Liar's Key (25 page)

He sat down again, one knee up as he stretched out his right leg along Emma's left leg. “If Gordy suspected Oliver and Wendell were colluding and whatever they were up to could expose his shortcomings, missteps or actual wrongdoing, and MI5 was involved, he'd play it close to the vest with you.”

“Who killed him, Colin?” Emma didn't wait for his response. “I hope your friends in major crimes don't suspect Granddad or Lucas was involved. Granddad doesn't drive in the States—he shouldn't in Ireland—and Lucas was busy with the open house. That doesn't rule them out, I know, but they didn't kill Gordy.”

“He wanted to keep you on his team in Washington, didn't he?”

“Yank already had HIT in mind and wanted me for it once he got the green light. Gordy didn't like that. I think it had more to do with his dislike of Yank than with wanting to keep me. Yank didn't care. He's pragmatic. He wanted me to have broad experience and get what I could from my time with Gordy.”

“Yank never imagined the two of us together. Talk about bucking the bureaucracy. You were complicated the day we met. Rather I'd been a lobsterman for real?”

“You are. You're just also an FBI agent.”

“I have options, within FBI, outside of it. Whatever it takes, Emma. You know that.”

She smiled. “You could always help your parents with the inn and guests like Oliver.”

“Not one of my options, but I like your sense of humor.”

“Wendell and Lucas won't stonewall the investigation.”

“I know. I'm sorry this happened. We'll do what we can to help with the investigation but we're too close to all the players. I know the state guy in charge. He'll chop us to the ground if we overstep.” He lifted her onto his lap and slipped his arms around her, drawing her close. “Think we'll have rain on our wedding day?”

22

Gordy's dead...dead...dead...

Claudia hadn't budged from the porch since the police had left. Isabel had brought her dinner, but she had managed only a few bites. Now it was dark, foggy, cold, the sort of Maine night her mother had loved.

It was real, Claudia thought, nursing a glass of white wine.

This force in her life for more than a year was gone. It was as if the last of the terrible, intrusive pressures she'd faced during her mother's final months had released her from its grip. She hated herself for feeling this way, but it was undeniable: this utter, blissful relief that Gordy Wheelock was actually, absolutely, without any doubt gone.

Dead.

“I'm glad,” she said aloud, as if to convince herself it was okay to feel that way.

She'd done the right thing, and now she had only to sort through the Maine house and get it on the market. Her mother's sometimes indiscriminate storing and collecting would make the process more time-consuming and complicated, but it was nothing compared to having a renowned FBI investigator on her case.

She heard the front door creak open. In another moment, her father joined her in the grouping of old wicker chairs. “How are you, Claudia?” he asked.

“It's been a day,” she said.

“It's emotional enough being back here without anyone turning up dead. The detectives won't say he was murdered, but it's clear from their questions he was. I'm sorry about what happened. He must have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ah, Claudia. My dear Claudia.” Her father sat on a chair facing the dense fog over the Atlantic and the immediate coastline. “Your mother loved this place. I know it's hard for you to give it up.”

“It's time, though.”

“Yes. I'm trying not to have an opinion.”

“Oh, you have one, you're just not offering it.”

Adrian mounted the steps from the front walk. Claudia smiled at him. “I didn't know you were out there.”

“I was taking a walk. I scooted out back, got as far as crossing Ocean Avenue and decided this is how idiots like me get killed on foggy Maine nights. It's amazing to me how such a beautiful day turned into this—pea-soup fog and a dead FBI agent. I'm sorry, Claudia, I know you two were friends, but damn, my stomach still hurts from when the cops swarmed.”

“It was because of me,” Claudia said. “I'm the one who brought Agent Wheelock into our lives.”

“He asked for your help, and you gave it to him.” Her brother sat next to her, opposite their father. “That's not a bad thing, Claudia. I hope he arrested some bad guys as a result of your expertise.”

“I do, too, but he never said.”

“Who do you think killed him?” Adrian asked.

Claudia heard her father's quick breath at the frank, direct question, typical of her brother. “Let's not do this, Adrian. Leave the investigation to the police. We don't have answers and we're not responsible for getting them. Claudia, what's that you're drinking?” When she told him, he made a face. “I'll want something stronger.”

“While you two both are here...” She hesitated but decided just to say it. “I'm putting the house on the market as soon as I can. Mother loved it here, but it's not for me, not any longer. But I'm also finished with London, too. I have enough money for a fresh start. I'm thinking about California. Carmel, maybe. I have a few friends there.”

“
Your
friends, Claudia?”

She knew what her brother was asking. Her friends, not just her mother's friends. “That's right,” she said, without any defensiveness.

“I hope you know I'm here for you,” her father said.

“I do, Dad, thanks. It's been a tough year for you, too.”

He didn't respond. What was there to say? He and Adrian went inside, but Claudia stayed out on the porch. She was shivering, but she shut her eyes, listening to the sounds of the waves through the fog. She remembered sitting out here with Gordy on a foggy night after they'd made love. He'd been something in bed. But what a mistake, for both of them.

23

Mary had trouble sleeping. Ireland seemed so very far away. She lay in the unfamiliar bed in St. Patrick's rectory and shut her eyes, remembering walks in Killarney National Park with Sally and little Kathleen and Mary, both named for Mary Kathleen Bracken, their great-grandmother. For months after they'd drowned, Mary had worried Finian would follow them into the grave. He'd jump into the bay or drink himself to death. His love of the distillery—his and Declan's plans, the dozens of barrels of whiskey maturing for brighter days, the beautiful smells and the hard work—hadn't sustained him.

Off to seminary he'd gone.

Mary had expected he'd tire of the restrictive life, or come to realize the call he'd heard had arisen more from sobering up and deciding not to kill himself with drink after all. What an awe-inspiring experience it must have been to hike the Iveragh Peninsula and see it without the haze created by his alcohol abuse.

At the very least, Mary had expected he'd flunk his classes.

But he hadn't, and now here she was in Maine, visiting her priest brother, his return home in jeopardy.

Ireland
was
home for him. She didn't believe a word of his nonsense about having a different idea of home now that he was a priest.

Yet after dinner—he'd ordered pizza from a local shop—Mary had wandered through the rectory. Other than a bottle from Bracken Distillers on his shelf, she'd discovered little sign Finian had a foot in his homeland. Even after one day visiting him, she better understood the appeal of this place. She'd offered to go find his friends with him—knew that was what he would do if not for her presence—but he'd insisted on a quiet evening. He'd coped with the tricky aftermath of adrenaline dumps of his own during his months on the Maine coast. He'd warned her she might have trouble sleeping.
You don't have to witness or experience violence to experience its effects.

She rolled onto her stomach and rearranged her pillow, then gave up and jumped out of bed and raised a window. The rush of cool night air and its faint hint of salt brought her out of her uncontrolled thoughts. Both her feet were firmly in Bracken Distillers and she would go home to Ireland in a few days.

If only Finian would go with her.

* * *

Mary finally slept but awoke too early. It wasn't just the five-hour time difference between Maine and Ireland, although that was a big part of it. It was also the return of her obsessing. She kept picturing Gordon Wheelock on his distillery tour not a week ago. He hadn't been in the best shape, but she'd never have believed he'd be dead by Saturday.

She didn't want to wake Finian, so tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen. She left him a note on the counter. He'd be awake soon for Sunday church services. She was ambivalent about attending. Right now she didn't trust herself not to leap up during the offering and tell his flock to send him home to his family.

A walk would help her decide whether she should find something else to do for her Sunday morning.

She slipped into her jacket and headed outside. The fog wasn't as dense as last night, but it was holding on. She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and was startled to feel something hard and foreign in the left pocket. She yanked out her hand, but she immediately realized whatever was in there wasn't alive and going to bite her. She dipped her hand back in and withdrew what she immediately saw was an old-fashioned key.

Slowing her pace, she placed the key in her palm and had a look. She didn't recognize it and couldn't imagine how it had landed in her jacket. She'd have remembered putting it there. It was too small to be the key to the rectory's front or back door, or to a church door. A cabinet, perhaps, or a drawer or even a trunk.

Had Finian tucked the key into her pocket by mistake, thinking it was his jacket? Or just for a moment's safekeeping, and then he'd forgotten about it? He might have done it when she'd gone to his church office, but she couldn't think of when he'd have had the opportunity.

She'd worn the jacket almost nonstop since leaving Ireland, only taking it off at night and for a few minutes yesterday at the Sharpe open house, before she'd gone down to the docks, and again at the Deverell house, before the police had arrived.

Surely
she'd have noticed the key by now if someone had slipped it into her jacket in Dublin, but she couldn't say for certain she'd put her hands in her pockets since then. She must have done so.

She returned the key to her pocket and continued her walk. A bit of a mystery, but more than likely it had simply ended up in the wrong jacket yesterday. Perhaps its owner had already missed it and launched a query with the Sharpes.

Without giving it much thought, she went toward the Rock Point Harbor Inn. She debated a moment before mounting the porch steps and ringing the doorbell. Rosemary Donovan came to the door and immediately invited Mary to join them for breakfast.

“Are you sure?” Mary asked, suddenly hungry.

“Absolutely,” Rosemary said, already leading Mary back to the kitchen. “Frank's made enough for a platoon and we've only Oliver staying here.”

Which meant he was the only one in the kitchen, at the table with tea and a plate full of food.

Rosemary took her coffee with her into another room, leaving Mary to help herself to a sideboard spread with bowls of cut fruit and natural yogurt, a variety of cereals, granola, cheese and cold meats, boiled eggs, a loaf of freshly baked bread and a plate of blueberry muffins.

“They're Maine wild blueberries,” Oliver said as Mary put a muffin on a plate.

“They look delicious.”

Everything
looked delicious. She added fruit and cheese to her plate and set it across from Oliver while she made tea, pouring hot water from an urn and choosing a green tea.

“I loathe green tea,” Oliver said. “It tastes like grass to me.”

“Now you sound like my brother Declan. He drinks black tea and that's it.”

“Good man. I occasionally get daring and drink mint tea.”

She smiled at him. “I'll bet you do more daring things than drink mint tea.”

She sat at her plate, feeling less rattled than she had since the fog had descended on Rock Point late yesterday, leading to her restless night. Of course, it wasn't just the fog that had unnerved her.

“I want to go to Heron's Cove,” she said, making the decision and speaking it out loud at about the same time. “Finian's working and I don't have a car. Are you doing anything this morning? Can you take me?”

“I'd be happy to, but what about Emma and Colin?”

“They're FBI agents,” Mary said, as if that explained everything.

But Oliver seemed to understand. “And they don't forget it, trust me.”

She showed him the key and explained how she'd found it. “Someone must have dropped it yesterday at the open house or later at the Deverell house. The open house is most likely. Then someone else put it in my pocket thinking it was mine. Or thinking my coat was theirs.”

“You don't recognize it?”

“Not at all. Do you?”

“I've never seen it before.”

“It can't have been in my pocket for long. I'd have noticed its weight even without putting my hand in my pocket.” She sighed. “I'm sure it's nothing.”

“Given the circumstances, I can see why it got your attention.” Oliver ate the last bit of his muffin. “That's my third. I didn't have dinner last night and woke up starving. Frank Donovan offered to whip up an omelet for me, but there's plenty here, even for a starving Englishman.” He peered at her. “I see dark circles under your eyes, Mary.”

“No wonder, is it?”

He shook his head. “No. No wonder.”

“Do you suppose we'll hear from the detectives again today?”

“Only if they have follow-up questions I would think.” He patted his stomach. “As much as I'm not one for rambles, I could use a good one now after this breakfast. When do you want to leave for Heron's Cove?”

“As soon as possible.”

“All right, then. Give me ten minutes to get cleaned up and I'll meet you in the front room—unless you're still in here indulging in muffins.”

“A second cup of tea, perhaps.”

“That's how it starts. A second cup of tea, and then suddenly the muffin plate is empty. But they say blueberries are packed with healthy antioxidants. Healthy something, anyway. Enjoy. I'll be down in ten.” He rose, glancing down at her. “If you change your mind and decide to take your mysterious key to our FBI friends, we can do that first.”

Mary finished her plate of food and got up for more. As Oliver had warned, one really couldn't resist. The time change was also wreaking havoc on her internal clock, making her hungry and suppressing her appetite at inconvenient times. In Ireland, she'd be having lunch by now—as good a justification as any for eating enough at breakfast for two meals.

Feeling better with a full stomach, she arrived in the front room just as Oliver was coming down the stairs. He moved with such grace and control. She had so many questions about him, in part because of the way Sean Murphy and Finian bristled whenever they said his name.

They took the coastal route to Heron's Cove, stunning with the last of the fog burning off, sunlight breaking through departing clouds and shining on the water, waves sweeping in over rocks and boulders.

No one was at the Sharpe house.

Mary hadn't expected that. She sat next to Oliver, frowning, trying not to let him see her frustration—her sudden, irrational fear.

“Mary,” Oliver said, “I suggest you give the key to Colin and Emma and let them figure it out. If it's nothing, it's nothing.”

“You're right, of course.”

“No
of course
, but I am right this time.”

When Oliver pulled up at Colin's house in Rock Point, Colin was at his truck out front, about to leave. Mary jumped out. Colin sized up the situation immediately, but she explained about the key and showed it to him. “Do you recognize it?”

“No. You're sure it appeared in the past two days?”

“I'm positive. It's old, don't you think?”

“Looks it.” He turned to Oliver. “Did you put the key in Mary's jacket?”

“No, and I didn't see who did.”

Colin shifted back to her. “I'd like to show it to Emma. If you think of anything else or discover it belongs to the church or rectory after all, give me a call or text me.”

“I will,” Mary promised.

“Finian will be furious with Oliver for taking you to Heron's Cove.”

“Try arguing with a Bracken,” Oliver muttered. “Better I go with her than she go alone, wouldn't you say?”

“I'll drop her off at the rectory and see you later. I don't have a sister, but if I did—”

“She'd be a Donovan,” Oliver offered, finishing for him. “Mary here is a strong woman, but she doesn't live in your world. Best get her home. I'm guessing the good father still has a temper.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, “but I can find my way back to the rectory on foot. It's only a short distance, and it's turned into a beautiful day. Oliver, thank you for driving me to Heron's Cove. Colin, will you let me know if you solve the mystery of the key? I promise I won't feel like a fool if it turns out to be the key to Lucas Sharpe's wine cabinet.”

“Stay in touch, love,” Oliver said, kissing Mary on the cheek.

As Oliver got back in his car, Colin held the driver door open. “Pop's making lobster salad. He's about to invite you to lunch. You wouldn't want to be rude.”

“You want me where you can find me.”

“My brother Andy caught the lobsters himself.”

“An offer I can't refuse,” Oliver said, noncommittal, and got behind the wheel.

Colin stood back, letting Oliver go on his way. But as Mary started toward the rectory, Colin eased in next to her. “We can walk or we can drive,” he said amiably. “Your choice.”

“I'd like to walk. I indulged at breakfast at your parents' inn.”

“Mary...” Colin walked with her a few steps in the shade. “We have no reason to believe you or anyone else is in danger—but you might want to stick close to your brother for now.”

“Fin knows something I don't about Oliver, doesn't he?”

“Oliver's a character.” Colin's voice softened, but there was nothing soft about his eyes. “I'll call my folks and have them or Andy drop off lobster salad and rolls for you and Fin. How's that?”

Mary smiled. “Brilliant, thanks. It's a fine day for a picnic.”

* * *

Finian didn't care about muffins, lobster salad, rolls, the old key, who'd been home and who hadn't been home. He cared only, Mary thought, that she'd gone off to Heron's Cove without telling him—without thinking. He didn't say
without thinking
but she knew he wanted to. Despite the nine years difference between them in age, his years as a seminarian and now as a priest, she knew her brother.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I was thoughtless.”

“You were
reckless.
”

“I wouldn't go that far. I left you a note. I meant it to cover whatever I got up to this morning. I'd have told you I was going to Heron's Cove, but I didn't want to interrupt your preparation for mass—and as it turns out, I arrived back here before mass ended.”

“Seconds before.”

And not enough time for him to miss seeing Colin Donovan amble off. Mary sank onto a chair at the kitchen table. “I haven't seen you this livid since I wandered off after the lambs when I was six.”

“You were five.” But there was a spark in his eyes—amusement, affection. Something. He sighed, putting an arm around her. “All's well that ends well, then and now.”

“Were you upset I didn't attend mass with you?”