Rival's Break

by Carla Neggers

  “That’s high on the list of my priestly duties.”

  “It’s not a bad life. Father Callaghan was a jolly sort. You’re friendly and people like you, but I wouldn’t call you jolly.”

  Finian gave a mock shudder. “Lord, I hope not.”

  “Need some help digging a few more bean holes?”

  “A couple of lads from the church are stopping by on Tuesday. They’re in their eighties but in good shape.”

  “I’ll tell my father. He’s still in his sixties. Maybe he’ll get competitive with the old guys and come help.” Colin wiped a few stray cookie crumbs off the counter into his palm and dumped them in the trash. “I can stay here overnight, Fin. I’ll camp out in the living room.”

  “Imagine the gossip if your family and friends discover you’re sleeping here and Emma’s at home. Go, Colin. We’ll be fine.”

  Of that, Colin had no doubt. Henrietta was an experienced intelligence officer, and Oliver had spent a decade eluding law enforcement, private security and Wendell Sharpe. They were on Jeremy’s side.

  Henrietta entered the kitchen with a tray of tea dishes. “Oliver and Emma are going on about the use of poison in Norse mythology. I didn’t stay. I’ll bring tea to our friend in the den.”

  Finian grabbed the kettle and stuck it under the faucet for fresh water. “And Jeremy is his real name?”

  “I think it is.” She gave him a brazen smile. “We spooks, you know. We have our secrets.”

  Finian said nothing, and Henrietta elbowed him aside and insisted on making tea.

  When Colin and Emma said goodbye, Finian followed them out through the front door. “I won’t ask questions of my guests. It’s early yet but enjoy your evening.”

  “You, too.”

  He smiled faintly but said nothing as he went back inside.

  * * *

  Colin felt mildly uneasy leaving Finian with the two MI5 officers and art thief, but he climbed into his truck. He’d parked behind Emma’s car. She pulled out ahead of him, and he pushed back a surge of regret their first weekend together in a month had turned out the way it had. Except for Andy and Julianne’s wedding. He smiled at the thought of the two of them enjoying their own Irish honeymoon.

  He parked on the street in front of the house and when he went inside, Emma was wrapping up a call in the kitchen. She tossed her phone onto the counter. “That was Sam. He’s run into a brick wall on information on Robin Masterson. So far, no red flags on the Fannings—legit business in London and they are in the market for a yacht.”

  “Jeremy sure as hell went to a lot of trouble to get on board that yacht.”

  “Maybe it’s for the reasons he says it is—to bring a sick friend’s daughter a painting and to check on her life as a personal chef on a luxurious yacht. Never mind that the friend is a chemical weapons expert and he’s your MI5 buddy.”

  “Jeremy’s not himself. Something’s off with him besides mushroom poisoning. My guess is he wouldn’t be here unless he thought Robin was deliberately poisoned.”

  “Think that’s what the daughter believes, too?”

  “Maybe it’s easier than accepting he did it to himself. We have a nerve-agent expert in a coma due to mushroom poisoning, and we have a senior British intelligence officer recovering from mushroom poisoning. Hell, Emma, tell me we’re not wasting a beautiful Sunday chasing down a case of overzealous mushroom foragers.”

  She smiled. “At the moment, I’m grateful Granddad and Lucas are in Ireland and my mother is in Paris. What do you think Sean Murphy knows about Henrietta’s trip to Dublin?”

  “It’s hard to say what Sean knows.”

  “He’ll keep an eye on Aoife—and on Granddad and Lucas if they step out of line.”

  “What do you think, any chance she and Lucas could get together?”

  “On paper, yes. He’s focused on the business right now, and grieving. And Aoife...”

  “She has her eye on our good Father Bracken,” Colin said.

  Emma nodded. “Her heart, at least.”

  Colin took her hand. “A walk before pouring whiskey?”

  They ended up at Hurley’s. Kevin and their folks were at the bar. No Beth Trahan, Colin noted, but she could have an early shift, laundry to do—he decided not to bring her up. He was good at compartmentalizing, and wanted to appreciate the company and enjoy his family and friends. Mike and Naomi would be heading back up to the Bold Coast soon, but they were thinking about settling back in Rock Point. Getting their security work out of their system, or deeper into their system—Colin looked forward to a deep conversation with his older brother. He had his own future to sort out. He suspected that Emma, intuitive as well as analytical, knew he had that on his mind. They’d talk about it when the time was right. But he’d completed his last undercover mission. He knew that much.

  The director herself had approved. He’d met Mina Van Buren in her office in DC before returning home. We need you elsewhere, Colin, and you need to be elsewhere.

  Home in Rock Point raising kids and teaching them how to catch lobster and kayak?

  He could do that and his FBI work.

  And Emma?

  He smiled. Whatever she chose to do, she’d have his support.

  By the time they walked back home, the stars were out and the wind had picked up. He had whiskey in the front room while Emma took a bath upstairs. “You’ve got that look, Colin,” she said as she started up the stairs.

  “Which look is that?”

  “It’s the one that says you’re going through your mental files for any connections to the Fannings and Mastersons that you might have missed or might not remember.”

  He raised his glass. “A few sips of whiskey will help focus the mind.”

  He settled by the unlit fireplace and went back through his five-year history with Jeremy Pearson. There was serious black market potential for chemical weapons, but he and Jeremy knew each other through trafficking in illegal arms. Guns, bullets, missiles and explosives. They’d dismantled an international arms trafficking network over the past few years. The people involved might have toyed with trafficking in chemical weapons, but nothing more than that.

  Which didn’t mean the bastards wouldn’t kill him or Jeremy first chance they got.

  “Just not with mushrooms,” Colin muttered and got to his feet.

  He headed to the kitchen and washed his whiskey glass.

  No, he hadn’t missed or forgotten anything.

  When he went upstairs, he found Emma snuggled under the quilts in their bed, asleep. She stirred as he slipped under the covers next to her. The windows were open, the night air cool as he slid close to her, feeling her warm skin against him.

  He heard an owl, and the wind.

  This life, he thought as he placed a hand on Emma’s hip and kissed her softly, glad to be home...uneasy about his future, and the friend recuperating in the local rectory. He was alive because of Jeremy. He owed him. It was the unspoken bond between them, and no one knew, not Yank, not Mina Van Buren—not Emma.

  17

  Georgina looked out at the stars above the Atlantic, past the river channel, the wind in her face as she fought an explosion of tears and shivering that threatened to surge out of control. She’d made a fool of herself, again, with the FBI agents, and with their friends and her father’s friend—and the kindly Irish priest. But she was right. She knew it.

  Spooks.

  She was leaving Maine tomorrow. She’d checked the drawer in the galley and tossed all the sketches in the compactor without looking at them. She’d start fresh after she saw her father. She didn’t want to see the dragon sketch. It would only upset her.

  She also didn’t want to say anything to the crew or the Fannings about the Aoife O’Byrne painting. It would only draw attention to herself, stir up more drama around her. Someone must have stuck it some
where having no idea it belonged to her. It’d turn up, and they all could claim she’d been so preoccupied with her father, she’d forgotten all about it.

  She loved the smell of the sea, the feel of the wind in her hair. She swore wind had a different quality near the ocean. Yet as much as she tried to focus on her surroundings, her mind filled with snapshots of her past, walking as a young child with her parents on either side of her, holding her hand...sitting on her mother’s lap reading Madeleine while her father cooked dinner...waiting at school for her father to pick her up for the Christmas holiday, laughingly telling everyone he was absentminded and always late...foraging with him, because it was one thing, the only thing, they had in common...

  What they’d had up until now was all they would ever have.

  The creepy sketch, the gorgeous, expensive painting—had her dad started to lose his mind before he ate the death caps? Was that why he’d done it? She had vague memories of her mother in her last days. Herself but not herself, the brain tumor eating its way at her life and spirit.

  She was grateful when Nick brought her a drink, interrupting her thoughts. “Just wine. I’m not good at mixing drinks, and I know you don’t like your liquor straight.”

  “I might tonight.” Georgina smiled and raised her glass. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “Where’s yours?”

  “Nothing for me in case the Fannings need anything overnight.”

  “How is Bryce?”

  “Sleeping comfortably last I checked—which was ten minutes ago.”

  They retreated to a seating area under the awning. Richie joined them. He had a drink in his hand, but he was in a serious mood. “Georgina, if yesterday wasn’t a simple culinary mistake on your part—if you’re not a hundred percent certain you added those mushrooms to the tacos—you need to speak up. Don’t let anyone pressure you, directly or indirectly. It’s not worth it. Tell the truth.”

  “I’m with Richie,” Nick said. “If you’re not positive it was your mistake, say so.”

  “I appreciate the pep talk. I just want to get to Boston and onto a flight to London to see my father.”

  “It’s not a pep talk,” Richie said. “We live and work on this boat.”

  “The Fannings haven’t mentioned getting food tasters,” Nick said. “That’s a joke, by the way.”

  Richie, Georgina observed, didn’t laugh. He settled into a chair across from where she sprawled onto a couch. She loved being on yachts. Every inch of space was put to use, often in clever ways. No waste and, even on a luxury yacht like this one, no excess, at least not the kind she’d seen in the homes of some of the people she’d cooked for during her adventures at sea. She drank some of the wine, recognized it was from an open bottle from yesterday’s party, barely used given the onslaught of sickness.

  “Georgie?”

  She heard the concern in Nick’s voice. “I was thinking about how nice this yacht is. The one Melodie and Bryce will buy will be just as nice, probably nicer.” She glanced out toward the sea again, noticing lights here and there onshore. “They don’t want to risk giving the police a reason to crawl through the yacht. I’m not suggesting they have anything to hide, either. But who would want that kind of scrutiny?”

  “Don’t lie for them, Georgina,” Richie said. “Seriously. Don’t.”

  She smiled. “And here I was thinking you’d fire me in a heartbeat.”

  He winked at her. “That’s different.”

  She appreciated his light tone, but his overall mood remained serious. “As mushrooms go, russula emetica is a poor choice as a murder weapon.” She grinned at the two men. “Just saying.” But her attempt at gallows humor fell flat, not just with them but with herself. “Melodie says I don’t need to cook again before I leave tomorrow.”

  “Unfortunately,” Nick said. “She’s happy with sandwiches and frozen pizza until we get back to Boston, and Bryce is sticking to mild foods.”

  “You two stocked up nicely on recovery foods,” Georgina said.

  Richie got to his feet. “I told the guys not to leave anything in the galley except unopened packaged goods and tins. Regretting that now, I think.”

  Georgina set her wine on a table. “Really, I don’t mind preparing food for the crew before I leave. I’ll have time.”

  “Focus on your well-being,” Richie said. “We can fend for ourselves.”

  They said good-night and left her alone with her wine and starlit view. She debated calling them back, asking them about the painting...the sketch... William Hornsby and his FBI friends, his English friends...but she didn’t. Nick and Richie would have said something if they’d run across the painting. Melodie and Bryce could easily have assumed one or the other had brought it on board and tucked it aside, intending to get to ask about it at some point. They were enthusiastic art collectors who’d only been married for a year. They loved to surprise each other with expensive, original gifts.

  Georgina took her wine to the bar and dumped it in the sink, ran the water. She felt her emotions rising up inside her as if they were a force of their own. Her throat tightened, and tears spilled down her cheeks with sudden, overwhelming grief. Her knees buckled as she bit into her hand, trying to smother the sound of her sobs.

  “Oh, Dad... Dad...”

  She heard the distress in her voice. She wouldn’t get to London in time. She knew it, and it was her own doing, because she hadn’t acted on the news of his sickness.

  I’ll be an orphan now. I’ll be alone.

  Will you greet him, Mum? Did you love him in the end?

  Georgina splashed water on her face. She felt the two long runs in her thighs and lower back, but they’d steadied her, centered her—which made her sputter into laughter. How much worse would she be if she hadn’t gone for those runs? Or maybe she, too, was losing her mind...

  * * *

  Finian Bracken had whiskey in the rectory kitchen since the den was occupied by the recuperating British agent. At least he was clear on that point, although it didn’t matter. Jeremy, Oliver and Henrietta were here, and that was that.

  Still on UK time, Henrietta and Oliver had gone upstairs.

  Not a peep out of the man in the den.

  Finian had opened a bottle of Redbreast he had on a shelf in the kitchen rather than slipping into the den for the Bracken he’d served. The Redbreast was as good an Irish whiskey as there was.

  He checked his email for the first time in hours and saw he had one from Andy Donovan. We’re at the cottage. It’s beautiful. We’re doing a tour of Bracken Distillers tomorrow (Monday). Thank you. Love, Andy and Julianne.

  Attached to the email was a photograph, a selfie of the happy couple in front of the stone cottage, its door still painted the same blue Sally had chosen. It was late in Ireland, but Finian wrote back, assuming Andy and Julianne would pick up his message sometime tomorrow—perhaps after they’d toured the distillery.

  Thank you for getting in touch. We’ll chat when you’re back in Rock Point. Enjoy Bracken Distillers. My sister Mary is in charge of the whiskey tours and the whiskey school. She’ll take good care of you.

  He hit Send and then, on a whim, texted Sean Murphy: I have a house full of people.

  He didn’t expect an answer but Sean texted him right away: I know.

  Finian smiled. He supposed he wasn’t surprised Sean knew, given his position with the Garda, his affection for the O’Byrne sisters, his natural concern for his friend in Maine—and his knowledge of the Sharpes and the Donovans. Are you in Declan’s Cross?

  Yes. Wendell and Lucas are here, too.

  Finian started to reply, but he received another text from Sean.

  And Aoife.

  She was with family and friends, then. Are you at the farm?

  Having whiskey in the kitchen. Wish you were here to join me.

 
; Finian had engaged in many long chats with Sean in the kitchen of the old Murphy farmhouse. To be there now. To listen to the sheep in the fields, and the waves washing on the rocks at the base of the cliffs. Was it a clear night, with stars sparkling, feeling so close he could think he could touch them?

  Sentimental nonsense, perhaps, but he did have a house full. He typed his response to his friend: I’m raising my glass to you. Sláinte.

  Whatever is going on, stay out of it. Sláinte.

  That didn’t call for a response. Finian put away his phone. He looked again at the photo Andy and Julianne had sent. He could see his girls running outside to catch a rainbow arcing over the bay, Sally laughing, appreciating their excitement. It might have been yesterday, and yet...he knew it wasn’t yesterday. It was years ago. His wife and daughters had gone to God far too soon, but he felt no pain, no rawness, no bitterness remembering them—seeing them, hearing them, feeling their presence. Gratitude surged within him for the time they’d had together and the love they’d shared. Their loss had changed him, but their lives had blessed him.

  I love our quiet life here, Fin.

  Ah, Sally. Was there such a thing as a quiet life?

  Finian finished his whiskey and got up from the table. Given his British guests, and his FBI friends a few blocks away, and poisonings and an unsettling sketch and dear God only knew what else, quiet moments would have to do for now.

  18

  Declan’s Cross, South Irish Coast

  Of all the rooms in her uncle’s house that Kitty O’Byrne had revamped and transformed, the one most unchanged from her uncle’s day was the drawing room—now the boutique hotel’s reading room, located at the top of the sweeping stairs up from the small lobby. Lucas slipped into it after breakfast. He noted an Aoife O’Byrne seascape above the fireplace, moody, richly atmospheric, unmistakably hers. But he found himself standing at the two Jack Butler Yeats paintings, stolen a decade ago, returned last fall. John O’Byrne, not poor but not wealthy, had purchased the landscapes of west Ireland before Yeats’s stratospheric rise in popularity and price.