Heron's Cove

by Carla Neggers

  “Sometimes people can’t face their own mortality,” Emma said.

  “I didn’t expect to inherit anything of value from her. She burned through money. I was surprised when I discovered she owned some rather gorgeous pieces of Russian jewelry and fancy knickknacks.”

  Emma leaned back against velvety cream-colored throw pillows. “You brought them with you?”

  Natalie lifted a large black case out of the closet and plopped it onto the bed. “I did indeed.” She waved a hand. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. I haven’t told anyone except Dmitri and now you. Well, and Ivan, of course. To tell Dmitri is to tell Ivan. But can you imagine anyone trying to steal anything with him around?”

  “I thought he and Dmitri were just friends these days.”

  “Ivan owes Dmitri his start. He’ll always have his back.” Natalie unlatched the case and opened the top. “He checked in with me after my mother’s death. That was decent of him. She never liked him. I think she was jealous of his friendship with Dmitri. They go way back. Dmitri sent flowers for her funeral. My mother at the end of their marriage—well, you know. You were in London then.”

  “For a few days only, Natalie,” Emma said. “I wouldn’t presume to judge your mother or her relationship with Dmitri or anyone else.”

  “I appreciate that. I really do, but I’ve found that I do best when I don’t pretend my mother was a nice, sweet, gentle soul. She wasn’t. She was mean.” Natalie rubbed her fingertips across the soft black velvety interior of the case. “I did hope at first that maybe Dmitri could change her. He’s such a forceful personality, as well as incredibly wealthy—not that I cared about that, but my mother did. He and I got along well. I was already in my twenties when they met. I had my own life. I never wanted anything from him. He doesn’t have children. I think for a while I was like the daughter he never had.”

  “Do you have any siblings?”

  Natalie shook her head. “Just me. I suppose my father might have other kids but I don’t have any contact with him. He was one of my mother’s flings. She threw him away before I was even born. I’m sorry if I sound harsh, but it’s easier if I face the truth. I’m happier as a result.” She withdrew a deep purple velvet bag from the case. “I don’t hate her, though. I never have.”

  Emma remained on the couch as Natalie gently removed a brooch from the velvet bag—a delicate, intricate red flower edged in gold, its petals gleaming with tiny rubies.

  She held the brooch up to the dim light. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? Does it look familiar to you?”

  It did, Emma thought. She remembered photographs of a flower brooch, one of the most interesting works in the Rusakov collection. She rose and took a closer look at the brooch and its perfect red flower. “There’s a folktale called ‘The Crimson Flower,’” she said. “Do you know it?”

  Natalie frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “A father is getting ready to leave for a trip and asks his three daughters what they’d like him to bring home for them. One daughter wants a gold crown, one wants a crystal mirror and one wants—”

  “A crimson flower,” Natalie finished with a smile. “How cool.”

  “The father finds one on the property of a beast.”

  “Ah. Of course. And this beast turns into a handsome prince?”

  “Eventually. The daughter is forced to live with the beast, but he allows her to go home to visit her father, who is sick. She promises to return by a certain time. Her sisters trick her and she doesn’t keep her promise and returns to the beast late.”

  “Oh, dear. He died?”

  Emma nodded. “She’s overcome with grief and falls on his body, finally realizing that she loves him. Her genuine love breaks the spell that turned him into a beast. He comes to life as the handsome prince he really is.”

  “And they live happily ever after,” Natalie said with a satisfied sigh, then returned the brooch to the velvet bag. “I’d rather fall in love without tricks and evil spells, wouldn’t you?”

  “Most definitely,” Emma said with a laugh.

  “It might take a little magic, though,” Natalie added lightly. “All the pieces in the collection have some kind of Russian folk or fairy-tale theme. There are two pendants, the brooch, a bracelet, a ring, a decorative hand mirror, a cigarette case—you get the idea. Do they sound familiar?”

  “Natalie…”

  “They’re from Dmitri, aren’t they?”

  “I think you should talk to him,” Emma said.

  “He said you could tell me.”

  “I know he did, but I’d prefer you two sort this out yourselves. Your mother never said anything to you about this collection?”

  “No. Nothing. She didn’t want me to have anything to do with Dmitri after the divorce. I could have told her to go to blazes, but I didn’t. I respected her wishes.” Natalie sank onto the edge of the bed. “Emma, he gave this collection to my mother, didn’t he?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Yes, of course. What else? My mother was a lot of things but she wasn’t a thief.” Natalie snapped the case shut. “I just want to know if Dmitri gave my mother some or all of these pieces, or if someone else did, or if she bought them herself. Provenance won’t be an issue, right? I own the collection. I inherited it.”

  “I suggest you talk to Dmitri about those details.”

  Natalie slipped back into her heels. “My mother manipulated and used people but I swear to you she wasn’t a thief. I don’t want to keep what’s not mine, but things were so bad between Dmitri and my mother at the end, who knows what happened. What he agreed to in the heat of the moment and regretted later. What she got out of him in exchange for keeping her mouth shut after they split.”

  “Do you have plans for the collection?” Emma asked.

  “Sell it. Give it away. I don’t know. Can you at least tell me where these pieces came from? I mean, what they are—when they were made, who crafted them?”

  Emma debated a moment before answering. “The crimson flower brooch looks like it could be Russian Art Nouveau. If it’s genuine, it was probably crafted in the late nineteenth-century. Beyond that…”

  “I know, I know. Talk to Dmitri.” Natalie gave a small, sad laugh. “He’s sweet in his own way, but he can be quite ruthless. I can’t imagine that he’d just let this collection go without a fight if he didn’t mean for my mother to have it. Can you?”

  “It doesn’t matter what either of us can or can’t imagine.”

  Natalie fingered a silver latch on the case. “I wish I’d been brave enough to stand up to my mother and stay in touch with Dmitri in spite of her, but he knows what she was like.” She jumped up and returned the case to the closet, shutting the door firmly. “Were you in London four years ago because of this collection? Did Dmitri hire Sharpe Fine Art Recovery because it disappeared?”

  “Dmitri was a client, yes—”

  “Did he tell you my mother took the collection?”

  “My grandfather always conducts an independent investigation. He doesn’t take anyone’s word for anything.”

  “Maybe the collection was part of the divorce. The spoils of war. My mother had a passion for Russian art. She and Dmitri actually met at the Tretyakov Gallery. She loved Russia.” Natalie smiled, visibly less tense. “I preferred Dmitri’s apartment in London to that mansion he refurbished in Moscow.”

  “I’ve never seen Dmitri’s Moscow house,” Emma said.

  “I was only there once. It felt like a big old dungeon to me.” Natalie moved to the door, her pale hair a few tones darker in the dim light. “Time for a fresh cosmopolitan.”

  Emma followed her back out to the elevator and up to the lounge. Colin, Dmitri and Ivan were laughing together at the bar. It was dark now, village lights sparkling in the clear night air, stars out over the ocean. As she crossed over to the men, Emma was aware of Colin’s smoky eyes on her. She had no idea what Dmitri and Ivan had been telling him, what he might have guessed about what
she was doing aboard the Nightingale herself.

  Natalie inhaled, then smiled widely and slipped in between Ivan and Dmitri. Dmitri kissed her on the cheek, then went back behind the bar to fix her another cosmopolitan.

  Emma stood next to Colin. He watched her over the rim of his glass. “Another glass of champagne?” he asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I didn’t know you liked champagne.”

  “It was what was offered,” she said.

  “Your friend Ivan is armed.”

  “I’m sure he has any required permits. He’s careful that way.”

  Colin set his beer glass on the gleaming bar. “I’m armed, too. I’m an FBI agent. You are, too.”

  “Think I need reminding?”

  “You tell me.”

  She ignored him and shifted her attention to Dmitri as he measured vodka for the cosmopolitan. “I should go, Dmitri, and give you and Natalie a chance to get reacquainted.”

  “Did she show you the collection?”

  “Just a brooch. It’s lovely.”

  “But you didn’t tell her where it came from,” he said, dumping the vodka in a martini glass.

  “It’s not up to me, even if I have your permission.”

  He reached for fresh-cut limes. “I understand.” He glanced at Natalie, who was talking with Ivan, either not paying attention to Dmitri or pretending she wasn’t. He squeezed lime into the glass. “I’d hoped you might make this easier for me. Are you sure you can’t stay for dinner?”

  “Not tonight. Another time, I hope. It’s good to see you again. Thanks for having me on board. It’s quite a yacht.”

  “When will your grandfather and your brother return from Ireland?”

  “Lucas should be back any day. My grandfather…” Emma smiled. “He’s heading to the southwest Irish coast to do some hiking. He’s starting in Killarney. Doesn’t that sound like the thing to do at eighty-one?”

  Dmitri handed the drink to Natalie. She took a quick sip and smiled. “I think at eighty-one I’d want to be drinking cosmopolitans on the beach.”

  “Or here,” Dmitri said, splashing vodka into a clean glass. “Such a spot, Emma. Wendell has a good life to return to in Heron’s Cove. What about you? Do you like the FBI?”

  “It suits me.”

  “More so than Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, or than being a nun?”

  “Each had its own time in my life.”

  “A sensible answer.” He set his drink on the bar and took her hands, kissed her on both cheeks. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “I hope so,” Emma said, then thanked him, said good-night to Natalie and Ivan and started to leave.

  She heard Dmitri offer Colin another beer. “A Coke would be great,” he said, making no move to follow her.

  Emma continued on out.

  Colin could find his own way home.

  Not for one second had she forgotten she was an FBI agent, or, she thought, a Sharpe. She was both, and he had just gotten a full dose of what that meant.

  And so had she.

  10

  EMMA PAUSED ON a small bridge that spanned a shallow cove next to the yacht club and marina. The cottage Tatiana Pavlova had rented was down on the water, tucked among a half-dozen small, shingled waterfront cottages and shops. The Nightingale was just out of sight from where Emma stood, but Tatiana would be able to see it from her cottage.

  And anyone on board would be able to see her.

  The lights inside the cottage were on but the blinds and curtains were pulled, as if she didn’t want to have anything to do with the world outside. Maybe she was sketching great blue herons, Emma thought, deciding against walking down to the cottage and knocking on the front door. Dmitri or Ivan could be watching her, or even Natalie. Emma didn’t want to draw attention to Tatiana for no good reason.

  She crossed the bridge and continued down the quiet street toward the Sharpe house and the ocean. On a summer night, Heron’s Cove would be filled with people—tourists, second-home owners, locals. Most of the inns and restaurants were still open, but the high season was winding down.

  The Sharpe house was dark except for a solitary light on in the kitchen. Emma went around back, and as she mounted the steps onto the porch, she saw that the kitchen door was open, as if it were a warm midsummer evening.

  Colin materialized in the screen door and pushed it open. Emma smiled. “You rugged undercover types do like to live dangerously. What if I’d thought you were an intruder? I could have shot you.”

  “You have more self-control than to shoot me.” He stepped back, letting her pass him into the kitchen. “I thought you’d stay for dinner with your Russian friends.”

  “Natalie Warren isn’t Russian.”

  “Dmitri Rusakov is. Ivan Alexander is. Most of the crew is. And Tatiana Pavlova. She is, too, even if she lives in London. I found her hiding in the hydrangeas in your backyard.” Colin shut the door; it was original to the house but would go in the renovations. “Is she safe?”

  “From who, Colin? You, me, Dmitri, Ivan, one of the crew? Herself?”

  “You tell me.”

  “If Tatiana were afraid for her safety, would she stay alone in a cottage within sight of Dmitri’s yacht? Would she stay alone at all?”

  “She didn’t want to be seen.”

  Emma nodded. “I understand that.”

  Colin went to the sink, pulled an empty pottery sugar pot and cream pitcher off an open shelf and placed them on the counter. “You’re going to need more boxes for all this kitchen stuff.”

  “We got most of the food out already. My grandfather gave us a list of what items he wants to keep. The rest can go. We’ll donate whatever looks decent to a church yard sale.” Feeling chilly now, if only because of Colin’s mood, Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “I called you so that you wouldn’t have to come down here and walk into this situation without warning.”

  “Situation?” He assessed her with those smoky eyes. “Finding you drinking expensive champagne on a Russian luxury yacht is a situation?”

  She pulled open an upper cupboard filled with mismatched juice glasses, wineglasses and dessert bowls. She lifted out a stack of bowls and set them on the counter, quickly straightening them as they tilted and nearly toppled over. She could feel Colin’s eyes still on her.

  “I can’t be in the dark, Emma,” he said. “About anything.”

  She reached for more dishes. “You know most of what I know.”

  “I don’t know who your source is.”

  “I haven’t told you who my source is.” She grabbed three wineglasses by the stems. “There’s a difference, isn’t there?”

  Edging closer to her, Colin took a stack of bowls from a high shelf and set them next to the wineglasses. “Did this same source tip you off about Vladimir Bulgov’s interest in Picasso?”

  She grabbed more glasses. “No.”

  “Do Bulgov and Dmitri Rusakov know each other?”

  “I have no information one way or the other.”

  “Meaning you don’t know,” he said, reaching for an old casserole dish.

  “Do you know?” Emma asked.

  “Rusakov wasn’t on my radar until his yacht turned up outside your back door. What about Ivan Alexander?” Colin set the casserole on the edge of the sink, his movements deliberate, controlled; the bruise on his forearm had deepened to shades of dark purple and blue. “Tell me about you and Ivan.”

  “You two had yourselves a good chat,” she said coolly. “You probably know more about him than I do.”

  “He says he got his start with Dmitri but he’s out on his own now. Works as a consultant when and if he feels like it. He’s loyal to Dmitri.”

  “They’re friends,” Emma said.

  With one hand, Colin took a half-dozen small, flowered dessert bowls from the shelf and set them next to hers. “Do you trust them?”

  “Trust them in what way?”

  He gave her a slight smile. “Spoken like an analys
t. Dmitri’s the former Sharpe client you mentioned last night. When you said Tatiana Pavlova was worried about a collection that involved a former Sharpe client, I wasn’t thinking Russian tycoon.”

  “It’s not unusual for a Sharpe Art Recovery client to be someone of means.”

  “There’s ‘means’ and there’s billions.”

  Emma raised an arm for more glassware, but her elbow struck Colin’s flowered dessert bowls and sent them clattering into the porcelain sink. None broke but she managed to startle herself. She took a deep breath, aware of Colin standing close to her, perhaps not quite trusting her—or at least her ability to handle Dmitri Rusakov and his reasons for being in Heron’s Cove.

  And knowing, she thought, that she hadn’t told him everything.

  She ignored the dishes in the sink and shut the cupboard door. “After I left the sisters and before I joined the FBI, I worked with my grandfather in Dublin. You know that. During that time, Dmitri Rusakov hired Sharpe Fine Art Recovery to help him figure out what happened to this collection. He’d had it with him in London. I flew there to meet with him.”

  “Granddad’s idea, or yours?”

  “His. I stayed in London for a few days—in a hotel.”

  “As opposed to…”

  “Dmitri’s London apartment.”

  “He invited you to stay there?”

  “It’s bigger than most houses. Dmitri’s a huge flirt, but there was never anything romantic between us.”

  “What about you and Ivan?”

  Emma pretended not to hear the question. “Dmitri’s main residence is in Moscow. It had been abandoned for years when he bought it. He was making a fortune in post–Soviet Russia but he wanted to do some of the renovation work himself. He took a crowbar to a wall and uncovered a wooden box filled with jewelry and decorative arts, each work inspired by some aspect of Russian folk tradition.”

  “Some people have all the luck,” Colin said.

  Emma held back a smile. “Dmitri wanted an outsider—a non-Russian—to have a look at his find. He hired Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. My grandfather went to Moscow. He was there for about a week. He says the collection is amazing. That it’s as if someone had stashed away bits and pieces of the Russian soul.”