Georgina ate most of her food and was glad for it. Richie got up to make another round of martinis, but she excused herself and went over to a cushioned bench. She stretched out on it and shut her eyes, focusing on the feel of the breeze, the sounds of the tide washing onto the river’s pebbled beach down the docks, past the Sharpe offices.
Why had Bill Hornsby wanted to stop here? Did he know the Sharpes? Who was he, really?
Was he responsible for today?
She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, fighting tears. She and her father were stiff-upper-lip sorts. She’d told his doctor she’d get there as soon as she could. Had she meant it? She hadn’t booked a flight yet, had she? She’d told herself she was being sensible. He was receiving the medical attention he needed. That was all that mattered.
“Don’t you care, Georgina?”
She couldn’t hear her whisper above the wind and tide. She did care. But she wasn’t a normal daughter, and Robin Masterson wasn’t a normal father. Would the police want to know about his condition? Did the FBI agent already know? Her father was, after all, an expert in deadly neurotoxins.
Chemical weapons, she thought.
She bolted upright, jumped to her feet. Nick and Richie were deep into their second martinis. The doctor had promised to stay in touch and let her know if there was any change in her father’s condition. She felt paralyzed. She didn’t know what to do. What should she make of his getting sick so soon after her visit? He’d always been pleased to see her but he’d never objected to her leaving, or meddled in what she chose to do with herself—schools, work, her romantic life. He had his interests, his life. She had her interests, her life. He hadn’t been thrilled when she’d decided to become a personal chef on yachts, but he hadn’t interfered.
Nick’s and Richie’s raucous laughter broke through her obsessing. She shivered, cold now. She headed down to her quarters, a small cabin she had to herself.
The water in her Yeti was ice-cold. She drank some, dribbled some on her head, as if it could help her think—help her to make sense out of all the bits and pieces of the past week that kept swimming around in her head.
Her father had handed her an empty mesh bag after breakfast on Sunday. The chanterelles are fantastic this year. Why don’t we go to the park and see what we can find? I’d love to grill some for dinner.
And off they’d gone, foraging for one of nature’s treats. It had been one of the best mornings she’d ever spent with him. She’d left for Heathrow before they’d had a chance to grill the chanterelles they’d picked. Her father being the man he was, in the profession he was in, hadn’t limited himself to chanterelles. He’d helped himself to a range of inedible and even a few dangerously poisonous mushrooms. To further his knowledge, he’d said. Chanterelles were easy to spot, but some mushrooms were more difficult to distinguish between a harmless, tasty edible version to one that could sicken or kill.
These are death caps, love. Stay away from them.
Georgina was familiar with the deadly mushroom. In its early growth, it could be mistaken for an innocuous puffball, but she would never make that mistake. Neither would her father. They took a methodical, careful approach to identifying mushrooms—or any wild edible—and didn’t rely on gut instinct, experience or just one or two traits.
Had her father made a mistake?
She got out her laptop and did a search for flights to London. Lots of options out of Boston. But would booking a flight now make her look guilty?
Best to wait, figure things out and talk to her father’s art-consultant friend when he was well enough. Maybe everything would make more sense tomorrow.
8
The south coast of Ireland
Lucas Sharpe started up the hill from the small, popular village of Ardmore at a slower pace than he might have on his own, but he quickly realized he needn’t have bothered. His grandfather had no trouble keeping up with him. In his early eighties, Wendell Sharpe, world-renowned art detective, was a keen walker, and he loved Ardmore with its beaches, cliffs, sea views and ancient stone ruins. Lucas appreciated how damn good his grandfather looked, even as he coped with the searing loss of his only son.
Ah, Dad...
Lucas felt a tightness in his throat he had come to expect. His father had been an avid walker, too, and would have loved to have joined them today. Was he watching his father and son from one of the puffs of white clouds above the glistening sea, just to their left, down a tumble of cobbles and boulders? Lucas liked the image, a metaphor, maybe, as he, too, coped with Tim Sharpe’s untimely death.
The sidewalk hugged the shore as Lucas continued up the steep hill with his grandfather, toward Sheep’s Head and its marked cliff walk. They were both fair and lanky, and fit, if to suit their fifty-year age difference, but Lucas was fine with their measured pace. He had Emma’s voice mail on his mind. He hadn’t noticed it until after he and Wendell had finished brunch at a popular restaurant in the village center.
What had his little sister got him into this time?
He hadn’t told their grandfather about her call. He needed to collect his thoughts first. Emma rarely did anything idle or out of the blue, and her cryptic voice mail was no different.
Lucas could feel his brunch roiling in his stomach. Oh, but it’d been good. Decadent, and just what he’d needed after four days with his grandfather. There was no hiding from grief with his father’s father right there with him. Tim Sharpe would never see his eighties. Or his sixties...
Lucas cleared his throat. “I’ll go for a run this afternoon. I had too many carbs.”
His grandfather gave him a sideways glance. “No one forced you to have both toast and scones.”
“Don’t forget the brown bread.”
“Or the Irish butter.”
“Butter’s okay on a low-carb diet.”
“What’s the point of having butter if you can’t have bread?”
Sort of what had crossed Lucas’s mind when he’d dived into the bread basket at brunch. He’d dived into the Irish whiskey orange marmalade, too. And everything else.
“Good point,” he told his grandfather. “Dad used to say if you’re going to sin, sin boldly. Did he get that from you?”
“All on his own. Your grandmother and I taught him not to seek out sin.”
“Ha. Right.”
Lucas appreciated his grandfather’s wry humor. He was more himself since the early days after his son’s death. Having just been in Maine, he hadn’t flown back for the funeral, but Lucas had video chatted with him once or twice a week since then. His pragmatic, clear-eyed grandfather had seemed to turn old overnight, the lines in his face deeper, his color off. He would drift away even when they were talking Sharpe Fine Art Recovery business. His time with Emma walking the southwest Irish hills had helped in those early days of shock and loss. It had helped Emma, too. Now it was Lucas’s turn, and he was glad to be here with their grandfather—for his grandfather’s sake and for his own.
At home in Dublin, Wendell would have joined the “lads” after Mass for a full Irish breakfast, but he and Lucas had driven to the south coast yesterday for a short break. His grandfather’s idea. Lucas didn’t think the impromptu getaway had anything to do with Emma’s voice mail, but it could. Wendell Sharpe wasn’t always forthcoming.
Lucas had legitimate Sharpe Fine Art Recovery business in Ireland, but he’d also wanted to spend time with his grandfather. He had no deadline to get back. He could work from Ireland, and he had a capable, if small, staff in Heron’s Cove. Just in the few days since his arrival in Dublin, he could feel himself starting to come to terms with his father’s death. He’d handled his chronic health issues his way. Lucas accepted that, but it didn’t ease his grief, didn’t fill the gap that his father’s death had created.
He choked back a sudden wave of emotion. It’d be like that for a while, he knew. Maybe forever,
since his father would never be far from his thoughts.
He paused and looked out at the rocks and sea. Two kayakers were paddling with the tide toward the crescent-shaped beach down to his left. He patted his stomach. He didn’t think he’d gained any weight, but he would if he kept eating like he had at brunch. “I should have at least skipped dessert,” he said.
“That meringue you had looked good, and it had fruit. Had to be more keto friendly than my sticky toffee pudding.”
“Sticky toffee pudding is its own glucose tolerance test.”
“Delicious, though.”
No argument from Lucas. His meringue had been delicious, too, filled with whipped cream and topped with fresh-cut fruit. He didn’t delude himself into thinking resisting sticky toffee pudding had been much of a victory, but he’d been pleased to see how well his grandfather ate. He’d lost weight since August. He insisted it was due to all the walking he’d done with Emma in September, but it wasn’t. It was grief.
Walking did seem to help him make peace with his loss. It was definitely a Sharpe thing. Lucas could tell his grandfather had benefited in the weeks since his son’s death from his long solo treks in the heart of Dublin where he’d lived the past sixteen years, then with his granddaughter on the Kerry Way and now with his grandson, here in Saint Declan country.
They resumed climbing the hill, small houses and shops across the narrow road on their right. Wendell sighed. “Are you going to tell me what Emma wants?”
Lucas could hear the suspicion in his grandfather’s voice. The old man did have sixty years of experience as a private art detective. “How did you know—”
“You had that ‘Emma’s on the phone’ expression. She’s in FBI mode?”
“Isn’t she always? It was just a voice mail. I didn’t speak with her. She had a few questions for us.”
“Like what?”
“She wants to know if we’ve been in contact with Oliver York or Aoife O’Byrne recently. I haven’t. Have you?”
Wendell slowed his pace. “Define recently.”
“She didn’t get specific. Why? Have you been in contact with them?”
“I haven’t been in touch with Oliver since Emma was here. Aoife, though. She dragged me to a cocktail party at her studio in Dublin on Tuesday—the night before you got here. As much as I like her, I didn’t want to go. I knew I’d be up early to greet you, and I just wasn’t in the mood. You’re better at socializing than I ever was. It’s part of the job, I know, but you’re single. I was already engaged to your grandmother when I got into this business.”
“How did Aoife ‘drag’ you?”
“She sent a car.”
Lucas held back a smile. “Was it an art-related party?”
“It was a going-away party for her. She sold her studio and plans to buy a place in Declan’s Cross. She’s been renting a cottage down here. All her arty friends were at the party, but no one cornered me to talk stolen vases or anything, if that’s your next question.”
Given Emma’s mention of Oliver York, it wasn’t a unreasonable comment. “Is Aoife still in Dublin?”
“She cleared out on Wednesday. It’s all these paintings she’s been doing lately of laundry hanging on clotheslines and chickens and sheep and wildflowers. She’s turning homey.”
Lucas knew some of the works to which his grandfather referred. In Aoife O’Byrne’s hands, with her technical skill, artistic sensibility and unwavering eye, they were anything but mundane and cutesy. “They’re amazing pieces, Granddad.”
“Of course. All her work is amazing, and popular.”
“Oliver wasn’t at the party, then?”
“Not that I saw, but you know how he is. He could steal your socks off your feet and you wouldn’t know it.”
True enough, Lucas thought. The pair had an interesting relationship given their past as art thief and private art detective. Hunted and hunter. Now they were...well, friends. Lucas didn’t pretend to understand. “What about Henrietta Balfour?”
His grandfather stopped dead in his tracks. They’d come to the Cliff House Hotel, a five-star landmark built on the rock face between street and sea. Lucas thought they might stay there, but his grandfather had opted for the O’Byrne House Hotel in Declan’s Cross.
“Granddad? What’s up?”
“Henrietta’s an interesting character. Oliver says she’s sorting through her grandfather’s opera record collection. I gather old Freddy Balfour was quite the opera buff, when he wasn’t chasing Nazi and Soviet spies.” Wendell paused, catching his breath, his cheeks red with exertion. “One says vinyl these days, though, not records.”
“But has she been in touch?”
“Not in touch, no.”
Lucas bit back his impatience. It wasn’t his grandfather’s age at work. It was his nature. Technically he’d retired, closing up his Dublin office. Lucas had spent days with him over the past year, prying tidbits that he’d stored in his head, not in any official company files. He’d decided what Lucas needed to know. Although his father had suffered chronic pain from a fall on black ice, Lucas wouldn’t be surprised if his reluctance to get too involved in Sharpe Fine Art Recovery had to do with its founder’s closemouthed ways. Most days, Lucas and his grandfather worked fine together. But they did have their moments.
“I can’t swear for certain, Lucas,” Wendell said finally.
“You don’t need to. Just tell me what came to your mind.”
His grandfather took a folded red bandanna from an inside pocket in his lightweight jacket and wiped beads of sweat from his upper lip. “Henrietta was at Aoife’s studio in Dublin on Tuesday night. I was avoiding small talk and looked out the window, and there she was on the street.”
“Did she attend the party?”
He shook his head. “Not while I was there. I went down to invite her up for a drink, but she was gone by the time I got there. You remember the studio. It’s on the second floor of a refurbished mill.”
Lucas remembered, but he didn’t know Aoife as well as his grandfather and sister did—or Henrietta and Oliver. Best that way, he’d figured. “You’re positive it was Henrietta?”
“I wouldn’t swear to it, but, yeah, I’m confident.” Wendell nodded up past the hotel entrance. “Keep going?”
“Sure. Do a bit of the cliff walk?”
“I’m up to doing the whole thing if you want.”
“You’re red as a beet, Granddad.”
“It’s a sign the heart’s still pumping. Let’s go.”
The street dead-ended at a gate onto a rough, dirt trail that wound along the edge of the headland, past dramatic cliffs with stunning sea views, and eventually looped back to the village. They walked in silence past the lichen-splotched stone ruins of an ancient church and holy well, a reminder this part of the south Irish coast was Saint Declan country. More than a thousand years ago, the early Irish saint had established a Celtic Christian settlement in Ardmore. Lucas wasn’t up on all his Irish history, but he knew that bit.
They continued on the trail, taking in the expansive view of the sea, glistening under the late-morning sun in a myriad of shades of blue and blue-green. Lucas gave them both a moment to appreciate the scenery—and catch their breath—before he returned to the topic at hand.
“Did you get in touch with Henrietta after you saw her at Aoife’s studio?” he finally asked.
His grandfather shook his head. “I didn’t.”
“And Oliver? Where was he?”
“No idea. I wanted to spend time with you. If those two want to see me, they know how to get in touch. I wasn’t in the mood for any of their drama, to be honest.”
That was concerning. Lucas felt his own mood shift. Normally he’d soak up the views and the sounds of wind and birds, and relax and enjoy the walk. That wasn’t happening now. Bloated with his carbohydrate overload, he co
uldn’t work up much energy after the trek up from the village, but his elderly grandfather was billy-goating it ahead of him on the rough trail. He was walking too damn fast for a man in his eighties. If Lucas said anything, it’d just piss him off. Wendell was in great shape but he was pushing hard. Did he want to trigger a heart attack of his own, join his son in the great beyond?
Nah, Lucas thought. Not Wendell Sharpe’s personality.
He finally stopped, breathing rapidly, his entire face red now, not just his cheeks. “What else did Emma have to say?”
“Henrietta and Oliver are in Rock Point for a surprise visit. They’re staying with Finian Bracken at the rectory. Emma didn’t elaborate in her voice mail.”
Wendell dug out his bandanna again and wiped his brow, forehead and the back of his neck. “Oliver is fond of Emma, and he’s taken with Father Bracken. Colin, however. I think he might be warming up to Oliver, don’t you?”
“Anything’s possible with Oliver, but Colin’s a tough hurdle even for a wily guy like him. Any idea why Henrietta was in Dublin?”
“None. I didn’t follow up. Anything else?”
“Emma asked if we’d heard from a Bryce or Melodie Fanning, or anyone at a yacht party yesterday at the marina next to the offices.”
“Fannings? I don’t know them. Do you?”
Lucas shook his head. “I might get more out of Emma when I call her back.”
“Or you might not.”
True. Lucas eyed his grandfather. “But you didn’t hear from anyone?”
“Not a peep.” He waved a hand, looking less winded. “We’re at the halfway point. Might as well keep going rather than double back.”
They weren’t halfway back to the village, but Wendell clearly wanted to complete the loop. Lucas realized he did, too. They’d pass the twelfth-century round tower that rose above the village, and more Saint Declan ruins. He smiled. “I’m not going to quibble. What difference does a few minutes make either way?”
“Good attitude. You can burn off that meringue. Will you have lettuce for dinner?”
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