Liar's Key

by Carla Neggers

  “Last Saturday.”

  After Claudia Deverell had done her tour of Bracken Distillers. But Emma said nothing. With the wind turning chilly, she kissed her grandfather on the cheek, wished him and Lucas a fun dinner and got in her car. As she snapped on her seat belt and watched her grandfather go up the front steps, she swore she noticed a hitch in his gait. Emotion, maybe, more than infirmity—or just the aftereffects of his walk. He’d been hoofing it when she’d first spotted him.

  When the door shut, she checked her phone—she had a text from Sam Padgett asking her to call him. “Bellman had it right,” he informed her. “Housekeeping found a bloody towel in Wheelock’s room. His bed was still made up this morning. They figure he either slept on the floor or didn’t sleep at all. How’d he look when you saw him?”

  “Not great. He said his sciatica was acting up. I didn’t notice any injury.”

  “Maybe it’s nothing. He’d had a long day. Tripping on the pavement while he was out for a smoke wouldn’t be unusual, but I don’t know if it explains not hitting the sack. I mean, the guy does sleep in a bed, right?”

  “Maybe BPD has something.”

  “I have a call in to them. Nothing more on the envelope yet. I located the cab driver who picked Wheelock up at the hotel after he left you. Dropped him off on Newbury Street. Happens to be a gallery there that specializes in antiquities and contemporary mosaics.”

  “I know the place,” Emma said.

  “Figures.” There was no sarcasm in Sam’s tone. “I paid them a visit. Talked to a young woman in the shop downstairs who described Wheelock and said he had been there with Claudia Deverell. Stayed about twenty minutes. She left a short time later. According to its catalog, the gallery has a few pieces on sale from the Norwood antiquity collection. The contemporary mosaics on sale are by Isabel Greene, a Norwood-Deverell family friend—this from a guy at the gallery, not the catalog. Have you ever been to this place?”

  “When I first arrived in Boston. I was curious. Anything else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  “No problem. I’ll keep digging.”

  He hung up, and Emma texted Gordy: Call me.

  * * *

  The sun was low in the sky when Emma arrived in Rock Point, a few miles up the coast from Heron’s Cove. Working boats floated in the still water of the horseshoe-shaped harbor of the struggling fishing village where Colin had grown up and most of his family still lived. She felt some of her tension easing as she turned onto one of the cluster of residential streets above the harbor. Before he had met her, he’d bought a small Craftsman-style house above the harbor. It was his refuge, and now it was hers, too.

  She went through the back door into the kitchen and switched on the overhead light.

  The silence accentuated Colin’s absence.

  She glanced at her watch. Almost six. Eleven at night in London. Colin would have arrived there by now.

  She hadn’t opened any windows, but swore she could hear the ocean, even though the house was on a residential street up from the harbor. Three of the four Donovan brothers were out of town. Mike, the eldest, was working a temporary assignment providing private security for a group of volunteer doctors in Africa; Colin, the second born, was presumably in London to talk to Oliver York; and Kevin, the youngest, a Maine marine patrol officer, was doing special training at Quantico. Andy, the third-born brother, a lobsterman, was in town, but Emma would be more likely to run into him at 5:00 a.m. than in the evening.

  She opened the refrigerator and smiled when she saw the six-pack of beer on the bottom shelf. In the months since she’d been coming here, she’d added a few items, but mostly nonperishables: flour, baking powder, cornstarch, vanilla, cocoa.

  She liked to bake, but not tonight.

  Tonight was a night for fish chowder with friends.

  She set her bag in the bedroom, then headed out the back door into the cool fog and quiet of Rock Point.

  9

  Near St. James’s Park

  London, England

  Martin Hambly looked as if he was having second thoughts about opening the front door to the spacious, expensive Mayfair London apartment owned by his longtime employer, Oliver York. “Special Agent Donovan,” Hambly said with a sharp intake of breath. “Mr. York didn’t mention he was expecting you.”

  “He’s not. Mind if I come in?”

  Hambly hesitated. “It’s rather late.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  In his fifties, Hambly had begun his career working for Oliver’s grandparents at their farm, now Oliver’s farm, in the Cotswolds, two hours west of London. When the elder Yorks had died, Hambly had stayed on the payroll. He hadn’t been at the London apartment thirty years ago when Oliver’s parents were murdered in front of their eight-year-old son. The killers kidnapped young Oliver, ultimately dumping him in a remote Scottish ruin. The boy had escaped into the rain and mist of the Highlands, where, about to collapse from hunger and hypothermia, he’d come upon a priest out for a stroll.

  With Oliver’s help, the killers were identified as two contractors who’d done odd jobs for his parents, but the pair had disappeared and had yet to face arrest and prosecution for their crimes. Colin wouldn’t be surprised if they were dead. It was the sort of unsolved case that ate at law enforcement officers.

  Hambly reluctantly permitted Colin to set his suitcase in the entry and then led him from the elegant entry down a wide hall. Colin had the feeling Hambly had done his best by Oliver for the past thirty years, including, no doubt, suggesting his employer have nothing to do with FBI agents.

  He motioned for Colin to enter the library and remained by the wood-panel door.

  “Greetings, Agent Donovan,” Oliver said, seated in a high-backed chair with a bottle of expensive Scotch and a glass on the small round table next to him. “You must be on Maine time given the late hour. Of course, you’re a tough FBI agent. Time means nothing to you, does it?”

  Colin didn’t smile. “Thanks for seeing me, Oliver.”

  “I’m reading about ancient mosaics,” he said, holding up the thick book he had on his lap. “Greeks loved the form but the Romans really took off with it. Mosaic art became popular throughout the Roman Empire. The golden mosaics in Ravenna in northeast Italy are among the most well-known. Have you been to Ravenna, Colin?”

  “No.”

  “I imagine your fiancée has. I have. Ravenna was the capital of the entire Roman Empire in the early fifth century. After the fall of Rome, it continued as the seat of the eastern Roman Empire—what became known as the Byzantine Empire—until the eighth century. Its early Christian monuments are a designated World Heritage Site. The Ravenna mosaics are incredible—they’re intricate works of art that combine western Roman and Byzantine traditions. They depict Biblical narratives, an emperor or two—I was blown away by the golden mosaics in particular.”

  Oliver could go off on tangents, but Colin guessed this wasn’t a tangent. “They’re made of real gold?”

  “Not exactly. A thin film of gold was fused to the tesserae—the small pieces that make up an individual mosaic. The gold creates an otherworldly glow that’s quite mesmerizing. Of course, most mosaics don’t involve gold.” Oliver nodded to the book. “The mosaic on the cover isn’t from Ravenna. It’s from an ancient Greek burial vault. It illustrates the story of Persephone’s kidnapping by Hades. Do you know your Greek gods and goddesses, Agent Donovan?”

  “Some of them. I was more into the goddesses than the gods.”

  Oliver sighed, shaking his head. “Truly a wonder Emma ended up with you.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Colin said.

  “Hades, of course, was the god of the underworld. He kidnapped Persephone and dragged her to the underworld with him. An appropriate story for
a tomb, don’t you think?”

  “Yep. Sure.”

  “I’m ignoring your disinterested tone,” Oliver said, rubbing a fingertip over the book’s slightly worn cover. “This was on a top shelf of the bookcase over in the corner, behind the chess set. Who knew?”

  “You should go through all these books one day. You might find a twenty-dollar bill.”

  “I’d buy you a pint if I did,” Oliver said with a small smile. “The author of the book died recently. Alessandro Pearson.”

  “I knew this was leading somewhere.” Colin crossed the thick carpet and pointed to a chair on the other side of Oliver’s small table. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Of course not. My apologies. I should have invited you to sit. You caught me absorbed in the world of ancient mosaics. Something to drink? Tea? Something stronger?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Oliver settled his gaze on his guest, as if really seeing him for the first time. “How are you, Special Agent Donovan?”

  “Just fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine. You sound abrupt and tense. Are you on your way home? Will you be in Maine in time for the open house at the new offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery?”

  “I’m not here to discuss my schedule.” Colin realized he did sound abrupt and tense and decided to tone it down. “You just got in from Cork. Are you planning to stay in London for a while?”

  “Spring in London is a delight. You and Emma should consider a few days in London for your honeymoon. I can see you two holding hands, wandering through St. James’s Park on a beautiful June afternoon.”

  “Does that mean you have no plans to go anywhere?”

  “Nowhere tonight. We’ll see what tomorrow brings, shall we?” Oliver threw one leg over the other, everything about him languid and relaxed except his eyes, unwavering as he watched Colin. “Did Detective Garda Murphy ring you, and you happened to be in London?”

  Colin shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I suppose not, but I’d hate for you to interrupt your plans on my account. It’s hard to believe a few hours ago I was walking among atmospheric ruins above the Irish Sea.” Oliver motioned toward Hambly, who was still hovering in the doorway. “Agent Donovan and I will be fine, Martin. Thank you.”

  “Can I bring you anything to eat?” Hambly asked Colin.

  “Since you don’t have Rock Point’s finest haddock chowder, no, thank you. I’m good.”

  A slight smile from Hambly as he withdrew.

  Colin shifted back to Oliver. “All you need are a pipe and smoking jacket.”

  Oliver laughed. “They’re with the tweeds in the closet.” He gestured to the bottle on the small table next to him. “Shall I pour you a drink after all? I just opened this intriguing Scotch from the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides. The Spirit of Lewis, it’s called. It’s from the Abhainn Dearg distillery. That’s Scottish Gaelic. It translates as ‘red river.’”

  Colin repeated the name, pronounced aveen-jarek, and noticed the bottle’s distinctive red label.

  “It’s a young spirit matured a short time in a sherry cask,” Oliver added. “Everything at Abhainn Dearg is done by hand. Distillation, bottling, labels, shipping.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “It’s quite robust for a new spirit, but it’s brash—more like the less refined spirit of old. I’d love to get Father Bracken’s opinion. Emma would hate it, but you might like it.”

  “I’ll pass for now, thanks. Talk to me, Oliver. I’d like to hear about the party at Claridge’s on Sunday.”

  “What a perfect event it was. You know Claridge’s is my favorite hangout. It’s a great example of the art deco period, which is one of my favorites.”

  “Did you crash this party?”

  He sniffed, feigning insult. “I never crash parties.”

  “Then you were invited,” Colin said.

  “After a manner. Your future in-laws were there.”

  “They have nothing to do with this visit.”

  “Have you spoken with your fiancée, the fair Emma Sharpe? We had a nice video chat earlier today. I was at Kitty O’Byrne’s hotel in Declan’s Cross. It’s as chic and charming as ever. I lingered into the afternoon. I’ve only been back in London a short time.”

  Colin was tempted by the Abhainn Dearg. Just a sip, enough to remind him of the few quiet days last June when he’d first met Finian Bracken and they’d become friends over a bottle of Bracken 15. By September, he’d met Emma. By November, Oliver York. Nothing about his life was ever simple with the Sharpes, or with Oliver York.

  “The FBI has no authority in the United Kingdom,” Oliver added.

  “You’re stating the obvious.”

  “Maybe. Of course, I have no authority anywhere. I am a simple Englishman enjoying a single-malt Scotch. Have you ever been to Scotland, Agent Donovan?”

  “No.”

  “Queen Victoria’s 1854 visit to the southern Highlands north of Edinburgh helped launch the small village of Pitlochry as a tourist destination. Much the same happened a few years later with her 1861 visit to Killarney, Ireland. Have you visited Killarney National Park?”

  Colin kept his gaze on Oliver. The guy was a lateral thinker. Slippery. “You know I have.”

  “I don’t know as much about you as you think. Have you been there with Emma?”

  “To Killarney?”

  “You don’t need to be deliberately dense with me, Special Agent Donovan.”

  “Unintentionally dense is okay?”

  “I doubt you’re ever unintentionally dense.” Oliver reached for the open bottle of Abhainn Dearg and splashed some of the single malt into a second glass on the table. “I insist you at least try it.”

  Colin accepted the glass and took a sip, both out of curiosity and because he knew Oliver wouldn’t give up until he got his way. “Whoa. Yeah, it’s different.”

  “It has notes of honey and citrus but there’s a power to it. I was surprised it has a nice sweet finish.”

  “You and Finian can talk. I’m getting better at all the notes and noses and finishes, but for the most part I just know if I like it or don’t like it.”

  “And?”

  “It’s good.”

  Oliver seemed pleased. “But you’re not here to talk Scotch, are you, Colin.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Oliver narrowed his eyes, again with a hint of the intensity and intelligence that had made him impossible to catch as an art thief. “You know I am scheduled to fly to Boston tomorrow.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Colin nodded. “Yes, I know.” He reminded himself that he was, technically, Oliver’s guest. “This is your apartment, Oliver, but don’t play games with me, not if you want to board that flight.”

  “Ah. There we have it. The veiled threat.”

  Colin shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that veiled.”

  “You’re every bit as snarly a bastard as my MI5 handler. I only made my reservation this afternoon, but I should have assumed you knew I’m off to your beautiful part of our planet. Am I on some FBI watch list or does MI5 keep you informed of my travels?”

  “Could be both.”

  “I’m not officially barred from entering the US, but you want to know when I do.”

  “Close enough.” Colin took another sip of the Scotch. He agreed with Oliver that Emma would probably hate it. “Are you attending the Sharpe open house?”

  “I am, indeed.”

  “Inviting you was Wendell’s first sign of senility.”

  “Hardly, and you know it. Well, I’m glad we can avoid any awkwardness and nonsense about my return to Boston, and to Maine, of course. Regardless of the open house, what’s a trip to Boston without a stop in Maine?”

 
; Colin didn’t respond.

  “I assume you’re also aware that Mary Bracken is flying to Boston tomorrow. She’ll be visiting her brother Finian, our priest friend serving the Roman Catholic parish in your dreary little hometown. Do you suppose our Father Bracken regards his year in Rock Point as a sort of penance?”

  “Penance for what?”

  “Not being with his family when they died. Not being able to help them, or to share their fate. He was working and he got left behind.”

  Colin studied the Englishman, noting the seriousness in his light green eyes, but also the unexpected warmth and empathy. Another side to the brazen thief, maybe. Like the Scotch he was serving, it was easy to note the brashness first, before noticing the layers and subtleties to his personality.

  Oliver cleared his throat, as if he recognized he’d gone too far. “Father Bracken is performing your wedding service. When I spoke to Emma this afternoon, she told me I’m still not invited.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “A pity. I’m a great wedding guest. Ah, well. May I ask what you are doing in London?”

  Colin cupped his Scotch glass in his palm, uncertain what Oliver’s game was. As well as an accomplished thief, Oliver York was an expert in shorin-ryu karate and tai chi, a brilliant, largely self-taught mythologist, a successful sheep farmer and a wealthy Englishman who operated with ease in exclusive circles from Hollywood to London. He could take on various personas—in fact, he had worked as a mythology consultant in Hollywood under an assumed name. He’d escaped detection and arrest for a decade in part because of his ability to read people and situations. His experience as a young boy with fear, violence and profound loss, his solitary ways and his expertise in martial arts and myth, legends and folklore had all combined to make the complex, intriguing man sitting in front of Colin.

  But Colin didn’t buy Oliver’s bored-aristocrat act any more than his other acts.

  Bottom line, the guy was a thief.

  “I flew in from Ireland tonight,” Colin said. “I was there on personal business.”

  “There, you see? You can give straightforward answers when you care to.” Oliver sat back again, looking more at ease. “I assume Sean Murphy told you I was in Declan’s Cross and ran into Mary, since he arrived as I was making my exit. Good timing, that. He contacted you, didn’t he?”