Emma laughed. She liked Henrietta but didn’t underestimate her. Her amiable personality no doubt helped with everything she did, whether as a garden designer or an MI5 officer.
With dusk fast approaching, the cloudless sky was easing from its vibrant blue to a soft gray. Henrietta sighed wistfully. “I love a scoop of baked beans at breakfast, or on toast for a quick supper. Are they better if buried and baked over—how long?”
“At least a day,” Emma said. “They are good.”
“Perhaps Oliver and I will go to the supper if we’re here next weekend. We can help sort things for the rummage sale. What do you suppose there is? Pilled hand-knitted jumpers and mittens, old juice glasses, chipped pottery, I imagine. I’ve found several incredible flowerpots at rummage sales.”
Emma smiled. “Of course.”
Henrietta took a deep breath. “What fantastic air after planes and cities. I like what I’ve seen of Rock Point thus far. It’s not a biscuit-tin village. It’s real.”
“Did you get a chance to stop in Heron’s Cove?”
“We drove through Heron’s Cove and took the ocean route to Rock Point. All was quiet at the Sharpe offices. I assume we were there before the partygoers were struck ill.” Henrietta looked past Emma. “It gets dark earlier now we’re into October, but it’s been a brilliant day for my first visit to Maine. Oliver’s been here, of course.”
“When did you arrive in the US?”
“Last night. We stayed at an airport hotel in Boston.”
“Why didn’t you get in touch with Colin or me?”
“Oliver texted Finian this morning. When he mentioned the wedding, we came on up without getting in touch with you and Colin. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
Not a trace of guilt but Emma hadn’t expected one.
Henrietta tightened her arms around her middle. “It’s downright chilly.” She nodded toward the church’s side entrance. “Here come Oliver and Colin now.”
The two men strode to them. Colin and Henrietta exchanged a warm greeting, and he kissed her on the cheek. “We’ve been examining bean holes,” she said.
“If you’ve never been to a Maine bean-hole supper, you’re missing out. Best baked beans anywhere.” His amiability faded quickly, and he steadied his gaze on Henrietta. “Did you know Jeremy Pearson is in Maine, posing as William Hornsby, a British art consultant?”
“How is he?” Henrietta asked softly.
“He’ll recover.”
She shivered in a gust of wind. “I want to see him, Colin.”
“No visitors until morning.”
She nodded, more in acknowledgment of his words, Emma thought, than agreement. “Did you speak with him?”
“Barely. Henrietta, did you know Jeremy was on board that yacht?”
“It’s complicated.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a yes-or-no question.”
“And I can’t provide you with a yes-or-no answer.” She stepped back from the bean hole. “I’m sorry. I need to speak with him first. I’m sure you understand.”
Emma could see that remark didn’t sit well with Colin, but he said nothing. Oliver looked as if he wouldn’t mind jumping into one of the bean holes. “I suspect Finian is waiting for us,” she said.
They went into the rectory kitchen through the back door. Finian had a teapot, sandwiches and cookies set out on the table. He grabbed the kettle off its stand and poured boiling water into the teapot. The electric kettle was one of the few additions he’d made to the simple kitchen. The entire rectory needed updating, but he would never complain. One of his three sisters in Ireland had sent him a traditional oilcloth cover, decorated with flowerpots, for the table. A touch of home, perhaps. He’d said little since he’d returned to the rectory with Emma. She suspected he knew more about Henrietta’s and Oliver’s true backgrounds than he let on—or perhaps could let on, given his vows.
He returned the kettle to its stand. He looked awkward, as if he were expecting trouble—a hazard, Emma understood, of his friendship with her and Colin, never mind with Oliver and now Henrietta. He must have expected a quieter life when he’d agreed to leave Ireland to serve the little Maine church.
“I’ll leave you to catch up with each other,” Finian said, moving away from the counter. “I have a few things to do in the den. Shout if you need me.”
He withdrew into the hall, and Henrietta sat next to Oliver, across from Emma. Colin stayed on his feet. Henrietta reached for the wedding cookies, arranged on a plate in the middle of the table. Emma had already had one. They were buttery, melt-in-the-mouth sugar cookies in the shape of pumpkins, acorns and oak leaves, decorated in autumn colors. Henrietta grabbed a leaf-shaped one. “I suppose I should start with a sandwich, but I can’t resist.”
Oliver helped himself to a triangle of a cheese sandwich. “I understand today’s happy couple is off to Ireland for their honeymoon. Excellent choice.”
Emma agreed, but she wasn’t going to let him or Henrietta sidetrack her. Oliver set his sandwich on a small plate and poured tea into the four cups Finian had set out, anticipating Colin’s arrival. Colin had taken off his suit jacket and must have left it somewhere, because he didn’t have it with him. Since he and Kevin had responded to the call about the yacht in Kevin’s truck, she assumed he’d walked from wherever the truck had ended up.
“Do you know why the chef, a young woman named Georgina Masterson, has a painting by Aoife O’Byrne, and does it have anything to do with Jeremy’s presence on the yacht?”
“That’s multiple questions. Best to stick to one at a time.”
A faint smile from Colin. Emma caught her breath. Given Henrietta’s and Oliver’s presence, she’d anticipated Jeremy Pearson, aka William Hornsby, might be involved, but Aoife? Colin glanced at her and before he shifted back to Henrietta, Emma saw his apology, but she knew why he hadn’t given her much of a heads-up. He wanted to see Henrietta’s and Oliver’s reactions to the mention of Aoife O’Byrne in comparison to hers. As slick as Henrietta and Oliver were, they weren’t entirely surprised at mention of the Irish artist.
Henrietta picked up her teacup. “I have a feeling I’m going to regret not packing wool socks. Colin, Emma, I appreciate you want answers, but I need to speak to Jeremy as soon as possible. Then we can talk.”
Colin gave her a half smile. “Sure, Henrietta. We’ll let you call the shots. Did any of you—Jeremy, Oliver, you—contact Wendell or Lucas Sharpe, or the Sharpe offices?”
Oliver grabbed another half a sandwich, leaving Henrietta to field Colin’s questions. “No idea,” she said.
“Who pulled the strings to keep your arrivals in the US quiet?”
“You’re assuming someone did.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m sure you understand my position. We would in similar circumstances with you.”
Colin shrugged. “If you two want to play games, that’s your call. I’m trying to find out what happened to a friend and colleague I found in a pool of his own vomit a few hours ago.”
Henrietta met his gaze with an equally steely one of her own. “Understood.” She pushed back her chair and smiled. “Why don’t we find Father Bracken? He mentioned he wants to open a new Bracken Distillers pot-still.”
“Happier words never spoken,” Oliver said. “Shall we?”
But Henrietta kept her eyes on Colin. “Apparently, our good father has been saving the pot-still especially for you, Special Agent Donovan.”
There was a knowing undertone to her words, suggesting she had an idea of where he’d been the past few weeks. Even so, Emma saw some of Colin’s tension ease. He nodded. “After you, Henrietta.”
“Brilliant.” She stifled a yawn that seemed to come out of nowhere. “It’s bedtime at home in England. It’s been a long day.” She adjusted the waistband of her skirt. “No more travel
ing in long skirts on flights. I kept getting twisted up in the bloody thing.”
With that, she took Oliver’s hand and changed the subject to bean holes as they headed to the den. Colin hung back in the kitchen, touching Emma’s hand. “I don’t know much more than what I just told them. Fin’s in the dark?”
“So far. He’s not the type to listen at keyholes.”
“He’s the type. He just resists.”
Emma smiled at the welcome touch of Colin’s sense of humor. “He likes Henrietta and Oliver.”
“Who doesn’t? Come on. Let’s see if Bracken Distillers’ latest loosens their tongues.”
* * *
The den was as simple and faded as the rest of the rectory with its wood paneling and sturdy, cozy furnishings. Sofa, club chairs, a lounger Finian had adopted for himself. A bookcase filled with a wide range of reading material—theological, Maine guides, kayaking and cross-country skiing instruction, wildlife manuals and novels, most Emma recognized as favored by Father Callaghan, Finian’s predecessor. Finian had collected whiskey glasses from the dining room and had them lined up on the coffee table. “A taoscán each,” he said genially as he poured the Bracken Distillers eight-year-old pot-still. Taoscán, Irish for “imprecise measure,” was the word he preferred to a dram or a splash of whiskey.
He handed out the glasses and raised his to his guests. “Sláinte.”
They responded in kind.
“It’s gorgeous,” Henrietta said after her first sip.
Even Oliver, who tended to prefer Scotch, agreed. “No wonder Bracken Distillers is winning awards.”
“It’s Declan’s doing,” Finian said, referring to his twin brother. “But I did help put this one into the casks in the dark days after Sally and the girls went to God.”
Emma was no whiskey expert, but she liked the pot-still. Neither she nor Colin had known Finian eight years ago when he’d lost his wife and daughters in a sailing accident. He and Declan had launched Bracken Distillers in their early twenties, on a shoestring, with more hope than anything else. She noticed his eyes, warm with nostalgia but not, she thought, the rawness of grief. He’d never get over the loss of his family, but he’d achieved at least some peace over the years.
She and Colin sat next to each other on the couch. He crossed one leg over the other, almost touching her. She felt his intensity. He’d gone with Kevin to provide moral support, and he’d ended up discovering a friend and colleague sick and getting him into an ambulance. Then her text that Henrietta and Oliver were in his hometown.
And an Aoife O’Byrne painting.
Henrietta turned to Finian. “I’d like to take my whiskey upstairs and get settled. I’m dead on my feet, and I’m sure Oliver is, too.”
“No problem at all,” Finian said politely. “I didn’t have a chance to see to the guest rooms, but everything should be in order. We keep them ready for the odd unexpected guest. Let me know if you need anything.”
She thanked him. Oliver nodded. “We’ll be no trouble. I’d like to pop into the kitchen for another sandwich and cookie, if you don’t mind.”
Finian smiled. “Of course not. Help yourself. There’s plenty. I’m afraid the rest of us filled up at the wedding.”
“Excellent,” Oliver said. “Henrietta?”
“I’ll go with you to the kitchen and see if I’m tempted.”
Emma thought Colin might balk at their ducking out early, but he settled next to her with his whiskey. “We’ll talk tomorrow, then.”
“We’re having breakfast at Hurley’s. Join us if you’d like.” Henrietta beamed Colin a smile. “Oliver’s raved about Rock Point’s favorite watering hole. It’s good it keeps fishermen hours and opens early. We’ll be up at dawn given the time difference.”
They said good-night and took their glasses with them out of the den. A quick visit to the kitchen, and then Emma heard them on the stairs, confirming they were doing as they said and not trying to slip out of the rectory under her and Colin’s noses. Not that they wouldn’t go out a window, Oliver in particular.
Finian sat on his usual chair by a small table with the whiskey bottle, his breviary and a mystery novel. He cupped his glass in both hands. “Help yourself to more whiskey if you’d like.”
“Thanks, Fin,” Colin said. “Sorry for the intrusion.”
“FBI business?”
Colin savored a sip of whiskey, swallowed as he leaned forward and set the glass on the coffee table. “To be honest, Fin, I have no idea what’s going on. Have you been in touch with Aoife O’Byrne recently?”
“Aoife? No, I haven’t.” Finian glanced down at his whiskey, as if trying to decide whether to follow up with Colin for more information. Finally, he looked up. “Why do you ask, can you say?”
“Apparently one of her paintings was on the yacht today.” Colin waited a moment. “Is she in Dublin?”
“I don’t monitor her whereabouts, Colin.”
“But Kitty, Sean—you’re in regular touch with them. Have they said anything about her? What she’s up to, any travels, openings?”
Finian glanced at the pot-still bottle with its distinctive black-and-gold label. For the first time since Emma had arrived at the rectory after the wedding, he looked uncomfortable, not typical for a man so centered and thoughtful. She didn’t know if Colin noticed. They’d both met Aoife and her older sister, Kitty, the owner of a boutique hotel in the tiny Irish south coastal village of Declan’s Cross. Kitty was engaged to Sean Murphy, the Irish detective who’d investigated the tragic, accidental deaths of Finian’s wife and daughters. Since then, he and Sean, who owned a farm in Declan’s Cross, had become close friends.
Aoife, though.
Last fall, she’d as much as told Emma that Finian Bracken was her forbidden love—the man she couldn’t have but wanted. Whatever was between them, they had unfinished business about their relationship.
Finian placed his glass on the side table, next to his black-bound breviary. “I spoke to Kitty last week. She mentioned Aoife’s decided to give up her studio in Dublin altogether and move to Declan’s Cross.”
“She holed up in a cottage near Sean’s farm over the summer to paint,” Emma said. “Maybe she’s tired of city life and wants to be closer to Kitty.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“Is Aoife in Declan’s Cross now?” Colin asked.
Finian shrugged, his midnight blue eyes lost in the shadows. “I have no idea. What’s this about? Is she in danger? Should I ring Sean?”
Colin shook his head. “I have no reason to believe she’s in any danger, Fin. I’d have called Sean myself if I did.”
“The painting you mentioned. Did you see it yourself? Is it a new one of Aoife’s paintings?”
“I didn’t see it,” Colin said. “Fin—”
“But this yacht and Henrietta’s and Oliver’s visit are related,” he said, not making it a question. He picked up his whiskey glass. “Henrietta and Oliver aren’t the average houseguests. That’s why I grabbed Emma at the wedding.”
Emma took a last sip of the pot-still and set her glass on the coffee table. “If you have any concerns about them staying here—”
“I don’t. I rather enjoy their company.” Finian smiled. “You two aren’t the average friends, either.”
“Same goes for you as a priest, Fin.” Colin got to his feet. “Thanks for the whiskey. Call if you need us. Don’t hesitate.”
A faint smile from Finian. “You’re not going to offer to sleep on the sofa, are you?”
Colin grinned. “Only if Emma joined me. I’ve been away for weeks. But think of Franny Maroney walking in here and finding us.”
Finian laughed, his eyes sparking with genuine humor. “We’ll be fine here. I trust you’ll tell me what I need to know about what’s going on.”
“I guarantee the two Brits u
pstairs know more about what’s going on than I do.”
Emma followed the two men into the entry. Colin opened the solid-wood door. “Call us if they leave.”
“Should I try to stop them?” Finian asked.
“No. Let them do what they want.” Colin shrugged, matter-of-fact. “They will, anyway.”
“I do seem to have independent-minded friends these days.”
“You barely know Henrietta.”
Finian nodded thoughtfully. “I have a feeling most people barely know Henrietta.”
“No argument from me,” Colin said. “Good wedding today. Andy and Julianne will enjoy their Irish honeymoon. It was generous of you to offer them the cottage.”
“My pleasure. I hope they have a grand time.” Finian held up a hand as if he’d just remembered something. “Hang on.”
He disappeared down the hall, returning quickly with a small paper bag. He handed it to Colin. “Sandwiches and cookies. Take them. Enjoy your evening despite the mysteries of the day.”
“We will,” Colin said. “Thanks, Fin.”
He watched from the doorway as they headed out to the sidewalk. Emma glanced back as he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Ireland’s home for him,” she said. “It always will be.”
Colin stayed close to her as they walked past the church. “Can you see him ditching the priesthood and moving to Declan’s Cross himself? Hooking up with Aoife, maybe.”
“There’s something there between them. He’ll sort it out.”
“You quit the convent.”
“Quitting the priesthood is different. I left the Sisters of the Joyful Heart as a novice, prior to making my final vows. Finian is an ordained priest.”
“You could have quit after you made final vows. He can quit, too.”
“He’ll figure out what his purpose is,” Emma said.
Colin slipped his hand into hers. “Right now I can’t think much past a beer and a couple of these sandwiches.”
“And cookies. Don’t forget the cookies.”
“I never forget cookies.”
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