Liar's Key (18 page)

“Bats in the attic and mice everywhere,” Claudia said with a laugh. “Definitely time to sell the place. In the meantime, make my martini dry and strong, Dad.”

Her father and his son by his first marriage were both impressive men, she thought, fair and handsome, successful in business, decent at golf and tennis and with no axes to grind against her or her mother's family. Born to a Main Line Philadelphia family, Henry Deverell had married his college sweetheart— Adrian's mother—but they divorced when Adrian, their only child together, was four. Eighteen months later, Henry was married to Victoria Norwood, a young antiquities enthusiast from an even wealthier family. Claudia was born the next year. Although Adrian was raised by his mother, he and Claudia had spent alternate holidays and such together growing up, and he seemed to bear no ill will toward their father. After a short-lived marriage in his twenties, Adrian had told Claudia last night he was seeing someone and expected to ask her to marry him when he returned to Atlanta. He'd asked about her love life but she'd dodged the question.

They made martinis, added the appropriate olives and headed out to the front porch. “You were obsessing on your walk, weren't you, Claudia?” Adrian asked knowingly. “Go to the open house. I don't know what went on between you and the Sharpes but they're too civilized to kick you out. No one else knows you had a falling-out or will care if they do know.”

“We didn't have a falling-out,” Claudia mumbled, sitting on a wicker rocker. Its cushion needed replacing and its frame needed painting, but it was sturdy and comfortable.

Her father frowned. He sat on her mother's favorite settee across from Claudia. “Who don't you want to see at the open house?”

“No one,” she said, clearing her throat and forcing herself to stop mumbling. She didn't want her father and brother to suspect she had anything to hide. “Adrian's talking through his hat. I have no problem with the Sharpes, and as far as I know, they have no problem with me. I just have a lot to do here and a short time in which to do it.”

“So it's a time-management issue,” Adrian said, clearly skeptical. He sat on a chair that wasn't in great shape; it creaked under him. “Whoa. Almost spilled my martini. That would have been a catastrophe.”

Claudia sighed at him. “It's good you worry about the important things, Adrian.”

He grinned. “Isn't it?” He sipped his martini. “Excellent as always, Dad.”

Their father had his gaze narrowed on Claudia. “You didn't cross Wendell Sharpe, did you, Claudia?”

She shook her head. “Of course not.”

“Did your mother, before she died?”

“No, Dad.”

“There's history between the Norwoods and the Sharpes.”

Adrian set his martini on a small table. “Maybe that means you'll find a few interesting skeletons in the closet when you go through this place. That could be fun.”

“You visited me in London before you came here,” Claudia said. “You've seen for yourself how dull my day-to-day life is.”

Her brother gave a mock shudder. “Incredibly dull.”

Her father crossed one leg over the other. “What a night,” he said. “It's colder than I'd like but it's beautiful here. That never was my problem with this place.”

“What was your problem?” Claudia asked, keeping her tone mild.

He shrugged. “It's in Maine.”

She took another couple of sips of her martini and then got up, glancing out at the ocean at dusk before she went inside, leaving the two men to their drinks.

Isabel was curled up in a cozy chair by the unlit fireplace in the front room. She put aside a book she was reading and smiled. “Did you see any creepy-crawly things in a tide pool while you were out on your walk?”

Claudia felt her mood lightening. “I didn't see a tide pool, but I wasn't thinking about creepy-crawly things.”

“I always think about them when I'm near the sea. I'm not your ocean type, I'm afraid, but what a beautiful day it's been. I don't blame you for wanting a good walk. Of course, you're used to this place. Starfish, periwinkles, seaweed and whatnot wouldn't faze you.”

“This is true.” Claudia pointed toward the entry and its main stairs. “Would you like to join me? I'm going upstairs to the room where my mother stored bits and pieces of the family collection. A bit of an eccentric move on her part, but I'm finally going to start sorting through them.”

“If you find any loose stones and glass that I can use in my mosaic art, I'll take them.”

“Consider it done.”

Isabel threw off the blanket on her lap and eased to her feet, stretching and yawning, then giving a little shiver. “I'm ready for a fire and you're probably planning to leave your bedroom windows open tonight.”

“It could happen,” Claudia said, grinning.

They went upstairs to the large back bedroom that Claudia's mother had converted into a storage room for sturdy art and artifacts that she deemed able to withstand the conditions, and God knew what else. Claudia unlocked the door and pushed it open. “After you,” she said, her throat tight with unexpected emotion.

Isabel crossed the threshold and then stopped. “Oh, my.” Her light mood vanished. “Claudia. It's like you can feel her presence, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“There's more here than I ever imagined.”

“During the last months of her life, Mother gathered pieces from various locations—friends, her home in Philadelphia, other rooms of this house—and stored them in here. She did it on her own. She didn't want Dad or me to help. She'd planned to have me here last summer and we'd go through them together.”

“But she didn't make it,” Isabel said in a whisper.

Claudia tried to ignore her own emotion. To get through what she had to do here, she needed to stay objective, professional. “I wonder now if it wasn't a kind of hoarding on her part—part of her way of saying goodbye to this world.”

“That would be so like Victoria.” Isabel's eyes brimmed with tears. “It's just so sad.”

“I think my mother would want to see it as...” Claudia sought the right words. “Hopeful and loving.”

“Do you think there's anything of real value in here?”

“If there is, it's not likely to be from the ancient past. Maybe I'll find an old ring someone dropped in 1937 or something.”

“That would be fun.” But Isabel sniffled, blinking back tears. “You've rented out the house for years. Do you think it's possible a renter or two could have made off with anything?”

Claudia shook her head. “We haven't had anyone in here since Mother was diagnosed, but we never left anything of value out for renters.” She scanned the clutter of boxes, chests and trunks, then sighed. “
Now
do you see why I can't waste time on parties?”

“But you're in your element here,” Isabel said, smiling. “Just like your mother.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“It's true. I'm sorry that Agent Wheelock used your relationship with your poor dying mother to throw you off balance. You know I suspect he used you. I don't know how far things went between you two and I don't need to know.” Isabel made a face. “Bastard. Then to have to see him in London and now here.”

Claudia didn't explain
she
was the one who'd called Gordy last week, after Alessandro's death, the Claridge's party invitation on her desk, the open house coming up—and her father and brother in town, invited to the Sharpe open house by Wendell Sharpe himself. She'd felt like calling him was a way to take control of the situation. That seemed silly and delusional now.

“I don't want to think about Gordy Wheelock,” she said quietly. “Not in here, of all places.”

“Of course not. Sorry. Just one thing, Claudia...for my own peace of mind.” Isabel paused, clearly debating whether to continue. “Did he coerce you? Did he plant something on you—an illicit antiquity of some sort can't be that hard for an FBI art crimes agent to find—or did you make an innocent mistake and he used it as leverage?”

“What if the answer is neither?”

“Your mother asked me to look after you, not because I'm any steadier than you are, but because you inherited so much from her—and not just this house and the Norwood collection. Her faith in people.”

Claudia attempted a smile. “Calling us naive, Isabel?”

“Kind,” she said without hesitation. “You always assume the best in people.”

“And you don't?”

Her friend grinned. “Oh, good heavens, no. Claudia, Claudia. You have a wonderful family and your mother was taken from you too soon. You weren't ready, but how could you have been? The cancer was found so late...too late.”

“We're all coming out of the shock bit by bit. Father and Adrian are there, I think, and I'm almost there.”

Isabel looked skeptical but didn't respond right away. She stepped past a wooden crate. “Well, let's have a quick look around. If we find any old, loose tesserae with no home, I'd love to have them for my work, but even better would be to find a decent intact mosaic in here. That would be terribly exciting. But either way, you and I aren't going to spend the evening digging through boxes and crates. I'm taking you down the street to that lobster place. I checked out the wine list online. It's downright decent, and we won't have to worry about driving back here. We can stagger.”

“Sounds like a perfect evening.”

“I promise I won't let you throw rocks at the Sharpe windows if you overimbibe.”

Claudia laughed, relaxing, but she knew she and Isabel wouldn't find any surprises stored in the bedroom—and they wouldn't get drunk tonight. But maybe the greatest fun was in imagining it could be so.

16

Colin breathed in the smells of Rock Point harbor and relished the sight of the quiet water, the docks, the working boats and Hurley's, unchanged in decades never mind the past month. Emma came around the front of her car and eased in next to him. “It must be strange not to have at least one of your brothers here to greet you.”

“A record,” he said. “They've all promised to be here for the wedding.”

My
wedding, he thought. He'd never expected to be the first brother down the aisle. Kevin or Andy, the two youngest, had seemed more likely, although for no other reason than they'd stayed in Rock Point. Kevin and Mike weren't here now, and maybe that was just as well with Oliver York in town. A text from Fin Bracken had changed his and Emma's plans about catching up with the art thief at the inn. Oliver was joining Fin and Mary at Hurley's.

Colin had let his folks know he was back in town. He'd see them later. He hated the idea of Oliver staying at their inn, but he had a feeling his father, former cop that he was, had a good idea that their English guest bore watching.

He slipped his hand into Emma's and they went into the restaurant together. Colin knew most of the people at the tables, but it wasn't crowded. By his past standards, he hadn't been gone long—nor did anyone have a clue where he'd been or what he'd been doing. But that was good, he thought. He preferred keeping his undercover work and his life here separate.

A few hellos and he and Emma made it back to Fin Bracken's favorite table along the windows overlooking the darkening harbor. Mary had the seat with the best view. “Emma, Colin,” she said in her distinctive Irish accent. “Welcome! What a place this is.”

She started to her feet, but Emma shook her head. “No, no, please don't get up. You must be tired.”

“Dead tired,” Mary said cheerfully, keeping her seat. “It's the middle of the night in Ireland, but I'm so excited to be here, finally. I didn't sleep a wink on the flight, but that's good. I'll go to bed at a normal hour for the East Coast.”

Colin had sat a half-dozen rows behind her but could verify she hadn't slept. He hadn't, either. Deep into his book on ancient mosaics. Reviewing his conversations with Yank, Emma and Oliver. Pushing back his frustration with losing his time in Ireland to plan his honeymoon. Plenty to keep him awake for seven hours.

He pulled out a chair for Emma and then sat next to her.

“It's wonderful to be here,” Mary said. “I've been wanting a chance to see where Fin's been living all these months.”

“Good that you waited until spring,” her brother said. “I don't see you navigating icy roads and frigid temperatures.” He eyed Colin across the table. “Good to see you, Colin.”

Colin grinned. “You, too, Father Fin.”

Finian leaned toward his sister. “Colin knows I loathe being called Father Fin.”

Mary laughed. “I don't know, I think it suits you.”

“That's the jet lag talking,” Fin said.

“How do you like Maine so far?” Emma asked, addressing Mary. “Is it at all what you imagined?”

“It's
exactly
what I imagined.”

But Mary wasn't hungry, obviously, and her eyelids were visibly heavy as she agreed to her brother's suggestion of clam chowder. Colin indulged in fish and chips, as if to confirm to himself that he was finally and truly home.

Emma was ordering grilled scallops when Colin noticed Oliver enter the rustic restaurant. He felt himself stiffen, but Oliver had a happy spring in his step as he joined them at their table. He wore a battered Barbour jacket that belied its expense and his wealth, a dark sweater, cords and sturdy, expensive walking shoes.

“I got lost walking from the inn,” he said, pulling out a chair, clearly not expecting anyone at the table to believe him. “What a splendid evening. I find the sea air therapeutic after a long flight.”

“It's therapeutic anytime,” Colin said.

“Perhaps not in winter when the temperatures dip to below zero Fahrenheit. I used to be able to convert Fahrenheit to Celsius in my head, but now I don't bother. It's like becoming fluent in a foreign language. After a certain point, you just know.” He plopped onto his chair and grabbed a stray bag of oyster crackers. “I miss these when I'm home in England.”

Mary giggled. “You have such a sense of humor, Oliver.”

“That he does,” Finian said half under his breath.

Emma leaned back in her chair. “Oliver, what are you doing here?”

“You remember. Your grandfather personally invited me to the open house tomorrow. You can ask him. He'll remember. His memory hasn't deteriorated with age. Certain lives might be easier if it did.”

“I won't argue with that,” Emma said. “But he wasn't serious. Lucas hadn't set a date.”

“He has now, and here I am. I was worried Wendell had changed his mind about the invitation but he reiterated it when I saw him in London last week. When I discovered his son and daughter-in-law weren't going to be at the open house, I was concerned about him flying alone. I flew to Dublin to convince him to join me on my flight, but he'd already left. I decided to pop down to Declan's Cross for a quick visit.” He tore open the oyster crackers. “Aren't you relieved I spared you from asking?”

“We're tough FBI agents,” Colin said. “We don't mind asking you questions about your Irish travels.”

Oliver dumped out the crackers on a paper place mat. He looked completely relaxed, but Colin suspected he looked relaxed even when he was slipping into locked museums. “Did you tell Emma that Martin got a puppy?” he asked.

Colin took in a calming breath. He didn't care about Oliver's puppy.

“Colin and I haven't had a chance to discuss puppies,” Emma said, perhaps marginally more interested.

“Yes, one can imagine,” Oliver said dryly. “He's a wire fox terrier. He's energetic. He needs room to roam. He stays at the farm. He hasn't been to London yet. I wouldn't mind if he had accidents on the library rug, but Martin and the house staff would have fits.”

“I can manage without a house staff,” Colin said, picking up his glass of water, “but I've decided I need a manservant.”

Oliver sniffed. “Martin would scowl at you for being condescending. He's my trusted personal assistant and friend. He worked for my grandparents before he inherited me.”

Colin sipped his water. “I rest my case. You're Batman.”

Oliver turned to Mary. “I don't know how I'd have managed if you hadn't been with Agent Donovan and me for those two hours in the car this afternoon.” He peered at Emma. “And you, Agent Sharpe. Are you sure you want to marry this man?”

“Oliver,” Colin said.

“No worries. I can see from our Emma's expression that she has no plans to cancel the wedding.”

Finian pushed back his chair. “Mary, would you care to help choose a whiskey for the table? We must celebrate your safe arrival.”

She took the hint and got to her feet. “Ah, yes. Whiskey. My world.”

“This place must have a passable Scotch,” Oliver muttered.

The two Brackens either ignored him or hadn't heard. They retreated to the bar and its display of whiskeys. Of course, Finian was already familiar with every bottle on the shelf. Colin knew he was giving his FBI friends a chance to speak to Oliver alone.

“Let the interrogating and throttling begin.” Oliver yawned. “It's late in London. A good throttling might wake me up.”

“We're not interrogating or throttling you,” Emma said.

“Are you speaking for Agent Donovan as well as yourself?” He nodded toward Mary up at the bar. “She's prettier than one would expect of Finian's sister, isn't she? He's a good-looking bloke, but I'm surprised the look of the Bracken men translates to the Bracken women. I met Mary this winter but didn't pay much attention until yesterday in Declan's Cross.”

“You can't think you're falling for Mary Bracken,” Colin said. “Fin will kill you.”

“He's a priest.”

“He wasn't always a priest.”

“Well, he needn't worry,” Oliver said. “I have an entirely brotherly attitude toward her. I didn't see Aoife when I was in Declan's Cross. I wish she'd paint porpoises again. Any hope for her and our Father Fin?”

Colin set his water glass on the table. He glanced out at the harbor, saw a couple of guys he knew down on the docks. He hadn't imagined having dinner with Oliver York on his first night back home. He shifted back to Oliver. “We'll walk you back to my folks' inn after dinner. We can talk there.”

“Fewer witnesses,” Oliver said.

Emma rolled her eyes. “You can quit with the drama, Oliver.”

“Is it a busy time these days with your work, Agent Sharpe?”

“Always.”

“But it doesn't keep you from fretting about me, does it?”

“No.”

Colin grinned, appreciating Emma's directness.

The Brackens returned to the table with a recommendation of a Scotch that passed Oliver's inspection. Colin half expected Gordy Wheelock to wander in next, but he didn't. Emma had called his home number in North Carolina earlier but didn't get an answer. With any luck, he'd taken her advice and flown home and his wife was at the airport to pick him up. If Gordy believed he'd overreacted and overstepped, that was the best outcome, whatever was really going on with Oliver, this London party and his arrival in Maine.

The bartender brought over the glasses of Scotch. Their server brought the chowders and plates of scallops and fish and chips. Oliver said he was sticking to oyster crackers. Colin took in a breath. He felt a surge of emotion. He was home.

Finian held up his glass.
“Sláinte.”

His sister, Emma, Oliver and Colin did the same. Colin limited himself to a couple of sips of the smoky Scotch, as he knew Emma would, too.

A few minutes into their meals, Oliver, nursing his Scotch, turned to Finian. “Has Father Callaghan been in touch with you about his plans for his return to Rock Point?”

Colin noticed a change in Finian's expression and realized Oliver's question wasn't entirely speculative. He knew something. “We can talk about this later,” his priest friend said. “Mary's tired.”

His sister shook her head. “Not that tired. What about Father Callaghan?” she asked, addressing Oliver. “Did you see him when you were in Ireland?”

“I stopped in Ardmore before heading to Declan's Cross and ran into the good father on the cliff walk. We finished the walk together. Did you know Father Callaghan during your nun days, Emma?”

She bristled in that subtle way Colin recognized. It meant she wasn't talking about her “nun days” with Oliver. “Not well,” she said evenly.

“He's trim and fit these days and quite taken with the land of his ancestors,” Oliver said. “His Irish sabbatical has agreed with him.”

Mary frowned. “But he's coming back here to Rock Point, isn't he?”

“I wouldn't know,” Oliver said vaguely.

“Fin,” Mary said, swinging around to her brother. “He
is
coming back, yes?”

Finian sighed, looking uncomfortable, and finally shook his head. “No, he's not. I've only just found out myself. He's retiring from parish work. He's taking a part-time post in Cork.”

“Oh.” Mary paused, abandoning her chowder as she stared at her brother. “Then the church here will have to find another priest. You're coming home in June.”

“That's only a couple of weeks from now,” Finian said. “Father Callaghan delayed his final decision until the last possible moment. I can't leave the parish in the lurch. I'll stay on at least for a while.”

“How long is
a while
, Fin?”

“I don't know yet is the honest answer. We've plenty of time to discuss my plans. How do you like the chowder?”

Mary eyed him suspiciously. “Finian Bracken...” But she didn't finish, clearly tired. “The chowder's brilliant.” She struggled to smile. “I'll want pie.”

“Pie's always a good choice at Hurley's,” Colin said. He glanced at Oliver but couldn't tell if he'd known his comment about Father Callaghan would stir up trouble between the Brackens. Probably. “You should give up on the oyster crackers and have pie, Oliver.”

“Perhaps another dram of our passable Scotch,” he said, then shifted to Mary. “What do you plan to see while you're in Maine?”

She hesitated, then smiled, looking less strained. “Everything,” she said, her smile broadening. “I've a list.”

* * *

The Rock Point Harbor Inn, locally known as the Donovans' inn, was located on a cove up past the village, in what was reputedly an old sea captain's house complete with a widow's walk. Oliver didn't protest when Emma and Colin both insisted on walking back with him. It was a beautiful spring night, and Colin would have held Emma's hand if not for their company. He at least appreciated being in familiar surroundings. His parents had their own quarters separate from the inn, but were considering converting a small cottage at the back of the property for themselves and using their current space for more guests.

Oliver led the way into the front sitting room as if he owned the place. “Look, our lovely innkeepers left fresh fruit, milk and cookies. Care for anything?”

“We're not staying,” Colin said.

“Thank heavens for that.” He grabbed a small plate and loaded it with fruit and cookies. “The Scotch and the walk to the harbor front and back woke up my appetite. You two can relax. I'm fairly certain none of my MI5 colleagues followed me here, but they know where I am.”

“They're not your colleagues,” Colin said. “They're your watchdogs.”

“Well, there's that,” Oliver said good-naturedly.

“If you put one toe out of line, they'll open the files on you,” Emma added.