At least at first. Stefan had been killed a week later—shot two days before she’d returned to Boston. Horrible. Unimaginable. Who would want to kill such a quiet, charming man?
Verity insisted Stefan hadn’t been targeted. Just a random shooting...
But that was an opinion not a fact, as Adalyn knew her parents would say. Graham and Verity hadn’t wanted to talk about Stefan and his death on their visit last week. They were there to put the tragedy out of their minds, at least for a few days.
Telling her mother about Stefan’s death had definitely been a mistake. That was crystal clear to Adalyn now, but it had nothing to do with her or her new friends. The police hadn’t questioned her. Given what they saw every day, her parents had a jaded view of the world and tended to fret about her—not that they ever went out of their way to be a real part of her life, especially since their divorce. They’d lectured her about safety measures when she’d left for London but hadn’t come to visit her.
No, there’d been no reason to tell them about Stefan, a tragedy that had occurred an ocean away from Boston—but she’d blabbed to her mother, anyway.
At least she hadn’t made the same mistake with the FBI agents.
Shower, alcohol and the emotions of the day had taken their toll, and Adalyn couldn’t keep her eyes open. The ends of her hair were still damp. If she woke up with serious bed head, so be it. She kicked off her covers. There was no air-conditioning in her apartment. It was a shortcoming her mother had, of course, noticed first thing. Her father?
“Yeah, he’ll notice, too.”
She’d text or email Verity in the morning and see how she was doing now that she was home. If she could get a job in London when she graduated, she’d take it in a heartbeat. She loved Boston, but right now, it felt too close to Washington, where her parents were.
Just getting adjusted to her new job and apartment after three months away, maybe, and to being twenty-one. It wasn’t as if a gong had gone off at the stroke of midnight and she’d suddenly had her act together. She was still figuring things out, still wishing her family hadn’t dissolved...still upset that her time in England had been marred by murder and her mother had seen fit to skip out on her daughter’s twenty-first birthday dinner.
“Wherever you are, Mom, I hope you’re having a good time.”
Did she mean it?
“Yes.”
Adalyn flipped onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
“No, I hope she’s racked with guilt and can’t sleep a wink.”
She didn’t like the anger and resentment in her voice, but maybe being honest with herself would help her get to sleep.
“I’m worried, too,” she whispered, flipping onto her side. “Be okay, Mom. Please be okay.”
7
London, England
Despite a late bedtime after discovering a woman near death and enduring a chat with two London detectives, Wendell Sharpe managed to beat Oliver to the kitchen. His elderly friend was groomed and fully dressed, drinking coffee at the table, the coffee press empty but for the grounds. “I’d have saved you some, Oliver, but it’d be cold by now. You’re a tea drinker, anyway, aren’t you? I have tea more often since I moved to Dublin, but I need coffee this morning.”
“Yes, tea for me.”
Oliver had collected Wendell’s suitcase—such as it was—from the porter at Claridge’s and got him settled into the guest room. He looked tired but not too worse for the wear, given the shock of last night. Oliver filled the kettle with fresh water and put it on to boil. It was a large kitchen with white cabinets, updated since his parents’ day but along the same basics lines. He’d found he liked keeping things much the same here. A comfort, he supposed, but he could have chucked everything and started over, cleansed the apartment of every reminder of his parents and their untimely, inexplicable deaths, and that would have made sense, too.
“Shall I prepare poached eggs for us?” he asked his guest.
Wendell’s eyebrows went up. “You know how to cook?”
“For myself. I can’t say I’ve ever cooked for a guest.”
At the farm, Ruthie Burns, his longtime housekeeper, would handle tea and bring fresh scones or whip up whatever struck her fancy. Martin Hambly, Oliver’s friend and personal assistant, often joined him in London and would take care of breakfast, but he was at the farm. Oliver’s wire-fox terrier puppy was still in training and wasn’t particularly suited to city life. Best Alfred and Martin roam the Cotswolds countryside together rather than try to manage in London. Oliver didn’t mind being on his own, and he knew how to make tea and toast and, in a pinch, he could manage to poach an egg.
Wendell suggested Oliver have tea first, before tackling eggs. Oliver joined him at the table. The kitchen opened onto a balcony that looked out on St. James’s Park, but it was a chilly, gloomy morning.
“Any update on Verity Blackwood?” Wendell asked.
“Not yet.”
“Henrietta told you to leave poor Verity to her?”
“She did, and I always do what Henrietta says.”
“Smart man,” Wendell said.
Oliver poured his tea from a simple white pot, but he couldn’t sit still. Normally he started his day with tai chi—sometimes in the park—but he’d rolled out of bed, showered, got dressed and come straight to the kitchen. He took his tea to the Aga and got busy with the eggs.
The eggs were brilliant, if he did say so himself. The toast was less of a success, meaning there wasn’t any. He hadn’t bought bread, and there was none in the freezer. Wendell didn’t complain, but he looked very pleased, indeed, when Henrietta breezed in with fresh croissants. “They’re spectacular.” She set the bag on the table. “I got them at the hotel. I’ve already had two, but I went for a run first thing to clear my head.”
The run was the MI5 officer Henrietta, the croissants the garden designer Henrietta. In her own way, she was as big a mess as Oliver was, both of them trying to integrate warring parts of themselves. At least being a garden designer wasn’t illegal. If she’d ventured into legal gray areas with her intelligence work, she’d never tell him. Not that Oliver had asked or wanted to know.
No. He wanted to know.
She set out three small plates and placed a croissant on each. “I’ll just stare at mine. Three’s a bit much even with a run, but if I leave it in the bag, I’ll eat it for sure.”
“That makes no sense,” Oliver said.
“It does to me.” She dropped into a chair across from Wendell, eyeing her croissant as she poured herself tea. “I have information on Verity Blackwood.”
“Great,” Wendell said. “Spill.”
“Spill? That suggests I’m divulging classified information.”
“It’s just an old-fashioned expression.”
Oliver knew this mood of hers. There’d be no talk of Thor movies and opera. She was MI5 now, down to her skirted suit, simple blue shirt, flats and tidy hair. As a garden designer, she never had tidy hair. “Tell us what you can, then,” he said softly.
“Verity is stable but intubated and unable to speak. There are many variables in her recovery, including whether she’s suffered any permanent damage, given her overdose. She will stay in hospital at least overnight, and more likely several days. Longer, obviously, if there was damage or there are complications with her recovery.”
“What about family?” Wendell asked. “Is someone with her?”
“Police have yet to contact her husband. He was scheduled to fly home with her, but canceled his reservation two hours before their flight. He hasn’t rescheduled. Verity has a sister in Edinburgh. She’s arriving in London this morning to be with her.” Henrietta produced her phone and swiped to a photograph. “This is Verity when she isn’t in the midst of an opiate overdose.”
Oliver took the phone, Wendell peering at the photo with him. Ve
rity Blackwood was smiling, pale blue eyes crinkling as she stood in front of a hanging basket of flowers and a trellis of more flowers. “Where’s this, do you know?” Oliver asked.
“The Blackwood home in Oxford.”
He pointed at the trellis. “Clematis?”
Henrietta beamed at him. “Yes, very good.” She took her phone. “Here’s Graham.” She flipped to another photo and handed her phone back to Oliver. “Best I could come up with in a pinch.”
A balding man in fly-fishing gear grinned from a riverbank. “Do you suppose Graham stayed in the US to go fishing?” Wendell asked.
“Put the wife on a plane, turn off the phone and head to the wilds of New England to catch fish and shut out the world?” Henrietta shuddered. “Not my cup of tea.”
“Mine, either,” Wendell said, handing her the phone. “I’d rather have a root canal myself.”
Oliver decided not to admit he rather enjoyed fly-fishing.
Henrietta sighed. “Verity’s more urban than her husband, at least from what I can see so far. I can imagine a younger wife with a passion for art not caring to stick around for a last-minute fishing expedition.” She glanced at Oliver. “My grandfather was a keen fly-fisherman, did I tell you?”
Oliver hadn’t known that. “Freddy?”
“No, my mother’s father. The only time he appreciated country life was when he was fishing or tucked by the fire with a good Scotch. But, moving along. Graham and Verity met two years ago at a London cocktail party and were married six months later. They had a church wedding in Oxford. He’s fifty-one, she’s thirty-six—not as great an age difference as I’d thought. He looks older in his fishing photo. They have no children together or separately. Verity appears to have quit her job at the National Gallery just before she and Graham married. He’s wealthy, and she supports causes dear to her, such as art conservation, preservation and restoration.” Henrietta raised her gaze to Wendell. “I gather there’s a difference.”
“There is,” he said.
“Just confirming.”
Oliver smiled. “That means she doesn’t want a lecture in the subject.”
“Another time,” she said. “Graham has never needed to work to keep a roof over his head, but he’s not super-rich, just quite well-off, and he tends to live beneath his means. He served as a respected diplomat for twenty years, but he was never high profile. He never sought the limelight, but he positioned that as an asset, apparently, rather than a drawback now that he has his own think tank. It’s a small and low-profile think tank but respectable.”
“Had you heard of it?” Wendell asked Henrietta.
She shook her head. “Not until Oliver mentioned it last night. I’ll look into it further should events warrant. At this point, there’s no indication Verity Blackwood was taking opioids on prescription to treat pain or another medical condition, either currently or recently, or has a history of drug abuse of any kind. Her overdose could be an accident—a simple mix-up that had her thinking she was taking herbs—or it could be drug abuse or an attempt to kill herself.”
“Or someone to kill her,” Oliver said.
“Yes, there’s that.”
Wendell broke off a piece of croissant. “If Verity was suicidal, why go to the trouble of meeting me?”
“So you’d find her?” Henrietta shrugged. “Impossible to say, really. I wonder if she forgot she had slipped the pills into an herb bottle and she took them by mistake when she was half asleep and a bit disoriented from jet lag. Some people suffer terribly switching time zones, particularly when flying east.”
Oliver picked at his croissant, not sure he wanted any. Henrietta wouldn’t be offended if he saved it for later or chucked it altogether. She muttered under her breath and then dove into hers. “I see you’re not resisting,” he said.
“I did resist. I just gave in after...how many minutes?”
“Not many,” Wendell said. “Have at it, kid. Life is short. Do you have any idea why Mrs. Blackwood wanted to talk to me about forgeries?”
“None, I’m afraid,” Henrietta said.
“I wish I’d pressed her for more information. Given her background, I would think she’d know a fair amount about forgeries.”
“Historical forgeries, maybe,” Oliver said. “Not the kind she wanted to ask you about.”
Wendell nodded thoughtfully. “Good point. She didn’t waste any time calling me once she landed, but I’d just be speculating about what she was thinking. Figured we’d get into details when we met.” He sighed, scooping up a few last croissant crumbs. “Drugs. Hell of a thing. My son became dependent on opioids. He worked up a tolerance—needed to take more to get the same effects. It wasn’t an addiction, technically, but it was tough to get off them. He never overdosed.”
“Depressed breathing is usually what leads to death in an opioid overdose,” Henrietta said. “Verity probably thought she was falling sleep. She would have stopped breathing altogether and died if we hadn’t come upon her when we did.”
Wendell tossed the crumbs on his napkin. “An unpleasant business. Anything else you can tell us?”
“I’ve told you everything I’ve learned.” She frowned at her plate. “Oh, dear. Look, I’ve eaten half the bloody croissant.”
“You need to practice mindful eating,” Oliver said. “If you’re going to have a croissant, enjoy it. Don’t wolf it down without paying any attention—”
“Thank you, Oliver, I did mindfully enjoy every bite of my first two croissants.”
He grinned. “You don’t need my advice?”
“I might but certainly not on eating croissants.”
“Going to finish it, aren’t you?”
“Every crumb.” She turned to Wendell. “You should feel free to carry on with your other business in London. The police know how to reach you if they have further questions, and Oliver and I will keep you updated on any new developments.”
“I don’t need to be a fifth wheel,” Wendell said. “I’ll clear out, head back to Ireland. I’ll see my friends another time, and I can do any business from Dublin. If Verity Blackwood wants to talk to me once she’s recovered, she can get in touch. I’m glad she’s hanging in there, and I hope she makes a full recovery.”
Henrietta shifted from her croissant to her tea. “I suspect our Verity is a novice opiate taker. A habitual user or an addict would more easily tolerate the amount she apparently ingested. As you mentioned, Wendell, people build up a tolerance and often need more and more for it to have the desired effect.”
Oliver added more tea to Henrietta’s cup. “There was an empty glass of wine on the bedside table. Alcohol enhances the effects of opioids.”
“Damnable stuff,” Wendell muttered.
“It can be, for sure.” Henrietta stared at her tea. “I don’t know if or for how long her brain was deprived of oxygen. Brain injury can occur after just a few minutes. Memory loss, difficulty concentrating, impaired coordination, impaired hearing and vision—they’re all possibilities. Her ability to read and write could be affected. Doctors won’t know for a bit. Maybe she can tell us what happened when she’s through the worst. How she got the drugs. Why she took them.”
Wendell nodded. “I want to know where her husband is.”
“But you’re going to leave the investigation to the authorities, aren’t you, Wendell?” Henrietta’s tone was cheerful but with a dictatorial undertone. “Mrs. Blackwood is receiving treatment. There’s little we can do right now, anyway.”
Wendell angled a skeptical look at Oliver. “And I suppose you two are going to have tea and crumpets and talk about puppies, or do a bit of shopping, maybe? Take a walk in the park? Pop in on the queen?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, my friend,” Oliver said. “I suspect Henrietta and I will drive out to the Cotswolds today.”
“Through Oxford,” Wendell added
knowingly. “If you need me to analyze anything you learn at the Blackwoods’ residence, you know how to reach me.”
Oliver ignored him. “Have you spoken with your grandchildren?”
“Emma and Lucas? No. It’s the dead of night in New England.”
“Do you plan to ring them?” Henrietta asked.
“I probably should before the police do. If Graham Blackwood’s fishing and Verity Blackwood got her drugs in Boston...” Wendell didn’t finish. “I’ll wait until the sun’s up there, or you two can call them.”
Oliver collected the breakfast dishes and took them to the sink while Henrietta finished the rest of her croissant. She was eyeing his when he grabbed it and took a huge bite. She scowled. “Not going to offer me a bite, are you?”
“It’s delicious. I’m saving you from yourself. Even one bite of a fourth croissant would ruin you on them.”
“I sincerely doubt it.”
He glanced at the clock on the wall, a wedding present to his parents from a friend. It was a few minutes after nine. That meant it was only 4:00 a.m. in Boston. Yes, too early to ring Emma Sharpe. Last night had been a terrible shock for her grandfather. As experienced as he was in the ways of the world, a young woman near death from a drug overdose wasn’t remotely what he was accustomed to encountering in a day’s work.
“Would I was here chasing a cheeky art thief,” Wendell said, as if he’d read Oliver’s mind.
“Would you were, too, my friend.”
“Just don’t go stealing a painting for old times’ sake. You’ll be in touch if you need me?”
“Of course,” Oliver said. “Without hesitation. Stay here as long as you’d like.”
“I’ll book my flight. You’ll call Emma, won’t you?”
“She’ll worry—”
“Tell her I’ll call her when I get back home.”
Oliver didn’t argue. He offered the rest of his croissant to Henrietta, but she was well and truly done now and instead helped him clean up. He could see that she was as concerned about their octogenarian friend as he was. Good he was returning home to Ireland.
Impostor's Lure Page 6
