Liar's Key (27 page)

26

“One mistake or foible is the death penalty with you lot, isn't it?”

Colin gaped at Oliver. Only word for it. Oliver's comment got to him. They were at Fin Bracken's back table at Hurley's. Oliver, Emma, Wendell and Colin, something of the odd man out since he wasn't into art thefts. He liked it that way. He could offer Emma a different perspective.

“Note, Oliver,” Colin said, “that we didn't kill anyone today.”

“I'd have been fine if you'd killed that woman. She shot me, you know. I refused opioids at the emergency room and now I wish I hadn't. Every throb of pain reminds me of those cold eyes when she trained her weapon on me.”

Colin gritted his teeth. “You didn't see her eyes, Oliver. You were ducking.”

“I was speaking metaphorically. Of course, I wouldn't have wanted you to execute her, but I was rather hoping she wouldn't lower her weapon and you would be justified in using deadly force.”

Wendell, sitting across from Colin, shook his head. “It's the adrenaline talking.”

“I've no adrenaline left,” Oliver said. “Every ounce in me got dumped when Isabel jumped out from behind a cupboard with that bloody gun. It belonged to Henry Deverell, by the way. She told me. She sneaked it out of its locked case. Of course, she blamed Claudia.”

“Kept that key, I bet.” Wendell muttered.

As cheeky as he could be, Oliver had done well today. Colin couldn't deny it. He and Emma couldn't talk about the investigation but Oliver and Wendell could provide their insights. Sam Padgett had talked to the cab driver who'd found the envelope. He'd insisted he hadn't looked inside, but dogged Padgett got it out of him. He'd looked. There'd been photos of a man who fit Gordy's description and an unidentified woman having sex.

That explained the ashes, Colin thought.

Gordy's phone had turned up in Claudia's bedroom in Heron's Cove. Isabel must have sent the text message on it before she'd planted it there, already assuming the police would eventually have cause to search the place.

Claudia had finally admitted to her affair with Gordy. He'd crossed several lines with her. His marriage on the rocks, his preliminary investigation into so-called blood antiquities fizzling, retirement looming, he'd succumbed to temptation. A mistake or a foible—he shouldn't have done it, and he'd paid a heavy price for trying to keep it quiet, whether for Claudia's sake or just for his own.

“Isabel's a risk-taker,” Wendell said. “She chose mosaic art in part to give herself an excuse to go into dangerous areas. The FBI, MI5 and MI6 will want her to name her associates. I bet there's a terrorist or two among them. Alessandro was convinced that was the case.”

Colin couldn't say so, but he knew Isabel was talking to investigators. She'd killed Gordy, lying in wait for him while he'd disposed of the ashes from the burned photos, and she'd hastened Alessandro Pearson's death, both in an effort to cover her own tracks. She'd done her best to frame Claudia, right down to wearing one of Claudia's scarves and sweaters when she'd delivered the envelope—Sam Padgett had found a witness who'd provided a description to go with the partial of her in the photo he'd gotten from the bellman. Colin was convinced Isabel had hoped out-of-shape Gordy would die of a heart attack when she'd pushed him, just as Alessandro Pearson had.

“Alessandro didn't know who was responsible for laundering illicit antiquities through the Norwood-Deverell collection,” Oliver added.

Wendell nodded thoughtfully. “I hope he didn't die believing Victoria or Claudia was responsible. Claudia made a mistake with Gordy at a tough time in her life.”

Oliver waved a hand. “Don't try to plead her case with these two,” he said.

Emma rolled her eyes. “We just can't discuss details of the investigation with you. Don't read anything into our silence.”

“Isabel expected to get away with everything,” Wendell said. “Claudia made it easier because of her grief over her mother and her guilt over Gordy. I wish I'd known sooner what he was up to. I'd have throttled the guy. By the time I'd figured out he and Claudia were having an affair, it was already over.”

“When did you and Oliver start colluding?” Emma asked, her green-eyed gaze on her elderly grandfather.

Wendell raised his eyebrows. “That's like asking when did you stop beating your wife? There's no good answer.”

“Sure there is,” Colin said. “You say the date. Last week, last month, last year.”

“Not last year,” Wendell said “A year ago I didn't know Oliver was...well. You know what I'm saying.”

Oliver picked up his water glass. “A year ago I was in Hollywood consulting on a ghastly horror film. The director wanted to use obscure Nordic myths. It was a challenging time.”

For two cents, Colin would have thrown the guy into the harbor. On the other hand, he was happy Oliver hadn't been killed or seriously injured today. A couple of days' rest and he might be able to reconcile those two conflicting emotions.

“MI5 gives you room to maneuver,” Emma said.

“A long rope. Like your new FBI director with Matt Yankowski and his secret unit.”

“It's not secret,” Colin said. “If it was secret, you wouldn't know about it. You're clever, Oliver, but not that clever.”

“My handlers are happy with my help when they get it. They don't ask questions. Some rocks needed to be turned over to see what squirmed out. Gordy Wheelock had a chance to live a good life in retirement. He wanted to make things right, but he went about it in the wrong way. He should have plopped everything on your desk.”

“You should have done the same,” Wendell said, “but returning the art you stole and helping MI5 are a start.”

Colin noticed Mary and Finian enter the restaurant. They managed to look both shaken and relieved as they approached the table.

“Time to switch to whiskey,” Finian said, to which no one argued.

* * *

Claudia stood on the porch and looked out at the starlit view her mother had so loved. The police and FBI had finished their work at the house, but the storage room was still taped off. They'd found beautiful mosaics depicting an ancient vineyard in the old chest that she, Isabel and Lucas had carted upstairs. Claudia knew right away they didn't belong to the Norwood-Deverell collection. But that was the beauty of Isabel's scheme, wasn't it? She'd planned to sell them without Claudia ever having seen them. She'd done it before, but this time, with these particular mosaics, Alessandro Pearson had become suspicious.

She'd been willing to sacrifice them in order to frame Claudia. The chest, the missing key. Isabel had slipped it into Mary Bracken's jacket on purpose.

It's Claudia. All Claudia.

Her only consolation was that her mother wasn't here to witness such a betrayal.

“I'm sorry, Claudia,” Adrian said, joining her at the porch rail. “What a day.”

“Mom and I trusted Isabel. We thought she was our friend, but she played us—she used us.”

“Not enough money and excitement being an artist, I guess.”

“She knowingly funneled money to terrorists.”

“Probably,” Adrian said.

“I've been flailing for two years—ever since my mother was diagnosed. I couldn't see straight, make good decisions. I was paralyzed, afraid of hurting myself and you and Dad even more than I already had.”

“Your mother loved you,” her father said from the shadows. He eased in next to her, opposite Adrian, and put his arm around her. “You and this FBI agent helped and hurt each other at a vulnerable time. Let it go, Claudia. Your mother wouldn't want you to tear yourself up.”

“Isabel took pictures of us. Gordy and me. Here. The police asked me, and I know it was Isabel.”

“She hurt you more than Gordy Wheelock ever did. Be strong now, Claudia, as you go forward with your life. It's what your mother would want.” Her father hugged her close. “She loved antiquities but she loved you more.”

* * *

When Mary arrived back at the rectory with her brother, they sat in the kitchen with a pot of tea, and she started to talk. Words tumbled out. She couldn't stop them. Finian wasn't returning to Ireland in a few weeks. He hadn't gotten the priesthood out of his system.

“You're where you're meant to be,” she said. “Ten years ago, you were meant to be a husband, a father and a whiskey man. But if the church lets priests marry, Aoife O'Byrne will be here in a heartbeat.”

“I don't think Rock Point would suit her,” Finian said, amused.

“Maybe you aren't meant to be together in this life. I don't know. Maybe her forbidden love for you works for her on a certain level. She can bury herself in work. She's in Declan's Cross for an extended period of painting. Fin...” Mary took a much-needed breath. “Your dangerous men and women hold on to deep secrets and have seen the darkest in life. They need you.”

“And you, Mary?”

“You're my brother and I love you, and that's enough, wherever you are and whatever you do with your life.”

“That's not what I mean.”

And she could tell from his expression that he was seeing into her soul, into places she had locked off from herself. “I still can't bear thinking about them. Mary and Kathleen especially. I hate myself for it. I wish I had your faith. I think of them drowning...”

“You're stuck in that moment.” He rose, took her hand. “Come with me.”

He led her into the dining room of his simple home and he took a framed photograph from a sideboard and handed it to her. Sally and little Mary and Kathleen were laughing, pointing to a rainbow arcing high over Kenmare Bay.

“That's how I think of them,” Finian said. “Now and forever, with all my love.”

Mary touched the glass, as if she were touching the happy faces of her sister-in-law and nieces, soaking in their laughter. She placed the photograph back in its spot.

“A walk on a fine Maine evening?” her brother asked. “Sean tells me there's a lad at the distillery who has his eye on you.”

“Is he mad about the events of today?”

“Boiling. What's this lad's name?”

“You think I know who it is?”

“I know you do.”

She laughed and grabbed her coat.

* * *

In the morning, Emma brought Hurley's doughnuts to Heron's Cove and sat out on the back porch with her grandfather. “Isabel Greene was into money, risk, excitement and dangerous men, and she's not as clever as she thought she was. She didn't care if she was funneling money to terrorists. You'll follow her trail and break up some nasty plots and arrest some nasty people.”

“No doubt in my mind,” Emma said. “Lucas told me he's never hosting another party here. Maybe ever.”

“The open house was my idea. I can't say it was one of my best ideas but it did get word out that Sharpe Fine Art Recovery is entering a new era. It's no longer just old Wendell Sharpe in an Irish cap with a ledger and pencils.”

“Have you ever in your life owned a ledger?”

“You were right. I belong there. Born in Dublin, and I will die there. My life here in Maine is in the past. The memories...” His lively, aged eyes filled with tears. “I feel alive in Dublin. Here I just want to crawl into the grave with the woman I loved with all my heart and soul.”

“Granddad...”

“Don't cry. Be glad your grandparents had that kind of love for each other.” He cleared his throat and smiled through his tears. “Reminds me of you and Colin.”

“I couldn't ask for more. Granddad, please don't stay for the wedding. You need to be home, and it's no longer here in Maine. Mary Bracken will be flying to Dublin in a few days. Why don't you go with her?” Emma took his hand. “And don't fly back for the wedding, either. Take a walk in St. Stephen's Green and think of us. Colin and I will see you soon enough.”

“Emma, are you sure?”

“Yes. No question. Here.” She handed him a chocolate-covered doughnut. “Indulge.”

He smiled, and they sat back, enjoying doughnuts and coffee and the quiet morning.

27

When Emma took her father's arm on the clear, warm June morning of her wedding, it was as if every moment of her life flashed before her, bringing her here, to this time and place—and to the handsome, rugged man waiting for her in his tux, his three brothers beside him.

Her father walked down the lush green grass aisle with her, showing no sign of the pain that haunted his life. Ahead of her, Sister Cecilia, her friend, carried flowers from the convent gardens. On each side were gathered friends and colleagues. Matt and Lucy Yankowski, Sam Padgett, other members of HIT, Julianne Maroney and her grandmother, Naomi MacBride, Lucas, Mother Superior Natalie Aquinas.

Emma smiled at her mother, lovely in her rose-colored dress. Rosemary Donovan looked beautiful in blue and had tears in her eyes as her second-born watched his bride-to-be approach him.

Colin winked at her, and she knew he was telling her not to overthink.

Emma laughed, happy and in love as she eased in next to the man she was marrying.

* * *

Their Irish honeymoon was Colin's doing. Five blissful days together, with no work interruptions.

He'd meant it to be a secret from everyone—family, colleagues, friends, perpetrators—but they were busted. He could tell the moment he and Emma walked into upscale Ashford Castle. He'd dug deep into his bank account for two nights in the cheapest room, which wasn't cheap, but they were greeted with a room upgrade, champagne, a spa appointment for Emma and a kayak tour of the historic Lake Corrib.

A note with the champagne explained:

Although I wasn't invited to your wedding, I wanted to celebrate with you.

Oliver, in conjunction with assorted Donovans, Sharpes and a certain Irish priest.

PS: Don't worry, we'll stay out of your way.

“If the Sharpes don't get me kicked out of the FBI,” Colin said, “Oliver will.”

“He did help us catch some serious bad guys.”

“We're two very lucky people, Emma,” he said, taking her into his arms. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, with all my heart and soul.”

Colin poured the champagne. This time was for the two of them, on their own, but they weren't alone.

* * * * *

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