Liar's Key (7 page)

Gordy had been harassed and threatened from time to time in his career, but never like this—never over something stupid and embarrassing. He'd had
grandkids
a year ago. What the hell had he been thinking?

And he loved his wife. They'd been going through a rough patch last year, both of them figuring out retirement, where to live, what to do. He had a feeling she'd stepped out on him—but he'd never asked. Didn't want to know.

Joan wouldn't want to know about this. They didn't need a private truth-telling session and certainly didn't need to be dragged into a public one. She liked being married to an FBI legend with a spotless record.

The only positive about the photos on the table in front of him was he looked pretty good. If whoever had delivered them went public, Gordy figured at least he could console himself that he'd been a hell of a stud right up until his retirement a year ago.

He grabbed the photos and returned them to the envelope. He gave himself a minute to calm his breathing, let his head and stomach settle down, and then leaned forward again and shoved the envelope back into the outer pocket of his suitcase.

He emptied the last of his ibuprofen bottle into his palm, downed the three pills and decided a nap was in order. He needed rest, a chance to clear his head.

You're not as young as you used to be, Gordy. You injure more easily and heal more slowly.

His doctor, not two weeks ago.

Gordy hated his doctor. Hell, right now he hated everybody.

He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the couch.

Sleep, then it was time to start thinking again like an FBI agent.

7

Claudia retrieved her suitcase out of the back room, locked up the gallery and descended the front steps to the busy sidewalk. Thirty minutes after Gordy's departure, she still had to force herself to breathe normally. It annoyed her. Hyperventilating wouldn't solve anything. She had to remember he was as committed as she was to keeping their affair secret.

She crossed busy Newbury Street. Breathing in the spring afternoon air helped. Being among people. She entered an upscale coffee shop and ordered an espresso, the normalcy of her surroundings helping her at least to begin to relax.

She sat at a small table in front of the window and inhaled the pungent scent of the coffee. She took a sip, trying to identify the different flavors, as if it were a fine wine or whiskey. She swore she tasted citrus, chocolate, perhaps a touch of black pepper. She welcomed the round, velvety feel of the espresso as she savored every drop.

Slowly, she felt a restored sense of calm and purpose.

I'll be fine.

She trusted herself to make the drive to southern Maine without devolving into a fit of uncontrolled breathing and passing out at the wheel. She'd hoped to have the Heron's Cove house to herself through the weekend, but her father and brother had visited her in London last week and announced they would be there for the Sharpe open house. Her father had returned to Philadelphia for a few days and then flown up to Maine this morning. Adrian, her older half brother, had arrived about the same time from Atlanta.

An impromptu Deverell family reunion.

Claudia knew she needed to stay cool and get this trip to Heron's Cove behind her. Staying a week or two in Maine seemed more ambitious now that she was on this side of the Atlantic than it had when she'd planned this trip in London. She hadn't stepped foot in the small Maine village since her mad, brief affair with a senior FBI agent.

Liaison.
That was a better word for her encounters with Gordy, she decided. An affair implied love. She hadn't loved him and he hadn't loved her. They'd shared a certain illicit passion, sparked by the hold he had over her and fueled by impulsiveness, risk and fear.

She remembered making love in the sunroom to the sounds of ocean waves, seagulls and the occasional lobster boat.

No, definitely not
love
, Claudia thought.

He'd been the one to end it.
This was stupid and wrong. See you, Claudia
.

A month later, she'd heard he'd retired and was moving with his wife to their small hometown on the North Carolina beach where they'd fallen in love as teenagers. Claudia hadn't seen or heard from Gordy until she'd called him last week after Alessandro's funeral and asked him about the Sharpe open house. She'd
had
to know if he would be in Maine, if he was up to his old tricks. Then he'd turned up in London, and now Boston.

She wouldn't let him ruin her life again.

He didn't have to want to ruin her life—she believed he hadn't wanted to a year ago—but that didn't mean he couldn't do a proper job of it.

“Poor Alessandro,” she whispered.

He'd called her the morning before his death and asked her to meet him for tea that afternoon. They'd agreed on a tearoom near his apartment in Kensington. She hadn't seen him in several months and had been shocked at how old and frail he'd looked. He'd been worried and preoccupied about illegal trafficking in antiquities from his former work sites—and convinced, as always, that Victoria Norwood Deverell's only child was as kind, altruistic and scrupulous as she had been.

Claudia was well aware that her retired-FBI-agent ex-lover would have wanted to know about her tea with Alessandro, no matter the cause of his death. She'd learned the hard way that Gordy always wanted to know everything. He would use the most innocent omission as leverage to get what he wanted.

She finished her espresso and wheeled her suitcase out of the coffee shop and up the street toward her rental car, parked at a meter. Gordy would figure out she wasn't coming back tonight. Maybe he'd take the hint and go home. Whatever he chose to do, she was going to pick up Isabel Greene at South Station and head straight to Maine.

Her ambivalence evaporated now that she was almost on her way. She couldn't wait to be back on the rocky coast and in the rambling house she had so loved as a child. She hadn't been back in years, but her mother had wanted to see Heron's Cove before her death. Claudia had flown in from London, met her mother in Philadelphia and had taken her to Maine for one last visit. After her death, Claudia had launched her disastrous affair with an FBI agent and had her falling out with Lucas Sharpe, sullying Heron's Cove for her. But it was time to go back and put the past to rest.

She couldn't wait to explore the handful of ancient works her mother had stored at the Maine house, although she doubted she'd discover any hidden treasures. As she'd explained to Gordy, most works of any real value were on loan to museums or in professional storage near the Deverell home in Philadelphia. Value, though, wasn't always a question of profit and money, especially with ancient art and artifacts. Regardless, steeped in antiquities from infancy, her mother had possessed an unerring eye and a keen passion for the art and artifacts of the ancient Mediterranean past. Whenever Claudia touched an antiquity her mother had touched, she could picture beautiful, sweet-tempered Victoria Norwood Deverell.

Would her mother forgive her for her reckless behavior?

Would she understand the choices her only child had made—was making even now?

Fighting an urge to hyperventilate again, Claudia placed her suitcase in the trunk of her small rental.
You're fine
, she told herself.

She almost climbed into the passenger seat but remembered she wasn't in England and went around to the driver's side of the car. For the past decade, she'd spent most of her time in sprawling London and had come to hate driving. She didn't own a car, preferring to walk and take taxis and public transportation. Occasionally she'd rent a car for an excursion, but despite seldom getting behind the wheel herself, she had grown accustomed to seeing cars driving on the left. It no longer looked strange and disconcerting to her. She'd had no trouble driving on the left when she'd rented a car in Ireland last week.

She shut her eyes, grasping the steering wheel with both hands.

You're doing the right thing
.

The Sharpe invitation, Alessandro, her mad call to Gordy, Ireland, the sudden party at Claridge's, the long, lonely flight to Boston, coping with her obsessions... Next it would be Heron's Cove, the memories...Lucas.

Yes, you are doing the right thing.

You are, you are, you are.

Claudia opened her eyes, sniffling, and started the car. Time to get on with it.

She couldn't wait to breathe in the fresh ocean air.

As she navigated the heavy traffic, she could see her mother standing on the front porch of her Maine house shortly before her death, looking silently out at the sparkling Atlantic. The sun had washed out her already pale skin and brought out the premature deep lines in her face. There'd been no denying the cancer eating away at her. She'd turned to Claudia.
I want you to remember, Claudia, that never have I met a finer man than Wendell Sharpe.

Her mother's words had taken Claudia by surprise.
Even Dad?

Your father's a fine man, too. A different kind of fine than Wendell. When you're in financial trouble, you go to Dad. When you're in real trouble...you go to Wendell.

She'd ended the conversation there, with no further explanation.

Maine would be filled with memories, Claudia knew, but she was up to them. More than that, she was ready for them.

“You're doing the right thing,” she whispered. “You are.”

She eased the car into the Newbury Street traffic, feeling less awkward driving on the right than she had when she'd rented the car at the airport on Monday, wondering when she'd see Gordy again—the Sharpe open house, or Boston? She'd misplayed every contact she'd ever had with him, from the very first time she'd met him in London a few weeks after her mother's death.

Claudia Deverell? Special Agent Gordon Wheelock. I need you to do something for me.

She shook her head. She'd called him last week out of strength, not weakness.

She wouldn't let him manipulate and intimidate her into doing his bidding this time.

“No, Gordy. Not this time.”

* * *

Claudia drove straight to South Station, where her friend Isabel Greene was already out front, an elegant tapestry weekender bag slung over one shoulder. She and Claudia were driving to Maine together. They'd taken the train to Heathrow together on Monday. Claudia had flown to Boston, Isabel to New York. Isabel had mentioned she planned to take the train to Boston and Claudia had offered to pick her up. A talented mosaic artist, Isabel was entertaining and capable of dispelling any dark mood. They'd have a fun drive to southern Maine.

Isabel waved, as if Claudia might not see her, and jumped off the curb, pulled open the door and tossed her bag onto the backseat. She climbed in front, flipping back her long, curly golden blond hair and emitting a cathartic groan. “What a day,” she said. “I'm so glad you're here. The Acela is fast but I'm ready for a break from traveling. I can't
wait
to be in Maine.”

“We shouldn't run into traffic,” Claudia said. “We'll be there in no time.”

Isabel pulled on her seat belt and snapped it in place. She looked put-together despite an almost four-hour train ride, charging through a crowded station with her bag and waiting on the curb for Claudia to arrive. Isabel lived half the year in New York. The other half, she traveled and exchanged apartments with a friend in London. She'd started out working at a New York museum but now supported herself with her mosaic art, which included both portable pieces and installations. She'd spent February completing a mosaic floor in a conservatory in Malibu. The owners had requested a vineyard scene. Claudia had seen photographs of the stunning results. Like her mother had been, she was in awe of the combination of Isabel's imagination and technique.

“How was the train?” Claudia asked.

“Only way to get in and out of New York. I haven't been in New York in May in ages. Central Park is gorgeous. I saw ducklings, of all things. I've been on the go since I arrived from London. I can't wait to kick back for a few days.”

“Excellent.”

Accustomed to a frenetic pace, Isabel had promised she was looking forward to Maine and wouldn't get bored. Handsome Adrian Deverell, Claudia's older half brother, might have something to do with it, but Isabel denied any romantic interest in him. Claudia didn't want to think about that right now. Sometimes she wondered if Adrian and Isabel had more in common with each other than Claudia did with either of them, despite her brother's indifference toward antiquities. But it wouldn't take much for her to start feeling threatened and sorry for herself. She almost would have preferred if her father and Isabel hit it off but couldn't explain why.

Claudia maneuvered back into the heavy traffic and started toward the interstate north. She didn't need a map or GPS. She knew the way.

Isabel pushed back a few stray curls, catching her breath. “How are you, Claudia?”

After Gordy had left the gallery, even before her restorative espresso, Claudia had decided not to tell Isabel about his visit, for a thousand reasons. “Great, thanks,” she said, smiling. “Happy to be home in the US.”

“Have you put the party in London on Sunday behind you?”

“Behind me? It was fun. I had a great time.”

“Does your father know? Adrian?”

Claudia looked over at her. “About what?”

“Not what. Who. You know who I'm talking about. Agent Wheelock. I saw you two at the party on Sunday. It confirmed what I've suspected for a while. There is—or there was— something besides consulting on antiquities between you and that married FBI agent.”

“You have a fertile imagination, Isabel.”

“This isn't my imagination. One way or the other he's the reason you and Lucas broke up and you quit the auction house and went out on your own, isn't he?”

“My mother died. That's why I did what I did. Lucas and I...” She shook her head. “Never mind. We saw each other a few times on his trips to London, but that's about it. And I quit the auction house to focus on my family's antiquities collection.”

“At least you could afford to.” Isabel frowned, her brown eyes narrowed on Claudia as she navigated Boston's insane traffic. “I remember Agent Wheelock coming round in London last year. I've had my suspicions he played fast and loose with the rules where you were concerned.”

“Isabel, please...”

“All right. Whatever was between you two is none of my business. I don't know the guy myself, just that he specialized in art crimes and had you give him a tutorial in the antiquities trade. Antiquities used to be fun, but now—never mind the controversies about the ethics of ownership and stewardship, they can be downright scary with the fraud, looting and pillaging going on in some very dangerous places.”

“I know what you mean,” Claudia said, hearing the sadness in her own voice.

“We don't need to talk about that now. I'm not sorry you and Lucas didn't make a go of it, you know. The Sharpes aren't your friends. I have nothing against them, but they keep themselves separate from people like us.”

“Like us? You make it sound as if we're criminals.”

“I don't mean to. Not at all. I mean those of us who are artists, collectors, experts.” Isabel waved a hand. “But let's just enjoy the drive.”

“I agree. Tell me about New York. What did you do there?”