Carla Neggers (18 page)

“Don’t we, Colin?”

He didn’t respond. He could track questions back but not with the patience and logic that she could. She was as relentless in her own way as he was. Her thoroughness combined with her ability to get things done made her an asset that Matt Yankowski counted on—he’d noticed her potential four years ago when she’d still been Sister Brigid. She could explore labyrinths and dead ends forever. Her schooling in art history and her time with the sisters—her months working with her grandfather in Dublin—had only honed her gift for detail.

“We have a lot of questions that need answering,” he said. “Have you talked to your brother?”

She nodded. “If Lindsey checked out the offices while she was in Maine, Lucas didn’t see her and she didn’t leave her name. As he points out, though, by itself a stop in Heron’s Cove doesn’t necessarily mean anything. People sometimes just are curious about Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.”

“Has anyone with ties to Declan’s Cross ever stopped by out of curiosity about the O’Byrne theft?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“You’d be aware,” Colin said.

She didn’t argue. “Yank reminded me this isn’t our investigation.”

Colin smiled. “I’m sure he did.”

She raised her eyes to him. “He told me to remind you.”

“Which you just did.”

He slipped an arm around her waist and brushed his lips over her hair, smelled the Irish air in it. She was as comfortable here in an upscale boutique Irish hotel as she was up on a ridge in the Macgillicuddy Reeks. The Sharpes could do sophisticated or simple. He was better at dangerous and simple. Even undercover, he had seldom played a rich guy.

“We’ll figure this out,” he said.

“Did you learn anything more about the sparks between Sean Murphy and Kitty? There’s a history there, I think.”

“There’s history everywhere in this village.”

“It’s romantic.”

“That, it is.”

Emma took his hand. “Let’s go upstairs. We just have to remember Julianne is right next door.”

He grinned. “Worried about thin walls?”

“Not that much,” she said with a laugh that was, he thought, damn good to hear.

* * *

“Emma and Colin will kill you,” Julianne said as she sat cross-legged on her hotel bed, on the phone with Andy. It was nine o’clock in Ireland. Four o’clock in Maine.

“Relax. Mike’s with me.”

“That doesn’t ease my mind, Andy.”

“What could go wrong?”

“You could get into trouble for interfering in an FBI investigation. Seriously.”

“There’s no FBI investigation, Jules,” he said, calm. “And we’re not interfering, anyway.”

Julianne gripped the phone. She didn’t know why she’d called him. Well, she did know. She’d wanted to hear his voice. It was just a stupid reason to weaken, and she regretted it, especially since now she knew he and Mike, the eldest Donovan, were driving to Massachusetts to check out David Hargreaves’ home on Boston’s North Shore.

Why did she care? Let
them
explain everything to their FBI brother.

“We’ll probably get there and the house will be locked up tight,” Andy said.

“Then what will you do?”

“I don’t know. Mike could always break in—”

“That’s not funny.”

She could almost see Andy’s lazy grin. “Who’s trying to be funny, Jules?”

She stretched her legs out straight, under the covers. She’d changed into her flannel pj’s. “I’m not going to rat you out to Colin, but I should. He and Emma are right next door.”

“You okay in this hotel?”

“It’s beautiful. The breakfasts have won awards. I plan on totally indulging in the morning.” She could feel the tightness in her throat and wondered if Andy could tell. She felt even more alone in her gorgeous hotel room than she had last night in her Irish cottage. Was that why she’d dug out her phone? “I’m sorry about Lindsey, and I never want to go through anything like it again—but she fell. She was up there in wet conditions and slipped or took a wrong step, fell and landed badly. That’s it. There’s a big difference between a tragedy and what you’re thinking.”

“And what am I thinking?”

She sucked in a breath and didn’t answer. It was a bone of contention between them—her habit of telling him she knew what he was thinking without sufficient evidence, in his mind, at least, to make such a statement.

“Never mind,” he said. “Get some sleep.”

“You two should still turn back.”

“Got it, Jules.” She could feel Andy’s grin. “Mike says hi.”

She disconnected and might have flung her phone across the room if she hadn’t been afraid of hitting something expensive. Turndown service had been by when she’d come up to her room after her soup. The drapes were drawn, the covers were pulled back on the bed, soft music was playing. She’d felt pampered...and incredibly alone.

She threw off the covers and jumped out onto the warm rug. Her internal clock was so messed up, she didn’t know whether to try to sleep or try to stay awake. She did three yoga sun salutations in a row, never mind that it was pitch-dark outside, then gave up and went into the spotless bathroom. Ultra-white fixtures and towels, upscale amenities, prints of romantic Irish scenes.

She filled the tub, choosing from among three different scented bath salts. Lavender, grapefruit, almond.

She felt like crying.

“Damn it, Andy,” she whispered aloud. “I wish you were with me.”

He’d told her he was there anytime she wanted to talk. She didn’t want to talk, she realized. She wanted to slide into bed with him and forget, at least for a little while.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

She chose the lavender bath salts.

17

ANDY HAD NO
misgivings when he pulled into the Hargreaves place out on its own small point on Cape Ann. Mike didn’t look as if he was worried, either. He was down from Maine’s remote Bold Coast, helping their folks with a project at the inn they’d opened on Rock Point harbor. He’d flagged Andy down as he’d started out of Hurley’s parking lot and jumped into the truck. Donovan solidarity. If Andy was going to stick his nose in Julianne’s business—potentially in FBI business—it would be with Big Brother Mike at his side.

Andy also had no misgivings about alerting Colin to Julianne’s sudden trip to Ireland and this mysterious little village of Declan’s Cross. It meant she wasn’t alone now, in the wake of finding her new friend dead on the Irish coast barely twenty-four hours after she’d landed in Shannon. Colin and Emma were with her.

Mike didn’t see that as such a great thing. On the drive down to Massachusetts, he’d said, “If I’d just found a dead woman, I don’t know that I’d want those two breathing down my neck.”

It wasn’t an unreasonable point of view.

Andy shut off the engine and climbed out of the truck. He had on a wool shirt, jeans and trail boots and was warm enough despite the chilly November evening air. Mike had on a scarred black leather jacket over a T-shirt and jeans, and he wore L.L.Bean boots that he’d had forever.

The Hargreaves place was light on security. No gate, no guard, no sign warning of an alarm system. Andy figured he and Mike wouldn’t have made it this far if there were professional security types on the premises. Then again, Mike was ex-military and had his ways.

He joined Andy on the stone walk. The house was an understated Colonial, probably no more than sixty years old, with blue-gray clapboards, black shutters and a two-car garage. Trimmed shrubs. Established landscaping with mature shade trees, leafless against the starlit sky.

“Nice place,” Andy said.

Mike nodded. “Hargreaves is an educated PBS-type?”

“I guess. I know he likes oceans.”

“Good thing since his back windows look out on one.”

Either the lights in the front windows were on a timer or someone was at home. Andy noticed that Mike eased behind him as they mounted the steps to the front door, painted a glossy dark red.

An auburn-haired woman who looked to be in her early sixties cracked open the door. “May I help you two gentlemen?”

“My name’s Andy Donovan, ma’am.” He nodded behind him. “This is my brother Mike. Our brother Colin is in Declan’s Cross with David Hargreaves.”

“The FBI agent,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“Did he send you here?”

Mike shrugged, slouching against a post. “Depends on your point of view, I guess. David Hargreaves your boss?”

“I’m his housekeeper. Irene Barton. I’m staying here while he’s away.” She didn’t open the door wider. “What can I do for you?”

“Colin is doing all he can to make sure the investigation into Lindsey’s death is handled properly,” Mike said. “He says your boss is, too. He sounds like a good guy.”

Colin hadn’t said any such thing, but Irene Barton seemed calmer, less suspicious. She said, “David is a wonderful man. He and Special Agent Donovan are staying at the same hotel.” She tilted her head back, expectant.

Andy realized it was a test and said, “The O’Byrne House Hotel in Declan’s Cross. I looked it up on the internet. Quite the place.”

“David was looking forward to staying there for a few days,” Barton said, shaking her head in sorrow. “It’s so sad. He called me this morning to make sure I heard about Lindsey from him.”

“That’s decent of him,” Mike said. “I’m sure he told you that Colin’s friends with the woman who found her this morning—”

“The marine biologist.”

“Right. Julianne Maroney. She and Lindsey hit it off when they met last week in Maine. They bonded over their mutual interest in marine science.”

Irene Barton straightened, starchy. “I hope Lindsey didn’t try to pass herself off as a scientist. She loved marine science, bless her, but love doesn’t make one an expert at anything, does it? She flunked out of college twice.” Irene added quickly, “It’s terrible, what’s happened.”

Andy looked at her with genuine sympathy. “It is terrible.”

“Have the police been by to talk to you?” Mike asked.

She flashed him a suspicious look. “No, why should they? Lindsey’s death was an accident, wasn’t it? And even if it wasn’t, it happened in Ireland.”

Andy didn’t want to scare the woman or put her on her guard again by bringing up cops, federal agents, potential murder. “You know the cops,” he said. “Thorough.”

Mike stood straight, as if he had all the time in the world. “Andy and I thought we’d have a look at this guesthouse where Lindsey was staying. It’d save some time. Make your life easier. We can report back to Colin. Would you mind? We’ll only be a minute.”

It was hard to say no to Mike when he was turning up the charm. Irene Barton opened the door wider. She didn’t look nearly as suspicious as she had at first. “If you think it would help...”

Mike nodded. “It would. Colin wants to get a sense of Lindsey’s life here.”

The housekeeper sniffed. “She had it good. David treated her well. See for yourself.” She stood back, motioning Mike and Andy inside. “It’s easier to come through the house. I believe you are who you say you are and that your brother is with the FBI, but I want to warn you that I’m keeping an eye on you. I have a Glock in my jacket.”

Mike grinned. “I’d expect nothing less.”

She clearly liked Mike. She showed them down a hall to a traditional kitchen with white cabinets and a huge island, a cutting board set up with a carving knife and a head of lettuce. They must have interrupted her fixing herself a bite to eat.

They went into a mudroom with pegs hung with coats, vests, fishing and kayaking gear. A brass tray held men’s boots, Top-Siders, canvas shoes. Everything was tidy and clean.

Their hostess threw on some lights and pointed out at the expansive yard. “The guesthouse is at the end of the walk. You’ll see it. There should be enough light, but let me know if you want a flashlight.”

She shut the door behind them as they headed down the steps to the stone walk. “Think she really has a Glock on her?” Andy asked when they were out of earshot.

“Yeah, probably. I would.”

Andy didn’t own a gun. He figured if he needed firepower, he’d count on his brothers. “She could be locking the doors and calling the police.”

“Nah. She wants to prove her boss isn’t a bad father.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can read people.”

They came to the guesthouse, nestled among rhododendrons and birch trees on a bluff above the water. Andy still had no misgivings about being here, but Julianne was right. Colin would kill them both for interfering.

Mike peered into a dark window. “I could get in and nobody would ever know.”

No doubt true, Andy thought, looking in another window. A light was on in a back hall or bathroom, allowing him to make out the outlines of cheerful cottage furnishings. Overstuffed chairs and love seats, big flowered pillows, painted tables and chairs. The housekeeper’s or Lindsey’s doing, he figured, given how different the look here was from the one in the main house.

He stepped back from the window. “Looks like a cottage rental more than a place someone actually lives.”

“Yeah. I don’t know that it’d do any good to have a look inside.” Mike stepped onto a stone landing in front of the cottage and looked out at the dark ocean. “Wonder why the daughter bunked out here instead of in the main house with her father.”

“Privacy, maybe. Still feeling each other out. Sounds as if they didn’t have much to do with each other for a long time.” Andy could hear the tide coming in on the rocks below them. The coast here wasn’t that different from southern Maine. More populated, but the Hargreaves place managed to feel isolated, unto itself. “I’m guessing David Hargreaves is something of an odd duck.”

“He’s used to having this place to himself. He might not like having people around, and Lindsey was—what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight? Old enough to be on her own. Good use of a guesthouse, if you ask me.” Mike hopped off the landing, back onto the walk. “Let’s go see what else we can get out of Miss Barton. She’s warmed up to us. She won’t shoot.”

“It’s not her I’m worried about,” Andy muttered.

“Colin?” Mike grinned. “He won’t shoot us, either. He’ll just want to.”

By the time they returned to the house, Irene Barton had her salad made, heaped onto a plate with slices of ham and cheese. Andy could smell bread heating up and saw the toaster oven was on. She hadn’t locked the doors and, in fact, seemed even more comfortable around them.

Mike swiped a carrot stick and winked at her. “You don’t mind, do you?”

She blushed slightly. “Not at all.”

“It’s really nice here,” Andy said. “It must have been hard for Lindsey to give it up.”

“I’m sure it was, but she was determined to give this research field station a go. David was very good to her this past year.” She wiped her hands on a cloth napkin and pointed toward the hall. “I can show you out.”

She seemed intent on doing so. As she bustled into the hall, Mike glanced around the kitchen, as if imprinting it in his memory, then helped himself to a cucumber slice and followed the housekeeper.

Andy eased in behind them. “How well did you know Lindsey?” he asked.

“She was just a little girl when I first met her. She and her mother lived nearby—Cynthia fancied herself a painter. Seascapes.”

From Irene Barton’s tone, Andy guessed she didn’t think much of Cynthia Hargreaves’ artistic talents.

They came to the front entry. The housekeeper paused in the doorway of a small library, a single floor lamp lit. “I didn’t see much of Lindsey after her mother and David divorced. She was always welcome here, but Cynthia kept telling her that David wasn’t her quote-unquote
real
father. Isn’t that a terrible thing to tell a child? David adopted her. She was very much a real daughter to him.”

“Not a big fan of either the mother or the daughter, are you?” Mike asked, blunt as ever.

Irene Barton didn’t seem to take offense. “Maybe so. Lindsey was a sweet little girl, but she didn’t appreciate all David did for her—and for her mother.”

Mike glanced into the library. “Your boss much of an art collector?”

“He’ll tell you he buys what he likes.”

“Ever hear of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery?” Andy asked.

The housekeeper frowned. “I don’t believe so, no. Why? What do they do?”

“Recover lost and stolen art and antiquities,” Mike said. “Prevent their theft. They’re based in Maine. Heron’s Cove.”

Irene didn’t react to mention of the Sharpes or Heron’s Cove, but she rubbed the back of her neck, as if lost in thought. Finally she looked at her two visitors and said, “I have something to show you.”

She went past them into the library. Andy glanced at Mike, then they both followed her.

She pointed at an empty space on the wood-paneled wall. “An Irish seascape was here until last week.”

Not what Andy expected. “Where is it now?”

“David told me he was having it appraised.”

“But you don’t believe him,” Mike said.

“To be perfectly frank, I don’t know that I do, no. David bought it for Lindsey’s mother when they were in Ireland on a sort of second honeymoon.”

Mike walked over to a glass-front cabinet. “When was this second honeymoon?”

“It’s been at least fifteen years. They divorced not long after that. They were gone just ten days. Lindsey stayed here with me.”

“Odd coincidence,” Andy said, “having an Irish seascape out for appraisal the same time his daughter’s launching a marine science field station in Ireland.”

“Who’s the artist?” Mike asked.

“Aoife O’Byrne. I know nothing about her, but I remember the name because it’s unusual, at least to me. I had to look up the pronunciation.
EE-fa
. Of course, when I saw that David is staying at the O’Byrne House Hotel...” She waved a hand. “I’m sure there are loads of O’Byrnes in Ireland.”

“Anything else not here?” Mike asked.

Irene nodded. “Another Aoife O’Byrne piece, a beautiful Celtic silver cross. It was stored in that cabinet. Lindsey told me that her mother adored the cross and the painting but felt they belonged here.”

Andy noted Irene’s skeptical tone. “Do you believe that?”

“I’m not sure what to believe,” Irene said.

Mike turned from the cabinet. “The mother’s dead?”

“For at least ten years. She had problems. Lindsey blamed David for a long time.” Irene’s cheeks flushed. “I’m talking too much, and I’m sure I’m being far too critical. Having Lindsey here and then her trip to Ireland must have prompted David to finally have the appraisals done—he can be quite the procrastinator. Aoife O’Byrne was an unknown fifteen years ago.”

“Now she’s a rising international star in the art world,” Andy said. Mike raised his eyebrows at him, and Andy shrugged. “Like I said, I spent some time on the internet.”

The housekeeper’s cheeks flamed an even deeper red, and she bustled out of the library. Andy didn’t want to upset her further and saw that Mike didn’t, either. There was no point; she’d told them all she was going to tell them. They followed her back into the hall, and she showed them out quickly, formally, mumbling that David had nothing to hide as she shut the door behind them.

A man in a dark suit was getting out of a black sedan parked next to Andy’s truck. Andy swore under his breath, recognizing Matt Yankowski, a humorless, buttoned-down federal agent if ever there was one. They’d met a few times in Rock Point, never over anything good happening.

“Easy, brother,” Mike said. “Yankowski actually will shoot us.”

The senior FBI agent approached them on the walk. “Andy Donovan. Mike Donovan. What are you two boys doing down here?”

“Chatting with the Hargreaves’ housekeeper,” Mike said. “Irene. Nice woman. Early sixties. At first she didn’t want to let us inside.”

“Imagine that.” Yankowski didn’t let up on the stony gaze. “Didn’t your brother tell you two not to meddle in an official investigation?”