Three Fates

by Nora Roberts

  Gravestones were stained with lichen, and some were so old that wind and rain had blurred their carvings. Some stood straight as soldiers, and others tipped like drunks.

  The fact that they did both, that there was no static order to it all, Jack thought, made the hill all the more poignant, all the more powerful.

  The grass, still thick with summer, rose in wild hillocks and lifted the scent of living, growing things as it waved in the breeze. And on countless graves, flowers grew or were laid. Some wreaths were sheltered in clear plastic boxes, and others held little vials of holy water taken from some shrine.

  He found the sentiment oddly touching even as it puzzled him. What possible help could holy water offer to the occupants of a graveyard?

  He saw fresh flowers spread beneath stones that had stood for ninety years and more. Who, he wondered, brought daisies to the old, old dead?

  Because there was no way he could reasonably refuse Rebecca’s obvious desire for some time alone, he walked through the cemetery to the brilliant green carpet of smooth and tended grass sheltered by the yews. He saw the stones with their brass plaques. Read the words.

  A heart would have had to be stone not to be moved. While his was, he believed, contained, it wasn’t hard. There was a connection here, even for him, and he wondered why he’d waited so long to come to this place, to stand on this ground.

  Fate, he thought. He supposed it was fate, once again, that had chosen his time.

  He looked back, over the stones, over the grass, and saw Rebecca laying another bouquet on another grave. Her cap was off now, out of respect, he assumed, and stuffed in her back pocket. Her hair, that delicate reddish gold, danced in the breeze that stirred the grass at her feet. Her lips were curved in a quiet and private smile as she looked down at a headstone.

  And looking at her across the waving grass, the somber stones, he felt his contained heart give a single hard lurch. Though he was shaken by it, he wasn’t a man to ignore trouble, whatever its form. He walked toward her.

  Her head came up, and though her mouth stayed gently curved, he sensed a watchfulness in her now. Did she feel it, too? he wondered. This strange tug and pull, almost—if he believed in such things—a kind of recognition.

  When he reached her, she shifted the last two bouquets to her other hand. “Holy ground is powerful ground.”

  He nodded. Yes, he realized. She’d felt it, too. “Hard to disagree with that right now.”

  She studied his face as she spoke, the hard, strong lines of it that fit together made something less than handsome, and something more. And his eyes, his smoky, secret eyes.

  He knew things, she was sure of it. And some of them were marvels.

  “Do you believe in power, Jack? Not the kind that comes from muscle or position. The kind that comes from somewhere outside a person, and inside him as well.”

  “I guess I do.”

  This time she nodded. “And so do I. My father’s there.” She gestured to a black granite marker bearing the name Patrick Sullivan. “His parents are living yet, and in Cobh, as are my mother’s. And there are my great-grandparents, John and Margaret Sullivan, Declan and Katherine Curry. And their parents are here as well, a ways over there for my father’s side.”

  “You bring them all flowers?”

  “When I walk this way, yes. I stop here last. My great-great-grandparents, on my mother’s side.” She crouched to lay the flowers at the base of each stone.

  Jack looked over her head, read the names.

  Fate, he thought again. Sneaky bitch.

  “Felix Greenfield?”

  “Don’t see many names like Greenfield in Irish grave-yards, do you?” She laughed a little as she straightened. “He was the one my mother spoke about on the tour, who survived the Lusitania and settled here. So I stop here last, as if he hadn’t lived through that day, I wouldn’t be here to bring him flowers. Have you seen what you wanted to see?”

  “So far.”

  “Well then, you’d best come home with me and have some tea.”

  “Rebecca.” He touched her arm as she turned. “I came here looking for you.”

  “For me?” She scooped back her hair and schooled her voice to stay smooth despite the sudden trip of her heart. “That’s a fine romantic sort of thing to say, Jack.”

  “I should’ve said I came looking for Malachi Sullivan.”

  The laughter in her eyes vanished. “For Mal? Why is that?”

  “Fate.”

  He saw the flash of fear run across her face, then with admiration, he watched it harden and chill. “You can go back to New York City and tell Anita Gaye she can kiss my ass on the way to hell.”

  “I’d be happy to, but I’m not here because of Anita. I’m a collector, and I have a . . . personal interest in the Fates. I’ll match whatever Anita’s paying your family and add ten percent.”

  “Paying us? Paying?” Her cheeks went hot with fury. Oh, when she thought of how everything inside her body had softened and hummed just with looking at him! “That thieving bitch. Now look! Look, you’ve got me standing over my own dead ancestor and swearing. Since I am, I’ll finish by telling you to go to hell as well.”

  He sighed a bit as she loped around graves and toward the road.

  “You’re a businesswoman,” he reminded her when he caught up. “So let’s try to have a discussion. Failing that, I’ll point out I’m bigger and stronger than you are. Don’t make me prove it.”

  “So that’s the way of it?” She whipped around on him. “You’re going to threaten and bully me? Well, try it and see if you don’t end up with another scar or two for your trouble.”

  “I just asked you not to make me bully you,” he pointed out. “Why did your brother go back to New York this morning?”

  “That’s none of your flaming business.”

  “Since I’ve just traveled three thousand miles to see him, it is my flaming business.” Rather than fight fire with fire, he kept his tone quiet and reasonable. “And I can tell you, if he’s gone to see Tia Marsh, he’s not going to get a very warm reception.”

  “A lot you know about it, as she’s paying his fare. As a loan,” she added with a sniff. “We’re not leeches or money-grubbers. And he’s been half sick since Gideon called to tell him about the murder.”

  “What?” This time his hand clamped like steel on her arm. “What murder?”

  She was mad as a hornet and because of it wanted to spit and kick at him. The bastard had stirred up something in her, had started stirring it from that first careless ahoy. But she saw something else in him now, something cold and determined. And that something else was hearing of murder for the first time.

  “I’m not telling you a bloody thing until I know who you are and what you’re about.”

  “I’m Jack Burdett.” He took out his wallet, flipped out his driver’s license. “New York City. Burdett Security and Electronics. You got a computer, you can do a Net search.”

  She took the wallet, studied the identification.

  “I’m a collector, just like I said. I’ve done some security work for Morningside Antiquities, and I’ve been a client. Anita dangled the Three Fates in front of me like bait because she knows it’s the sort of thing I’m interested in, and that I have a tendency to find things out.”

  As she continued to flip through his wallet, he struggled for patience. Then just nipped it out of her fingers, shoved it back in his pocket.

  “Anita’s mistake was in assuming I’d find them for her, or that she could break through my own security measures and keep track of my movements. Who the hell is dead?”

  “That’s not enough. I’ll do that Web search. Let me tell you something, Jack, I have a tendency to find things out as well.”

  “Tia Marsh.” He fell into step beside Rebecca as she strode down the hill. “You said she paid for your brother’s flight to New York. She’s okay, then?”

  Rebecca slanted him a look. “She’s fine and well as far as I can te
ll. You know her, do you?”

  “Only met her once, but I liked her. Did anything happen to her parents?”

  “No. It has something to do with someone else altogether, and I’m not giving you names until I’m sure you’ve no part in it.”

  “I want the Fates, but not enough to murder. If Anita’s behind that, it changes the complexion of things.”

  “You don’t sound as if you’d put such a thing past her.”

  “She’s a spider,” Jack said simply. “I liked her husband, did some work for him. I’ve done work for her, too. I don’t have to like all my clients. How did your brother get tangled up with her?”

  “Because she—” She broke off, scowled. “I’m not saying. How did you get Malachi’s name, unless she gave it to you?”

  “Tia mentioned him.” He walked in silence for a while.

  “Listen, you and your family seem to have a nice business going here,” he continued. “You should think about letting this go. You’re out of your league with Anita.”

  “You don’t know me or my league. We’ll have the Three Fates before it’s done, that’s a promise. And if you’re such an interested collector, you can prepare yourself to ante up for them.”

  “And I thought you weren’t a money-grubber.”

  Because she heard the humor in his voice, it didn’t ruffle her feathers. “I’m a businesswoman, Jack, as you pointed out yourself. And I can wheel and deal as well as anyone. Better than most. I’ve done my research on the Fates. The complete set at auction at a place like Wyley’s or Sotheby’s could go for upwards of twenty million American dollars. More, if the right publicity spin’s put on it.”

  “An incomplete set, even two-thirds of the three, would only net a fraction of that, and only from an interested collector.”

  “We’ll have the three. We were meant to.”

  He let it go and kept pace with her brisk march up a long hill at the very edge of town. At the top was a pretty house with a pretty garden, and a pretty woman tending it.

  She straightened, shielded her eyes with the flat of her hand. When she smiled in greeting, Jack caught the resemblance around the mouth.

  “Well, Becca darling, what have you brought home with you?”

  “Jack Burdett. I invited him home for tea before I knew he was a liar and a sneak.”

  “Is that so?” Eileen’s smile didn’t dim in the slightest. “Well, an invitation’s an invitation after all. I’m Eileen Sullivan.” She extended her hand over the garden gate. “Mother to this rude creature.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. I enjoyed your talk during the tour.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so. You’re from America?” she added as she opened the gate.

  “New York. I’m in Cobh as I was hoping to talk to your son Malachi, regarding the Three Fates.”

  “Sure, you have no trouble spilling it all out to her in a lump,” Rebecca scolded. “With me it’s all flirtation and pretense.”

  “I said I liked the look of you, and since you don’t strike me as a stupid woman, you’d know if a man looks at you and doesn’t like what he sees, he’s got a serious problem. Boiled down, that means there was flirtation but no pretense. I’ve annoyed your daughter, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  Amused, intrigued, Eileen nodded. “That’s easily done. Maybe we should talk inside before the neighbors start wagging about it. Kate Curry’s already peeking out the window. So, you’ve come from New York,” she continued as she started up the short walk to the door. “Have you family there?”

  “Not anymore. My parents moved to Arizona several years ago. They like the weather.”

  “Hot, I suppose. No wife, then?”

  “Not anymore. I’m divorced.”

  “Ah.” Eileen led the way into the company parlor. “That’s a pity.”

  “The marriage was the pity. The divorce was a lot easier on both of us. You have a good home, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  She liked the way he put it. “Yes, I do, and you make yourself comfortable in it. I’ll see about that tea, then we’ll talk. Rebecca, entertain our guest.”

  “Ma.” With a withering glance at Jack, Rebecca hustled after Eileen.

  He could hear the whispers from the hallway where they stood. Argued, he decided with a grin. He couldn’t make out the words, until the last of them. That was clear.

  “Rebecca Anne Margaret Sullivan, you get in the company parlor and show some manners this minute, or I’ll know the reason why.”

  Rebecca stomped back in, flung herself in the chair across from Jack’s. Her face was full of storms, and her voice full of ice. “Don’t think you’ll get around me because you got around my mother.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Rebecca Anne Margaret.”

  “Oh, stuff it.”

  “Tell me why your brother went back to New York. Tell me why you think Anita’s involved in a murder.”

  “I’ll tell you nothing at all until I’ve had a whack at my computer and seen how much of what you’ve told me is the truth.”

  “Go ahead, do it now.” He waved a hand. “I’ll cover for you with your mother.”

  Rebecca weighed her mother’s wrath against the burn of her own curiosity. Knowing she’d pay for it dearly, she got to her feet. “If one single thing you’ve said doesn’t match, I’ll boot you out personally.”

  She walked to the doorway, and Jack saw her send an uneasy glance down the hall, where her mother had gone, before she charged up the steps.

  Because he sympathized with a child’s healthy fear of her mother, he rose and wandered back to the kitchen.

  “I hope you don’t mind.” He stepped in while Eileen cut cake into neat squares. “I wanted to see the house.”

  “I heard that girl go upstairs, and after I told her not to.”

  “My fault. I told her to go ahead and run a check on me. You’ll both feel more comfortable once she does.”

  “If I didn’t feel comfortable now, you wouldn’t be in my home.” She tapped a long-bladed knife against the side of the cake plate, smiling a little when his gaze dropped to it. “I know how to judge a man when I look him in the eye. And I know how to take care of my own.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Good. Now I know why I went and baked this cake this morning, though the boys aren’t about to eat it.” She turned to the stove to finish the tea. “For company, it’s the parlor. For business, it’s the kitchen.”

  “Then I guess it’s the kitchen.”

  “Have a seat, and have some cake. When the girl gets going on that computer, there’s no telling when she’ll show her face again.”

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had homemade cake, or eaten in a kitchen that wasn’t his own. It relaxed him, and made the time he normally would have marked pass easily.

  It was thirty minutes or more before Rebecca sailed in and pulled up a chair. “He’s who he says he is,” she said to her mother, “so that’s something.” When she reached for a piece of cake, Eileen slapped her hand away.

  “You don’t deserve any sweets.”

  “Oh, Ma.”

  “Whatever your age, Rebecca, you don’t disobey your mother without consequences.”

  Her brows drew together, but she left the cake alone. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” She shifted her gaze, and the darts in it, to Jack. “I wonder what you’d be needing with a flat in New York, and another in Los Angeles, and still a third in London.”

  Though she surprised him, he sipped his tea. It had taken more than average computer skills to dig that deep. “I travel a lot, and prefer my own place to hotels when I can manage it.”

  “And what does the man’s personal business have to do with this, Becca?”

  At her mother’s censorious tone, she bristled. “I’ve got to know the nature of him, don’t I? He shows up here this way, just after Mal’s left, and after that horrible business in New York, where he admits he’s just come from.”

  “I’d have done the same,” he told
her with a nod. “And more.”

  “I intend to do more. But more takes time. What I did find was that you checked into your hotel here early this morning, driving a rental car. And you’d booked your room two days ago. That’s before the trouble in New York, so I can’t see what one has to do with the other.”

  He leaned forward now. “Tell me who was murdered.”