Melodie came out from behind the bar with a plate of saltine crackers and applesauce. “Bryce had a good night,” she said, placing the plate next to the ginger ale. “Progress is progress. He needs to keep his fluids up and get his electrolytes back in balance. This whole ordeal has been a stress on his body.”
Bryce grinned. “It’s Melodie’s polite way of saying I’m overweight and out of shape.” He adjusted his position, clearly weak. “I’m hoping we can head home tomorrow morning. It’ll take at least a week for me to get back to normal. Then I’ve promised my lovely wife I’ll make an appointment with my doctor, a trainer and a nutritionist—one who doesn’t recommend mushrooms.”
“I read a while back that mushrooms might help with brain health,” Melodie said.
Emma wasn’t sure if she was serious or joking, but Bryce obviously thought the latter. “Too soon,” he said with grunt. But his eyes sparked with amusement, suggesting he appreciated his wife’s sense of humor, and her company. He looked up at his guests. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“This is Oliver York,” Emma said. “He’s a friend. He’s visiting in the area and planned to meet up with Bill Hornsby.”
“Oh, right. You’re the mythologist Melodie mentioned,” Bryce said. “Excuse me for not standing up. I understand you know Georgina, our unlucky chef?”
Oliver nodded. “We met briefly in London last week.”
“Please, take a seat, all of you. Nick can get you coffee, tea. Help yourself to saltines. I only eat them when I’m sick to my stomach, but I don’t know why.” He took a moment to catch his breath. “Just talking gets my heartbeat up. Imagine if I got on a treadmill. Georgina is on another of her runs. Third day in a row.”
“Is she alone?” Colin asked.
“Nick offered to accompany her,” Melodie said. “She wanted to go alone. It was foggy when she left, but it’s burned off—it’ll be beautiful along the water. I hope running helps her come to terms with what’s happened. We’re putting her in a car to the airport in Boston as soon as she gets back and takes a shower. She’s already packed. We have her booked on a flight this evening. She’ll arrive in London early tomorrow morning.”
Bryce picked up his ginger ale. “We’re sorry it’ll be too late to see her father alive, but he never regained consciousness. It’s been eating her up. She never should have come on this cruise. Melodie and I could have done the cooking. We’re not helpless.”
Melodie tucked herself on the lounge next to her husband’s feet. “She says running helps clear her head, but it’s hard not to worry about her with such awful news. She’s so young to have lost both parents. My father died seven years ago, and I still think about him nearly every day. We had a good relationship. I still have my mother.”
“God love her,” Bryce muttered.
She grinned at him. “Don’t you dare start on my poor dear mother.” She shifted back to her company. “Sometimes it’s harder to lose a parent when you didn’t have a good relationship, and now you know you never will. The fantasy can die hard.”
Bryce drank some of his ginger ale. “That’s going down well. For a while there, I thought Melodie would be collecting my life insurance. Now...damn, I like this sea air.” He took in a breath. “I like Georgina, but she has a lot on her plate. It’s just as well she’s leaving us. I want to be on our way. I’m used to boats. I don’t have to worry about getting seasick, and I won’t need a doctor.”
“If you do, Richie and Nick will handle it,” Melodie said. “Georgina can get her father’s affairs settled and figure out what’s next for her. If he’d fallen ill before she left London, she’d never have made this trip. We wouldn’t have allowed it, even if she’d wanted to. In hindsight, I wish we’d sent her to London as soon as we found out ourselves.”
Bryce nodded in agreement. “She’s been distraught and distracted, understandably. Ripe for mistakes.” He paused, his eyelids heavy. “Is there anything else we can do for you? I’m going to sleep. I feel like a sick old dog. Nick can fix you up with drinks and a snack, if you’d like.”
As Emma got to her feet, she noticed the sky was a clear, cloudless blue. “Does either of you draw or paint?”
Melodie seemed surprised at the question. “No, I don’t. Bryce took a few art classes in college, or so he tells me.”
“She was in diapers then,” he said.
She smiled. “Kindergarten.”
“I was never any good at drawing or painting,” he added. “Melodie and I collect art as an investment, but it has to be something we like. We appreciate art, but we’re not artists and we have no desire to become artists. Why do you ask?”
Oliver had wandered off to the rail and was looking out at the Sharpe offices, situated between the marina and an inn and parking lot. Emma knew he was listening to the conversation with the Fannings. “Do you have any particular interest in art with mythological themes?” she asked them.
Bryce frowned. “You mean like Zeus and Athena?”
Melodie chuckled, amused. “I suspect Bryce’s knowledge of mythology begins and ends with the Greek and Roman gods and goddesses.”
“I read Edith Hamilton in high school,” he said, grinning back at her. He yawned, wincing. “Muscles in my face and abdomen are still sore. Even a damn yawn hurts. To answer your question, no, no particular interest in mythology but I wouldn’t rule it out.”
“Provided it’s not gruesome art,” Melodie said. “Not my thing, even as an investment.”
Nick came forward with a mimosa for Melodie. “Georgie and I planned to binge-watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy on our off hours on the cruise. That doesn’t count, does it? Dragons, fairies, wizards. Anyway, we’re not going to get to it, obviously. Georgie’s the only one I know on board who draws, and she sticks to plants.”
“Her wild edibles,” Melodie said, taking the mimosa. “Is Bill Hornsby involved in all this? It was my idea to invite him to join us. Bryce tells me I’m too trusting, but I thought he was interesting.”
“Did you meet him in London?” Colin asked.
“Hornsby? No, we didn’t, nor did we meet Georgina’s father. Now...” Melodie raised her mimosa. “I’d like to put my feet up for a few minutes and not think about sickness and death.”
Colin stood. “Thanks for your time. I left my card with the captain. Please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you think of anything else.”
“I hope Georgina enjoys her run,” Emma said. “Please give her our best.”
“Of course,” Melodie said. “She’ll appreciate that.”
“I understand you wanted to visit the Sharpe offices. Someone will be there today.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, but it was Bill Hornsby’s idea to visit. I thought it’d be fun to stop in if we had time. I’ve heard of them, of course. You’re family, I understand. Must be interesting.”
Bryce yawned again, sinking under his blanket. “If there’s nothing else...”
“Nick will walk you out,” Melodie said.
Emma could see the stress of the past few days was getting to Melodie. Even Nick didn’t say anything until they reached the docks. “Do you think one of us should go after Georgina, make sure she’s okay? She was upset when she left, understandably. She has her phone with her, at least. Richie insisted she take it with her.”
“Maybe give her a call,” Colin said.
“I’ll do that.”
He returned to the yacht. A stiff breeze caught the ends of Oliver’s tawny, curly hair as he squinted at the yacht and then back at the docks. “I’d keep it simple if I were to remove a painting from the yacht,” he said. “I’d time it when there were a lot of people around. In this case, during Saturday’s party—the prep, when guests were arriving or when people were getting sick. It doesn’t mean I would need to be the one responsible for making people sick. I could seize on the moment.”
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“Wouldn’t you plan ahead?” Colin asked.
“If possible. I’d be ready to jump on the right moment. There’s no need to risk slipping it off the yacht during the night, but it’s an option. Either way, key, I would think, is what’s next? Where would I hide the painting? How much time would I have to hide it? If I’m a passenger or crew member, I might have different options than one of the guests who arrived just for the day.”
“A passenger or crew member wouldn’t have a car,” Emma said. “But someone on board could have been working with a guest.”
“Feels like a solo operation to me,” Oliver said. “This assumes the painting was removed from the yacht by someone other than its owner, of course. Georgina is upset. It’s a gift from her father.”
“What,” Colin said, “she threw it overboard and is in denial?”
Oliver shrugged. “I have no idea. She could be right and it’s misplaced on the yacht somewhere.”
Emma noticed Kevin Donovan walking toward them. She turned to Colin, saw he’d spotted his brother, too. “No one was at the offices this weekend,” she said. “They’re right here, and Melodie and our British art consultant were interested in them. Why don’t Oliver and I go over there and have a look?”
“Okay. I’ll see what’s up with Kevin.” Colin paused, glanced at Oliver. “Be good.”
But Oliver had his gaze narrowed on the Sharpe offices, the small backyard, the marina next door, bordering shrubs, slips and boats. He drew in a breath and turned to Colin. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Nothing. You’re in art thief mode with no art to steal.” Colin touched Emma’s hand. “Stay in touch.”
20
Emma took Oliver through the small backyard of the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery offices—her grandparents’ former home—and up the steps to the porch. She rang the doorbell, but needn’t have bothered since Ginny Bosko, Lucas’s assistant, was at the table in the kitchen off the back door. She jumped up and pulled open the door. In her early twenties, ambitious and smart, she had made herself indispensable in her first few months on the job. “Emma, great to see you. I just got in. No one else is here. Quite a weekend at the marina with the food poisoning on the yacht. I can’t say I’m sorry to have missed that.”
“Fortunately, everyone will make a full recovery,” Emma said.
Ginny peered at at Oliver, standing off to Emma’s side. “Is this—aren’t you—”
“Oliver York,” he said with one of his charming smiles.
“Ah. That’s what I thought. Pleased to meet you, Mr. York.”
Until that moment, Emma hadn’t been sure if Ginny knew about Oliver. “Did anyone from the yacht get in touch with the office over the weekend?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Lucas already asked the same question. I double-checked, and we didn’t get any voice mails or emails from anyone who said they were on the yacht. No requests for tours of the offices, appointments, coffee. Lucas went through the names involved. Let me see—Hornsby, Fanning, Hillier, Lothian, Masterson and Balfour. And York,” she added, blushing slightly. “People know Lucas is in Ireland with your grandfather, so it’s been quiet.”
“Thanks, Ginny,” Emma said. “Did anyone drop off a package?”
“I didn’t see any when I got in.” She gestured behind her. “I came in through the front door. I didn’t see any sign of a break-in, if that’s your next question. If I had, I’d have called 911, but we have an alarm system. It’s basic. We don’t keep valuable art in here. Take a look around if you’d like.”
“Out here first, if you will, Emma,” Oliver said next to her.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Ginny said. “I’ll be in the front room if you need me.”
She stepped back into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her. Emma turned and faced the water and the docks. She didn’t see Colin or Kevin. She shifted to Oliver. “What do you think? I know you could sneak inside despite the alarms, but since you weren’t involved with taking the painting—”
“I wasn’t,” he said calmly.
“I know. The past few days would have gone down differently if you had.”
He moved away from the door, toward a table shoved up against the back wall. When her brother had launched the extensive renovations of the old house, Emma had lobbied him to keep the porch instead of converting it into more offices, a study, a library—it didn’t matter. The porch was the one spot she’d wanted to leave unchanged, or at least as little changed as possible. When he’d finally tuned in and given it some thought, Lucas had agreed.
In August, she’d last seen her father out here. He’d been in a great mood after picking wild blueberries that morning. She still had a quart of them in the freezer, awaiting a Thanksgiving pie. Lucas had been there that warm, beautiful morning, too, but he lived in Heron’s Cove and worked in the family business, and he’d therefore had more contact with their parents since they’d moved back to Maine from London in the spring.
Oliver pushed past the table to a gas grill in the corner, a new addition Ginny had bought on sale in September, with plans for taking advantage of the offices appealing location for client and staff get-togethers. Lucas had reluctantly admitted they could do more socializing on the premises. He and Emma had exchanged texts about the grill. She remembered how baffled and amused he was, and how much they’d both needed that distraction in the early days after their father’s death.
But Oliver stood back, pointing at the grill, covered in black tarp. “Emma.”
“Hold on, Oliver.” She raced to him and pulled his hand away from the tarp. “Let’s make sure they’re not booby-trapped or doused with poison.”
“My, how you think. They’re not rigged with anything dire.”
“Still, you’re a guest, and I’m...”
“You’re a Sharpe and an FBI agent.” He gestured with one hand. “Have at it, Special Agent Sharpe.”
He stood back, and she saw he hadn’t pointed to the grill itself, with the prospect of something hidden under the tarp. Instead, he’d pointed to a slender plastic-wrapped package tucked between the grill and the porch wall.
“It’s Aoife’s painting,” Emma said as she rolled the grill back a few inches.
The Irish woodland scene was visible through a thick, milky plastic wrap that encased the painting. It was small, maybe eighteen-by-twelve inches. The plastic was crooked, loosely taped, as if someone had grabbed it out of the rest of the painting’s packaging materials and covered it in a hurry.
“Looks as if it was put here in haste,” Oliver said behind her. “I’d say the choice of the Sharpe offices wasn’t simply opportunistic but, rather, deliberate. Our thief didn’t run up the porch steps with the painting thinking it was a random summer home on the water.”
“Could be designed to look like a theft,” Emma said half to herself.
“Yes.”
She noticed a white sheet of sketch paper to the right of the painting, pressed against the porch wall. She shoved the grill back a few more inches to get a better look. The sheet fell faceup to the floor. Another pencil drawing. Oliver peered at the sketch over her shoulder. “More images like those on the sketch Georgina had last night,” he said.
Emma nodded. “I see them.”
She leaned forward and saw what appeared to be a small plastic bag peeking out from behind the sketch. With one finger, she touched the edge of the sketch paper and pulled it back, revealing the rest of the bag. Inside were pieces of what she took to be mushrooms.
“I’ll guess we wouldn’t want those grilled up for breakfast,” Oliver said.
Emma left everything where it was and stood up. “Do you know who put these things here, Oliver?”
“I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Oliver—”
“No, I don’t know. May I take a closer look at the sketch?�
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“Just don’t touch anything.”
She stepped back, allowing him a clearer view behind the grill. “This is an actual scene rather than the random images in either of the similar sketches from the galley or last night. It’s as if the artist had been experimenting with those and with this one, tried his or her hand at telling a story.”
“One you and Robin discussed?” Emma asked.
“Not in particular, no. It’s trying to be an original creation, I’d say, rather than a depiction of any one myth or folktale.” He stood back, looked out at the tidal river, a seagull perched on a post. “It’s well done, carefully done—not thrown together as the images were last night. It’s not signed. Neither was the sketch last night. Why not, I wonder? They’re good, if twisted.”
“I think twisted is the point, don’t you? The artist is going for an effect.”
“The chaos, efficacy and death that can come with poison. There are countless myths, legends and folktales in which poisons are used as a means of attaining or exerting power and control, revenge, self-defense. Robin didn’t mention sketches when he talked to me, but what if drawing was one of his new hobbies? He did spend decades studying various types of poison.”
Emma went to the rail and waved to Kevin, alone on the dock. She didn’t see Colin. “Kevin,” she called to him. “Need you up here.” She shifted back to Oliver. “If there’s anything you haven’t told me, Oliver, now’s the time.”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing, Emma. I’ve racked my brain in case I forgot or overlooked anything. Jeremy, the Mastersons. Henrietta. Aoife O’Byrne. Any mention of your family, or you, Colin, Finian Bracken. If there’s anything else, I’ve missed it.”
Kevin crossed the lawn at a fast clip and trotted up the steps. “Colin left for Rock Point. I’ll meet him there. What’s going on?”
She told him. He gritted his teeth in a way that reminded her of Colin. Kevin would secure the painting—and the sketch and mushrooms bits—and contact the Heron’s Cove police. “Georgina could have put this stuff here herself,” Emma said. “She’ll have some explaining to do, but if it’s just trespassing—”
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