Liar's Key

by Carla Neggers

  Claudia Deverell looked up from a fussy, ornate desk and swore. He couldn’t hear her, but he could read her lips. Not that happy to see him, obviously. Big surprise.

  He pointed to the latch. “Open up, okay?”

  He had no idea if she could hear him, but she rose and glided to the door, pulling it open. “I should have guessed you’d find your way here. There’s no getting rid of you, is there?”

  “Hello to you, too, Claudia.”

  She sighed, opening the door wider. “You might as well come in. The gallery is open to the public by appointment only.”

  “Makes sense. No one’s going to walk in on a whim and buy an ancient Greek coin or a cracked Roman urn.”

  “The contemporary mosaic art is also a draw. How did you find me?”

  “You mentioned you were staying a couple of days with the friends who own this place before you drove up to Maine.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Gordy expected Claudia to go on, but she didn’t. He stepped past her into the gallery. It had an upscale, artsy, museum feel to it, with its polished wood floors, industrial-feel shelves and careful lighting. The items for sale, both old and new, were widely spaced, each with a handwritten card, presumably to imply personal service, describing it in detail.

  Sure enough, a cracked pottery urn was the first item he noticed. It stood by itself on a shelf next to the desk. It was Greek, though, not Roman. “Fourth century BCE,” he said. “That’s a hell of a long time ago.”

  “Yes, it is,” Claudia said, managing to make her voice sound like a roll of the eyes. She shut the door and returned to the desk, but she didn’t sit down. “You shouldn’t be here, Gordy.”

  “I’m on my way to Maine myself for the Sharpe open house on Saturday.”

  “You don’t really think anyone will miss you if you don’t attend, do you?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think anyone will notice if I do attend. I like Maine. I went to Acadia National Park once with Joan and the kids. I remember popovers at Jordan Pond, the sunset on Cadillac Mountain and the kids bitching and moaning about not having a TV at our cabin. I haven’t seen much of southern Maine. I hear it has some decent sand beaches.” He paused, aware that his chitchat sounded stiff and rehearsed even to him. “Your place in Heron’s Cove still the same?”

  Claudia sank into the chair at the desk and crossed her arms on her chest. Her cool blue eyes deepened and turned hot. “Unchanged since you graced us with your presence,” she said with obvious sarcasm.

  “Us? It was just you and me, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  More than a year had passed between Gordy’s last encounter with her in Maine and the party at Claridge’s on Sunday, but slim, blond, wealthy Claudia Norwood Deverell was as attractive as ever—and as much out of his league. Intelligent and well-connected, she operated with ease in the high-end art world—first at an auction house, now on her own. He’d been a nuts-and-bolts federal agent who’d ended up working art crimes after breaking an infamous Chicago museum heist of art worth hundreds of millions.

  “When did you get in from London?” he asked her.

  “Monday. I wanted to adjust to the time change before I head to Maine. We’re getting the house ready to go on the market. It’s an emotional time. My great-grandfather built it and it’s been in the family ever since, but my father never liked Maine as much as my mother did. Now that she’s gone...” Claudia didn’t finish. “The house needs a considerable amount of work. We rented it out most summers and that’s taken a toll, but it’s in a prime location. A buyer might want to tear it down and build something new on the lot.”

  “Is that your way of saying you’re not going to invite me for a martini on the front porch?”

  “Oh, Gordy.” She inhaled through her nose, obviously trying to maintain her self-control. “I wish you hadn’t come to London. I wish you weren’t here now and on your way to Maine. It’s going to look as if you’re following me.”

  “You’re the one who called me, Claudia.”

  “That was a huge mistake. I didn’t mean for you to jump on your white horse. I wanted to know if you’d be in Maine this weekend for the open house. I thought the Sharpes might invite you.” She hesitated. “I wanted to steel myself.”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t appreciate your tone. I’m being straight with you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  She bit down on her lower lip, which brought back memories he knew would do him no good. Or her. As much as he didn’t trust her, he didn’t wish her ill, even if she looked as if she wanted to throw something at him—might have done it, too, if it didn’t risk breaking a two-thousand-year-old artifact.

  “Why don’t you believe me?” she asked finally.

  Gordy didn’t answer. She seemed to know he wouldn’t. When Claudia had called him in North Carolina a week ago, asking about the open house and whether he’d heard about Alessandro Pearson’s death, Gordy had been inclined to skip it. I guess I just needed to hear your voice, Gordy. You’ve never lied to me. You’d tell me if I needed to worry.

  Maybe she hadn’t lied, but she’d certainly flung the BS.

  He examined a wall mosaic on display, its bright colors and modern geometric design a contrast to the muted colors and obvious age of the ancient objects sharing space in the gallery. Seeing Claudia again, being alone with her, wasn’t helping his stomach. It was still off, but he was confident he wouldn’t vomit. That’d be the crowning glory to the past twenty-four hours—puking his guts out on ancient artifacts in front of Claudia Deverell.

  He turned to her, noticing she had a few fine lines at the corners of her eyes. What was she now? Had she hit forty? When they’d first met almost three years ago, she’d told him she never planned to marry and didn’t want kids. I’m not the maternal type. But that’d made her even more intriguing. Joan was all about kids, family, making a home. She was the best, but for a while...

  Gordy nodded at the displays. “I was expecting statues of naked women.”

  Now a roll of the eyes for real. “You would. I’m looking after the gallery for a few hours. It specializes in common ancient items of high interest and low controversy. It’s not easy to find anything from the ancient world these days that isn’t without some level of controversy, especially if it originated in what’s now a conflict region.”

  “Conflict region? I like that.”

  A hint of irritation in her pretty eyes. “It’s just a phrase, Gordy.”

  He moved to another set of open shelves. “Are any of the items from your mother’s collection?”

  “Some.”

  He smiled. “Your idea of heaven, sitting here surrounded by all this ancient stuff.”

  “I suppose it is.” She glanced past him to a display of worn coins at his shoulder. “It’s amazing to think an Athenian held those coins in his hand thousands of years ago.”

  Gordy couldn’t deny it. “Sure is.”

  “My great-grandfather, Horace Norwood, started collecting antiquities on his travels, before modern protocols for the excavation and removal of artifacts from archaeological sites and source countries were in place. My grandfather and mother added to the collection over the years. It was a different world then. As scrupulous as they were, they might do things differently now.”

  “The antiquities trade has been complicated and controversial for hundreds of years,” Gordy said. “It’s easy to get into trouble even if you know what you’re doing.”

  Claudia flushed. “I’ll ignore that. As you know, my mother had a particular affinity for mosaics and supported on-site training in mosaic conservation and preservation techniques. I’ve carried on her work, but I don’t know how long I’ll keep it up. And I’ve stopped acquiring any new pieces.”

  Gordy appre
ciated Claudia’s passion for her family collection of ancient art and artifacts but had never shared it. “I’d rather have a new set of golf clubs,” he said with a wink. “How much of the Norwood collection do you figure is fake, looted or otherwise illegitimate?”

  “Still the cynic, I see,” she said, some of her initial tension visibly easing. “Every ancient piece here in the gallery has been fully vetted. It’s authentic, with a clear provenance, and not only legal but ethical to put on the market. A portion of any proceeds from the sale of pieces from my family’s collection will go to conservation and preservation efforts. I can’t imagine a more fitting tribute to my mother. She always saw herself as a steward rather than a true owner of some extraordinary works of the ancient past.”

  Gordy studied Claudia, letting her get a little uncomfortable with the silence before he spoke again. “Was Alessandro Pearson helping you sort out your family’s collection before he died?”

  Claudia jumped slightly, as if startled by his question. “Not really. I was still getting things organized. My mother had already arranged to sell the Norwood pieces on display here. Alessandro was quite elderly but his death was still a complete shock. I heard his heart gave out.” She narrowed her eyes, frowning. “Is this why you’re all cloak-and-dagger, Gordy? Because an elderly English academic who was an expert on antiquities died suddenly?”

  Gordy grinned, trying to look confident, at ease. “I’ll cop to being jet-lagged, not cloak-and-dagger. Never did go in for that sort of thing.” He nodded to the gallery displays. “Did Alessandro help your mother figure out what was worth selling?”

  “He was more interested in her preservation work since mosaics were his particular area of expertise.”

  “He and Wendell Sharpe were friends.”

  “As much as the Sharpes are friends with anyone,” Claudia said half under her breath. She waved a hand, blushing. “I’m so sorry. That was uncalled for. There’s nothing suspicious about Alessandro’s death, is there? It’s sad, of course, but he was an old man who had a heart attack and fell.”

  Gordy wondered what she’d have been saying about him if he’d died last night. An out-of-shape old FBI agent who’d tripped and gone flying? An unfortunate accident that could have been prevented if he hadn’t gained fifteen pounds?

  Who would know he’d been warned to back off and then shoved?

  “Wendell was at Alessandro’s funeral,” Gordy said.

  “I know. I was there, too. Timothy and Faye didn’t attend. It was good to see them on Sunday at Claridge’s. My mother was fond of the Sharpes.”

  “Including Lucas?”

  “Yes, including Lucas, and you can go to hell, Gordy.”

  “Sorry. I know he’s a sore subject.” He didn’t even try to sound sincere. “How long are you staying in Maine?”

  “A few weeks. I haven’t booked a return flight to London yet.” Claudia stood and came around to the front of the desk, the light catching her eyes, less hot now, more suspicious. “I’m prepared to see Lucas again. Wendell and Timothy and Faye were civil to me in London. I don’t know if they’re aware of the falling-out Lucas and I had.”

  “It was over a year ago. Maybe no one cares anymore.”

  “Would that were true.”

  “It wasn’t my fault, Claudia.”

  She gave a fake laugh. “You know, Special Agent Wheelock, if you hadn’t interfered with my life, I could be Mrs. Lucas Sharpe now.”

  “I don’t know who should thank me more, you or Lucas.”

  “Bastard,” Claudia said, almost smiling. “Lucas knew I was distracted and under a lot of pressure with my mother’s failing health and then her death—and I couldn’t tell him the truth about you and me, how it was nothing, never meant to be anything for either of us. Oh, Gordy. What we did wasn’t just wrong on your end, as an FBI agent, it was wrong on mine, too. I betrayed a man I cared about.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You were close to your mother and had a hard time with her illness and death. You’re only human.” Gordy stepped closer to her, realizing he felt nothing anymore—no urge to touch her, kiss her, make love to her. He attempted a smile. “I was still quite the stud when you fell for me.”

  Not so much as a crack of a smile from Claudia. “I didn’t fall for you.”

  He gave up on trying to make her feel better about the past. Not his call how she felt, how she rationalized their behavior, whether she forgave herself...forgave him. None of that was why he was here. He’d consulted with her in an effort to better understand the antiquities trade, both legitimate and illegal, but also because he was convinced she could lead him to some serious bad guys. He was still convinced his professional instincts had been on target, but his personal instincts—his personal integrity—had led him astray, and Claudia, too.

  “Nothing is ever simple and straightforward with you, Gordy,” she said, calmer now, her tone almost reflective. “It was stupid of me to call you. It was like lighting dry kindling. You were waiting for something to get you back in FBI mode. How long did it take you to book a flight to London?”

  He grinned. “Two seconds.”

  “See? Stupid of me to call. I tried to tell myself I was just an old friend from your FBI days, but I got you all fired up. You couldn’t resist. You had to check to see if I was getting myself in trouble.”

  Gordy stood over her. “Are you?”

  “No.” Spots of bright color appeared high in her translucent cheeks. “I haven’t had any trouble since you retired. That’s cause and effect, don’t you think?”

  The sarcasm and heat were back, but Gordy didn’t respond. He checked out three pottery bowls, each on its own shelf, as if they were too valuable, too precious, to brush against anything else. He was surprised by their reasonable price. They weren’t much more expensive than what he’d pay for new ones at Pottery Barn or Crate & Barrel. He’d done well in art crimes in part because he could look at art and antiquities with a certain level of objectivity, without the subjective passions of a Claudia Deverell.

  He leaned close to the handwritten description of one of the bowls but didn’t read it. “Have you run into Scotland Yard, MI5, MI6 or any other real cloak-and-dagger types?”

  He turned back to her in time to see her furrow her brow and cross her arms on her chest. She was studying him as if she just got it that he wasn’t flailing—he wasn’t here simply to harass her or rekindle their relationship. Finally she sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. “What on earth are you talking about, Gordy?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

  “Is this place bugged?”

  “What?” She seemed ready to bolt but got herself under control. “Don’t tell me you’ve become paranoid. No, this place is not bugged. No, I haven’t had anything to do with the FBI, the Sharpes or British law enforcement or intelligence agencies. I’m busy with my work, my family and my friends. Good friends,” she added pointedly, clearly excluding him.

  “Who else did you talk to at the party on Sunday?”

  “You mean after I ditched you? All sorts. Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

  Gordy decided not to mention Oliver York. “No one in particular.”

  “You did ruin the party for me, if you must know, but I blame myself more than I do you.”

  “I’ve never been good at small talk. I guess I got used to being the skunk at the picnic when I was an active agent.” He remembered touching the smooth skin of her cheek, her soft hair. Regrets, he thought. Oh, yes, he had them. “Everything’s okay with you these days, Claudia? No problems, no enemies, no threats?”

  “I learned the hard way always to be on the lookout for bastards and scoundrels. Even a perceived wrong move in my world and the FBI swoops in with threats to get you to do their bidding, and your life is never the same.” She held up a slender hand, the nails cut sh
ort and polished in a pale, neutral pink. “I don’t want to dredge up the past. I’ve never done anything illegal and you know it.”

  “I’m not here to dredge up the past, either.”

  A touch of exasperation reached her eyes. “Then why are you here?”

  Gordy could feel the cut behind his ear, the bruise above his hip. What did Claudia know about the attack and warning last night? But he stopped himself before he could go too far down the rabbit hole of speculation. He needed to be deliberate, contained. “I’m just killing time before I head to Maine.”

  “Okay. I’ll accept that. I was surprised when I received an invitation to the Sharpe open house. My father and brother were invited, too. I suspect it was Wendell’s doing. He has a come-one-come-all mentality. Lucas must have wanted to kill him when he found out.”

  “Will you attend?”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t put Lucas in that position. My father and brother will make an appearance, since there’s no ill will there.”

  “They’re going to be in Heron’s Cove, then?”

  “They’re arriving today. They might be there already.”

  Gordy stepped back from her, overcome by a sudden attack of pure lust. So much for thinking he had things under control. One look from her, and he swore he’d carry her into the back room and make love to her on the spot. But it’d probably kill him, considering the rotten shape he was in, and it’d get him nowhere. And he had Joan, his life with her and the kids.

  “Have you ever told anyone about us?” he asked, hearing how ragged he sounded.

  Claudia scowled. “Give it up, Gordy. There was never an us. There was sex. But no, Special Agent Wheelock, I’ve never told anyone. I’ve been discreet for my sake but also for yours, and for the sake of your family. No one would believe you never told me any secrets about your work, but you didn’t. I was the one who told you secrets.”