Adalyn smiled at her father, who winked at her. “At least your mother never thought it was me who had her stuffed in a cellar bathroom.”
“Oh, but I did. It was one of the scenarios that ran through my mind. That damn Patrick McDermott finally snapped. It made me laugh, at least.” She turned to Adalyn. “We get angry sometimes, but your dad and I are friends and always will be. We share you. That’s a good thing, the best thing in our lives. I’m sorry about your friends. At least Verity will be okay. She wanted to talk to me, but her husband turned up instead. It was a red flag. Then you tell me at brunch about this linguist’s death. I figured I’d talk to Graham and get together with my FBI friends that evening and, if warranted, see what they had to say.”
“At my birthday dinner,” Adalyn said. “Only you, Mom.”
She grinned. “What?”
Lucy Yankowski entered the waiting room. “Matt’s out of surgery. It went well. He’ll need time but he’ll make a full recovery. This has been my nightmare for fifteen years, but he’ll be fine. I can see him for a few minutes. Would you—” Her voice cracked. “Would you hang on to my knitting? I’ll be back soon.”
“I’ll check out your alpaca yarn,” Adalyn said.
Lucy smiled. “It’s wonderful. You’ll be knitting with it before long.”
She went with the nurse to the recovery room.
“Alpaca yarn, Adalyn?” her mother asked.
“You should feel it. It’s gorgeous.”
She smiled. “You’re right. I might try knitting again after all.”
* * *
The ER waiting room at Southern Maine Medical wasn’t crowded when Colin arrived with Emma. A few people with minor ailments sat far apart from each other. Faye and Lucas Sharpe and Finian Bracken were in an ER treatment room with Timothy. Colin checked with the receptionist to find out where to go, but before she could respond, Finian came through the ER doors into the waiting room.
Emma surged to him. “Finian, what’s going on? How’s Dad?”
Colin had never seen their Irish friend look so helpless. “I’m sorry, Emma. Your father went into cardiac arrest. There was nothing anyone could do. He died just as we got here.”
She stared at him. “What?”
Finian had a soul-deep sadness in his eyes. “Timothy’s gone to God, my dear friend. Your mother and brother were at his side.”
Colin put an arm around Emma’s waist as she absorbed the news. He’d seen it happen before. Timothy hadn’t been in the water long enough for hypothermia to get him, but the shock of the cold on his already weakened system had sent him into cardiac arrest.
“The anointing of the sick...the sacrament...” Emma couldn’t get the words out.
Finian Bracken gave a solemn nod. “He received the sacrament, Emma. He was at peace on his final journey.”
“Strength, peace and courage.” She looked up, her green eyes soft with tears and love. “He was a man of faith, Father. In his own way. Thank you.”
“He had a heart condition,” Finian said. “Your mother knew. They didn’t want you and Lucas to worry any more than you already did. She asked me to tell you.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
Colin could feel her steady against his arm. “Emma, I’m so sorry.”
She kept her gaze on Finian. “Granddad? Does he know?”
“Not yet. They’re waiting for you. It’s late in Dublin.”
“He knows,” she said quietly. “The banshee...”
Finian looked out the windows at the Maine summer afternoon, but it was as if he was seeing his homeland, the green hills of the Ireland he’d left months ago. “The banshee your grandfather heard was keening for Timothy. His son.” Finian shifted back to Emma. “I’ll wait inside the doors and take you to your mother and brother when you’re ready.”
She watched him go through the double doors, back into the ER. Colin ached for her. “I’m glad you were with him,” she whispered. “I’m glad he didn’t die out there in the water, and Mom and Lucas got here in time—and Finian. Dad’s at peace. I believe that. But, Colin...”
He took her hand and drew her to him. “I know, Emma. I know, babe.”
She sobbed into his chest. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
27
Oxford, England
I’ll burn the bloody painting.
Just like Clementine Churchill did with the portrait Winston so hated, depicting him as an old man...an authentic painting, likely brilliant, done by Graham Sutherland. Lady Churchill, ever devoted to her husband, had it destroyed.
I’ll burn the fake Fletcher Campbell painting. I don’t want any reminders of that murderer Rex in my home.
I enter the drawing room. I’m weak. My sister is in the kitchen, making tea, eager to fuss over me. I’m pleased she’s here. She knows this place never felt like my home. Now it never will. It’s the Blackwood home, and there are no Blackwoods to take it. Modest as it is by Oxford standards, it holds their family history. That meant so much to Graham. He’d take out that old game-hunting rifle and see the worn spots where his father and grandfather had used it. Continuity from one generation to the next. But there would be no more Blackwoods here.
I touch the painting that has caused so much trouble.
“Stefan... I’m so sorry...”
Shot with Graham’s rifle. The Blackwood rifle. Stolen by that monster Rex.
The river scene was a pleasant one. There was no denying that. Fletcher had guided Rex, and probably Ophelia, too, but it was missing his spark, his genius... I can see that now. If only I’d asked questions sooner. Done something sooner. The painting would never be worth what Graham had paid for it...
No.
I’ll burn it first chance I get. I’ll get my sister’s help. We’ll drink wine and be done with it.
It’ll be cathartic. A new beginning.
Dear Graham, wanting to help a friend...trusting, believing he wouldn’t be cheated...
I hear the kettle ding. Tea and biscuits soon. Then we’ll get the dog. I’ll scatter Graham’s ashes on my own, once they arrive from the US. The pup and I will find a spot on the river Graham so loved. We had a short time together, but it was good. He was kind and frugal, leaving no debts, perhaps little mark on this world—but didn’t kindness always leave a mark?
I take the painting off the wall and set it in the entry, turned around so that I don’t have to see the scene.
I wish I had my husband back. I wish we’d had a chance to have children together.
When the time is right, I’ll return to London, and to work, I don’t know where—somewhere nice. I’m young. I’ll put evil Rex behind me. If Adalyn wants to get in touch, I’ll respond, but I won’t seek her out. She’s young. She needs to create her own life and not get dragged down by these past weeks.
Graham left me a bit of money, and this house, which will sell easily. His life’s work was international diplomacy and policy. I’ll make a donation in his name to that work, and transfer anything of interest in the think tank to let someone else continue its mission.
My sister calls me for tea.
I have a chance at a new beginning for me.
A new life.
I kick a hole in the painting as I head out to the patio for tea, biscuits and planning our fire and wine.
28
Near Stow-on-the-Wold, the Cotswolds, England
Oliver didn’t resist in the slightest when Henrietta snuggled with him on the couch in the drawing room at the farm, with glasses of his lowlands single malt on the table in front of them. She liked it better than he did. Made a change. “Why do you suppose Rex didn’t throw the Rigby into the river after he shot poor Stefan Petrescu?” she asked.
Oliver should have known she was still thinking about the case. The police had completed their tho
rough search of both the Blackwood house and the Campbells’ Oxford cottage. They’d discovered the Rigby in Graham’s gun cabinet. “Rex was arrogant enough to think the police would never test Graham’s rifle as the murder weapon.”
“Hmm. It would have caused more questions if it’d turned up missing, I suppose. Rex had access to the Rigby and knew how to use it, and that’s what he did.”
“Graham’s father and grandfather were keen game bird hunters.”
Henrietta raised her head from Oliver’s shoulder, some of her curls sticking out, others matted down. “And how do you know?”
“Oxford’s my old stomping grounds.”
“Everyone was taken in by Rex’s charms and sympathetic to his position as his reckless parents’ only child. He was stuck caring for them, but he never let anyone think there was a problem—beyond flagrant infidelities, obvious overspending and then severe illness. He made it look easy, as if he didn’t have a care in the world and could manage whatever happened.” Henrietta resumed her snuggling position. “He knew how to put it on.”
“He’d watched his parents long enough,” Oliver said.
“He never grew up, did he? He lived in something of a bubble, and when it burst, it burst badly.”
Oliver thought that was a perfect description. Jolie Romero and the Blackwoods hadn’t realized how much Rex had at stake with his mother’s death and father’s mental decline. No more paintings meant no more money. “Do you think Graham didn’t go home with Verity because he suspected Stefan’s death had something to do with her concerns about the Campbell painting?”
“He considered the Campbells friends,” Henrietta said.
“Perhaps he felt a bit sorry for Rex.”
“Rex must have been angry at his parents for the situation in which he found himself—caring for his dying mother, caring for his father on his long goodbye, utterly broke. They used him,” Henrietta added with a sigh. “He had no money, and he still had his father’s care to see to. What if he’d had to get a job? He had no skills.”
“He managed to kill two people and almost killed more.”
“A pathology not a job skill,” Henrietta said firmly.
“I wonder if he knew all along his parents hadn’t saved a penny.”
She gazed at the quiet room. “One does, don’t you think? Deep down, one knows.”
“I suppose,” Oliver said. “We are extremely fortunate, Henrietta, to have what we have. I’m no saint, but Rex...”
“Rex would have been no use to MI5, that I can say.” She raised her head, her eyes luminous in the evening light. “If all this disappeared, we’d figure things out.”
“Stefan knew the painting was a fake but he gave Rex a chance to put things right. He probably had no idea Rex was behind the whole thing. Rex felt he had no choice but to kill him. Daring, waiting for him in the dark. I suppose he’d have found another way if Stefan hadn’t stopped for his routine comfort break.”
“Poor man.”
Henrietta settled back down, her head on Oliver’s shoulder. He brushed his lips on her hair. She’d been there all the time, in and out at her great-aunt’s house, lonely, fierce, intelligent. This incredible woman.
But she was contemplative, sorting out the past days in her mind. “And Timothy Sharpe,” she said, her sadness palpable. “Rex didn’t kill him but he would have. He was flailing around for someone to take the blame. Life had been good for him and then it wasn’t. It was bloody rough, and he did the only thing he knew how to do—figure out how to live off his parents.”
“He even set up Fletcher, his own father. It’s lucky he didn’t shoot someone.”
They picked up their glasses and toasted their friend’s departed father.
“Best to leave Yank and Emma and Colin to recover and grieve,” Henrietta said, sipping the whiskey.
Oliver cupped his glass in his palm. “And us, Henrietta?”
“We’re together. It’s destiny, I suppose.” She smiled, taking his glass from him and setting it and hers on the table. She returned to him, her curls hanging in her face, shadows in her eyes. “We’re meant for each other, Oliver. Now, always.”
He tucked a finger under her chin, kissed her and smiled. “This means I have to watch those Thor movies, doesn’t it?”
She patted his knee. “You’ll love them. I’ll make popcorn.”
He tucked her hair behind her ears. “Timothy Sharpe was a good man, Henrietta. That’s enough, isn’t it? To live your life as best you can, and at the end people know you were a good person.”
She touched her fingertips to his lips. “Yes, my sweet, dear mythologist, best friend, lover, master of Alfred, ex–art thief and MI5 helper, it’s enough.” She got to her feet, her hair in her face as she looked down at him. “It’s everything, Oliver.”
“I love you, Henrietta. You know that, don’t you?”
She grinned. “Yes, but it bears repeating. Often.”
“And me? Can you—”
“Always, Oliver. I love you.”
“It’s not just because I do all those martial arts and am good in bed?”
“Well, there’s that.” She laughed, color rising in her cheeks. MI5 though she was, she still could blush. “Shall I make that popcorn?”
“Do I have popcorn?”
“You do. Ruthie and I saw to it.”
“Put on the first Thor movie, then. Pop the popcorn. I’ll refill your glass.” He settled back in the couch, tasting the Scotch, watching Henrietta, wanting her in bed with him, now. He’d see if they made it through the movie. “We’ll let Alfred be, though.”
“It’s settled, isn’t it? He’s Martin’s dog.”
29
Rock Point, Maine
Colin stood on the pier in Rock Point harbor with Finian Bracken, in the same spot where they’d met last June. They’d walked down from the church after Timothy Sharpe’s funeral. Finian had led the service. Sam Padgett and several other members of HIT had attended, in support of Emma, but Yank was still recovering in the hospital. Lucy had come up, but was on her way back to be with her husband. She’d said, smiling through tears, that Yank was considering learning to knit as a way to relax. Colin would believe it when he saw his boss with knitting needles and yarn, but stranger things had happened.
A cormorant dove out in the harbor, quiet under a clear early-evening sky. Lobster boats were tied at their moorings. It was midtide, waves washing onto pebbles and mudflats. “You have doubts, Fin.”
His friend stared at the water. “I am where I am called to be.”
“You are. For now, not forever.”
“You always speak honestly, don’t you?”
“Sometimes I can be too blunt.”
“There’s no posturing with me because I’m a priest.” Finian paused, glancing at Colin. “But I am a priest, Colin. If you wish to speak to me in that capacity, you know you can.”
“Yeah. I do.” He watched the cormorant reappear. Emma loved to watch cormorants. He loved watching them with her. “What if I missed something, Fin?”
“Then you missed something. You did your best. It’s all any of us can ask of ourselves.” Finian paused, touched one of the lobster traps stacked next to him. “Being an FBI agent is your calling, Colin.”
The cormorant dove again, unaware of funerals, investigations, grief. “It’s a job.”
“It’s a job you’re good at. You stop people from doing bad things or you find them and arrest them before they can do more bad things. You bring them to account.”
“If it’s a calling...” He turned to his friend. “Callings can change.”
Finian smiled. “You’re a stubborn man.”
They left the cormorant to do its thing and walked up to Hurley’s. Emma, Lucas and Faye were there. They’d persuaded Wendell not to risk the trip, given the strain
of losing his only son, and he’d stayed in Ireland. All the Donovans were there. Mike had come down from the Bold Coast and was explaining a fine point about lobstering to his love and Nashville native, Naomi MacBride. Andy was arguing with Julianne Maroney and her feisty grandmother about something. Kevin was alone at the bar with a beer. He’d thought they’d gotten to Timothy Sharpe in time and he’d be okay. Colin had, too. So had the medical types, at first. He and Kevin, Mike, Andy, their folks—they’d seen such things in their lives on the coast.
But this was Emma, Colin thought, watching her with her mother and brother. They were telling family stories, about good times as a family—times he could imagine but hadn’t shared.
Finian opened a new bottle of whiskey that Bracken Distillers had sent for today, with their condolences. Johnny Hurley himself poured the whiskey into glasses as Finian explained its complexities and sherry barrels and all the time, work and love that had gone into it. Johnny, a big man, rolled his eyes and grinned as he passed out the glasses.
“Sláinte,” Finian said finally, raising his glass.
Everyone gathered responded in kind. Colin had eased next to Emma and saw the tears streaming down her face as she said goodbye to her father.
* * *
Colin didn’t know if he wished he’d had more whiskey or less whiskey. It was late when he and Emma returned to the house, and she had flour and butter out on the counter. “I don’t know what kind of pie to make. I’m saving Dad’s wild blueberries for winter.” She dug out a wooden rolling pin that had belonged to her paternal grandmother. Colin hadn’t owned one in his life before Emma Sharpe. “Chocolate pie?”
“What kind of chocolate do you need?”
“Bittersweet would be best.”
He shook his head. “Don’t have any.”
She sighed. “I didn’t think so. I should abandon this effort, shouldn’t I?”
“The church ladies did make sure we had plenty to eat.”
“I haven’t had so many dabs of casseroles in ages. So good. Dad...” She shoved the rolling pin back in the drawer, returned the flour bin to its shelf and the butter to the fridge. “Sister Cecilia’s going to give me a painting lesson tomorrow. We’re meeting on the porch at the offices. Lucas closed them until Monday.”
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