulled open the door and tossed her bag onto the backseat. She climbed in front, flipping back her long, curly golden blond hair and emitting a cathartic groan. “What a day,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here. The Acela is fast but I’m ready for a break from traveling. I can’t wait to be in Maine.”

  “We shouldn’t run into traffic,” Claudia said. “We’ll be there in no time.”

  Isabel pulled on her seat belt and snapped it in place. She looked put-together despite an almost four-hour train ride, charging through a crowded station with her bag and waiting on the curb for Claudia to arrive. Isabel lived half the year in New York. The other half, she traveled and exchanged apartments with a friend in London. She’d started out working at a New York museum but now supported herself with her mosaic art, which included both portable pieces and installations. She’d spent February completing a mosaic floor in a conservatory in Malibu. The owners had requested a vineyard scene. Claudia had seen photographs of the stunning results. Like her mother had been, she was in awe of the combination of Isabel’s imagination and technique.

  “How was the train?” Claudia asked.

  “Only way to get in and out of New York. I haven’t been in New York in May in ages. Central Park is gorgeous. I saw ducklings, of all things. I’ve been on the go since I arrived from London. I can’t wait to kick back for a few days.”

  “Excellent.”

  Accustomed to a frenetic pace, Isabel had promised she was looking forward to Maine and wouldn’t get bored. Handsome Adrian Deverell, Claudia’s older half brother, might have something to do with it, but Isabel denied any romantic interest in him. Claudia didn’t want to think about that right now. Sometimes she wondered if Adrian and Isabel had more in common with each other than Claudia did with either of them, despite her brother’s indifference toward antiquities. But it wouldn’t take much for her to start feeling threatened and sorry for herself. She almost would have preferred if her father and Isabel hit it off but couldn’t explain why.

  Claudia maneuvered back into the heavy traffic and started toward the interstate north. She didn’t need a map or GPS. She knew the way.

  Isabel pushed back a few stray curls, catching her breath. “How are you, Claudia?”

  After Gordy had left the gallery, even before her restorative espresso, Claudia had decided not to tell Isabel about his visit, for a thousand reasons. “Great, thanks,” she said, smiling. “Happy to be home in the US.”

  “Have you put the party in London on Sunday behind you?”

  “Behind me? It was fun. I had a great time.”

  “Does your father know? Adrian?”

  Claudia looked over at her. “About what?”

  “Not what. Who. You know who I’m talking about. Agent Wheelock. I saw you two at the party on Sunday. It confirmed what I’ve suspected for a while. There is—or there was— something besides consulting on antiquities between you and that married FBI agent.”

  “You have a fertile imagination, Isabel.”

  “This isn’t my imagination. One way or the other he’s the reason you and Lucas broke up and you quit the auction house and went out on your own, isn’t he?”

  “My mother died. That’s why I did what I did. Lucas and I...” She shook her head. “Never mind. We saw each other a few times on his trips to London, but that’s about it. And I quit the auction house to focus on my family’s antiquities collection.”

  “At least you could afford to.” Isabel frowned, her brown eyes narrowed on Claudia as she navigated Boston’s insane traffic. “I remember Agent Wheelock coming round in London last year. I’ve had my suspicions he played fast and loose with the rules where you were concerned.”

  “Isabel, please...”

  “All right. Whatever was between you two is none of my business. I don’t know the guy myself, just that he specialized in art crimes and had you give him a tutorial in the antiquities trade. Antiquities used to be fun, but now—never mind the controversies about the ethics of ownership and stewardship, they can be downright scary with the fraud, looting and pillaging going on in some very dangerous places.”

  “I know what you mean,” Claudia said, hearing the sadness in her own voice.

  “We don’t need to talk about that now. I’m not sorry you and Lucas didn’t make a go of it, you know. The Sharpes aren’t your friends. I have nothing against them, but they keep themselves separate from people like us.”

  “Like us? You make it sound as if we’re criminals.”

  “I don’t mean to. Not at all. I mean those of us who are artists, collectors, experts.” Isabel waved a hand. “But let’s just enjoy the drive.”

  “I agree. Tell me about New York. What did you do there?”

  Isabel took the hint as Claudia threaded her way through heavy traffic. Once they were on the interstate, heading north to Maine, though, Isabel shifted in her seat. “Agent Wheelock isn’t a problem for you, is he, Claudia?”

  “Isabel—”

  “I was only half-serious about you two earlier. Does he know your mother stored some of her collection in Heron’s Cove?”

  “Yes, but I don’t care one way or the other. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Anyway, I’m glad you won’t be in Maine on your own.”

  “Me, too, but not because of him. I haven’t been to Maine in a long time.”

  “Not since Victoria...” Isabel’s voice trailed off, and she sniffled, staring out the side window. “I’m going to cry when we get there.”

  Claudia felt tears rising in her eyes. “We can cry together.”

  8

  Southern Maine coast

  The gray-shingled Sharpe house in picturesque Heron’s Cove didn’t look much different from the outside than it had before renovations. Fresh paint, new pots on either side of the door filled with green plants. Emma remembered her grandmother’s weathered pots with their plethora of flowers, a reflection of her the-more-the-merrier gardening philosophy. It had been her
philosophy about company, too. Emma felt a pang of grief as she headed up the short walkway. Was it possible her grandmother had been gone for more than fifteen years?

  The front door was unlocked. Emma rang the bell and went in. She imagined her grandfather setting up his fledgling art-recovery business in the front room sixty years ago. So much had changed since then. Sometimes—too often, maybe—the work forced Lucas to put aside his personal wants and needs, but if he resented his younger sister’s decisions about her own life, he’d never said.

  Emma went down the hall toward the kitchen. Although she’d witnessed the transformation of the small Victorian into state-of-the-art offices since last fall, the changes still could take her breath away. The space was open, bright and well-equipped for taking Sharpe Fine Art Recovery into its next decades. The hall was decorated with framed photographs of the rocky Maine coast, but Emma noticed a black-and-white photograph of her grandfather at his first desk, an old oak rolltop that unsentimental Lucas had stored in the attic. He’d have gotten rid of it altogether if Emma had let him.

  She smiled, remembering their many “discussions” over renovations. Her only stake in the house was emotional, but her brother hadn’t shut her out of decisions, even if technically he could have.

  The few staff had gone home for the day, and she found Lucas making tea in the kitchen. He was dressed casually, in a dark polo shirt and khakis. Emma was struck by how much her brother and grandfather resembled each other with their rangy builds, green eyes and tawny coloring. She was fairer, slender but not tall, but she did have the Sharpe green eyes.

  “This isn’t a casual visit,” Lucas said, plugging in the electric kettle. “I can tell by your expression.”

  “Where’s Granddad?”

  “Out for a walk. He’s been gone about an hour. I’m not ready to call the marine patrol.”

  Emma pulled out a chair at the table. Like everything else in the kitchen, it was new, an oak-top with a base painted a sea-turquoise. Out the windows there were views of the tidal river behind the house. “How’s he taking to being back in Maine?”

  Lucas shrugged. “Seems fine. Same as ever.”

  “Not that you’d notice if he dipped into melancholy or nostalgia on his first visit home to Maine in years. You two are so much alike—cut-to-the-chase, focused on the work and rarely if ever introspective.”

  “Emma, I didn’t expect such compliments from you.”

  She laughed. “You deserve each and every one.”

  Since he was now in his eighties, last year Wendell Sharpe had decided to retire and shut down his Dublin office. He was working on the odd project from his home in Dublin, still occasionally talking about returning to Heron’s Cove to live. Although the two floors and attic of his former home had been given up to office space, renovations had included a small apartment—really, a guest suite with kitchen privileges—should he return to Maine, whether for a visit or to stay. It’d taken all but a crowbar to pry him loose from Dublin, his birthplace, onto a flight to Boston last week.

  Emma sat at the table. “I’d like to talk to you about the open house.”

  Lucas pulled one of their grandmother’s old china teapots off a shelf. “Granddad warned me having an open house would cause problems. Mum and Dad were for it. You’ve graciously kept your opinions to yourself. It’s too late now.” He set the teapot on the counter. “Please don’t tell me that we have a wanted felon on the guest list.”

  “I haven’t seen the guest list, so I wouldn’t know.”

  “Ha.”

  She watched him prepare tea. The kitchen had a clean, bright feel with its white cabinets and butcher-block countertops, a contrast to the old kitchen with its worn counters and scarred cupboards.

  Lucas set a plate of digestives in the middle of the table. “One of Granddad’s favorites,” he said, returning to the counter.

  “Mine, too,” Emma said.

  He grinned. “Figures.”

  As similar as he and their grandfather were, Emma recognized that Lucas was more businesslike, less prone to operating on gut instinct and not keeping proper files. When he retired, he wouldn’t need to spend days doing a brain dump with his successor, as their grandfather had done with him in Dublin last fall. Anything needed to carry on the business would be in the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery files, backed up, sorted and official.

  Matt Yankowski often told Emma he’d like to do a Vulcan mind meld with Wendell Sharpe. Not a bad idea, she thought. She’d like to do one with Gordy Wheelock right now. He hadn’t returned her call and text, but Sam Padgett was pushing forward to learn more about what had happened at Gordy’s hotel last night. Emma wouldn’t want to try to get anything past Sam. If Gordy had indeed tripped over his own feet, so be it. But Sam was on it.

  “I talked to Mum and Dad on my way up here,” Emma said as Lucas placed the teapot and mismatched cups and saucers on the table. “They were at a tea party in London on Sunday celebrating the opening of an antiquities show at the Victoria and Albert Museum.”

  “They told you they ran into Oliver York, Gordon Wheelock and Claudia Deverell,” Lucas said, sitting across from her.

  Emma nodded, not surprised he already knew. “Still no love lost between you and Claudia?”

  “Still.” His tone suggested the reasons were none of his younger sister’s business. “Her father and brother arrived in town a little while ago. I suspect that’s where Granddad is. He ran into them in London last week and made sure they’d be here on Saturday.”

  “I understand Granddad was in London last week for Alessandro Pearson’s funeral,” Emma said.

  “That’s right. He visited Mum and Dad at the same time. You met Alessandro, didn’t you?”

  “I did but only once. I tagged along when he and Granddad had whiskey together after Alessandro gave a guest lecture at Trinity College. That was when I worked with Granddad in Dublin.”

  “Before the FBI, then,” Lucas said, his tone matter-of-fact.

  “They talked about whiskey and the weather. Not a word about antiquities.”

  “It can be hard not to talk business sometimes, can’t it?” Lucas reached across the table and poured Emma’s tea, then poured his own. “I met Alessandro in London last year—it was a few weeks after you’d moved to Boston. April, I think. Nice old fellow. He’d obviously lost a step or two but he was sharp as a tack. Sorry he’s gone. Anyway, what does this party on Sunday have to do with the FBI?”

  “Possibly nothing. Are you okay with the Deverells being here on Saturday?”

  “Henry and Adrian have said they’ll stop in. We haven’t heard from Claudia.”

  “Interesting that she was at the party on Sunday, too,” Emma said.

  “Makes sense given her background in antiquities. I find Oliver York’s presence more intriguing.” Lucas settled back with his tea, studying his only sister. “Is Oliver the reason for this visit?”

  “Granddad invited him to the open house back in February.”

  “That was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Oliver hasn’t said whether or not he’ll be here on Saturday. If he is, he is.”

  Pragmatic Lucas, Emma thought.

  “We invited a long list of people,” he added. “We never expected everyone to show up. Maine in May is great but it’s not high season. No one will have trouble finding a place to stay but it won’t be the best beach and boating weather.” He reached for a digestive. “What’s up with Special Agent Wheelock? We invited him, of course, but I didn’t expect him to respond, never mind say he’d be here.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Last week by email. He and Oliver York are your friends, Emma, not mine.”

  They weren’t friends, but she didn’t raise an objection. She gazed out the window in the back door. More pleasure boats were in the water at the marina next do
or. Finally, she shifted her attention back to her brother. “What do you know about rumors about stolen mosaics?”

  Lucas broke his digestive in half and dipped it into his tea. “Mum and Dad mentioned the rumors when I talked to them earlier,” he said finally. “Granddad did, too.”

  “When did he mention the rumors?”

  “I don’t remember. A few days ago.”

  “Before or after the Claridge’s party?” Emma asked.

  “Before. He stressed they’re only rumors. We don’t know anything for a fact.”

  We. Emma helped herself to a digestive. “Do you have any information on the mosaics in question?”

  “Early Byzantine Christian. No description.” Lucas’s voice was crisp, businesslike. “I took the rumors with a grain of salt, Emma.”

  Emma ate her digestive without dipping it into her tea, a habit she had refused to pick up from her grandfather or her older brother. Suddenly all she wanted was to sit on the back porch, look out at the boats and have tea and digestives. She’d meant to be on her mini break by now, but Gordy’s arrival in her office that morning had changed everything.

  “Can you let me know if you hear anything else about these mosaics—even it’s just more rumors?”

  “Of course,” Lucas said. “Is Gordy Wheelock on these rumors? Wasn’t he working an antiquities case when he retired?”

  Emma finished her cookie and lifted her teacup. It was decorated with morning glories and had been one of her grandmother’s favorites.

  Lucas leaned back. “All right, Emma. I can translate your silence. You can’t discuss Gordy Wheelock and an ongoing investigation, except on your terms. Mum says he’s put on weight but otherwise seems fine. Does he know Oliver York is your serial art thief? Gordy chased him almost as long as Granddad did.”

  “Lucas...”

  Her brother grinned. “I had to try.”

  Emma drank the rest of her tea. She thought of Colin’s texts from Ireland and pictured him at Bracken Distillers with Sean Murphy. It was a good image, two strong men conferring about a cheeky English art thief with a tortured past.