Then there was the dark, handsome FBI agent who’d met them at the airport in Boston. “Special Agent Sam Padgett,” he’d said in a deep, drawling accent when he’d introduced himself.
Be still my heart.
Mary decided not to share that particular reaction with her priest brother, but as they had their evening tea together, she couldn’t hide her excitement about the open house tomorrow. “I can’t help it, Fin, I’m fascinated by the Sharpes and their work, and by Oliver. Kitty thinks he’s half in love with Aoife, but he’s so solitary. He has some soul connection at crosses. Either that, or he had something to do with the theft. Confessional. You’d never tell, would you?”
“You’re exhausted, Mary.”
“I am.” She staggered to her feet. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“If you’re up early, help yourself to anything you need. Hurley’s opens at four for the lobstermen.”
“Four? Remind me not to fall for a lobsterman.”
Finian smiled. “Sleep well. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I am, too.” She hesitated. “I won’t harass you about being a priest anymore. I promise.”
“You can ask me anything and say anything to me.”
“Thank you,” she said, almost running into a wall as she exited the kitchen.
* * *
After Mary went up to bed, Finian sat outside on the front steps, enjoying the stillness and relative warmth of the clear, starlit spring night. At least it wasn’t winter. Whatever Father Callaghan’s plans, Finian dreaded staying in Rock Point for another Maine winter. The Donovan brothers told him he needed to take up snowshoeing, cross-country skiing or ice fishing—or all three. Downhill skiing was another possibility, with a number of alpine resorts in northern New England, but it wasn’t a favorite of the Donovans.
A movement by the church caught his eye, and he spotted Oliver York walking down the quiet residential street. Finian wasn’t surprised, although he couldn’t explain why.
Oliver waved and came up the walkway. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.”
“You’d think I’d have no trouble dropping off to sleep, but it’s not the case. I went up to my room and looked out at the night sky and realized how far away London is, and I kept thinking I might not get back this time.” He shrugged. “But that’s what I always think when I travel.”
Whether because of MI5 or his heists—or both? Finian decided not to ask. Oliver would be just as jet-lagged as Mary but he was a more experienced traveler, well aware of the disorienting effects a dramatic time change could have at first.
He looked up at the sky as if it held answers, then sighed and scraped a hunk of mud off his shoe, using the bottom step. “I don’t want to take one crumb of Maine mud back to England with me. I’d probably be stopped at the airport, anyway. US customs would be looking for an excuse to lock me up.”
“Not UK customs?”
He grinned. “Them, too.” The idea didn’t seem to bother him. “Frank Donovan says he makes the best blueberry muffins on the Maine coast. I believe him. I’m learning not to argue with a Donovan or engage in nuance. He also not too subtly let me know he still keeps a loaded firearm at the ready. A fun bunch, these Donovans.”
“No truer friends.”
“Or more undying enemies. I’m walking off tonight’s cookies, and my own malaise. I’m the snake here. How are you, Father Bracken?”
“We’re putting together the annual spring rummage sale.”
“Will there be a bake sale, too?”
Finian had no idea if Oliver was genuinely interested or being sarcastic. “Of course,” he said. “There are quite a number of excellent bakers in the congregation.”
“You’ll have to leave the open house early for Saturday services. I’ll keep an eye on Mary if she wants to stay on. I can give her a ride back here.”
“Emma or Colin can run her back here, or she can get a taxi. No need to trouble yourself.”
“It’s no trouble.” Oliver put a hand on his lower back and stretched. “I didn’t fly first class. I wish now I had. No worries about tomorrow, Finian. I wouldn’t trust me, either, given what you know and think you know about me, but I promise you that I’m entirely trustworthy when it comes to the youngest Bracken. She’s prettier than you are, my friend, but this you already know.”
“Mary’s the only one unaware of how pretty she is.”
“She’s also smart, lively and perhaps not as innocent as she seems.”
“Oliver.”
“Easy. Our FBI friends will be keeping an eye on me, no doubt. It will be interesting to see who will be there tomorrow. Do you know much about the use of mosaic art in the domes and wall panels of early Byzantine churches?”
“Very little. I’m too busy sorting rummage goods these days.”
“The building of churches exploded in the eastern Roman empire after the fall of Rome in 476 CE finally killed off the western empire. That the spectacular Byzantine mosaics in places such as Ravenna, Italy, and Madaba, Jordan, have survived the centuries is nothing short of miraculous. I’m interested in the incorporation of classical mythological motifs in images depicting Christian narratives, but that’s for another day.”
Finian smiled. “I’m afraid I know more about whiskey than I do ancient mosaics.”
“But you’d recognize an image showing Christ’s triumph over death, wouldn’t you?”
“I would think so.”
Oliver’s gaze was steady, nothing about this conversation spontaneous or innocent. “No desire to decorate your office or St. Patrick’s sanctuary with a couple of fifteen-hundred-year-old mosaics?”
“I can’t fathom such a thing.”
“Rock Point’s a salt-of-the-earth place. I remember last fall you were planning a bean-hole supper. Or maybe you’d just had one. Either way, not sorry I missed it.”
“Your loss,” Finian said, amused. “Why are you interested in ancient mosaics, may I ask?”
“You may ask but I don’t have a good answer. Rumors. Speculation.”
“Rumors and speculation about what, Oliver?”
“Missing mosaics that no one knows who owned or anyone can describe. It’s easier to move stolen art and antiquities that aren’t well-known. The Mona Lisa would be recognized by even the most indifferent border agent. Some works of art present specific transport challenges. Mosaics, for instance, can turn to rubble if not properly and carefully handled.”
Finian nodded, more interested now. “I knew quite a few avid art collectors in my days as a distillery executive. What about you, Oliver?”
“The Yorks were never into art collecting. Most of what I own in London and at the farm is rubbish. Pretty paintings of dogs and foxes and such that are primarily of sentimental value with little if any monetary value. The frames are generally worth more than the art itself. You’ll have to come back to the farm, Fin. Bring Mary. We have plenty of room.”
“Thank you for the invitation. It’s good of you to think of us.”
He grinned. “But you’re never bringing your sister for a visit, right? It’s okay. I’ve no one to blame but myself for the reluctance of friends to visit. I’ve made my own bed, as they say.”
Finian felt a cool breeze and got to his feet. “It’s been a long day for you.”
“Yes, it has,” Oliver said quietly. “Good night, Father Bracken.”
No cheeky Father Fin this time. “Was this visit soul work or were you hoping I’d give you information?”
“It was an impromptu visit with a friend. The visits to Bracken Distillers by the retired FBI agent and Claudia Deverell likely have no direct connection with your family in Ireland, or with Mary’s visit here. At least as far as I can see.” He paused. “Thought you’d want to know.”
“Are they of interest to the FBI or UK authorities—or to Irish authorities for that matter?”
“You’re the one with friends in those places,” Oliver said.
“Good night, Oliver. Welcome back to Maine.”
18
Still with no food in the house, Emma and Colin decided on a late breakfast at Hurley’s. They’d discussed going to his parents’ inn for breakfast but opted to let them do their thing. Oliver would be jet-lagged and hungry, and he’d been looking forward to a real Maine inn breakfast. Emma left it to Colin whether to walk or drive to the harbor, since it was his first day home, but she wasn’t surprised when he chose to walk on the bright, clear, crisp May morning.
When they arrived on the harbor, Frank Donovan texted his second-born son that his English guest was showing off photos of his puppy over wild blueberry muffins. “He’s ingratiating himself,” Colin muttered. He looked as if he wanted to about-face and go on to the inn after all, but he shook his head. “Let’s stick to our plan. I like dogs, but I’m good with not being subjected to Oliver’s puppy photos.”
“Where do you suppose he got the name Alfred for the pup?”
“Batman,” Colin said without hesitation. “Oliver went on one day about superheroes and mythology.”
Emma glanced at him. “Sorry I missed that one.”
He grinned. “I’m sure you are.”
Andy Donovan, dark-haired, blue-eyed and rugged like his three brothers, was on his way out of the restaurant as they started to a table in back. He and Colin greeted each other, Andy quickly filling in his older brother on his upcoming departure for Ireland. He’d spend a week with Julianne, then fly home with her in plenty of time for Colin’s June wedding. “Franny’s in Ireland now,” Andy added with a grimace, referring to Julianne’s grandmother. “She’ll be heading home as I arrive.”
“I thought she wanted you to escort her to Ireland since it’s her first overseas trip,” Colin said.
“Julianne talked her out of it.” Andy shuddered. “I still get hives thinking about being on a plane with Franny Maroney for six or seven hours. When she landed, she handed Julianne a list of all the sights she wanted to see. I think they’ve done them all. Julianne says she’ll be ready to hang out in a quiet cottage for a week before she comes home. Works for me.”
“I’ll bet it does,” Colin said with a grin.
Andy went on his way, and Emma sat across from Colin at a small table by the windows overlooking the harbor. “Is your life starting to feel more normal?” she asked him.
“Starting. Normal is having Oliver in England.”
And Gordy Wheelock back in North Carolina, Emma added silently.
“But let’s enjoy our breakfast,” Colin said. “I don’t know if I trust your brother to serve real food at the open house. I’m going for a full all-American breakfast and throwing in one of Hurley’s doughnuts for good measure.”
Emma had a simple cheese omelet. Halfway through breakfast, the Scotland Yard detective called. He’d checked the autopsy report on Alessandro Pearson. “There was a substantial bruise in the middle of his back. It was attributed to the fall, but we’re taking a closer look at the forty-eight hours before his death. His death didn’t raise a single alarm here.”
“Understood. Thanks for letting me know.”
“You’ll do the same with your findings,” he said, not making it a question.
After breakfast, on their walk back up to Colin’s house, Emma got another call, this one from Sam Padgett. “Good day for an open house,” Sam said. “Weather-wise, anyway. I don’t know about anything else. You aren’t in Heron’s Cove yet, are you?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’m not interrupting. I’m on my way to Gordy’s hotel again. BPD doesn’t have anything on assaults within a couple of blocks before midnight on Wednesday. I went out there last night to have a look for myself, maybe find a potential witness—someone who routinely hangs out around there or walks that way. No luck. I located a couple of possible spots for the steps where he could have tripped. I don’t know what good that’ll do, but I’ll take a look again now that it’s daylight.”
“Maybe Gordy did trip on his shoelaces,” Emma said.
“You don’t believe that.”
“No, I don’t.” She told him about Gordy’s text. “I texted him back. So far no response.”
“He didn’t say whether he’s leaving before or after the open house. Let me know if you need me to check into whale watches. When I considered joining HIT, first thing I thought of was, hey, I’ll be in New England, I can go whale watching.”
“You’d love it,” Emma said, biting back a smile.
“No doubt.” He was clearly not at all serious. “By the way, Yank told me to tell you he’s not coming up there today for the party. I think it’s something to do with his wife’s knitting shop, but I’m not asking. Could be he doesn’t want to run into Wheelock or get in the middle of this thing—whatever it is. All I got. Later, Emma.”
She disconnected and slid her phone into her jacket pocket. Back at the house, she showered and changed into a dark navy jacket and pants, a crisp white shirt and her pistol, in a hip holster, concealed. Colin, too, dressed professionally in a charcoal-gray suit and tie. They weren’t attending the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery open house as regular guests or, certainly, as hosts. Emma was convinced her brother and grandfather would not only understand her and Colin’s approach to the day, but also expect it.
They drove to Heron’s Cove in Colin’s beat-up Maine truck, a small but important step, Emma knew, in his return to normalcy. Sam Padgett hadn’t been kidding about the weather. The open house couldn’t have landed on a better Saturday in May given the warm, sunny conditions. Emma was pleased especially for her brother, who was greeting guests at the front door when she and Colin arrived.
Lucas grinned as they headed up the front walk. “Well, don’t you two look like a pair of FBI agents,” he said.
Emma laughed. “Imagine that.”
“Welcome home, Colin. Help yourselves to food. We’ve hired a great local caterer. A few guests are here but it’s still early.”
“What about Gordy Wheelock?” Colin asked.
Lucas shook his head. “He’s not here yet.”
“But you still expect him?” Emma asked. “He didn’t bow out at the last minute?”
“As far as I know he’ll be here today. I haven’t seen him but Granddad ran into him out on the docks the other night. He said Agent Wheelock looked like hell but blamed jet lag and overindulging during his first year in retirement. Listen, thanks for coming, both of you. We don’t expect a big crowd but we’ll have a good time. We won’t run out of food, that’s for sure.”
No question about the food, Emma saw right away when she and Colin entered the house. Servers were carrying trays from the kitchen loaded with a variety of temptations, including mini lobster tacos, crab cakes, lettuce wraps, cheese, fruit and a variety of cookies.
Emma took the opportunity to text Gordy: We’re at the open house. See you soon?
No immediate response. She also called but got his voice mail and left a brief message.
Colin glanced around the refurbished front room. “Last time I was in here, it was unfurnished. Looks good. Lucas is a forward thinker. He won’t want Gordy dragging him into the past. Yank said Gordy looked off when he saw him on Thursday.”
Emma nodded. “He wasn’t himself but not alarmingly so.”
“Do you think he could have gotten a bad health diagnosis?”
“A bad diagnosis and then he flies to London, Ireland and Boston and then drives up here?”
A server approached them with a tray of mini crab cakes. Colin helped himself to one but Emma was still full from their late breakfast. “Maybe it was a psychiatric di
agnosis,” he said as the server retreated. “Would the Gordy Wheelock you knew come all the way up here for a party and then not at least stop in for a few hors d’oeuvres? Even if he realized he’d been a fool over these rumors about stolen mosaics, would he just go home?”
“Not the Gordy Wheelock I know.”
Lucas took a break from his post by the front door and joined them, snatching a couple of crab cakes. “Mingle, you two. Mingle. You’re scaring people from coming in here.”
“I doubt that,” Emma said. “Colin and I haven’t seen each other in a while. Has Oliver York arrived?”
“He’s upstairs. Granddad’s giving him the grand tour.”
Lucas excused himself to greet more guests. Emma started toward the stairs in the entry, but Henry and Adrian Deverell and Isabel Greene entered the front room, drinks in hand as they greeted Emma. She introduced Colin. “The Rock Point Donovans,” Henry said. “Yes, we used to buy lobsters from your family.”
“I think your dad ticketed me once for speeding,” Adrian added cheerfully. “But I don’t go way back in this area the way my stepmother’s family does.”
“Claudia sends her regards,” Isabel said. “She’s swamped with a mile-long to-do list up at the house.”
“It’s cathartic for her to go through her mother’s things,” Henry said. “There’s a timing to it, I think. One day you just know you’re ready to tackle the job and you have to dive in before the moment passes. I know it was that way for me when my mother passed away. That was over a decade ago, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of her. Now it’s that way with Victoria. We all miss her terribly.”
“Victoria left Claudia the house and the Norwood antiquities collection,” Isabel said. “They’re an enormous responsibility as well as a constant reminder of the mother she lost too soon, but it was the right thing for Victoria to do. Still, it’s been difficult and isolating for Claudia emotionally. I don’t think she’d mind my saying so.”
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