Carla Neggers, page 19
“No note?”
“Just the cross and a leaflet about the Amsterdam museum. They were delivered in a package postmarked from Amsterdam. Impossible to trace. Granddad checked with the garda art squad.”
“That led him to Declan’s Cross.”
She nodded. “He realized the cross he received is a copy—at least a rough copy—of the one John O’Byrne found when he installed the gardens here fifty years ago.”
Colin looked out at the silhouettes and shadows of the gardens now. “Your grandfather gets a similar stone after every theft?”
“Yes.”
“The thief is taunting him?”
Emma stood abruptly, the breeze steadier, colder. “It feels like taunting. Whether or not that’s the thief’s intention, we can’t say. We just don’t know enough, even after all this time.”
“Sounds like you’re stuck.”
She almost smiled. “That sums it up. The Sharpes, the gardai, the FBI, Interpol—we’re all royally stuck.” Her smile faded as she looked back at the draped windows of the bar lounge. “One positive has been that the thief hasn’t turned violent.”
“Now we have a woman dead out by crosses just like the one he sends your grandfather,” Colin said, more to anchor the facts in his own mind than to remind Emma. Every detail about this serial thief was already burned in her mind, and had been for some time. Emma secrets, Sharpe secrets and FBI secrets all rolled into one knotted ball. He put aside the thought and asked, “Does Sean Murphy have access to all the information on this thief? The different heists, the crosses. Theories, suspects.”
“Only Granddad, Lucas, Yank and I know about the crosses. And the thief, of course. And now you, too.” Fatigue had crept into her voice. “Now that I’ve met Sean, I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows as much as any of us about the case. He strikes me as the type who’d find out, just as you would in a similar position.”
“What about the uncle? Kitty? Her artist sister?”
“I don’t think we know everything that happened in Declan’s Cross that night.”
Colin sensed that she was sinking into her thoughts, sorting through all the details of what she knew about her serial thief. He moved closer to her. More hair had blown into her face. He tucked a few strands behind her ear. “We’ll figure this out,” he said. “You’re not responsible for this woman’s death. Neither is your grandfather. We don’t even know she was murdered—”
“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.
