Liar's Key

by Carla Neggers

  Could Wendell Sharpe know something about Gordy and Oliver that wasn’t in the Sharpe or FBI files, that he hadn’t told her, Lucas, or anyone else?

  “I miss the carpenters,” Lucas said, reaching for another digestive with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. “They always brought doughnuts. A digestive is not a doughnut.”

  “I love digestives.”

  “Does Colin know this about you?”

  “He does, and now he’s become a fan, too. Well, fan might be too strong.”

  “Where is he?” Lucas asked mildly.

  Emma grabbed another cookie and bit into it, welcoming the familiar bland flavor. When she’d worked with her grandfather in Dublin, between her time at the convent and joining the FBI, they’d enjoyed many tea-and-digestive breaks together on his terrace.

  Lucas poured himself more tea. “Sorry if Colin’s whereabouts is an awkward subject for you,” he said, setting the pot back on the table.

  “Colin’s been in and out of Washington so much lately, it’s hard even for me to keep track of him.”

  “I see,” Lucas said, his tone enough to convey he could read into her safe answer.

  Emma directed the subject back to the matter at hand. “Did Granddad see Oliver when he was in London for Alessandro’s funeral?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Oliver isn’t our problem these days.” Lucas smiled, if faintly. “He sent you sheepskins, not Granddad or me.”

  She groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Beware English thieves bearing gifts,” Lucas said with a laugh. “I bet they’re top-quality sheepskins, though.”

  “Oliver says they’re from sheep on his farm in the Cotswolds.” Emma kept her tone neutral. “I think he was telling the truth this time.”

  “Have you seen him since he had you and Colin out to his farm in February—with the FBI’s approval, or so I assume?”

  “It was with approval and no, I haven’t seen him since then. We didn’t stay with him at the farm.”

  Instead, Emma thought, she and Colin had stayed at an inn in a nearby Cotswold village. They’d taken a short break after a particularly nasty case that had involved Oliver, at least on the periphery. It had also included an attempt on her life. Although nothing was said, she suspected Colin had been taking a few days to rest and be with her before going undercover again.

  “Thanks for tea, Lucas,” she said, getting to her feet. “Let me know if Gordy or Oliver gets in touch, okay?”

  “Will do.” Her brother rose, grabbing the teapot and taking it to the counter. “Mum and Dad said they still plan to make it home for your wedding.”

  “That would be nice,” Emma said.

  “Granddad says he wants to stay here through the wedding. It’s only a few weeks away.”

  “I’d love for him to be there, but if he’s homesick for Dublin—”

  “Dublin’s not going anywhere.” Lucas turned to her, some of his earlier intensity easing. “I can keep him busy with work here. He’s not as young as he thinks he is, but he’s not just any man in his eighties, either.”

  No doubt about that, Emma thought. She knew—and she suspected Lucas did, too—that Dublin was home for Wendell Sharpe now, and that aside from brain dumps, walkabouts in the Irish hills and giving up his office, he’d never fully retire.

  Lucas walked out with her onto the back porch. “The new offices are working out well,” he said. “We have more space than we need. That was the idea. Room to grow.”

  “I’m sure it helps to be out of temporary quarters. You’re happy? You like the work?”

  “It’s been all-consuming this past year, especially with the folks in London, but we’ll return to a more normal schedule soon. I’ll have a life again.”

  “A social life beyond art auctions and gallery openings, you mean. You’re on the job then, but an attractive woman could wander in and sweep you off your feet. Are you getting someone to take over the office in Dublin?”

  “I don’t know yet. I don’t want to step on Granddad’s toes.”

  “He understands you’re the boss now.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Lucas said with a laugh. “At least he keeps me informed about what he’s up to—as far as I know, anyway.”

  Emma looked out at the wide, tidal river and past a narrow channel to the Atlantic, its turquoise waters glistening in the afternoon light. It was low tide, the air filled with the smells of the ocean and a hint of lilacs. Heron’s Cove was coming to life again after the dark, cold winter months—shops and restaurants were reopening and summer houses were being aired out and spruced up for the season.

  “Are you taking tomorrow off?” Lucas asked.

  “I’m having a long-delayed lunch tomorrow with my future mother-in-law.”

  “Ah.”

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “You’re the one marrying a Rock Point Donovan.”

  Emma grinned, some of her own tension easing as she said goodbye to her brother and headed down the porch steps and around to the front of the house. Lucas clearly had his suspicions about the reasons behind her visit, but he had a good sense of their different professional roles. If nothing else, he knew pushing her wouldn’t get him anywhere, and her brother wasn’t one to waste time.

  * * *

  Instead of getting right back into her car, Emma walked up the street toward the Deverell house, the mouth of the tidal river giving way to a much-photographed section of the rockbound Maine coastline. She checked her phone, but still nothing from Gordy. She concentrated on the feel of the fresh breeze off the ocean and listened to the wash of waves on the rocks, the distant cry of seagulls and the putter of a lobster boat past a small cove, but she couldn’t relax.

  Across the curving road were large summer homes, most built around the turn of the twentieth century. The cedar-shingled Norwood-Deverell house occupied a prime elevated lot with stunning views of the Atlantic from its porches, bay windows and dormers. Emma didn’t remember when the family had stopped summering in Maine. She couldn’t have been more than ten. They’d come for a week at most, if at all, and rent out the house to friends and extended family. Victoria Norwood Deverell, who’d died of cancer last year, had been Henry Deverell’s second wife, a quiet woman dedicated to her volunteer work and her family’s impressive collection of Mediterranean antiquities. Only in her late teens had Emma discovered the Norwoods had been one of her grandfather’s early clients and their Maine home had been maintained by his Irish-immigrant parents—her great-grandparents.

  Life’s twists and turns, she thought as she paused across the road from the classic 1910 house. It had been spruced up since last summer, with new white paint on the trim and shutters, fresh blue-and-white covers on the porch furniture and a good pruning of the shrubs. A gnarly spruce was the sole tree in the yard. As exposed to the Atlantic as the property was, shade trees were under constant threat from harsh winds and salt spray, but they also tended to spread their branches and block views.

  There were two cars in the driveway, but Emma didn’t see anyone on the porch or in the yard. With a pang, she realized that Victoria Deverell wouldn’t be there. The house that had been a part of her family for over a century wasn’t in the best shape but it would sell quickly and soon be owned by someone else.

  “Emma!”

  Even as she heard her name called she spotted her grandfather loping down the sidewalk toward her, moving with the energy of a man twenty years younger. She laughed, waving back. “Hey, Granddad.”

  They cut the distance between them in less than a minute. “I didn’t expect to see you today,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  He’d arrived last Saturday and she’d met him at the airport and put him in a hired car to take him to Maine. He’d been tired f
rom the long trip across the Atlantic, but he looked great now. She noted his lined, wind-reddened cheeks, lively green eyes and thin, near-white hair. He wore a lightweight jacket, ancient khakis and boat shoes he might have left in a closet on his last visit to Maine, except, of course, Lucas had cleared out all the closets before the renovations.

  “How was your walk?” Emma asked.

  “Invigorating. The air’s different here than in Dublin. For a bit there I almost thought I was fourteen again, off to help my father repair shutters and mow lawns.”

  She nodded at the house across the street. “Did you stop and see the Deverells?”

  “Henry was out on the porch. We had a nice chat. The last time I was here, Victoria...” His smile faded. “As I told Henry, it’s hard to believe she’s gone. I know what it’s like to lose a wife too young. Cancer. It’s the bloody devil, isn’t it?”

  Emma tucked an arm around him. “Come on, Granddad, I’ll walk with you back to the house.”

  “Good. You obviously have something on your mind.”

  “That transparent, am I?”

  “Only when you choose to be.”

  A seagull swooped low in front of them and perched on a boulder at the water’s edge. Emma hugged her grandfather, feeling his bony frame and wondering what she’d ever do without him. Even in Dublin, he was a fixture in her life, a presence she didn’t want to imagine not having. Calls, video chats, emails and even text messages were a constant, and they saw each other regularly.

  They walked together back toward the river and the village center, the breeze dying down as they approached the inn and the Sharpe house, less exposed to the Atlantic. “You can tell me what’s on your mind,” her grandfather said finally. “We don’t have to do hale and hearty. You can cut to why you’re here.”

  “I’d have stopped to see you even if I didn’t have something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Of course. Goes without saying. What’s up, Emma?”

  She told him about her visit from Gordy Wheelock, leaving out only what she’d learned about his mishap at his hotel last night. They arrived at the house as she finished. “Anything you can tell me, Granddad?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve heard the rumors about the mosaics. I haven’t tried to pin them down. I’ve been here, trying to get your brother to stop looking at me as if he thinks I’m about to keel over. Don’t worry. I told Lucas to quit hovering. Not speaking out of turn.”

  “As if it’d stop you if you were.”

  “You’ve gotten cheekier since you started wearing a badge, or whatever you call it. Or is it the influence of that fiancé of yours?”

  “It’s knowing you,” she said lightly.

  “I love having my grandkids blame their smart mouths on me.” He squinted across the street at a seasonal restaurant known for its lobster rolls and grilled scallops. “It can’t have been easy for Gordy Wheelock to give up the work. For decades, you get up every morning knowing who you are, what you’re expected to do that day. Maybe you like the accolades that come with the job, but it’s the routines, the boundaries and the sense of accomplishment you miss when the work’s not there any longer.”

  “Are we just talking about Gordy, Granddad?”

  “Yeah, who else?” He turned, looking back in the direction they’d come. “I remember walking here with you when you were a tot. You loved to scramble on the rocks. No fear, but you always watched where you were going.”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t help,” Emma said. “The rocks can surprise you.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “They turn out to be slippery or loose when they don’t look it, or a seagull swoops at you, thinking your cookie is meant for him.”

  She smiled. “I’ve lost a round or two to seagulls. How do you like being back in Maine?”

  “I’ve been wallowing in the past since I got here. Ireland seems like another life.”

  “Speaking of Ireland, Oliver York is there, or he was earlier today. He says he stopped in Dublin to see you and discovered you were gone. True or false, do you know?”

  “Well, I am here.”

  “I meant is Oliver lying about his reasons for being in Ireland.”

  “I know what you meant, kid. I saw him last week when I was in London to see your folks before I flew back here. I don’t remember if I told him my plans—he damn well doesn’t need to know—but I could have.”

  “So, no help there,” Emma said.

  “Where is he now? He’s not camped out at my house, is he?”

  “He was in Declan’s Cross.”

  Her grandfather nodded thoughtfully. “I think he likes to go to the ruins there periodically as a kind of therapy.”

  Maybe so, Emma thought, but she doubted that was the only reason for Oliver’s presence in the tiny south coastal village, or in Ireland at all. “I didn’t realize you attended Alessandro Pearson’s funeral last week.”

  “Mmm. Sorry to lose him, but he didn’t suffer.”

  “Had you been in touch with him recently?”

  “We were going to have a drink together when I was in London, before heading here. His idea, but I was happy to do it. I think he figured I’d die on the plane or never come back. That tone of voice, you know? Maybe you don’t, since you’re so young. Maybe it had nothing to do with me and he just sensed that his own end was near.”

  “Then a few days later, we hear rumors about stolen mosaics,” Emma said.

  “I suppose Alessandro could have wanted to talk to me about the rumors, but I don’t have any evidence to support that theory. Do you?”

  She shook her head without comment.

  “Would you tell me if you did?” her grandfather asked, his green eyes narrowing on her.

  She smiled. “Maybe.”

  “Well, there’s no indication Alessandro’s death was suspicious. It was his heart, not the fall, that killed him. I suppose he might have survived the heart attack if he’d been at home, but it’s a moot point now. It’s easy to get carried away with speculation, but we know better, don’t we, Emma?”

  “We do, indeed.”

  When she’d worked with her grandfather, they’d frequently hashed out ideas over a pint at his favorite pub. She missed that camaraderie. She’d learned so much from him during those months, getting his insights on preventing, assessing and investigating private issues with fine art and antiquities. At the same time, the complexities of the relationships in the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery world had often frustrated her; not because she wasn’t good at unraveling them, but because she wanted more straightforward relationships in her own life—one of the many reasons she’d been attracted to Colin, she supposed. As straightforward as they were themselves, Lucas and her grandfather navigated the gray areas of the complex world in which they operated with integrity, ease and an appropriate distance she respected.

  She nodded to her car, parked on the street. “I should go,” she said.

  “Lucas and I have a client dinner tonight. I could ask him if you could join us.”

  Emma knew her grandfather and her brother were scrupulous about who they accepted as clients, but they were just as scrupulous about preserving their privacy. An FBI agent at the table could put an uncomfortable damper on dinner conversation. “That’s okay, but thanks. It’s in town?”

  “At a nice restaurant in the village. I remember when it was a dive.” He gave a mock shudder. “I sometimes wonder if I remember too much, but it’s better than getting senile.”

  “You’ve always had a steel trap for a mind. Have a great time tonight, Granddad.”

  A gust of wind seemed to catch him by surprise, but he hunched his shoulders and grinned. “I love this place. I miss it sometimes in Dublin. Your grandmother loved it here, too. She’d have told me I was crazy for leaving.”

  “
Granddad...”

  He waved a hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to start crying. There’ll never be another woman like your grandmother. She was the best.”

  “Even Claudia Deverell?” Lucas asked, coming out the front door. “And what about that mosaic-artist friend of hers, Isabel Greene?”

  “I should throw a rock at you,” his grandfather said. “They’re both too young for me, anyway.”

  Lucas grinned. “Doesn’t Henry Deverell have an older sister?”

  “Yes, and I’ve met her. Enough said. Never mind me. I’m a million years old and I had the love of my life. I’m a lucky man. What about you, Lucas?”

  “I have cats,” he said.

  The banter between them eased Emma’s concern about her grandfather’s uncharacteristic bout of melancholy. Lucas knew what to say to him. She’d likely dig him deeper into his dark mood with probing questions, her desire for insights and connections—to visualize his memories of Heron’s Cove and his life here, before her grandmother’s death, her father’s fall on the ice.

  Lucas turned to her. “I sent the guest list for the open house to your personal email. It’s not like it’s classified information. Check it out to your heart’s content, Special Agent Sharpe. We’ve noted those who responded in the affirmative, but people who didn’t respond can show up, too. We’re loose. We’ll have name badges printed but we can do badges by hand for walk-ins. No big deal. It’s not like a state dinner at the White House.”

  “Will you have security?”

  “We’re not the ones who own expensive art, Emma.”

  “That means no,” she said with a slight smile. “Thanks, Lucas. I appreciate this.”

  “Better than you having to subpoena me.” He winked. “Joking.”

  “You two,” their grandfather muttered.

  Emma stayed focused on her brother. “Are you aware Finian Bracken’s sister, Mary, will be there?”

  Lucas nodded. “She emailed my assistant, who mentioned it to me.”

  “When?”