Heron's Cove (16 page)

Ursula showed him a perfume bottle, a picture frame and a pendant, each unique and yet each in a highly individual, distinctive style.

“Tatiana’s style is in the tradition of the great Russian designers of the nineteenth and early twentieth century,” Ursula said. “They’re her inspiration, but her artistry, creativity and craftsmanship are uniquely her own and, as you can see, nothing short of amazing. She is truly gifted. Right now she’s into birds that are popular in folklore. Firebirds, swans, nightingales.”

Lucas lifted the bejeweled perfume bottle. “Quite the luxury, isn’t it?”

“It’s a true marriage of art and craft, of the everyday and the extraordinary. Something as simple as a perfume bottle becomes a work of art that stands next to the finest in painting and sculpture.” Ursula touched a fingertip to the pendant, in the shape of a mythical firebird. “We’re all fond of Fabergé’s cigarette cases, but they really are of another era, don’t you think?”

Lucas laughed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“But perfume never goes out of style,” she said, visibly relaxing. “Tatiana does all kinds of little boxes. They’re so clever. She always includes a surprise, much as Fabergé did with his legendary Imperial Easter eggs. She’s gained quite a following here in Great Britain. There’s a Russian spirit in her work that crosses over and is becoming very, very popular. It’s mystical, fanciful and quite beautiful.”

“How did you two connect?”

“We met at a show in Switzerland a little over three years ago. She was already working in London. Her talents and my ambitions were a perfect match. We started the Firebird together. She never wanted to get involved in the business. That’s what I do.”

“Does she ever go back to Russia?”

“Not since I’ve known her. Would you like to see her work studio?”

“That’d be great,” Lucas said, getting to his feet.

“She’ll have put away anything she doesn’t want seen yet. She’s careful about protecting work in progress. She doesn’t like to let it out into the world until she’s ready for it to be seen by someone besides herself. Some artists like to keep their work close to them until just the right moment. Others like input throughout the process.”

A slender, fair-haired young man came out from a back room, and Ursula left him with the perfume bottle, pendant and picture frame and led Lucas up an open flight of stairs to a small workroom, surprisingly simple and incredibly messy.

Ursula sighed. “Needless to say, no one touches a thing in here.”

Tatiana’s main workbench was chest-high and positioned so that when she was standing at it, or seated on her tall swivel chair, she would be able to see out the two windows that overlooked the street. Carts, pegs and shelves were filled with the tools of her trade, everything she needed to bring a work from inspiration to design to final product. Sketch pads, newspapers, books, magazines, computer printouts and who-knew-what-else were crammed into cubbies and stacked haphazardly on the floor.

Lucas noticed several sketches of swans cast off under the workbench. “She does best with her stuff at hand?”

“She says she’d spend all her time sorting and cleaning if she had to keep her studio downstairs, within sight of clients. I’d go mad trying to work in here.”

“Where did she train?”

“In Russia and Switzerland, but she’s continued her study here in London, too.” Ursula ran her fingertips over a three-inch square black onyx box. “As with Fabergé before her, it’s not just the precious metals and gems that make Tatiana’s work special. It’s her vision and artistry, her marriage of high art and the everyday. One can find gaudier necklaces and bracelets than anything she’s done.”

Lucas didn’t notice any pictures of family, friends—of Tatiana Pavlova herself.

Ursula Finch frowned next to him, her arms crossed on her chest. “You aren’t investigating a theft, are you?”

“No, not at all.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Although I wouldn’t mind recovering the missing Fabergé Imperial Easter eggs.”

“Who wouldn’t? The House of Fabergé crafted fifty jeweled Easter eggs for Alexander III and Nicholas II. Forty-two survive. One does wonder what happened to the other eight. Malcolm Forbes collected nine of the Imperial Eggs but after his death his family sold them privately to a Russian tycoon. They’re masterpieces.” Ursula unfolded her arms. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Sharpe?”

“Has Tatiana mentioned other collections of Russian jewelry and precious objects?”

“Not that I know of,” Ursula said. “Do you have anything particular in mind?”

Lucas dodged her question. “Does she have any Russian friends here in London?”

“We’re both always so busy with work, but she has many friends. I can’t think if any are Russian. I’m sure there must be but I don’t really know. Why? Does it matter?”

“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Lucas said with a smile. “Thank you.”

Ursula hesitated, as if she were considering pressing him for more details. Then she, too, smiled. “Anytime. If you think of anything else, please call or stop by. Tatiana’s a treasure. I hope you’ll come back when she’s here.”

They returned to the showroom. Lucas thanked Ursula Finch and headed out of the elegant, almost otherworldly Firebird Boutique back into vibrant, bustling London.

He walked back to his hotel and ordered coffee delivered to his room. Once it arrived, he called Emma. “Is it too early for you?”

“I’ve been up for over an hour,” she said.

“Are you in Boston?”

“Heron’s Cove. I slept on a mat on the floor. The carpenters haven’t shut off the water yet, but there’s no heat. It wasn’t too bad.”

“You know you can stay at my house,” Lucas said.

“Thanks, I do know that. It’s fine here. I’m picking out kitchen cabinets before I head to Boston. You didn’t tell me you hadn’t picked them out yet.”

“I did. You just don’t like what I picked and are pretending I dropped the ball.”

She laughed. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. There’s contemporary, Lucas, and there’s ugly. What you picked is ugly. Not that I’m an artist. Have you been to the Firebird Boutique?”

“Just got back.”

“Is Tatiana Pavlova’s work as impressive in person as it is on the Firebird website?”

“It’s fantastic. What about her? Is she as pretty in person?”

“You know I don’t notice such things,” Emma said.

Lucas stood in front of a large window that looked out across Hyde Park toward Buckingham Palace. “How’s Colin?”

He heard his sister take a quick breath.

Lucas felt a twinge of guilt at his teasing tone. “Everything okay? He was gone for a while. You guys met under stressful conditions. You know, adrenaline—”

“Tell me about the Firebird Boutique.”

He didn’t push. He poured more coffee, then sat on the cushioned window seat and told his sister what he had learned about Tatiana Pavlova, as well as his impressions of her, her work and her upscale jewelry and decorative arts boutique.

When he finished, Emma was silent for a few moments. Finally, she said, “You didn’t ask about Dmitri Rusakov, then?”

“Not specifically, no.”

“Lucas…” She took in another audible breath. “Be careful, will you?”

“Always,” he said.

* * *

Lucas met his parents for a late lunch at a pub near his hotel. He sat across from them at a booth, under photographs of nineteenth-century London and beer posters. A television above the bar had on a soccer match. He and his father ordered beer and fish-and-chips. His mother, frowning at them, ordered poached salmon. Timothy and Faye Sharpe were in their late fifties, well liked, interested in other people and down to earth, and Lucas generally enjoyed their company. Years of chronic back and neck pain often made his father restless, but meditation, exercise and a positive outlook helped. He worked as a consultant with Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, focusing on analysis and research, always his strengths. Faye Sharpe was a former elementary art teacher, a quiet, cheerful woman who was ambivalent about her son and daughter specializing in art crimes. Lucas sometimes wondered which kept her awake more nights—Emma as a nun, or Emma as an FBI agent.

She hadn’t even met Colin Donovan yet, unless she had bought lobster from him when he was a teenager or had a run-in with him as a Maine marine patrol officer.

Lucas decided not to bring him up. He chatted with them about generalities and pleasantries—the Dublin weather, his flight to London, the ongoing renovations of the Sharpe house in Heron’s Cove—and waited for his beer to arrive before getting into the substance of his visit, or even mentioning his grandfather or his sister.

He let his father drink some of his beer. His mother, he noted, had ordered white wine, but she didn’t touch it, her eyes narrowed on him as if she knew what was next. He found himself half hoping that whatever she was imagining was worse than what he had to say. Finally, he said, “You remember Emma the year after she left the convent, before she joined the FBI. She worked for Granddad in Dublin.”

“Of course,” his mother said. “She was figuring out what to do with her life, who she wanted to be after she’d given up being Sister Brigid. Working with her grandfather was the perfect opportunity to sort things out.”

His father nodded. “It was a busy year. My dear father worked her so hard she didn’t have time to dwell too much on her situation, overthink things.”

“At one point, Granddad sent her to London to meet with a client, one of the early post–Soviet era Russian tycoons.”

“Dmitri Rusakov,” Timothy Sharpe said with a sigh.

Lucas hadn’t expected such an immediate response. “Anything I should know?”

His mother picked up her wine. “We met Rusakov once at a charity function here in London, about ten years ago. It was several years after Wendell had worked with him on the Russian Art Nouveau collection he discovered in Moscow. I assume you know about that?”

“Some.”

“He’s told us very little.” She tried her wine. “Odd, isn’t it? How someone already so rich and about to become even richer ends up finding a fabulous collection of jewelry and precious objects in his walls.”

His father welcomed the arrival of the two plates of fish-and-chips and dug right in. “Rusakov was embroiled in the Wild West, no-holds-barred mentality of Russian politics and economics. He lives a chaotic, exciting life.”

“I remember at the time wondering if Emma was attracted to him,” Faye Sharpe said.

Lucas leaned forward. “Romantically, you mean? Are we talking about some kind of an affair between her and Rusakov?”

“I don’t know as I’d go that far,” his father said. “Rusakov is a lot older. He’s amassed vast wealth and the responsibilities, influence and problems that come with it, especially in Russia.”

His mother swiped one of her husband’s fries. “He had a security expert with him that night,” she said. “I don’t remember his name. He was with Rusakov when we met him. Very sexy.”

Timothy Sharpe rolled his eyes. “I didn’t notice.”

“Emma must have. She was coming from a near-cloistered existence. She was figuring out who she was, what she wanted in life. Security, excitement, work. Romance, too, I’m sure.”

“Wait,” Lucas said. “What? I thought Emma was attracted to Rusakov. She and this security guy were an item?”

His father looked uncomfortable. “If there was ever anything between Emma and either one of these men, it didn’t go anywhere, at least on her part.”

Lucas thought back four years. Had he missed anything between Emma and the Russians—romantic or otherwise? He had been focused on work in the U.S. and hadn’t had the time or interest to keep tabs on what his sister and their grandfather were up to in Dublin. At the time, he hadn’t even known if Emma would stay with Sharpe Fine Art Recovery after her year in Dublin, although he had always suspected she wouldn’t.

Emma, he was quite sure, had paid equally little attention to his love life.

He was surprised his parents were aware of her possible romantic interest in the Russians. Usually they were oblivious to that sort of thing, or at least pretended to be. Lucas could remember only a handful of conversations with either of his parents on the possibilities and perils of falling in love. He doubted Emma could remember any more, either.

Just as well,
he thought, happy to abandon the subject of his sister’s love interests. “Have you heard of a Russian jewelry designer here in London named Tatiana Pavlova? She’s with the Firebird Boutique. It’s relatively new—it’s a few blocks from here.”

That piqued his father’s interest. “I don’t know the name, no, or the Firebird. Is this why you’re in London?”

Lucas nodded. “Tatiana’s in Heron’s Cove.” He tried some of his fish but didn’t go near the mushy peas on the side of his plate. “She warned Emma that the Rusakov collection has resurfaced and someone’s going to steal it.”

Faye Sharpe frowned. “Steal it? Who would steal it? Someone would have to know about it first. Rusakov never publicized his discovery. Personally, I thought he should have donated it to a museum. It’s not as if he went out and bought the pieces because he loved them.”

“Still,” her husband said, “the collection does belong to him.”

“Maybe not,” Lucas interjected, then related what he’d learned from Emma about the arrival of Dmitri Rusakov, Ivan Alexander and Natalie Warren—and the collection—in Heron’s Cove.

“Sounds like a royal mess,” his father said when Lucas had finished. “I hear Colin Donovan’s back in Maine. How well do you know him, Lucas?”

“Not well. We met a few times after Sister Joan’s death. Then he took off for D.C.”

“That’s where he works,” Faye Sharpe said, her tone neutral. “Another FBI agent. Nothing to be done about it. Of course, we just want both you and Emma to be happy.”

Lucas gave her a quick grin to break some of the tension. “Hell of a burden to put on us, Mom. I figure Colin’s either the best thing to happen to Emma or the worst. I just don’t know which. Maybe she doesn’t, either.”

His father drank the last of his beer. “Oh, she knows. Emma may have changed her path in life a few times, but she always knows her own mind. The Donovans are a solid family. I think I got a speeding ticket or two from the father back in the day.”