Heron's Cove (22 page)

“Were you doing anything provocative?” Colin asked.

“What do you mean, provocative?”

“Spying on the
Nightingale,
taking pictures, that sort of thing?”

Tatiana’s mouth snapped shut, as if she just remembered that she was speaking to a federal agent. “No. I’m just tourist.”

Colin remained on his feet in the middle of the small room. “You’re being evasive, Tatiana.”

“Evasive? I don’t know what that means.”

Which was more evasiveness, Emma thought, but Colin let it go and moved over to a sketch of a great blue heron that was hanging off the edge of the table. With one finger, he slid it back among other sketches. “You were at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart shop this morning.”

His comment seemed to catch Tatiana by surprise. “Yes. I met Emma’s friend Sister Cecilia.”

“You also met a friend of mine. A priest.”

“The Irish priest. Father Bracken. Yes. He’s very nice.”

“Anything happen while you were there?”

“Happen? No. I wanted to see shop. I heard people talk about it, about the sisters. I told Emma. I listen.” She picked up sketches on the floor by the sliding glass door. “Why you ask me questions? I’m one who was hiding under deck.”

“We can call the local police if you want to file a complaint,” Colin said calmly.

She dumped the sketches on the table. “The wind is stronger here by the water than I expected. Everything blows around, but I’m not always very neat to start. I saw a heron this morning when I sat outside. Such a bird. So ungainly looking and yet so graceful.”

“Tatiana,” Emma said, “why did you hide from Ivan? Why not just tell him to leave you alone? Are you afraid—”

“I told you I’m not afraid of him. It’s easier to hide.” Her dark eyes weren’t as angry, as indignant. “Please, I only have interest in safety of the Rusakov collection, but it’s out of my hands. I warned you. It’s all I can do.” She smoothed the wrinkles out of a pencil sketch of a seagull. “So now I draw and think.”

Colin flipped through some of the other sketches on the table, unearthing one of a bald eagle. “Have you ever done work for Rusakov?”

“No. Never.” She seemed offended at the idea.

“Renee Rusakov? Her daughter?”

Tatiana shook her head as she cleared off a spot on the love seat. “I make bed here at night. There’s no bedroom. It’s cozy. Nice. I like having my work around me when I sleep.”

Colin set the eagle aside. “What about a Russian named Vladimir Bulgov? Have you ever done any work for him?”

She made a face as if she’d just eaten something very distasteful. “The criminal.”

“Did you do work for him?” Colin asked, repeating his question.

Still shivering, Tatiana sat down and pulled the throw she’d refused over her legs. “I don’t want to say yes or no without checking my records.”

Colin raised his eyebrows. “You don’t remember?”

Emma would have told him anything he wanted to know but Tatiana again thrust her chin up at him. “You can go. I’m not afraid to stay here on my own. I’m accustomed to living alone in London. This place has good locks, and it’s obvious I have nothing of value here.”

“What if you’re of value?” Colin asked.

“I overreacted when I saw this Ivan Alexander,” she said, ignoring the question.

Emma picked up a pencil sketch of a fanciful-looking swan that had ended up in a corner by a floor lamp. “You enjoy Russian folklore. What’s your favorite Russian story?”

“I don’t have one favorite.” Tatiana tucked her hands under the throw and drew it up over her chest. “The stories are what they are. Each stands on its own.”

“It’s such a graceful swan,” Emma said. “You draw quickly?”

“Most times. I have image in my head and get it down fast.”

“Why do you believe Dmitri will steal the collection from Natalie? Why would it matter? He used to own the collection and may in fact still own it,” Emma said casually, keeping her eyes on the swan; she knew Colin was watching Tatiana for any reaction. “Do you have a reason other than you know it in your gut? Do you believe Dmitri will deface or destroy the collection?”

“I work on my sketches. London…Moscow…” Tatiana sighed, slipping off her muddy flats, the throw still around her. “They seem so far away. I have no answers for you, Emma Sharpe. Only more questions.”

Emma placed the swan sketch on the table. “You travel on a Russian passport.”

“Yes. I told you I have no one left there. I was raised by my grandparents in small village outside Moscow. They’re gone now. My grandfather first. Then my grandmother. I left Russia after she died.” Tatiana looked out the sliding glass door at the Heron’s Cove waterfront. “I sometimes miss Russia.”

“Do you want to go back there to live one day?” Emma asked.

“No. Never.”

Colin kept silent, pretended to check out Tatiana’s food choices. The misty drizzle had stopped and the fog was lifting, the promised clearing underway. Emma turned to the Russian designer. “Why did you fly from London to Phoenix, before you came here?”

Tatiana flung off the throw and rose but didn’t seem particularly rattled by the question. “You look up my travels? I suppose it makes sense. I went to Phoenix to see Natalie. She wasn’t there. I stayed overnight at airport hotel and flew to Boston the next morning. Then I came here.”

Colin moved back from the small kitchen area. “Why are you sticking your nose in this business with the collection?”

“I’m not. I’ve talked to no one—”

“You’ve talked to Emma,” Colin said. “What dog do you have in this fight?”

She frowned. “Dog?”

“Did you break into Natalie’s house while you were in Phoenix?” he asked abruptly.

Tatiana gave him a hot, angry look. “Now you say
I’m
thief?”

“Are you?”

She muttered something in Russian and huffed off to the sliding glass door. “I didn’t break into Natalie’s house,” she said, no longer shivering as she glanced back at Emma. “You go now. Thank you for your help. I call police if I have any problem. Right, Emma? That’s what I do, yes?”

Emma nodded. “That’s right. That’s what you do. Or you can call me.”

Tatiana smiled. “I’ll do that.” She slid the door open and stepped outside in her stocking feet.

Emma sighed at Colin. “Do you see Tatiana breaking into Natalie’s house? Because I don’t.”

He gave a curt nod. “Agreed, but she’s holding back.”

“I know but there’s no crime—”

“Did your brother or grandfather discover any connection to Bulgov? Horner?”

“I’d tell you if he had.”

Colin walked past her and went outside, said good-night to Tatiana and headed back down the deck stairs.

Emma swept her gaze over the small room, taking in Tatiana’s sketches, her art supplies, her scattered clothes. What could Ivan have wanted here? What did he know about Tatiana, the Firebird Boutique, her interest in the Rusakov collection?

What am I missing?

Stifling her frustration, Emma joined Tatiana on the deck. “We can help you, Tatiana, but only if you tell us everything.”

“I know.” She didn’t look at Emma. “Thank you for getting me out from behind the canoe. Have a good evening, Emma.”

“Right. Thanks. You, too.”

Emma descended the steps. Colin was waiting for her. The ducks had divided up, some still by the rocks, some by the deck posts. She stood close to him. “Tempting just to watch the ducks, isn’t it?”

“We’ll have that chance,” he said. “In the meantime, we can walk back to your place, and you can tell me again why you trust this Ivan Alexander character.”

17

THE WIND PICKED up on the bridge over the cove, but Emma welcomed the cooler, drier air as she walked next to Colin. “I’ll find out what Ivan wanted with Tatiana,” she said.

“I’m glad I didn’t walk in and find him trashing the place and have to shoot him.”

“I can take care of myself, Colin,” Emma said quietly, firmly.

“So you’d have shot him?”

She decided not to answer him. “Why didn’t you wait for me at the house?”

Colin shrugged. “I got restless.”

“Well, thanks for checking on me,” Emma said. “It’s good to know you have my back. Let’s just remember there’s a difference between having my back and protecting me.”

“Hair-splitting. When Ivan told you where I was, was that having my back or was that protecting me?”

“I was trying to find you. It wasn’t because I lack faith in you.”

“If I’d found you and Tatiana in a mess with Ivan and had to shoot him, it wouldn’t have been because I lacked faith in you. It would have been because he needed shooting.” Colin paused, winked at her. “Hypothetically.”

“Fair enough. Let’s leave it at that. How did you find out about the break-in at Natalie’s house? Did Yank tell you?”

“Natalie told me,” Colin said.

“Ah. Natalie. She’s very attractive.”

“Bombshell. That blond hair and smile. Tatiana’s cute, too.”

Emma rolled her eyes.

He slung an arm over her shoulder. “So, what’s going on here in little Heron’s Cove, Emma? Think Tatiana’s setting us up so she can steal the Rusakov collection herself?”

“Why would she?”

“Maybe she’s hooked up with Pete Horner, wants to get a foothold in arms trafficking. She could have a buyer in place for the collection, or she could be planning to ransom it back to Rusakov.” Colin slowed his pace. “Now I’m in your world, thinking like an art thief.”

“I don’t know what Tatiana’s up to. She seemed genuinely unnerved when I found her under the deck, at least at first.”

“Ivan’s a scary guy. She’s feisty, though.”

“The more she thought about him, the angrier she became. Maybe it had to sink in that he was gone and hadn’t done anything.”

“It’d be easy to get caught up in Tatiana’s sense of drama. Maybe it helps her with her work. You’re out of sorts, Emma.” Colin let his arm drift down her back and settle on her waist. “Sleeping on a hard floor will do that. I know this from experience.”

“The floor wasn’t that hard. I had a mat.”

He grinned. “I could make a lewd comment but I won’t.”

She bit back a smile. “Do you know what I’ve learned about the Donovan brothers since you’ve been gone? You’re all impossible. Mike, Andy, Kevin. You. You know that’s your reputation, don’t you?”

“Not a bad reputation to have.”

“Impossible but also sexy, rugged, tough—”

“All four of us?”

“All four of you. Your father, too.”

“Pop? He’s planting tulips and trying out muffin recipes these days.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not impossible, sexy, rugged or tough.” Emma slipped from his embrace but caught her fingers in his and noticed the healing bruise on his wrist. “You’re not getting much of a break, are you?”

“Not with your Russian friends in town.”

“Colin…” She took a few more steps before she continued. “You wouldn’t keep me in the dark about anything, would you?”

“That’s a two-way street. Did you know that your pal Ivan fired Pete Horner?”

“Only because Yank called on my way up here and told me.”

“Has Ivan been keeping tabs on Horner? Is that how he knew about Horner’s house in Fort Lauderdale?”

“Ivan doesn’t know where Horner and his men are.”

“How do you know, because he told you?”

Emma ignored the note of skepticism in Colin’s voice. “Tell me about you and Natalie.”

“She thinks I’m a stud.”

“You are a stud,” Emma said with a smile. “But Natalie didn’t actually say that, did she?”

“Close enough.” He glanced up at the clearing sky. “Front’s moving in. The air feels good.” He kept his arm around her as he related his conversation with Natalie Warren. “She’s something of a lost soul. She won’t say so outright, but she wants to keep this collection.”

“It’s beautiful. I can’t say I blame her.”

“But her mother stole it?”

“Dmitri says he didn’t give it to her. I don’t know why he would lie about that.” Emma leaned into him, just for a second. “We could pretend we’re tourists enjoying a cool, crisp autumn afternoon in Heron’s Cove.”

“We could.”

“I wish you’d had at least a few days to rest before Dmitri showed up.”

Colin nodded but didn’t respond. Emma appreciated the gusty wind as she walked with him. Whether they were making love or curled up together on the hard floor, being close to him was powerful, enough to push any other thoughts out of her mind. Not a good thing when she had to be on her toes. She couldn’t afford to miss a clue, a connection, a memory—anything that might help root out the men who had come so close to murdering him.

They passed a row of small shops in side-by-side cedar-shingled cottages, lit up against the darkening afternoon. The shop doors were brightly painted, with pots of mums in white, yellow and deep gold on their steps. Their windows displayed upscale housewares, watercolors of Maine scenes, handmade jewelry, stationery and warm-looking throws.

A middle-aged woman, a shopkeeper Emma knew, waved from the desk where she spent most days, catering to locals and tourists who loved her eclectic little gift shop.

Emma waved back, knowing the next time they ran into each other she would have to explain the man walking with her. She and Colin had met during the crisis of Sister Joan’s murder, and then he took off after the remnants of Vladimir Bulgov’s arms network. They hadn’t had many quiet days for wandering about Heron’s Cove, checking out the shops, eating lobster rolls, meeting people.

Colin patted her hip. “We’ll have our chance to laze away an afternoon and do normal things,” he said, as if he had read her mind. “The
Nightingale
isn’t staying here forever.”

As if to underline his point, they found Dmitri Rusakov standing in the Sharpe driveway with Ivan Alexander. They had obviously just arrived. Emma felt Colin tense next to her but then realized she had tensed, too.

“Let me handle this,” she said in a low voice.

His smoky eyes settled on her. “Sure, babe.”

“I’m not going to mention Tatiana in front of Dmitri.”

“Got it.”

“Or Pete Horner,” she added.

Colin said nothing.

Dmitri saw them and waved. “Hello, hello,” he said with a wide smile. He had on a turquoise jacket with sparkling white pants, a contrast to the autumn colors around him. “I couldn’t resist. I had to get a closer look at the house where Wendell Sharpe got his start.”