Rival's Break

by Carla Neggers

  Sean Murphy appeared on the screen. “Colin? Anything you can tell me?”

  “I wish. Thanks for your help, Sean. How’s the farm? Still have that Bracken fifteen-year-old on top of your refrigerator?”

  “Saving the last of it for Fin’s next visit. Fin? When are you coming home?”

  “You’ll be the first to know if you have some of the fifteen-year-old left.”

  “I have enough to toast your return.”

  Finian’s expression didn’t change. “Send Kitty my love, Sean.”

  “I will, and you stay safe, my friend.”

  Sean might as well have told Finian to get new friends. Colin didn’t blame him. They said goodbye to Aoife, Wendell and Lucas, but no one seemed satisfied by the conversation. It had obviously stirred up questions beyond those that had to do with the tragic death of the British neurotoxicologist. When the screen went blank, Colin found himself feeling strangely apart from his brother-in-law and grandfather-in-law in Declan’s Cross, as if they were unprotected, alone, in danger. For once, he didn’t trust his gut. Lucas and Wendell were fine, in good hands with Sean breathing down their necks. Colin’s uneasiness arose, he knew, from his own unresolved feelings about Tim Sharpe’s death and his undercover work these past weeks.

  And he had his own unfinished business.

  Henrietta dropped her arms to her sides and stood straight. “Sean Murphy isn’t one to underestimate, is he?”

  Finian smiled at her, looking more relaxed now that he didn’t have Aoife on his laptop screen. “One would be wise not to. I’ve seen Sean in action.”

  “And Aoife,” Henrietta said. “Add gorgeous to insanely talented.”

  To that, Finian had no comment.

  Colin broke through his own emotions and pulled Henrietta aside. “I need to speak with our friend in the den. Is he awake?”

  “He was a little while ago. I told him I’d get him out for some air when he was up to it. As you can imagine, he doesn’t take well to being cooped up. He’s a man of action.”

  “But he told you to go to hell, he’d get himself out for air?”

  “That’s a good summary.” She moved away from the sink. “I’ll go with you.”

  They headed down the short hall to the den. Colin held off updating her on what was happening in Rock Point. Kevin had called him. He had secured the painting and sketch until they had a chance to talk with Georgina Masterson. A local police officer was keeping watch on the yacht. Kevin would join Colin in Rock Point as soon as he could. Emma was on the way with Oliver.

  The door to the den stood open, held in place by a sheep doorstop, a present from a Bracken sister and another tangible reminder of Finian’s home in Ireland. “Company, Jeremy,” Henrietta said. But as she stepped into the cozy den, she swore under her breath.

  The sofa was empty, a blanket crumpled on the floor. “Is he in the bathroom?” Colin asked.

  “His shoes and jacket are gone, but I’ll check.”

  Henrietta disappeared down the hall to the half bath. Colin went into the den. Jeremy didn’t appear to have left in a hurry, with a fresh bout of stomach upset, for instance, but he hadn’t packed and tidied up, either. Wherever he was, he planned on returning.

  Colin saw a note on the table by Finian’s chair, held in place by the Bracken pot-still bottle. He could read it without moving it:

  Henrietta:

  You’re right. Fresh air is in order. I’m off for a bit. Didn’t tell you because I knew you’d try to stop me. Not to worry.

  The note wasn’t signed, maybe because he couldn’t decide on Jeremy, Bill, William or some other alias he’d used, or a last name.

  “He’s not here,” Henrietta said from the doorway.

  “I know. He left a note.”

  She fumed as she snatched it from under the whiskey bottle and read it. She slapped it back on the small table. “I wouldn’t have tried to stop him. I’d have done it. Bloody fool.”

  “Is the note legit?”

  “It’s his handwriting. I recognize that scrawl. I should have planted myself at the door, but it wouldn’t have made a difference once he decided to leave.”

  “If someone took him?”

  “Even sick, only if he wanted to go.”

  “Georgina’s on a run.”

  Henrietta nodded without comment.

  “Is he protecting her, Henrietta?”

  “From what?”

  “Herself.”

  “I trust him, but his behavior this past week hasn’t been easy to decipher.” She pushed a hand over her curls, fiddled with the clip that held them back and finally stopped. “He’s weak, Colin, and he’s not himself. We need to find him.”

  “I’ll go look for him. Stay here with Finian. Emma and Oliver will be here soon.”

  “I don’t need anyone to look after me. Oliver doesn’t, either. I don’t know the area, but I can help—”

  “You can help by not arguing with me.”

  A quick smile. “That’s what they all say.” But her eyes darkened as she looked at the empty sofa. “I checked on him fifteen minutes ago. Given his physical state, that’s not much of a head start.” She dug her phone out of a pocket or something in her voluminous skirt and hit a number. Waited. “He’s not answering.” She clicked off, palmed the phone. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

  Colin tried Jeremy on his phone, in case his friend was avoiding Henrietta, but he didn’t get an answer, either. He left a message. “Call me.” His tone said what it needed to: don’t push the bonds of our friendship.

  “We need to find Georgina, too,” Henrietta said.

  Colin nodded. “Agreed.”

  Finian came down the hall and quickly assessed the situation. “I’ll check the church.”

  “Not alone, Fin,” Colin said.

  Henrietta grabbed her jacket off a peg. “I’ll go with him. You’ll stay in touch, Colin?”

  He didn’t like the worry in her face. He nodded, then headed out through the front, texting Emma as he ran down the front steps. He’d hoped he’d find Jeremy crumpled up in the shrubs, lesson learned about overdoing it against doctor’s orders. He spotted Franny Maroney’s notorious cat prowling at the base of a spruce tree. That was it.

  He got in his truck and reminded himself to breathe. He’d met Jeremy the first week of his first undercover assignment. Before Emma. He’d been totally green if not out of his element, untrained, or particularly afraid. In Jeremy, Colin had sensed a kindred soul—the kind of independent thinker needed for deep-cover work but also the kind that sometimes had trouble with the bureaucracy and hierarchy of an MI5 or FBI.

  Colin had never dealt with anyone more focused or more dedicated to his work than Jeremy Pearson—and to this life. The importance of the work, the dangers, the bonds, the lives he could save.

  And had saved, including Colin’s own.

  But there could be a fine line between dedication and confidence—knowing a job had to be done and you could do a job—and arrogance and addiction. Always, Colin thought, he had to know he could walk away. Let someone else take his place. Never think he was so damn good he was indispensable.

  In the five years he’d known Jeremy Pearson, Colin had sensed crustiness, a touch of burnout, regret at some of the sacrifices he’d made—the unnecessary ones, the ones it was easy to tell yourself you needed to make to do the job—but he’d never sensed anything that sounded any alarms. Jeremy Pearson had always been a professional, a man who knew himself and his limitations.

  Until now, with this neurotoxicologist and his chef daughter.

  Was there something between Jeremy and the Mastersons that had him breaking rules, pulling out the stops? Fraying friendships and professional relationships?

  Colin turned toward the harbor. Georgina was on a run. Yesterday her route had taken her along the
water. Ten to one she was meeting Jeremy somewhere. As Henrietta had suggested, a fifteen-minute head start would be a lot if Jeremy hadn’t crawled out of his sickbed. If Colin hadn’t seen the guy’s barf and IV himself, he’d question whether his friend and colleague had eaten any of the offending mushrooms at Saturday’s party.

  He checked sidewalks and yards in case Jeremy had collapsed.

  Franny Maroney was out walking, or snooping on what was up in the neighborhood. Colin pulled in next to her and rolled down his window. “Have you seen anyone out here—”

  “That man who’s recuperating at the rectory. I stopped by to pick up my casserole dish. I didn’t get a good look at him, but I’m sure it’s the same man I saw a little while ago. He said he was getting some air. Doctor’s orders.” She pointed down the street, in the same direction Colin was headed. “He was going to look at lobster boats.”

  “Thanks, Franny.”

  “Anytime. Should I have called Father Bracken to get him back to the rectory?”

  “No, you did fine.”

  “Julianne and Andy emailed me to let me know they got to Ireland okay. They love Father Bracken’s cottage. Can you believe we’re family now, Colin?” She leaned in closer to him. “They told me not to expect to hear from them again. That’s good. I want great-grandchildren.”

  Colin thanked her and got out of there.

  22

  Staying as still as she could manage, Georgina focused on the stunningly bright red leaves on a tree in front of a small house not far from the rectory where she’d run last night. She tried to control her breathing. She had slowed her pace to a walk a mile ago, when she’d noticed the first ripples of nausea.

  Don’t move...don’t think...

  The leaves are more magenta than true red...

  If she moved, she’d throw up. She’d taken the coastal route on her run but made a wrong turn on the residential streets. She didn’t want to risk taking her phone out of her running belt to check Google Maps.

  It has to be nerves. Stress.

  Grief.

  Oh, Dad... Dad, Dad...

  The leaves fluttered in the wind. Georgina lowered her eyes to the ground in front of her. One step, she thought. She could take one step...and then another step. It couldn’t be far to the rectory and her father’s friend.

  Your father passed away early this morning. I’m so sorry, Georgina.

  The doctor who’d treated him had been to the point but gentle. Most of what he’d said was a blur. She’d mumbled an incoherent thank-you and told him she would be in London in the morning and see about making arrangements. Who else was there, after all? Her father had never remarried, and he hadn’t been in a relationship. He had friends, didn’t he? Other than this art consultant, William Hornsby—this secret agent.

  What if her father didn’t have real friends? What if he’d only had her?

  A fierce cramp gripped her, doubling her over with such abruptness she tripped on her own feet. She clutched her lower abdomen with both arms and moaned. The cramp eased, but she kept one arm across her middle as she tried to walk a few more steps.

  She’d had it out with her father on Sunday in the park, foraging for wild mushrooms. Grievances she hadn’t even realized she had caught her by surprise, and bubbled to the surface. She couldn’t stop herself.

  Not bubbled, she thought. Surged.

  I love you, Dad, but you abandoned Mum and me. Your work always came first.

  That’s not true. Georgina, what’s this about?

  It is true. At least admit it.

  I have—I had a demanding job. I don’t deny that. I’m aware I haven’t been the best father. It’s not too late for me to do better. You’re the most important person in my life.

  Mum...

  Gone too soon. Would that it weren’t so.

  She’d thought...a starting point. Even now, she could see the rivulets of sweat on his brow as he’d ducked under trees, searching for chanterelles. It must have taken a lot for him to get out those words. She’d met some of his more gregarious colleagues, but he’d always struggled articulating how he felt. Then again, so had she, and their natural reserve and lack of introspection had allowed them to carry on instead of becoming estranged. She’d never been hostile to him.

  But their awkward, painful, short chat had turned out to be the start and the end of any kind of closer father-daughter relationship. She’d left for Boston, and not forty-eight hours later, he’d been found near death, only steps from where they’d picked mushrooms and she’d poured out her heart to him, for the first time ever.

  If he’d killed himself, she’d driven him to it.

  Wouldn’t an expert in toxins choose a quicker, easier demise for himself than death cap mushrooms? She couldn’t get that thought out of her mind. She’d thrashed all night, barely sleeping, wondering if he’d wanted her to know he’d suffered. Was there something poetic to him about dying of mushroom poisoning? Maybe it felt more natural than dosing himself with one of his synthetic nerve agents. Maybe he didn’t have access to them, couldn’t just produce one in his kitchen at home.

  Georgina felt an acidic taste rise up in her throat.

  No...

  Another cramp seized her. She stopped, doubled over, staring at the ground.

  The Aoife O’Byrne painting...her father’s goodbye, his way of telling her how much he loved her, how sorry he was for what might have been. That had been her reaction to the depiction of the Irish woodlands—somehow, she’d found herself longing for the impossible, the hopeless, the things that might have been in her life. Had that been the artist’s intention?

  More likely giving her the painting had been her father’s ineptness at work, thinking an extravagant gift was how to show she mattered to him. She hadn’t wanted to do that to him—to make him think he’d failed her. Because he hadn’t. Spending that time with her showed her he cared. Talking to her about how he felt about retirement showed her. Cooking with her. Having him give a damn—ask her about her life, her ideas, her dreams, her goals. It’s not prying, Dad. It’s caring. If you’re being intrusive, I’ll say.

  For years, she’d told herself it was okay, she didn’t need that from him, or even want it. But last weekend, for once she’d just wanted him to dig himself out of his world of neurotoxins and tune the hell in.

  The cramp passed, and she pushed back the urge to vomit and continued to a quiet intersection. Could she ever live in a place like Rock Point? Her life had always been different, abnormal.

  She’d talk to William Hornsby. Insist he tell her the truth. Demand it.

  Or what?

  She’d figure something out. She’d get Hornsby away from the rectory and appeal first to his friendship with her father. She didn’t think it was entirely fake, part of his job. She’d sensed something genuine there. Whatever his real name was, William Hornsby had seemed to care about her and her relationship with her father.

  He wants to be a good father to you, Georgina. It’s never too late.

  He is a good father in his own weird way...

  She dropped to her knees, vomiting in the grass like a bloody dog. She tried to get to her phone but couldn’t. She couldn’t deny what was happening any longer.

  What did I eat?

  The gooey meatball sandwich at lunch. Richie had picked up a variety of sandwiches at a local shop, in what he called an antihealthy mood—his standard operating procedure, he said, whenever any kind of illness worked its way through a crowded vessel.

  Easy to conceal sickeners...

  Georgina swore she could taste them now.

  Her head spun, and she collapsed, writhing in pain even as consciousness slipped away.

  23

  Oliver leaped out of the car almost before Emma had a chance to come to a full stop in front of the rectory. Henrietta and Finian were searching the yar
d between the rectory and the church. “We haven’t seen Jeremy or Georgina,” Henrietta said. “I don’t know why Jeremy slipped out, but I promise you he did it on his own—we didn’t help him. We were on a video chat with Aoife and your grandfather and brother.”

  Franny Maroney bolted up the street, panting as she waved a hand. “Hurry. Come quickly. There’s a young woman. She’s terribly sick. I don’t have my phone. She needs an ambulance.”

  Finian rushed to her. “Where, Franny?” he asked.

  “I’ll show you.”

  “No,” Emma said. “Just tell us.”

  Franny breathed in deeply, gripping her shirt at her chest. “On the corner, under the oak. I’m okay. I won’t have a heart attack. Just take care of that poor girl. I’ll sit on the front steps and catch my breath.”

  “I’ll stay with Franny,” Finian said. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

  Emma ran up the street, in the opposite direction of where she and Oliver had wound their way to the church and rectory. He and Henrietta fell in behind her, and in thirty yards, they came to Georgina Masterson, sprawled facedown in the grass under an oak tree. No one appeared to be home at the house on the small, tidy corner lot.

  Emma knelt beside Georgina and noticed the strong smell of vomit, then a splatter of it trailing to a pool closer to the sidewalk. “Georgina,” Emma said. “We’re going to help you. An ambulance is on the way. Can you speak?”

  She stirred, clutching her lower abdomen. “I want to talk to Bill Hornsby. Where is he? He needs to tell me what’s going on. Who poisoned my father.” She grunted in pain. “And me.”

  Henrietta stared down at her. “It must be more mushrooms.”

  “Sickeners,” Georgina mumbled. “Not an amatoxin.”

  Emma hoped she was right. As sick as she was, best it was due to russula emetica mushrooms. “Did you get in touch with Hornsby?”

  “No. I was going to surprise him.”

  “Did you tell anyone else your plans?”

  “Everyone knew I was going for a run.” She moaned, tucking her knees up toward her chest. “Please tell me my father didn’t get this sick...”