Thief's Mark

by Carla Neggers

  “I’m only trouble for my FBI mates.”

  “They’re used to trouble. It’s their job.”

  “Yours, too, isn’t it, old man?”

  But Wendell remained serious, didn’t respond to Oliver’s strained teasing. “I don’t think of you as trouble, Oliver,” he said quietly.

  “I suppose you don’t have to. You’re a Sharpe. Trouble follows you.”

  “You have a point there.” Wendell opened the car door. “These new cars. I like an old-fashioned key.”

  “How long is Detective Garda Murphy giving me?” Oliver asked.

  Wendell sighed at the mention of the senior Irish detective, who had connections to Declan’s Cross, to Finian Bracken—to the two sisters whose uncle’s home Oliver had broken into more than a decade ago. He and Kitty O’Byrne were engaged. “Sean’s waiting at his farmhouse,” Wendell said. “I’m meeting him there.”

  “You’re to report our conversation?”

  “Every word.”

  Oliver smiled. “Of course.”

  “It’s for your own good, Oliver.”

  “You see? We truly are friends.”

  * * *

  As Wendell Sharpe started off in his Audi, he managed not to bump into the stone wall but not to avoid the puddle. He tore through it, splashing Oliver with muddy water. A night in the rain without getting drenched but let his elderly art-detective friend get behind the wheel, and here he was, splattered. He laughed and poured the rest of his coffee into the dirt, wrapped the remains of his scone and shoved them into his rucksack.

  He took the narrow, winding trail up to the cliff, relishing the rush of wind and sunlight when he reached the top. Waves crashed on the rocks below. Sunlight glistened on the sea. No hint of rain now.

  “Glorious,” he said. “Absolutely glorious.”

  He looked back at the trio of tall Celtic crosses on the hill. He wondered if he’d ever see them again. Looking at them now, against the blue sky and green pastures, gave him comfort and solace. He could feel the presence of his mother and father, younger than he was now when he’d lost them. And yet they didn’t feel lost to him right now. They felt close.

  They’d protected him that night.

  Whatever else remained elusive, out of his reach, that he knew.

  He returned to the lane and set off toward Sean Murphy’s farmhouse. For a moment, he pretended it was an ordinary morning. He walked along pastures dotted with grazing sheep and along cliffs above white-crested waves rolling onto the rock-bound coast.

  Finally he came to a yellow-painted bungalow. Aoife O’Byrne waved to him from a clothesline with laundry blowing in the breeze. She was a brilliant artist and a beautiful woman. Gleaming black hair, vibrant blue eyes, angular features, tall and slender—and in love with a man she couldn’t have. “Not me,” Oliver muttered. “More’s the pity.”

  Six months ago, he might have been at least modestly serious. Now...

  “No.”

  He could see her with Finian Bracken in Boston last fall. Finian had been in his clerical garb, insisting he was nothing more than a friend. Oliver didn’t know the details of their history but there was no question they had one.

  Poor Aoife. In love with the forbidden fruit.

  And Finian?

  Oliver was convinced that his friend loved her, too, if not in the way she loved him. Then again, what did he know of Father Bracken’s hopes and dreams on lonely nights on the Maine coast, far from home?

  Aoife had told Oliver a few months ago she considered herself free, unbound by her past love for a man who had spurned her for the priesthood.

  Not content to wave, she crossed the grass to the lane.

  “Paintbrush in hand,” he said with a smile. “Appropriate.”

  Aoife didn’t return his smile. “I’ve been painting nonstop all spring. Kitty will tell you it keeps me out of trouble, although here I am, talking to you. I promised Sean I would stay inside and lock my doors. He wanted me to stay with him and Kitty last night, or at the hotel. I refused. I’m in the zone with a series I’m painting. I can’t deal with disruptions. They’ll derail me.” Her blue eyes steadied on Oliver. “And I’m not afraid of you.”

  “You’ve no reason to be afraid of me.”

  “Sean knows that, too, I think.”

  “I’m on my way to see him now.”

  “Good. I’d hate to have to be the one to turn you in.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Oliver, my God. It must have been awful yesterday. Did coming here help?”

  “In its own way.” He nodded to her paintbrush, noted its blue tip. “Sky?”

  “Blouse,” she said. “It’s the wrong blue for the sky.”

  “Of course. I see that now.”

  Now she smiled. “Liar.” She gestured with the brush to the string of bright-colored clothes hanging on the line. “I’m into clotheslines these days. Normalcy. The routines of daily life.”

  “When’s the last time you washed your own laundry?”

  “First thing this morning, I’ll have you know.”

  Oliver pointed to the clothesline. “Those work pants aren’t yours.”

  She crossed her arms on her chest, paintbrush tucked between her fingers, its tip almost hitting her in the jaw. “They belong to Sean’s uncle Paddy. They’re practically in tatters. Uncle Paddy doesn’t believe in buying new until the old is ready for the rubbish. Past ready, in my opinion.”

  “But they add authenticity to your scene. Your stylish, expensive clothes wouldn’t create the look you want on their own.”

  “Not everything I own is expensive or stylish.” The breeze blew dark hair in her face, but she left it, keeping her arms crossed as she scowled at him. “If you keep this up, I’m not going to be a sympathetic witness at your trial.”

  Oliver grinned, pleased she’d walked over to say hello. He’d met her a few times since fall—in Boston, at a gallery showing her work in London and here in Declan’s Cross. She could be starchy and always gave as good as she got, but her vulnerabilities bubbled close to the surface. She’d been inspired to become an artist on visits to Declan’s Cross with her childless uncle and aunt, whose home was now the O’Byrne House Hotel. Aoife would steal away to paint local scenes, including the crosses where Oliver had spent last night. Now in her midthirties, she was beloved in Ireland and a highly successful, internationally recognized artist.

  She uncrossed her arms and dropped them to her sides, giving the paintbrush a good shake. “I was up early. There’s something meditative about pegging out the wash.”

  “I think Martin made me do it as punishment once.”

  “For swiping something?”

  “Possibly,” Oliver said without hesitating. “My grandparents tended to let me get away with misdeeds after I came to live with them. Martin compensated. He can be stern.”

  Aoife smiled, brushing back the strands of straight hair that had blown into her face. “I’m not surprised, but I like him.” Her smile faded. “Why did you come to Declan’s Cross, Oliver? Why did you run?”

  “It seemed like the thing to do at the time. As I told Wendell Sharpe, I bolted, I didn’t run. A distinction without a difference to most, perhaps, but not to me.” He nodded to the clothesline. “It’s a charming scene but I keep hoping you’ll try porpoises again.”

  “No one shares that hope, I assure you.”

  He owned one of her few paintings of porpoises that swam in Ardmore Bay. Legitimately purchased, too. “I’m still trying to decide where to hang my Aoife O’Byrne porpoises. They’re in a closet in London at the moment.” He studied her. “I spoke with Finian Bracken recently.”

  “Did you?”

  He nodded. He decided not to be too specific. Whatever the police knew or didn’t know at this point was irrelevant.
He didn’t want to involve Aoife in his problems. She was the one who’d initiated this chat, but it was a quick hello, nothing more.

  She wiped the sable tip of her paintbrush on her pant leg, as if making sure it was dry. “I debated calling Finian last night,” she said, a bit too casually. “I was hoping you’d been in touch with him. I wasn’t sure you’d tell me if you had. He’s wrestling with something, isn’t he?”

  “The man who died visited him this week.”

  Her mouth thinned but she maintained control of herself. “Then he knows something he can’t say. He takes his priestly vows seriously.”

  Oliver felt an unexpected tightening of his throat. Emotion, he thought with a mix of fear and disdain. It was the last thing he needed or dared to indulge at the moment. But he continued, unable to stop himself. “You and Finian aren’t done.”

  “Oh, we are, Oliver. We are.”

  “An inscrutable, solitary painter and a tortured, solitary priest. It’s the perfect forbidden love. You suit each other’s needs even now. You need to paint. He needs to be in Rock Point with his FBI agents and such.”

  “He’s staying on in Rock Point, did you know? He was only supposed to be there a year. Now it’s open-ended.”

  “And you’re waiting for him?”

  “I’m living my life.”

  “He’s a good excuse for you to be solitary.”

  Her incisive blue eyes settled on him. “And your excuse?”

  “I’m not as solitary these days. I have a dog. A bad-tempered wire fox terrier.”

  “I bet he’s adorable.”

  Where had Alfred been yesterday morning? Oliver wondered. He went still, the wind feeling cold now. Did the bloody bastard kill my dog? He didn’t know if he meant Davy Driscoll or whoever had killed him, or what, but it hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that Alfred might also have been a victim yesterday. He was a barker. Martin was diligently training him, but Alfred would have carried on if he’d spotted an intruder.

  Or perhaps not. Perhaps he was accustomed now to the comings and goings on a working farm.

  “Oliver, are you all right?”

  He heard the worry in Aoife’s voice and gave her a quick smile. “Yes. Thank you. I’m fine.”

  “You seem so alone,” she said. “You’re clever, charming, lonely and an unrepentant thief. You could have been violent but you never were. You weren’t yesterday. I know that, Oliver. So does Sean. I’m sure of it.”

  “But I’ll never be Finian Bracken, will I?”

  “An Irish priest? No, that’s never going to happen. And that was an obvious attempt to change the subject.”

  He motioned down the lane. “I should go before Sean sends a hostage rescue team.”

  “That’s not funny, Oliver.”

  “Was I trying to be funny?”

  She groaned and threw her arms around him, hugging him fiercely. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Be well. Godspeed, my friend.”

  He hugged her back, a split second of human contact he knew he couldn’t let affect him, throw him off his mission—what he had to do. He stood back and smiled. “More porpoises, Aoife. Think about it.”

  She pointed at his jacket. “I got a spot of blue paint on you.”

  “It’ll be a reminder of your laundry painting when I’m in prison.”

  She rolled her eyes and said nothing, and he continued along the lane.

  * * *

  Handsome Sean Murphy was waiting outside at his farmhouse, leaning on a muddy tractor at least as old as Uncle Paddy’s trousers hanging on Aoife’s line. “I was thinking I could have a full Irish breakfast before I turned myself in,” Oliver said.

  Murphy was unmoved. “Wendell Sharpe brought you breakfast.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.” Oliver could see the Irish detective noting the spot of blue paint on his jacket, guessing how it had gotten there, but he said nothing. Oliver listened to sheep baaing in the distance. He inhaled deeply, taking in the clean air, the scents of farm and sea. “I need to go back to England, Detective Garda Murphy.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  14

  The Cotswolds, England

  Oliver York would be back in the Cotswolds soon. DI Lowe had stopped to let Emma know as she lingered over breakfast in the courtyard. Colin had gone off to meet his MI5 contact, just as well given the detective inspector’s information about her grandfather’s role in Oliver’s return to England. The DI didn’t stay long, and once he left, Emma helped herself to more coffee and brought it out to her table. She had the courtyard to herself. Everything was soaked from last night’s rain but drying rapidly in the sunshine and warmth. She’d found a reasonably dry chair. She’d like nothing better than to grab Colin for a walk in the English countryside and pretend, even for a few hours, they were still on their honeymoon.

  This time when she tried her grandfather, he picked up. Finally. “If I could, Granddad,” she said after they’d exchanged greetings, “I’d jump through my phone and hurl myself across the water to Ireland. I can’t believe you sneaked down to Declan’s Cross and met Oliver on the sly. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking I didn’t want to involve you. I complicate your life enough as it is.”

  “Oh, no—no, Granddad. You’re not putting this off on me. This wasn’t for my benefit. It was because you didn’t want me stopping you.”

  “I admit I’m used to handling my own affairs without your help.” His tone was borderline huffy. “I’ve had five years to get used to having an FBI agent in the family. I’m not a lawbreaker, but... Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Emma, my palms are cold and sweaty talking to you. Is that husband of yours listening in?”

  “Did Sean Murphy threaten to arrest you?”

  “He all but waved handcuffs in front of my face but we made a deal. He indulged my instincts but I imagine he never will again. I also have the feeling your lot got hold of him.”

  “My lot?”

  “FBI, spies, I don’t know. Emma, there’s nothing bad here. I brought Oliver coffee and a scone and had a good look at him. I told him to turn himself in and took measures to make sure he did. I have some compassion for the man given what he’s gone through. That’s all. He’ll be back there this afternoon.”

  “You waited until Oliver was with the gardai before you took my call.”

  “I wasn’t dead or in jail.”

  “Oh, well. That makes blowing me off all right, then.”

  “It must be marriage,” her grandfather said. “You didn’t used to light up this fast. I’ve always been the hot one in the family. You’re the cool milk in the steaming coffee.”

  She exhaled, aware that her grandfather—renowned art detective, founder of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery—had decades of experience avoiding tight spaces and maneuvering out of them when he couldn’t. He wouldn’t have lasted sixty years in his profession and earned his reputation by flouting the law and irritating law-enforcement personnel. Everything she’d just heard—the hyperbole, the humor, the long-suffering poke at her FBI status—was all show, either to quiet his nerves or to get her off his back. Most likely both.

  “Oliver didn’t kill that man,” he said.

  “So everyone keeps saying. The police will follow the evidence wherever it takes them.”

  “He’s shattered and confused. He came face-to-face with one of the men who murdered his parents in front of him when he was eight years old. I doubt either of us can imagine how difficult that must have been. And he was dying. A killer on the run for thirty years, no trace of him until that moment with his blood spurting—”

  “All right, Granddad. What happens with Oliver isn’t my call, anyway. Are you sure you’ve told me everything you two discussed?”

  “Next time you want me to record
our conversation?”

  “There won’t be a next time and you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I think Driscoll said something to Oliver. He wouldn’t tell me what. Maybe you can get it out of him.”

  Emma doubted she’d be asked to get anything out of Oliver York, especially given her grandfather’s behavior. “What about your visit here to Oliver’s farm in January?”

  “What about it? We drank excellent Scotch and told stories. His grandparents weren’t art collectors. With all the paintings of dogs—anyone’s dogs, not necessarily their own—I encouraged Oliver to get a puppy.”

  “I’m trying to ascertain if your visit here somehow prompted Davy Driscoll to turn up in Heron’s Cove and speak with Lucas just days before he died.”

  Her grandfather sighed. “I know you are.”

  “Did you see anyone else while you were here in January?” she asked.

  “Martin, the housekeeper, a farm worker—old guy, Johnny, I think. Ruthie’s son. Nigel. He’s a mechanic—he dropped off a bag of groceries for her. Nice kid. Well, he’s not a kid, but when you’re my age...never mind. We said hello. That was it.”

  “What about Henrietta Balfour? Did you meet her?”

  “Not sure. Who is she?”

  “A garden designer who grew up with Oliver. Midthirties, unmarried, attractive.”

  “Right. I remember her. Martin and I went to the pub one night. Oliver stayed home. I ran into a few people there. She was one of them, I believe.”

  “And Davy Driscoll?” Emma asked. “Did you run into him?”

  “Sean Murphy showed me a photo of the murdering bastard. No, I didn’t see him on my visit—or in Dublin. If I’d met him on the street, though, I doubt I’d have paid any attention. I was more observant when I visited Oliver in January, given his unusual background.”

  “That’s one word for it.”

  “The gardai are taking another look at the break-in at my place. I know Driscoll flew to Dublin as Reed Warren but that doesn’t mean he’s the one who broke in. Could have been someone following him, could have been unrelated altogether. You know it is. You can have a theory of a case but you can’t get tunnel vision.” Her grandfather was silent a moment. “How are you doing?”