Liar's Key (23 page)

20

From the moment she crossed the threshold into the foyer of the Deverell house, Mary fell in love with the sturdy, faded grande dame
of a place with its magnificent views of the Atlantic and the stunning Maine coast. She'd have loved a tour of the entire house but settled for the first floor. Every room had a unique charm. She smiled to herself as she went out to the large, curved front porch. She inhaled the sea air. This place, the open house and handsome Lucas Sharpe and Adrian Deverell and mysterious, sexy Oliver York—how could she go wrong?

Ah, yes, Mary Bracken, you are going to have a grand time in Maine.

“I can't imagine tearing down this place,” Mary said to Isabel Greene, who'd explained that was a real possibility. “Would a new owner be able to put up some new monstrosity?”

Isabel shook her head. “Not on this section of Ocean Avenue. There are strict regulations governing what people can build between the inn next to the Sharpe offices and the nature preserve about a mile up the road. The idea is to preserve the historic and natural beauty of the area.”

“That's a relief, then.”

“Where do you live, Mary?”

“I have a flat in Killarney. Have you ever been to Killarney?”

“I've never been to Ireland. I keep saying I will, but I just haven't done it, even though I spend about half the year in London.” Isabel sat on the wide porch rail, a breeze catching the ends of her hair. “I suppose you haven't had a chance to be homesick yet.”

Mary tightened her denim jacket around her in the stiffening breeze. “I won't be here long enough to get homesick. Where's your family?”

“I don't have much of one. I have a brother in New York. Our parents are gone.”

“Mine are, too, but I have two older sisters and two older brothers.”

“I saw Father Bracken leaving today,” Claudia said, coming through the front door out to the porch. “I know he and your brother Declan aren't identical twins, but they do look a lot alike. Quite a good-looking guy to lose to the priesthood.”

Mary made no comment. She noticed whitecaps on the horizon and a small yacht making its way toward the river and, presumably, the marina next to the Sharpe offices. She'd enjoyed checking out the boats and docks during the open house. Once Finian had returned to Rock Point, she hadn't known anyone there except Emma, Colin and Oliver. She hadn't wanted to monopolize their time and wasn't up to a great deal of socializing with strangers after her long trip yesterday. Anyway, she socialized all the time in her work. It had felt good to go off on her own to look at boats.

She sat with Isabel and Claudia on wicker chairs and had iced tea as they engaged in an amiable, free-flowing conversation. They were discussing whiskey when the police and Colin and Emma arrived. From their grim expressions, Mary knew instantly they'd come with terrible news.

Claudia gasped, clutching her shirt just above her heart. “Something's happened. Isabel...”

“Steady,” her friend whispered. “Steady, Claudia.”

A middle-aged man introduced himself as a state police detective. Colin and Emma stayed to one side, silent as the detective explained his reasons for being there.

A dead FBI agent...

Mary had to fight her way through the fog of jet lag and shock to comprehend what they were saying. The FBI agent who'd died was the American who'd toured the distillery that past Monday. Gordon Wheelock. And he hadn't just died. He'd been killed. But Mary wasn't even sure if that was what the detective had said or if it was what she'd inferred, or if someone else had said it.

The men came out to the porch. Henry Deverell and his son as well as Oliver York and Wendell Sharpe.

Mary remained on her chair, but Claudia and Isabel both had jumped to their feet and Isabel had an arm around Claudia as they both absorbed the news.

The detectives said they had a few questions they wanted to ask. Mary didn't think they could possibly mean to include her in that statement, but it wasn't true. “Mary,” Emma Sharpe said, “would you mind going through Gordon Wheelock's visit to Bracken Distillers on Monday? It could help us understand what's happened.”

“I don't mind. I'll do it, of course.”

“I don't understand what this man's death has to do with us,” Henry Deverell said.

No one answered him
.
Mary went with Emma and a female detective to a far corner of the porch, where they could chat. She heard someone crying and glanced back, just as Claudia Deverell collapsed onto a chair, her face in her hands as she sobbed. Mary glanced at Emma, who was taking in Claudia's reaction to the retired agent's death. Everyone else was visibly upset and shaken, but Claudia was completely broken up.

As she related the details of Special Agent Wheelock's visit to the distillery, Mary thought of Sean Murphy two days ago in Declan's Cross, trying to talk her out of this trip. That his instincts had proved right and she would encounter danger and violence, if not a direct threat to her, was no comfort at all.

Would the police want to question Finian, too?

When the detective finished, she thanked Mary and withdrew. Emma didn't go with her. “I'm sorry, Mary,” she said.

“Did you know Agent Wheelock?”

“I worked with him in art crimes.”

“He said he knew your grandfather...” Mary didn't finish. She'd already told the detective, and Emma had been there, quietly observing. “Otherwise we only talked about whiskey and the distillery. He said he's a bourbon man.” But she realized she was talking more to herself than to Emma. She gave herself an inward shake. “I can go back to Rock Point now?”

Emma nodded. “Do you have a ride?”

“I'm leaving now,” Oliver said, joining them. “I can return Mary to her brother.”

Emma didn't look enthusiastic, but Mary jumped at the chance. “Thank you,” she said, rising.

“You'll be at the inn?” Emma asked him.

“There, the rectory or Hurley's. Promise.”

“Be where I can find you, Oliver.”

“As you wish, Agent Sharpe.”

Oliver had driven to the Deverell house from the Sharpe offices and parked in front. Mary shivered in a breeze off the water that an hour ago she'd have found refreshing.

“I'm glad our boys and girls in blue didn't block me in,” Oliver said, touching Mary's wrist. “Other side, Mary. We're driving on the right.”

“Of course. Sorry.”

She went around the front of the car and got in, suddenly fighting tears. “Did you know Agent Wheelock?” she asked Oliver as he climbed in next to her.

“Of him.”

“I can't imagine his death had anything to do with his visit to Ireland.”

But Oliver pretended not to hear her. As he pulled onto the street, Mary noticed the strain at the corners of his eyes and mouth, unsettling, she thought, in such an irreverent, unflappable sort. She debated texting Declan or Sean, but what could they do from Ireland?

Services were wrapping up when Oliver pulled in front of St. Patrick's rectory. Mary unfastened her seat belt but couldn't seem to make herself move. “Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion.

“I can wait with you until your brother is finished.”

She shook her head, rallying. “No. You go on. I'll see you later, I'm sure. Thank you.”

“Except for that last bit, it was a fine day, wouldn't you say?”

But his cheeky remark didn't quite take, and he seemed to know it. Mary thanked him again and got out of the car. By the time she walked down to the side entrance, Finian was crossing the driveway between the rectory and the church to her. From his expression, she knew he'd already learned about Gordy Wheelock's death, whether from Emma, Colin, a parishioner or even Oliver, she couldn't guess. She supposed it didn't matter.

“Mary,” Finian said, opening his arms.

They embraced and, enveloped in her brother's priestly garb, reassured by his presence, Mary could only think that she wanted him to say a prayer. But she didn't ask him to. Instead they went inside, and he put on a kettle for tea.

“What happened, Mary?” he asked her.

“The FBI agent who visited the distillery this past Monday is dead, and from the way the police are acting, I think he was murdered.” She took in a shallow breath. “And I think they suspect the killer was at the open house today, or at least had something to do with it. I don't know it for a fact, but—” This time she gulped in air. “I've never been involved in a homicide investigation.”

“Ah, Mary.”

She sniffled, glaring at him. “A year ago you'd have been shocked at such an event, but you're not now, are you? It's these friends of yours. These FBI agents. Oliver. Wendell and Lucas Sharpe. Even Sean Murphy. I wonder if it started last year, before you came here—when you helped Sean with the smugglers.”

“When what started?”

“This affinity you have for danger and dangerous people.
That's
your calling, Fin. It's got nothing to do with God. It's about you.”

He didn't look upset, offended, chagrined. He was listening to her, she realized, but that only agitated her more.

“I'm not one of your bloody parishioners,” she said.

“No, you're not. You're my sister. I'll make tea, and you tell me what's happened. Then we'll talk.”

“You'll talk, too?”

“Yes, I'll talk, too.”

* * *

Finian's first impulse when Mary finished was to drive her to Boston and put her on a flight to Ireland. Instead, they walked to the Donovans' inn, not because it was what he wanted to do but because it was what she needed. As he'd suspected, she hadn't had the patience to delve into a deep conversation about his vocation and his friendships since arriving in Maine almost a year ago.

A death investigation. A likely murder.

Mary...

Finian shuddered next to her, but if she noticed, she said nothing. He doubted she had noticed. She seemed to welcome getting out in the fresh air, moving—seeing Oliver again. Finian reminded himself she didn't know Oliver was a serial art thief. From Mary Bracken's point of view, Oliver York was kind, intelligent, mysterious and quite good-looking. He was also as much an outsider in the current drama as she was.

Of course, Finian knew that wasn't the case. The dead FBI agent would have investigated the American thefts Oliver had committed. Oliver had visited Declan's Cross, arriving just in time to bump into Mary, who'd escorted both Claudia Deverell and then Gordon Wheelock on distillery tours.

In Finian's experience, Oliver would skirt the truth to the point it was effectively a lie, and he used his adventures—and not just burglarizing—to keep his personal demons at bay, to alleviate the pain and distress of the helpless little boy inside him who'd endured a terrible ordeal.

But would he kill anyone?

No.

Finian shook his head, confident that the man who'd driven his sister back to Rock Point today wasn't a killer. Even so, Finian felt tight-lipped and tense. It was his fault Mary was here, in the middle of another violent mess involving his friends. He would trust Emma, Colin and Colin's brothers with his life, but that didn't mean he'd trust them with his sister's tender sensibilities...her innocence.

Colin greeted them on the main walk to his parents' inn. He kissed Mary on the cheek. “I'm sorry about today,” he said simply.

“It's the way of things sometimes.” Her ashen face and slight, anxious smile belied her words. “Is Emma with you?”

He shook his head. “I stopped to see my folks. Oliver isn't here. I want to talk to him.”

Finian got the message. “We'll see him another time, then.”

“Thanks, Fin.”

“The man today—he was murdered, wasn't he?”

Colin's eyes told the story. Yes. Murder. But Finian knew his friend wouldn't—perhaps couldn't—say the words out loud. “I'll see you later,” he said instead.

As Finian turned with Mary, she stopped abruptly, spinning back around to Colin. “I think there was something between Claudia Deverell and Agent Wheelock,” Mary blurted. “I felt it when he was at the distillery, and I felt it again today when you all arrived with the terrible news.”

“Do you have any reason to believe she already knew he was dead?” Colin asked.

Mary blanched, looking unsteady on her feet. “No, no, that's not what I mean at all. I have no evidence for you, I'm afraid. I told the detective everything I know, and that's all I can do.”

“If you think of anything else, get in touch with the detective, or with Emma or me. Don't hesitate, Mary. We'd rather have you err on the side of telling us too much than too little.”

“I understand,” she said, her voice strong and clear. She stood straighter, squaring her shoulders. “I hope you find whoever is responsible for Agent Wheelock's death.”

Colin gave a curt nod. “We will.”

This time, Mary didn't turn back. As she and Finian walked up to the rectory, he realized this wasn't the bubbly Mary Bracken he knew—the little sister he'd wanted to show a little of Maine and Boston. She'd been so young when his wife and daughters had died. For months, he'd disappeared into grief and drink, and then into seminary and the priesthood. He'd envisioned himself serving an Irish parish but Father Callaghan of Rock Point, Maine, had decided to spend a couple of nights at the newly opened O'Byrne House Hotel in Declan's Cross. Finian, fresh out of seminary, had been there to visit Sean Murphy, the garda detective who'd investigated the untimely deaths of Sally and little Kathleen and Mary Bracken.

“I can see why you're needed here,” Mary said as they crossed a narrow residential street. “I can see why God called you to this place, if that's how you describe it and what you believe happened. When I looked into Colin Donovan's eyes just now, I could feel the dangers and risks and hardships he's faced—the great responsibility he and Emma and those like them have taken on. It's not a Hollywood movie. They're real people.”