“Nothing. I’m fasting until breakfast.”
“It’s called intermittent fasting. I read an article about it. I used to skip dinner or breakfast once in a while. Well, fasting will allow you to rationalize diving into another bread basket at breakfast.”
“With Irish whiskey marmalade, I hope.”
“That’s my boy.”
* * *
Wendell drained a bottle of water on the drive to the picturesque village of Declan’s Cross, not far from Ardmore. Lucas had rented a car, and had no intention of letting his grandfather do any of the driving. For once, he didn’t argue. They parked at the ivy-covered O’Byrne House Hotel, situated on a scenic stretch of coast within walking distance of the village shops and restaurants. Kitty and Aoife O’Byrne had inherited their uncle’s sprawling, run-down house, but it was Kitty who’d seen to transforming it into a popular boutique hotel. Lucas had booked two rooms with water views for himself and his grandfather.
They found Kitty O’Byrne, fortyish, dark-haired and blue-eyed, busy behind the bar. “Aoife’s here if you’d like to say hello.” Kitty gestured to the tables in the lounge area. “Can I bring you something to drink?”
“Sparkling water with lime,” Lucas said.
His grandfather shuddered and then smiled at Kitty. “A pint of Guinness for me, Kitty, dear.”
Lucas had no idea where he’d put it but said nothing.
They found Aoife seated on a softly cushioned chair facing the fire. Dark-haired and striking, she was an artist with a growing reputation for her moody paintings of ordinary Irish scenes, anything but trite in her hands, with her unafraid, unabashed blend of drama, reality, fantasy and emotion. Her work was approachable, and brilliant.
She spotted them and smiled brightly, sliding to her feet. “I heard you were here,” she said, greeting them each with a kiss on the cheek. She motioned to the cluster of chairs and small sofa. “Please, join me.”
They all sat, the fire crackling but not roaring on the cool but beautiful early afternoon. Kitty delivered the sparkling water and pint but didn’t linger.
Aoife pointed to a glass on the side table next to her chair. “I’m having Dingle Gin and tonic. I’m indulging myself. I was out walking all morning and landed here. I didn’t take my phone. It’s wonderful. I do screen-free Sundays, but I might make it screen-free weekends. Kitty says you’ve been to Ardmore. How was it?”
They engaged in friendly small talk for a few minutes. Finally, Lucas asked how her move to Declan’s Cross was going.
Aoife sat back, crossed her legs. She was in black leggings, a sapphire-blue tunic and worn walking shoes. “I don’t miss Dublin but it’s not been a week.”
“Granddad tells me he was at your going-away party.”
“Did he also tell you I had to twist his arm? But we had a fantastic time, didn’t we, Wendell?”
“He mentioned he saw Henrietta Balfour outside your studio,” Lucas said. “She didn’t come in?”
“No, I had no idea she was in Dublin.”
Lucas noticed her frown at what must have struck her as an out-of-nowhere comment and smiled. “I was just thinking about her because Emma called earlier. Henrietta and Oliver York are visiting Maine. They’re staying with Finian Bracken, as a matter of fact.”
“At the rectory?”
“Apparently.”
Aoife gazed up at the marble fireplace, a silver Celtic cross on display on the mantel. Fifty years ago, John O’Byrne had unearthed the sixteenth-century artifact when he’d renovated his back garden. It was among the items a thief had stolen eleven years ago this coming November, in a brazen heist that still, publicly, remained unsolved. The stolen cross and two Jack Butler Yeats paintings were mysteriously returned last fall, intact, presumably by the thief himself.
Oliver York, of course.
Lucas, his grandfather and Aoife knew the truth, but they couldn’t prove it, and perhaps didn’t want to.
“I remember studying the cross as a child,” Aoife said quietly. “I was fascinated by its Celtic carvings, their possible meaning—who’d done the work hundreds of years ago. My uncle never thought twice about it. He grew up here, walked the ground. He was delighted when it was discovered, but to him, the cross was a part of everyday life rather than a valuable work of art.”
“The art of the ordinary,” Wendell said.
“I like that. I like it a lot. I miss my ordinary life.” She swept her gin and tonic off the coffee table and took a sip. “One of my last acts in my studio was to sell a painting of a scene here in Declan’s Cross. I took that as a sign I’m merging my two lives into one, and all is as it should be.”
Lucas considered the timing. “When was this?”
“On Monday. It’s not my usual approach to sell a painting myself, not nowadays, but this man said he was in Dublin for the day and was taking his chances. He was a Brit—he’d flown in from London. I was clearing out my studio, and I was in the right mood.”
Wendell eyed her. “Did he have a particular painting in mind?”
“A particular series—my new one of a woodland here in Declan’s Cross, up on Sean Murphy’s farm on Sheep’s Head. He was hoping I had a painting from that series available. We met in the gallery in the same building as my studio. He said his daughter had seen three paintings in the series in London and fell in love with my work. Those paintings had sold already. As it happens, I had finished a fourth. He bought it on the spot.”
“Did you show the painting to him first?” Lucas asked.
“He said he didn’t need to see it. I insisted. I didn’t invite him up to my studio. I brought it down myself, and he gave it a quick look and said it was perfect. That was that. He wasn’t particularly chatty but he was amiable.” She hesitated, cupping her glass in both hands. “After he left, I wished I’d let the gallery handle him and stayed in my studio and cleared bookshelves. I can’t pinpoint why.”
Lucas picked up his water glass. “What was his name, do you recall?”
Aoife’s vivid eyes narrowed. “Why would that matter?” She shook her head. “No, don’t answer.” She reluctantly dug her phone out of her jacket pocket, tossed on the arm of her chair. “You’d think I could manage one day. At least I had the walk.” She tapped the screen. “Robin Masterson. I assumed he’d have me ship the painting, but he took it with him. I wrapped it myself for travel, and he was on his way. It might have been a pair of shoes.”
But, of course, it wasn’t a pair of shoes, Lucas thought. It was a painting by a rising star in the art world, and this man—Robin Masterson—had made a special trip to see Aoife and buy a painting for his daughter.
“Kitty mentioned you had brunch in Ardmore,” Aoife said, awkwardly changing the subject.
“We ate everything in sight,” Wendell said. “Lucas is fasting tonight.”
“Maybe forever,” he said with a grin.
Aoife smiled, but her blue eyes were distant. “It’s impossible not to overindulge at brunch. It’s one of life’s rules.” She slipped her phone back into her jacket pocket. “But you’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?”
Lucas appreciated her question—her suspicion, given his mention of Emma, and Henrietta and Oliver. “My sister might want to talk to you, Aoife.”
“In her capacity as an FBI agent?”
“As she’d tell you, she’s always an FBI agent.”
Aoife jumped up, her black hair shining as she grabbed her jacket. “Excuse me,” she mumbled. Lucas could see she was agitated, needed to move. She burst through the French doors out to the terrace.
He touched his grandfather’s arm. “Stay put. Enjoy your pint. I’ll go talk to her.”
He followed her outside. A gusty wind caught the ends of her hair as she stood with her arms crossed tightly on her chest and stared at the garden and sea. “It’s not you, Luca
s. I’m restless these days. I’m adjusting to the move—to giving up Dublin. Figuring out what’s next for me. Sorting through lots of uncertainty, unknowns, hopes, fears, dreams. Shadowy dreams, dreams I daren’t go near.”
Lucas stood next to a large stone flowerpot dripping with colorful begonias, a contrast to Aoife’s dark mood. Farther to his left, a few guests had gathered at one of a half dozen outdoor tables, enjoying glasses of wine and the quiet, attractive surroundings. Pebbled paths wound through the lush garden of flowering shrubs, raised herb and flower beds and stretches of green grass.
“I hope we didn’t upset you,” Lucas said.
She cleared her throat and turned to him, her blue eyes shining with tears. “I’m ashamed of myself, whining to you when you’ve just lost your father. I’m so sorry for your loss, Lucas.” She lowered her arms to her sides. “This man—Robin Masterson. He didn’t seem upset or anything. He knew what he wanted.”
“Did he mention any names?”
“Not that I recall. He didn’t mention Heron’s Cove, Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, Wendell, Boston, Maine, the FBI. Oliver. Henrietta.” She paused. “Finian.” She sniffled, glancing away. “I’d remember if he had.”
“But his visit was unusual,” Lucas said.
“Yes.” The wind whipped a strand of hair into her face; she brushed it behind her ear and turned to him again. “Sean Murphy is at his farm. You know what he’s like, Lucas. He’ll sniff out any trouble, particularly if it involves Kitty and me.”
Lucas had met the garda detective, and he couldn’t argue with Aoife’s assessment. But he’d be vigilant and suspicious just with two Sharpes in the village, even without his personal connection to the O’Byrne sisters. Given Emma’s voice mail, Lucas couldn’t deny the possibility of some sort of trouble. He needed to talk to her. He’d call after he finished talking with Aoife.
She touched a bright red begonia blossom as she thought a moment, then finally looked back at Lucas. The emotion had gone out of her expression, an act of willpower, he suspected. “Oliver and Henrietta arriving in Rock Point complicates things for Emma, doesn’t it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “She has my number. Please tell her she can call anytime.”
“I’ll do that.” Lucas glanced back to the lounge and saw his grandfather was almost finished with his pint. “I should go inside. I don’t know if he needs rescuing but he looks intense.”
Aoife managed a small laugh. “Good luck.” She motioned toward the garden. “I’ll take the back way home.” She caught herself, her laugh fading. “Home. It rolled off my tongue, didn’t it? Another good sign, I hope.” She touched Lucas’s arm. “You’ll stay in touch, won’t you?”
He promised he would, and she glided off the terrace onto a pebbled walk.
Lucas went inside, and his grandfather got stiffly to his feet. “Brunch, a walk, a pint—I’m going up to take a nap. You’ll call Emma? Keep me posted.”
“Will do, Granddad.”
“When you report back to me, don’t hold back anything, Lucas. Tell all.”
He nodded. “No problem.”
“That means everything I need to know, want to know and should know.”
“Got it. Need, want, should.”
He seemed satisfied, and Lucas watched him head out of the lounge. His bony shoulders were slumped and he wasn’t billy-goating it now, but all in all, he looked okay.
Lucas headed to the bar. He could replenish his sparkling water, or he could give it up and have a pint of Smithwick’s before he called his sister.
The pint won out.
9
Emma was dressed and awake when Kevin Donovan came in through the back door and set a box of doughnuts on the kitchen table. It was just after seven, not that early by Rock Point lobstering standards. “I ran into Franny Maroney at Hurley’s when I was buying the doughnuts,” Kevin said. “She told me Henrietta Balfour and Oliver York are staying at the rectory. I let her think she’d gotten a jump on me. She was thrilled. She’s right in a way, though. I am clueless about what’s going on.”
Colin grinned at him. “It’s a good thing you’re the easygoing Donovan. Mike wouldn’t have brought doughnuts. Sorry, Kev. I appreciate the breathing room. Figures Franny beat me to the punch.”
“She should have been a spy.”
“Who says she isn’t? Emma and I don’t know what’s going on with Henrietta and Oliver. We had no idea they were in the US never mind in town until they turned up at the rectory with their bags.”
“That doesn’t reassure me. Do they know this hospitalized Brit—Hornsby?”
“Yeah. A friend of theirs. They planned to get together on the yacht’s stop in Heron’s Cove. All I know.”
“Or it’s all you’re going to tell me.” Kevin tore open the doughnut box. “I got a mix. Emma, you like Hurley’s doughnuts, don’t you?”
“Who doesn’t?” She eyed the tempting array of glazed, plain, chocolate-covered and apple-cider doughnuts. “A dozen is a lot of doughnuts, Kevin.”
“It’s revenge for holding back on him,” Colin said.
“I’m not that passive-aggressive. If I wanted revenge, I’d have left them on the back steps for the raccoons.”
“Wouldn’t blame you. Any word from the hospital?” Colin asked.
“No. I haven’t checked. I’d know if anything had gone wrong overnight. I gather you haven’t checked, either. We suspect it was some kind of inedible mushroom that makes you sick but doesn’t kill you. Lots of candidates. We can consult a mycologist, but it’s not necessary medically. That’s an expert in mushrooms, in case you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t.” Colin helped himself to a glazed doughnut. “Any evidence it was deliberate?”
Kevin shook his head and took an apple-cider doughnut out of the box. “It looks as if the chef made a mistake with mushrooms and doesn’t want to admit it. Turns out the fast onset of symptoms was a good sign. A longer latency period—six hours, even days—would have indicated a more dangerous species might be involved.” He leaned against the counter with his doughnut. “Sprinkling mushrooms onto food at a party isn’t the most effective way to target an individual.”
“You don’t necessarily know who’s going to eat what,” Emma said, continuing to resist the doughnuts.
“I suppose someone could have intended to cause a stir—create a smoke screen for something else.”
“We have no evidence of that,” Kevin said. He polished off his doughnut and looked at his older brother. “Except for your mysterious art consultant, we have no reason to push this thing and investigate further.”
“I don’t know anything about mushrooms, Kevin,” Colin said.
“Fair enough.”
Emma poured coffee. She held up the pot at Kevin, but he shook his head. He’d have ordered some at Hurley’s, with the doughnuts, listening to Franny’s gossip about the local priest. “If an inedible wild mushroom is responsible for yesterday’s incident, I can see it happening given the popularity of foraging.” She set the coffeepot in the sink and added half-and-half to her mug. “There are strict protocols for identifying wild mushrooms. You don’t want to make a mistake.”
“Noted,” Kevin said. “Thought you might like to know the Sisters of the Joyful Heart delivered fresh vegetables to the yacht yesterday before the party.”
Emma’s former convent. “They don’t grow mushrooms, and wouldn’t include wild mushrooms in an order.”
“Still, if it was mushrooms yesterday—and it looks as if that’s the case—they came from somewhere. I’d want to know where if I were serving people on the yacht or eating their food. Then again, I eat at Hurley’s without thinking about it.”
Colin rolled his eyes at Kevin’s stab at humor. Emma wasn’t surprised the Sisters of the Joyful Heart had provided vegetables to the yacht. They specialized in art conservation and education,
but they were self-sufficient and had extensive gardens, selling and giving away surplus flowers and vegetables. This time of year, that would include winter squash, brussels sprouts, carrots, potatoes, spinach, leaf lettuce—a wide variety of vegetables that didn’t include wild mushrooms. It was too easy to make a mistake.
Kevin shifted to Colin. “I’m heading to the hospital soon. Do you plan to go back up there?”
“At some point. Beth on today?”
“She didn’t share her schedule with me. We gave Georgina Masterson a ride back to Heron’s Cove last night. She was in a state. Colin, Emma—if you’re aware of any cause for concern for the safety of the passengers and crew on that yacht, I need to know.” Kevin stood straight and nodded at the box of doughnuts. “A dozen didn’t seem like that many with Franny Maroney breathing down my neck. Now it seems like a lot.
“Emma and I will make a dent in them,” Colin said.
“Yeah. I should get rolling. Any word from Andy and Julianne in Ireland?”
Emma thought she saw a touch of wistfulness, if fleeting, in Colin’s expression. He shook his head. “I don’t expect to hear from them. They should pulling into Fin Bracken’s cottage soon.”
“Guess I wouldn’t want to be in touch with my brothers on my honeymoon. Mike, Andy and I didn’t hear from you, either.” Kevin took another doughnut. “See you soon.”
He left through the back door. Emma finally succumbed to temptation and took the last glazed doughnut. She broke it in two roughly equal pieces, keeping one and returning the other to the box.
Colin drank some of his coffee and leaned close to her. “How long are you going to give yourself before you eat the other half?”
“What if I resist?”
“Do you want to resist?”
She sighed. “No, I want the other half, and I want a chocolate-covered one, too.”
“We’re supposed to meet Henrietta and Oliver at Hurley’s.”
“Doesn’t mean we have to eat anything.” She polished off the doughnut half. “I’ll head to the convent after breakfast. Sister Cecilia is into wild mushrooms.”
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