Four people from the yacht were sick enough to be transported by ambulance to the ER. All but a handful of the partygoers had been infected, including guests who’d arrived at midday. That meant whatever had made people sick had turned up today and hadn’t been stewing for a day or two. Otherwise only passengers and crew would have been affected.
Despite Georgina Masterson’s protestations, the food she’d served was the likely source of the nasty bout of gastroenteritis.
Colin spotted her by the ER exit with a fair-haired man in his mid-to late thirties, also in the crew uniform of navy polo shirt and khakis.
“Agent Donovan,” she said when Colin approached them. “I didn’t realize you were still here. This is Nick Lothian. He’s Captain Hillier’s right-hand guy, master of all things on a yacht, from operations to mechanics to people.”
Nick grinned. “You know what they say, jack-of-all-trades, master of none.”
“Nick, this is Special Agent Donovan with the FBI. He happens to be in Maine for his brother’s wedding.”
Colin figured one of the local cops must have told her. He hadn’t, and Kevin wouldn’t have. Nick crossed his arms on his chest. “FBI. Cool. Messy, nasty day, huh? Bet you wish you’d stayed at the wedding. Sorry about the drama. We’re doing what we can to help out here.”
“Everyone will be okay,” Georgina added. “Fortunately, none of the crew got sick.”
“I thought I might at first,” Nick said. “Probably sympathetic nausea from seeing so many people turn green at once. It was like a massive chain reaction. I wonder if some people puked just because other people were puking.”
“I’m going to be fired,” Georgina said half under her breath.
Nick gave her a quick, brotherly hug. “No, you won’t. It’s more likely one of the guests brought food and won’t come forward now that people got sick.” He lowered his arm. “One of the guests who wasn’t sick drove us here, but I’ll see about renting a car. The marina’s letting us stay as long as we need to. They’ve got the space. In August, they wouldn’t.”
“What about guests who dropped in just for the party?” Colin asked.
Nick fielded the question. “Obviously the rest of the cruise is canceled. The Fannings and crew are staying on board. I don’t know yet about Bill Hornsby. He’s a passenger. Everyone else will head home if they haven’t already. They’re all from the Northeast, so it’s not a big hassle. We’ll provide any help needed.”
Georgina drew in a deep breath. “This doesn’t get easier.”
“It’ll be fine, Georgie,” Nick said. He turned to Colin. “We need to clean and disinfect everything. Most of the barf mess is confined to the sundeck and cabins. I’ve been working on boats since my teens, and today was as bad a case of chain puking as I’ve seen. I’m glad everyone will recover.”
Georgina stared past Colin at the ER’s busy main desk. “Everything came together fast. We had to scramble in the kitchen, but that had nothing to do with why people got sick.”
Colin didn’t have enough information to argue with her. “Why Heron’s Cove?”
She seemed relieved at the change in subject. “Melodie Fanning is an avid art collector, and she and Bill Hornsby decided they wanted to see Heron’s Cove because a famous art detective has offices there—next to the marina, in fact.”
“His name’s Wendell Sharpe,” Nick said. “I don’t know if he was invited to the party. I didn’t handle the guest list.”
Colin decided to keep his connection to the Sharpes to himself. “Who did handle the invitations?”
“Melodie invited people personally,” Georgina said. “She only gave me an approximate number. I don’t know the names of any of the guests. I’m new to the Fannings. Nick and Richie have crewed for them for a couple of years. I don’t plan to make a career of being a chef on yachts. Not that it wouldn’t be great.” She made a face. “I’m talking too much.”
She and Nick excused themselves to check on the Fannings and renting a car. Colin knew nothing about the Fannings, except they’d moored their yacht in spitting distance of the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery offices and they had an undercover British intelligence agent on board.
He went through the automatic doors to the ER admitting and waiting area. Kevin was chatting with two state detectives Colin recognized. He walked over to a trio of vending machines. The last time he’d been in this ER, his father-in-law was being treated for a heart attack. Tim Sharpe had never come around. A fall into the cold Maine ocean water had triggered the attack. He was already in the water when Colin had arrived with Kevin on the rocky headland by the Sisters of the Joyful Heart convent. They’d done everything they could, but Tim had been living on borrowed time, information he and his wife had kept not only from their son-in-law but from their two adult children.
Kevin pulled away from the detectives and joined Colin as he examined the offerings of the candy vending machine. He finally punched a button for a box of Junior Mints. Quick sugar, and the mint would counter all the barf and excrement he’d encountered since boarding the yacht.
“How’s your friend?” Kevin asked.
“Sick.”
Kevin rolled his eyes but didn’t comment.
“And I didn’t say he was my friend,” Colin added.
“Right,” his brother said.
A short ball-of-fire of a nurse flew out of the ER and stormed to them. It took half a beat, but Colin recognized her as Kevin’s sort-of girlfriend. He couldn’t remember her name. She glared at Kevin. “What the hell is going on?” She kept her voice to a whisper that did nothing to make her seem less agitated. “I thought we were in the midst of a full-scale WMD attack.”
An exaggeration, but Colin let Kevin deal with her. She’d moved to Rock Point recently but had grown up in Portland. The big city in comparison. She was smart, attractive, not easily intimidated. Kevin could do worse, and had.
The nurse—hell, why couldn’t he remember her name?—informed them two men who’d been “poisoned” were being admitted. She addressed Kevin. “Bryce Fanning and an Englishman—I don’t know his name. He’s the one your brother pestered in the ER.” She glanced at Colin. “He’s had a setback. It’s not dangerous, but he’s not to have visitors.”
An admonishment to him for sure. Colin didn’t blame her. Jeremy Pearson, aka William Hornsby, was sick. Colin had no choice but to give the poor bastard a chance to get well enough to talk to him about what was going on. He thanked her but didn’t explain his interest in the ER patient. “What can you do for him?”
“All the victims are being treated symptomatically, with supportive care as needed. That means we treat whatever symptoms patients present—vomiting, diarrhea, dehydration—and keep them comfortable until the toxin exits their system.”
“Ride it out, in other words,” Kevin said.
“If you want to put it that way. You two didn’t have to go to the yacht, did you?” She shook her head in answer to her own question. “No. Of course you did. You’re Donovans. It’s not how you’re wired. Even you, Kevin, supposedly the easygoing brother. I’ve lived in Rock Point long enough to know Donovans don’t ignore anything. You’re lucky you weren’t exposed to a toxin yourselves.”
“The medical teams got there ahead of us,” Kevin said mildly.
She scowled at him. “The symptoms of common, generally nonlethal food-borne toxins can mimic those of deadlier toxins that require full hazmat protection. Sarin, Ebola or—well, lots of options.”
Kevin grinned at her. “No kidding.”
“I’m serious,” she fired back. “Make fun of me all you want.”
“No one’s making fun of you, Beth.”
Beth. That was it. Beth...what? Colin couldn’t remember her last name. He wasn’t sure he’d ever known it. He gave her a reassuring smile. “The ER response was flawless.”
Beth exhaled, s
ome of the tension in her shoulders visibly easing, the fight going out of her. “I wasn’t trying to be alarmist or overly dramatic.”
“You weren’t,” Kevin said.
Since he’d had similar concerns given Jeremy’s presence, Colin couldn’t fault her, either. Kevin went with her back into the ER. He obviously didn’t like this situation—particularly given Colin’s silence about the sick Brit and his request for room to maneuver.
Teeth clenched, Colin tore open his mints and poured out a handful as Melodie Fanning emerged from the ER and walked over to him. He’d spotted her with Bryce, her husband, earlier. She had long, straight dark hair, pulled back neatly despite the chaotic scene on her yacht and, apparently, her own bout with food poisoning, if not as serious as her husband’s. She wore a close-fitting black dress that smelled faintly but noticeably of stale vomit.
“Sorry,” she said, touching a slightly trembling hand to her mouth. “I’m not going to throw up again. I promise. Am I still green?”
“Not too bad,” Colin said. He held up his box of mints. “Want some?”
“Gross. No. I’m never eating again.” She attempted a weak smile. “But thank you. I can’t believe what’s happened. You’re one of the officers who boarded to help, aren’t you? We took you away from—a wedding?”
“My brother’s wedding. Reception was winding down.”
“The man you were with—”
“Another brother. I’m Colin Donovan. He’s Kevin Donovan. He’s with the state marine patrol.”
“And you?”
“FBI. I tagged along.”
She gave a faint smile. “I’ll assume there were other factors at work than a dull wedding. I’m Melodie—well, you know who I am, don’t you?”
“I do,” he said.
“It’s been an awful afternoon. It’s difficult to have so many people get sick at virtually the same time. I’ve never witnessed such a thing. I don’t know if it qualifies as mass food poisoning. It’s not like hundreds were affected, but a dozen? That’s a lot of people.”
“How’s your husband doing, Mrs. Fanning?”
“He’s utterly miserable, but he’ll recover in time.” She slipped a credit card into the vending machine and punched the code for an energy drink. Colin got it out, opened it and handed it to her. She took a tentative sip. “Don’t worry. I won’t throw up on your shoes.”
“If you’re feeling ill, I can get a nurse.”
“I’m not,” she said quickly. “I’m just shaken and upset. Bryce is being admitted overnight. He has some underlying health issues and lost a lot of fluids, so the doctors want to keep an eye on him.” She motioned vaguely with her bottle. “I’ll head up to his room once he’s had a chance to get settled.”
“Do you have any idea what made people sick?”
“Not specifically, no. Something Georgina served, obviously. I suspect the mini tacos. I had one and ran to the bathroom and spit it out. I gagged and threw up twice, but it was more a reflex reaction than anything—I don’t think I swallowed any of it. It had a bitter taste. I saw what I took to be some kind of mushroom in red spice. I thought it was just my sensitive palate. Who knows. We’ll sort it out. It’s nothing nefarious, I assure you.”
Colin wondered if Jeremy would agree. “Sorry your visit to Maine started out this way,” he said.
“I am, too. Thank you. Food poisoning can strike anyone. It’s unfortunate it struck us, at a party on a beautiful fall day aboard a yacht stopped in an adorable Maine village.”
“I understand you were interested in meeting the Sharpes.”
“Wendell Sharpe in particular,” she said, no hint she was aware of his connection to Colin. “I’m not an art professional and haven’t worked with him, but I know him and Sharpe Fine Art Recovery by reputation. Wendell is based in Dublin, but Bill Hornsby thought he might be in town. Heron’s Cove wasn’t on the itinerary, but Bryce and I like to keep things fluid and spontaneous when we can and rarely stick to a tight schedule.”
“So you started calling friends to meet you?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said. “Not everyone we contacted could get to Heron’s Cove on such short notice, but a number did. We offered a wide range of food and let everyone relax and enjoy themselves. It was informal. Fun.” She swallowed more of her energy drink. Its raspberry color stained her lips, helped her look less pale and sickly. “I’m sorry people got sick. Georgina is distraught—not sick but truly distraught. She might be in denial right now, but deep down she has to know she’s culpable.”
“We met,” Colin said.
“Oh. Right. Of course. Nick was with her. It’s a small crew but they’re fantastic. Richie Hillier is handling the emergency brilliantly as captain. I knew zip about yachting and was actually afraid of it until I met Bryce. We chartered this yacht, but we’re in the process of buying one of our own.” Melodie tossed her empty drink bottle in a recycling bin. “I’ve wasted enough of your time, Agent Donovan. I should go see about Bryce. You’ll head out soon, won’t you? It’s not as if a crime’s been committed, thankfully.”
Colin shrugged. “Waiting for Kev.”
She smiled, relaxing slightly. Her eyes were bloodshot, presumably from vomiting. Colin felt a touch of sympathy for her as she spun away from the vending machines and headed toward the elevators. He opted against more mints and tossed the box in the trash.
He decided not to wait for his brother. Kevin had given him the key to his truck, figuring Colin would leave first, and said he’d find his own way back to Rock Point.
Colin left the ER, welcoming the fresh, cool autumn air.
He wasn’t a big puke fan.
One of Kevin’s marine patrol buddies could drive him home. Maybe Beth the ER nurse. Hell, what was her last name? Colin gritted his teeth. Why couldn’t he remember—why didn’t he know?
Because you haven’t been home in weeks.
Because you haven’t even thought of home in weeks.
He’d thought of Emma during his time pretending to be someone else.
Always.
Of the four brothers, Kevin had the tidiest truck, and also the newest, biggest and fastest. Not a man to underestimate, his baby brother. As Colin backed out of the parking space, he saw Georgina Masterson waving wildly and realized it was at him. He stopped as she leaped to the driver’s door.
He rolled down the window. “What can I do for you, Ms. Masterson?”
“Sorry. I feel slightly hysterical. I’ve been debating whether to say anything. Oh, and it’s Georgina. Please.” She gulped in a breath. “Did you happen to see a painting in Bill Hornsby’s cabin? A mounted but unframed canvas. It wouldn’t have been hanging on a wall. He was going to take a look at it.”
“I didn’t see a painting. Who owns it?”
“It’s mine, as it happens. It’s a recent present from my father. He’s—he’s not well. I had it in my quarters but it’s not there. At least it wasn’t when I stopped in just before Nick and I headed here. I assume Bill Hornsby grabbed it before he got sick.” She waved a hand, looking tense. “Never mind. Sorry to trouble you. I’m sure it’s somewhere on the yacht.”
“No trouble.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. I just...” Another gulp of air as she hesitated. “Someone said your wife is a Sharpe.” She waved a hand vaguely toward the hospital. “In the ER. One of the police officers, I think. Maybe. I don’t remember. The Sharpes specialize in art crimes, and I thought maybe—I don’t know what I thought. I’m getting way ahead of myself.”
“Is it an original painting, a print—”
“It’s an original watercolor landscape by an Irish artist, Aoife O’Byrne. It’s stunning.”
Colin felt his jaw tighten. Aoife O’Byrne. He hadn’t expected her name to crop up. He and Emma knew Aoife personally, and so did Oliver York�
��and their mutual friend Finian Bracken, Rock Point’s own Irish priest. Colin wasn’t sure if Henrietta knew Aoife, but he doubted it was a coincidence she and Oliver were in Rock Point, having tea and cookies at St. Patrick’s rectory.
And Jeremy Pearson? Did he know Aoife O’Byrne?
Colin wouldn’t be surprised.
“Sounds like a nice gift,” he said. “If you’re concerned the painting’s been stolen, I suggest you talk to the police. My brother Kevin’s in the ER. Talk to him, or to a local officer or state detective. They’ll help you.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to do that. I don’t want to involve the police.”
Colin studied her. Did she not realize he was a law enforcement officer?
Georgina reddened, as if she’d just tuned in to her mistake, mumbled a goodbye and about-faced, walking quickly back to the ER.
Colin debated following her but didn’t. A missing Aoife O’Byrne painting. An art thief at the rectory with Emma, an art crimes expert. A yacht full of sick people moored by Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.
And a friend, colleague and man he’d trusted with his life had asked him not to blow his cover. If Kevin could give his FBI brother room to maneuver, couldn’t Colin give Jeremy Pearson the same courtesy?
He’d see what was up at St. Patrick’s rectory in Rock Point.
Then he’d decide.
4
Henrietta insisted on a tour of the church, and Finian Bracken had obliged her. Emma Sharpe looked less enthusiastic but went with them, and Oliver wasn’t the least bit enthusiastic and let it show, to the point Henrietta scowled at him. He got the message and went off on his own while she, Emma and Finian continued through the unprepossessing church. A rummage sale was planned for next weekend. Parishioners had dropped off bags of items and were sorting them on tables. Between his apartment in London and his farm in the Cotswolds, Oliver had plenty of rubbish of his own to sort at some unspecified point in the future.
He heard voices outside and went to the window in Finian’s office. The trio were crossing the lawn to the rectory. Oliver would join them in a few minutes. They planned to make sandwiches to serve with tea and the cookies from the wedding, and to await Colin’s imminent return from checking on the food-poisoning incident on the yacht in Heron’s Cove.
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