Liar's Key (13 page)

“My grandfather's in Dublin, not Killarney.”

“Maybe she stopped in Dublin, too,” Gordy said.

“How would she know about the Brackens? For that matter, how do you know?”

“No idea about Claudia, but I've kept track of some of your recent goings-on. It's not that hard to find out about them.”

“Which recent goings-on are we talking about, Gordy?”

“Last fall you and your now-fiancé got mixed up in the investigation into a missing American in Declan's Cross. That caught my eye, since it's where our serial art thief pulled off his first heist—at least the first one we know about. Not a US federal crime, obviously, but his hits in Dallas and San Francisco were.”

“Did Claudia visit Declan's Cross while she was in Ireland?”

“Don't know.” Gordy dumped the second bag of crackers in his chowder. “I suspect her trip had more to do with memories about her mother and your family than with the Brackens or our serial art thief. Probably got stirred up because of the open house and coming back here, putting her place on the market.”

“Have you spoken with Claudia since you've been in Boston?” Emma asked.

He glanced at her, a grudging note of respect in his look. “This afternoon, as a matter of fact. I ran into her at a gallery in Boston that sells antiquities and contemporary mosaic art, which I'm guessing you already know since you've got the bit in your teeth. Yank tell you to find out what I'm up to?”

Emma ignored his question. “Where's Claudia now?”

“In Heron's Cove, I imagine. Talk to her if you want, Emma. Talk to your grandfather and brother. If anything's going on, I'm not going to be much help.” He settled back and ate some of his chowder. “You found a murdered nun at your old convent. That's how you met Colin.”

Emma nodded. “Sister Joan.”

“I'm sorry.”

His comment—the note of empathy—took her by surprise. She and Sister Joan hadn't had the easiest of relationships, but her murder had been shocking and unexpected, a mad, violent act by a merciless killer.

“I should have gotten to her in time to stop—”

“Don't do that to yourself,” Gordy said, interrupting. “You know better.”

Emma smiled. “That's the Special Agent Wheelock I know.”

He put down his spoon and reached for another roll. “The truth is, Emma,” he said deliberately, thoughtfully, as he broke open the roll, “I've been in limbo. My head knows I'm retired. My heart doesn't. The invitation to the open house on Saturday reminded me that I had some unfinished business of my own. Emotional business. Nothing involving cases.” He set his roll on his plate, staring at it as if it could help him somehow. Finally he looked up. “I let myself get worked up over nothing. I don't want to waste limited time and resources. Don't you follow my lead and get worked up over nothing, too.”

“You've reconsidered since you came to see me this morning?”

“It was stupid. I was trying to feel important again. I see that now. I never thought I'd fall into that trap, but I did.” He grabbed his knife and smeared butter on the roll. “Will you be at the open house as an FBI agent or a Sharpe?”

“I'm always an FBI agent, Gordy.”

“You're always a Sharpe, too.” He winked at her. “Sorry. I'm glad to know I can still get under someone's skin.”

Emma helped herself to a roll, too. She didn't believe everything he was telling her, but she changed the subject and asked to see pictures of his grandchildren. He got out his phone and went through his family photo gallery with her, telling her about each shot. His face lit up as he named each child and described their lives in North Carolina, but there was something else, too. At first Emma thought he was just a little homesick. Then she realized what she saw in him was a mix of longing, regret and a kind of fatalism she sometimes witnessed in cornered perpetrators.

Whether it was fatigue, physical pain or guilt, the photos left no question in her mind that Gordy Wheelock was in emotional turmoil.

He put away his phone and they finished their chowder. Finally, Emma pushed back her empty bowl and looked up at Gordy. “All right. Now that you have a full tummy, you can tell me why you flew to Ireland on Monday.”

“Ha. Good one. You get me all teary-eyed over the grandkids and then pounce.” His obvious irritation was laced with grudging appreciation. “Who told you about Ireland? This Irish detective? Never mind. I have nothing to hide. I wanted to see Declan's Cross. I only saw photos when I was working the serial art-thief case. You weren't kidding when you said it's a tiny village. I drove through, saw the O'Byrne house—now quite the boutique hotel—and drove into Ardmore. I had lunch, oohed and aahed over the round tower and Saint Declan ruins, then drove to Killarney and did a short tour of Bracken Distillers.”

“Why that particular distillery, Gordy?”

“Come on, Emma. Why do you think? I know you and your fiancé are friends with the co-founder, your Irish priest, Father Bracken.”

“That's it?”

“And I knew Claudia Deverell had been there last week, but I wasn't checking up on her.”

Emma was silent. Gordy stared out at the dark harbor, but she doubted he was taking in the shadows, the silhouettes of boats at their moorings, the dots of lights on the shore or even his own reflection in the window.

“I don't believe you, Gordy. It's time you leveled with me.”

“Yeah, yeah. You're right. I've danced around this enough.” He exhaled, settling back in his chair. “I feel responsible for Claudia's falling-out with your brother—they had a good thing going, or starting, when I barged into her life. I scared the hell out of her. I was convinced I was about to break open a network that sold illicit antiquities to unsuspecting or indifferent buyers and then used the profits to fund terrorists. It's the terrorists I wanted, not the buyers. Claudia had knowledge I needed.”

“You keep saying
I
, not
we
.”

“I was at the end of my career. I pushed hard.”

“You threatened Claudia?”

“Not overtly. She's protective of her family's reputation. Any hint of wrongdoing would hurt. Sharing her expertise with the FBI was tricky enough, but being under investigation herself, even for an innocent screwup...well, she knew the damage that could cause. Lucas sniffed out trouble and didn't want anything to do with Claudia after that. He has his own reputation to protect.”

Emma scooped crumbs off the table with her hand and dumped them into her empty bowl. “None of this is in your files,” she said.

“I know. The investigation didn't pan out. I retired. Claudia moved on with her life. Then I got this invitation to the open house...” He sighed deeply, clearly exhausted. “That's all more than you need to know or I need to tell you. I haven't done a damn thing wrong, Emma, except waste your time and not admit that I tripped while out for a smoke. Speaking of which, I still have a hell of a headache. I'm skipping pie and calling it a night.”

Emma watched as he pushed back his chair. “Where are you staying?”

“Fleabag self-catering cottages in Heron's Cove. I bet they'll get torn down soon. They're very un–Heron's Cove. Thought about staying someplace in Rock Point but there are too many armed Donovans here.” He grinned, his lame humor back. “I did my research.”

“You should have told me you were coming and needed a place to stay.”

“I'd be welcome at your place with a couple of honeymooners? Or do you have separate bedrooms, being an ex-nun with a priest as a friend? Here I go, out of line again.” He chuckled to himself. “This place is great. Looks like a dump but it has decent food. I hate to skip pie but I'll be in Maine a couple of days. I'll have another chance.”

Emma kept her gaze on him. “Gordy, you're one of the finest agents I've ever known. If you're hiding something, protecting someone, tell me now and let's figure it out.”

“I don't need to wear a tie to the open house, do I?”

“I don't care what you wear,” she said.

“I've pissed you off. I think that's a first for me.” He got to his feet, giving a small groan as he stretched his lower back. “I'm turning in early. I'm stiff, sore and beat. I'll see you, kid.”

He reached for his wallet but Emma shook her head. “I'll buy you dinner.”

“I'll let you,” he said, then walked around the table and touched her shoulder. “Don't worry, okay? If I had anything, I'd give it to you. See you Saturday.”

“Stay in touch, Gordy.”

She wasn't sure he'd heard her as he left the restaurant. She debated pie—not whether to indulge but which kind to order. It was early in the season when it came to fresh fruit pies. That, she decided, justified a slice of Hurley's famous—or infamous—chocolate fudge pie.

Once she put in her order, she called Sam Padgett and reported what she'd learned from Colin and then Gordy. “Do you have anything new?” she asked when she finished.

“Filling in some blanks. Agent Wheelock arrived in Boston from London at six thirty last night and stayed at the hotel near the New England Aquarium, ahead of his meeting with you this morning. Backtrack to last week. He flew to London on Thursday night, arriving early Friday morning, and left on Monday morning, flying to Cork and then back from Cork to London on Wednesday and on to Boston. The Ireland flights weren't part of his original bookings.”

“This confirms what the Brackens and Sean Murphy told Colin.”

“You believe Wheelock's story about why he made the side trip to Ireland?”

“I don't know, Sam. He's mixing truth, half truths and probably a few outright lies. I'm concerned he's working a personal agenda and it's at least close to infringing on something to do with us and he knows it.”

“Freelancing. Great. He can muck things up without crossing the line.”

“He can also get himself hurt,” Emma added.

“Or arrested. I checked with BPD. They don't have reports of other muggings near Gordy's hotel Wednesday night. I'll take a look around tomorrow morning, see if I can find any steps or if he made them up.” Sam was silent a moment. “This is Gordon Wheelock, Emma. I didn't have any contact with him before he retired, but I knew of him.”

“I know, Sam. This stinks. Thanks.”

“Are you at that place that looks like it's about to fall in the water?”

“I am. My pie has just arrived.”

“Can't go wrong with pie.”

One of her rules in life was to avoid eating pie alone, but, fortunately, thirty seconds after she hung up with Sam, Finian Bracken entered the restaurant and joined her at her table—which, of course, everyone in Rock Point now thought of as his table. He wore a clerical collar and black suit, looking as if he'd come straight from hospital visitations or one of his other priestly duties. Colin insisted their Irish friend looked like Bono, but Emma didn't see the resemblance. Half his parish was in love with their handsome Irish priest, with his angular features and midnight-blue eyes. Didn't matter that most of them were white-haired.

“Good to see you, Emma,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“You, too. Have you had dinner? I've had chowder but, as you can see, I'm now about to indulge in pie.”

“I've not had dinner. Chowder sounds grand.” He settled into his chair. “We also have a new Bracken Distillers expression to try.”

Emma smiled. “Chowder, pie and Bracken whiskey it is.”

11

After Finian finished his bowl of clam chowder and Emma her half slice of chocolate fudge pie, he poured one finger each of
the Bracken Distillers twelve-year-old into two glasses and slid one across the table to Emma. “A
taoscán
for you and a
taoscán
for me,” he said, using the Irish word his grandfather had taught him. “Declan and I put this expression into the casks ourselves. It seems so long ago. He says it's as smooth and beautiful as we dreamed it would be.”

“You haven't tried it yet?”

He shook his head and peered at his dinner companion. “I can see you have a lot on your mind, Emma.” He eyed the whiskey without yet tasting it. “The copper gold color bodes well. I wish I'd been there when Declan bottled the first cask. That's always an exciting time for a distillery. We've been waiting all this time for the casking to mature. It seems like an eternity but twelve years in the whiskey world isn't a long time.” He smiled at Emma. “Casking to make a new spirit is my favorite part of the whiskey business.”

“What kind of casks did you use?”

Finian didn't answer at once. She was obviously trying to keep the strain she was under from affecting their conversation. Perhaps, he thought, talking about whiskey would help her unwind more than any probing questions from him. “Bourbon casks sourced through the Speyside cooperage,” he said. “The whiskey business is even more competitive now than it was when we chose the casks. We knew the whiskey would be good. A good few
taoscáns
were sampled along the way to the bottling.” He raised his glass.
“Sláinte.”

Emma gave him a half-hearted smile and raised her glass.
“Sláinte.”

Finian knew her as a careful, limited drinker, not simply because she was an FBI agent but because of her personal taste. He took a sip, savored the roundness on the palate, the gentle sweetness, and waited for the finish, long and malty, with a tease of early summer honey. The twelve-year-old was everything Declan had promised, and everything he and Finian had dreamed of in a different day.

“It's good,” he pronounced, setting his glass on the table. “The fifteen-year-old is special, indeed, both the peated and unpeated expressions, but this is as special in its own way.”

Emma tasted hers, with the slight look of surprise and uncertainty she had when tasting whiskey. “I see what you mean. It was worth the wait. I can't explain why but it makes me think of Ireland.”

Finian suspected that wasn't the idle remark she wanted him to believe it was. He envisioned the old distillery in the Kerry hills that he and Declan had bought in ruins and transformed into a thriving business. In the years since Finian had entered seminary and the priesthood, Declan had expanded Bracken Distillers, establishing it as a quality independent brand—ever with the unwavering conviction that his twin brother would return.
You'll be back here making whiskey one day, Fin. I know you will. That's your true calling.

Whatever the case, Finian was following this path he was on, wherever it took him. Right now it had taken him across the Atlantic to a small fishing village, where he was presently enjoying whiskey with a troubled FBI agent.

“Sean Murphy phoned earlier,” Finian said. “He told me about Mary's encounter with Oliver York in Declan's Cross. I can understand why you look preoccupied.”

“Have you spoken with Mary?”

“I rang her but didn't reach her. She's in Dublin—she's staying at Aoife's studio. And no,” he added, “I haven't spoken with Aoife, either.” A tender subject she was, too, Finian thought. He and beautiful, intense, artistic Aoife had shared a mad weekend together in Declan's Cross in the blur between the deaths of his wife and daughters and his call to the priesthood.

“Did Sean mention his visit with Colin at the distillery?”

Finian nodded without comment. Colin's trip to Ireland was to have been a secret between the two of them.

“Have you spoken to Colin?” Emma asked, her deep green eyes on Finian.

“Not in weeks,” he said.

She reached for her water glass. “Declan's Cross was a bit of a detour for Mary if she was on her way from Killarney to Dublin. Was she on distillery business?”

“She wasn't there to see Oliver. She didn't know he was at the O'Byrne House, at least according to Sean and Kitty both. You've heard Mary's arriving tomorrow for a visit? I haven't had a chance to tell you. I haven't seen you since we made plans.”

“You're welcome to make plans to see your sister without telling me.”

Finian found Emma's obvious tension disconcerting, in part because she was typically steady and analytical, but mostly because they were discussing his family and friends. But there was something else, too. He observed the tightness about her and wondered about Sean's call—what his garda friend had left out more than what he'd said. There'd been more to the call than a friend checking in with him ahead of his sister's visit.

“I hope you know you can talk to me anytime, Emma,” he said quietly.

“Thank you.”

For now, perhaps it was enough for her to know he was there, as a priest and as a friend. “It looks as if we'll have proper spring weather while Mary is here.” Finian glanced out the windows at the darkened landscape. “Spring comes later to the Maine coast than I expected. She says she's looking forward to staying with me at the rectory. She hasn't stepped foot in a church since her confirmation, one with a roof, at least. She loves exploring church ruins.”

“Was that why she was out at the ruins in Declan's Cross today?”

“I imagine so,” Finian said, studying the young woman across from him. “Emma, I realize Oliver York doesn't live his life on the straight-and-narrow, but he isn't dangerous, is he? You'd tell me if you were concerned he would harm Mary or anyone else.”

“I'm sorry,” Emma said, sitting straight. “I didn't mean to alarm you.”

Finian felt some of his own tension ease. Her vigilance and suspicion were contagious, but she had a more benevolent attitude toward the English mythologist and art thief than either her fiancé or their garda detective friend—not that any of them had overtly confirmed to Finian that Oliver was a thief.

“When did you last hear from Oliver?” Emma asked.

“Last week.”

She was clearly surprised. “When last week?”

“Tuesday or Wednesday. He phoned to tell me he'd scored one of the last bottles of the peated Bracken fifteen-year-old. He was proud of himself, but I don't think that's why he called. He wasn't his usual cheeky self. I chalked it up to fatigue and a touch of melancholy brought on by memories and whiskey.”

“Did he mention where he was?”

“No, and I didn't ask. He and I aren't good friends, Emma.” Finian knew he didn't have to explain the endless complexities and peculiar charms of the wealthy, isolated, solitary Englishman. “I asked him if he'd been in touch with you. He said the last thing he needed was the bloody FBI breathing down his neck. His words. He said he had his hands full with MI6, or maybe it was MI5. I thought he was joking, but he wasn't, was he?”

“It's hard to say with Oliver.”

One of her studied nonanswers. “Have you spoken with Oliver yourself?”

“Earlier today.”

“Sean said Oliver returned to London.”

“Yes.”

A relief, Finian thought—even if a temporary one, since Oliver did have a way of getting about if he so desired. He'd been using an assumed name, Oliver Fairbairn, when they'd all first met him last autumn.

Emma tried more of her whiskey, grimacing in that way she had when sipping spirit. “Definitely smooth, but you're the expert.” She set down her glass, her whiskey drinking clearly at an end for the evening. “What do you and Mary have planned to do while she's here?”

Finian launched into the sketchy plans for his sister's visit, but he was keenly aware that Emma was in no way off duty. It was as if she were waiting for him to drop some tidbit, or accidentally answer a question she didn't want to ask outright. But he couldn't for the life of him imagine what Mary Bracken, who'd never been to the US and worked in an independent family Irish whiskey distillery, could know or have done to interest the FBI.

When they finished their chat—and Finian his
taoscán
of the twelve-year-old—he walked with Emma up from the harbor to Colin's house. She remained tight, restless and tense, unusual for a woman who was typically analytical and in control.

The evening was cool and quiet, the air clearing with nightfall. Perhaps it was opening the twelve-year-old or his sister's imminent visit, but Finian felt out of place and far, far from home—and yet, inexplicably, he didn't question he was where he was called to be. His twin brother and his youngest sister, he knew, would never understand.

“The fog's lifted sooner than I expected,” Emma said as they navigated the narrow residential streets of the small fishing village. “It's a beautiful night, isn't it, Fin?”

“It is.” He smiled, welcoming her use of his first name. His friendship with Colin was more natural, had come easily to them both. It was different with Emma, in part because of her past as a religious sister. But it
was
the past, and he considered her a friend.

But her lighter mood didn't last, and she was again preoccupied when they reached the house she and Colin shared. “Good night, Fin,” she said. “Thank you for the company—and the new Bracken whiskey.”

“Anytime. You know where to find me if you need anything.”

She smiled. “I do. Thank you.”

* * *

Finian entered the rectory through the front door and noticed at once how chilly it was. He'd left early that morning and had been lulled into the fine spring weather and hadn't shut the windows. With the fog and now nightfall, the temperature had dropped. But he didn't mind. After almost a year in Rock Point, he was comfortable with the changeable weather and his tidy, comfortable home next to St. Patrick's Holy Roman Catholic Church. Built in the 1890s, the house needed work, but he appreciated its nods to decades past—original moldings, old-fashioned light switches, 1960s wood paneling in the den.

The dining room beckoned with its stillness and shadows. To welcome him to Rock Point, the church ladies had covered the table with an Irish lace cloth. He had yet to use the table. He always ate in the kitchen, even when he had company, which he seldom did.

Mary would be fine eating in the kitchen.

Finian shuddered at the thought of his youngest sister encountering Oliver York up by the ruins in Declan's Cross.

Had she
followed
the Englishman?

Leaving the question hanging, Finian went into the kitchen and put on a kettle to boil. The small electric kettle had been his purchase. He made Irish Breakfast tea and took it with him into the den. With the five-hour time difference, it was too late in Ireland to ring his sister again. Phoning her at this hour would only stir up trouble. It would be impossible to convince her a middle-of-the-night call was casual, no worries.

Oliver could have concealed his presence in Declan's Cross if he'd wanted to. He had the skills and brazenness to slip into secured museums, businesses and homes and steal art. Slipping into a small Irish village without being seen would pose no problems.

Finian poured his tea and sat at the kitchen table. He could phone Aoife O'Byrne, who often worked late into the night, but that was the long hand of temptation touching him.

Best not to think about Aoife, much less contact her.

He could get up early and check in with Mary before her flight.

He was halfway through his tea when his phone vibrated next to him on the table, signaling an incoming text message.

It's true, then. Mary is visiting you in Maine?

Finian grimaced when he saw the message was from Oliver York. He typed his response.
Yes. Where are you?

London. I walked with Mary in Declan's Cross this morning.

I heard. Pure coincidence?

No. Speak with her.

Finian didn't have a chance to send a message before another came from the Englishman.

Be well, my friend. Yours ever, Oliver.

Finian almost rang him anyway, but he knew Oliver would communicate only on his terms. If he'd wanted to talk, he'd have called. Finian felt like throwing his phone but settled for placing it firmly back on the table.

Should he ring Emma about Oliver's texts?

No, not tonight. There was nothing in them that she didn't already know. Mary had little if any interest in art or even the theft at the O'Byrne house a decade ago that had launched Oliver's career as an accomplished art thief. She was curious by nature, and she longed for adventure—and she worried about him, the brother she didn't understand.

Finian got up and brought his tea dishes to the kitchen.

He reminded himself that Mary was a capable, professional woman who managed her life perfectly well without his interference. She'd been in college, studying business, when his wife and two small daughters had died. He'd disappeared after the unfathomable tragedy, first into grief and whiskey, then into seminary and now the priesthood—a small parish on the southern Maine coast.

I feel abandoned, Fin. We all do.

Mary had never been one to hide her true feelings, or to keep them to herself.

Finian's gaze fell to a shelf by the table, at the framed photograph of the five Bracken siblings and their parents on their south Kerry farm. He and Declan had been seventeen, filled with their dreams, their lives before them. Their parents had gone to God too soon: their mother struck by cancer, their father by a heart attack and a stubborn refusal to see a doctor, particularly after the tragic deaths of his two small granddaughters. Caught up in his own grief and self-destruction, Finian had failed to see that his father wasn't taking care of himself. But truth be told, his father had hidden from all five of his children that he was hurrying himself into the grave.