“What are some of the rules?” Emma asked.
“Stick to opened-cap mushrooms, especially if you’re inexperienced. Mushrooms in the button stage can trip you up. Pay attention to where the mushroom is growing—its environment can help with identification. I avoid gilled mushrooms. Shape, color, texture, whether it’s growing singly or in a cluster—I take note of everything.” She shrugged. “That’s a start on the rules, anyway.
“Thank you,” Emma said. “Did Georgina have anything with her to collect mushrooms?”
“She had a mesh bag tucked into her running belt. She showed it to me.”
Prepared, then.
“She only mentioned chanterelles,” Cecilia added. “I don’t know if she actually picked any, or if she picked any other mushrooms or other edible plants while she was here. I didn’t stay with her. She said she’s an enthusiastic forager.”
“Was anyone else out here?”
“I didn’t see anyone. We get a few people out here from time to time, but it’s not easy to reach.”
“Can you describe Georgina’s mood?” Emma asked.
“Between the run and the foraging, I got the impression she wanted to be alone. She was quiet, thoughtful. She said she loved seeing Maine and the convent, especially this time of year with the changing foliage.”
Emma noticed yellow birch leaves among the evergreens. She could see the appeal of running out here, doing a bit of mushroom foraging before a busy day. “Did you see Georgina again before she left?”
Sister Cecilia shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I don’t think anyone else at the convent did, either, but I can ask.”
“That’s okay.” Emma had discovered her friend was naturally curious, and as a result never bored. “And there were no mushrooms in the vegetable order itself?”
“Not a one.” No hesitation, no hint of uncertainty. “I’m the only one here who has any real interest in wild mushrooms. I’d love to collect chanterelles, but—I just haven’t. Next year, maybe. It’s been difficult for me to come out this way.” She hesitated. “It’s hard for you, too, isn’t it?”
Emma nodded. “I expect it will be for a while. Colin and I haven’t been to Maine in several weeks. I went to Ireland to be with my grandfather. It was good but it’s a blur now.” Emma pulled her gaze from the twisting path before she could go too deep into memories. “I didn’t realize chanterelles are still in season.”
“They’re winding down now. I think of them as a September treat.”
“And you didn’t see Ms. Masterson pick them or any other mushrooms, take them with her—”
Sister Cecilia shook her head. “She said if she found any chanterelles, she wanted to grill them with garlic, olive oil and shaved Parmesan. That does sound wonderful, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does,” Emma said with a smile.
“Whatever made people sick yesterday, it wouldn’t have been chanterelles. They’re harmless, unless, of course, one is allergic or sensitive to them.” She started down the steep trail, her breathing returned to normal. “There are some nasty mushrooms out here. Some toxic mushrooms are tricky to differentiate from nontoxic varieties. I don’t feel confident enough in my wild mushroom skills to consume any I pick, much less include them in a vegetable order.”
“What types of toxic mushrooms might you find out here?”
“A fair number, actually. There’s toxic but not lethal and there’s toxic and lethal. Some are gastrointestinal irritants that can give you unpleasant symptoms for a miserable day or two but are unlikely to kill you. Others are downright deadly.”
Emma followed her down the shaded trail. “Can you give me an example?”
Cecilia stood on a protruding root and touched a bit of sticky pitch on the trunk of a gnarly pine tree. “Well...you definitely want to stay away from white Amanitas. There are a number of different species around the world. We have the eastern destroying angel. Amanita bisporigera.”
“Do they grow out here?”
“I spotted several out here the other day. The most well-known and possibly the most dangerous Amanita is the death cap. Amanita phalloides. It’s native to Europe but I understand it can be found in North America. Best to avoid any of the Amanitas.”
Emma considered Sister Cecilia’s words. “Destroying angel. Death cap. Aptly named, I take it?”
She nodded, spots of color high in her cheeks given the intense nature of the topic. “I’m not a medical expert, but the toxin in Amanitas attacks and can ultimately shut down the liver and kidneys, leading to coma and eventually death. Learning to identify Amanitas is critical for a mushroom enthusiast.”
“Sounds like an understatement,” Emma said, trying to lighten the mood. “Mushroom Hunting 101.”
“Most certainly.”
Emma noticed an attractive brown mushroom under the pine tree, not far from where she stood. She had no idea what it was. “What about mushrooms that aren’t deadly but still can make you sick?”
Sister Cecilia hopped off the pine root and lifted a low-hanging branch, pointing to the ground. “See those red mushrooms? I haven’t had a mycologist make a positive identification, but I believe they’re the russula emetica species. They’d be my first candidate for yesterday.”
“Emetica? Another one appropriately named?”
“Says it all, doesn’t it. They’re commonly known as the sickener.”
“Not as terrifying as death cap and destroying angel, but it gets the point across.” Emma took a closer look at the trio of mushrooms, indeed a distinct red color. “They don’t look appetizing, and they certainly don’t bear any resemblance to chanterelles.”
“That’s true,” Sister Cecilia said, lowering the branch. “Symptoms after eating russula emetica typically develop quickly—within thirty minutes to two hours. Amanitas have a delayed toxicity. Symptoms don’t appear for six to twelve hours after ingestion, and sometimes not for several days. Anyway, the gastrointestinal symptoms from eating sickeners are unpleasant but generally not lethal.”
“How do they taste?” Emma asked.
“That’s the rub in my theory. To make people sick, they have to be eaten raw. Cooking renders them harmless. But when raw, they have a strikingly bitter taste. You’d likely spit them out before the toxin had a chance to get into your system.”
That had been Melodie Fanning’s reaction to the mini tacos. “Could you mask the bitter taste?” Emma asked.
Sister Cecilia shrugged. “I suppose you could try. Maybe something spicy or as strongly flavored could get people to swallow enough to make them sick. You might not want more, but it’d be too late.”
They returned to the path, their talk of toxic mushrooms a contrast to the smell of the evergreens, the sounds of the ocean down through the trees, and a few seagulls, somewhere in the distance. It was a beautiful spot to be talking about poisonous mushrooms. Had anyone else noticed a bad taste yesterday? Would passengers and guests be reluctant to mention it with the Fannings as their hosts?
“I’m not suggesting Ms. Masterson picked the wrong mushrooms out here.” Sister Cecilia adjusted her headband, tucking strands of her fine brown hair back in place. “I don’t know if she picked any mushrooms at all. I’m just providing information, and I’m an admitted amateur.”
“I understand that,” Emma said.
She regretted bringing up such a topic with her friend. They’d met last fall when a nun—Sister Joan Fabriani, Emma’s former mentor in art conservation—was murdered at the convent. She’d been a brilliant woman, and she’d never believed Emma would remain a religious sister.
They continued up the path, but Sister Cecilia’s breathing became rapid and shallow. Emma stopped and turned to her. “Are you all right, Sister?”
“Yes—thank you.” She placed a hand on her upper chest and smiled. “It’s not always easy to have you as a friend
, Emma, given the nature of your work—of your family’s work—but I’m so glad you are my friend. I don’t want you to think you can’t tell me anything, can’t come to me when something is on your mind.”
“I appreciate that.”
Sister Cecilia cleared her throat, her breathing more normal. “There is one more thing. I don’t know if it’s of interest. When she was choosing her fresh veggies, Georgina Masterson mentioned her father is very ill in England. She asked us to pray for him. She said she isn’t a believer herself, but she figured he could use any positive thoughts.”
“Did she say what made him sick?”
“No, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking. I was open to whatever she wanted to say, of course, but she changed the subject. I suppose it could go to her state of mind. If she made a mistake with the mushrooms, maybe she was just preoccupied with her father’s condition.” Sister Cecilia flushed, waved a hand dismissively. “Sorry. I know I’m jumping ahead of the facts and shouldn’t speculate.”
“You can do whatever you like, and I appreciate hearing your thoughts. Thank you for your help.”
They said little as they walked back to the main gate. Through the tall fence, she could see a solitary maple, its leaves turning orange against the blue sky.
Sister Cecilia’s color was better and she appeared more her usual cheerful self when they reached the main gate and parking area. “Are you painting?” she asked Emma.
“Some. Not much. Our apartment in Boston is on the waterfront. Lots of great scenes to capture, but I don’t think I’ll ever master painting boats.”
“We can do another lesson.”
Emma smiled. “That’d be great.”
She opened her car door but took a moment to watch Sister Cecilia go back through the gate, taking the shaded paved walk to the motherhouse and her convent life. Emma could picture the gardens, the stone Victorian buildings and the rocky headland where she’d first spotted Colin a year ago. He was convinced she’d fantasized about meeting a rugged Maine lobsterman-turned-FBI-agent back in her days as a novice.
Maybe, deep down, she had, and she’d somehow conjured him.
But as she got in her car, she could see herself picking wild blueberries with her father on a hot August morning when she was still a postulant with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart.
Are you sure you want convent life forever, Emma?
He’d been direct and interested, and he’d encouraged her to talk to him. Her mother hadn’t liked to discuss such things. She didn’t understand, and she didn’t want to understand. I’m not going to lie to you, Emma, Sister Brigid, whoever you are now—I want my daughter back. I want grandchildren. This isn’t The Sound of Music. You’re not going to meet a rich, handsome sea captain.
Emma had appreciated her mother’s frankness and honesty. She was a widow now, visiting friends in Paris, but she and her father had both attended Emma’s wedding to Colin. Her mother approved of him. He wasn’t rich or a sea captain, but he was good with boats and ruggedly handsome.
Emma pulled her car door shut. People’s lives didn’t always take straight, easy roads. They had twists, turns, switchbacks and roadblocks, sometimes—maybe often—of one’s own making. She couldn’t remember all the details of what had drawn her to the Sisters of the Joyful Heart as a teenager, but she’d learned so much with them. She wouldn’t be an FBI agent without that time. She wouldn’t be with Colin without it.
She remembered that long-ago conversation with her father. Whatever you decide, Emma, I’m your dad. I’m always here for you.
I’ve never doubted that.
And if I go to God sooner rather than later—
Dad, please don’t talk like that.
Remember that it’s okay. Won’t you? Carry on with your life. Be happy.
She got behind the wheel, pulled the door shut and jumped when her phone vibrated in her jacket pocket. She fished it out. Lucas. She answered, relieved at the distraction from where her thoughts had taken her. “Hey,” she said. “Where are you?”
“Walking in the garden at the O’Byrne hotel. You?”
“The convent. Sister Cecilia and I were just talking about poisonous mushrooms.”
“Oh, nice. Want me to call back?”
“No, we’re done. I’m about to leave. Have the Fannings been in touch?”
“No, and no one else from the yacht. But Granddad and I talked to Aoife a little while ago. Do you know a Brit named Robin Masterson?”
“Georgina Masterson is the chef on the yacht.”
“His daughter.” Lucas sighed. “For what it’s worth, Emma, he bought the Aoife O’Byrne painting. Made a special trip to Dublin to go to her studio on Monday. She sold it to him herself. She was in the midst of her move to Declan’s Cross. The painting is a watercolor, part of a new series of Declan’s Cross woodland landscapes.”
“Okay. I didn’t expect the father. We don’t know who he is?”
“English is all I know.”
Emma could tell from Lucas’s voice there was more. “What else, Lucas? Please—don’t leave anything out, no matter how trivial it might seem.”
“Henrietta Balfour was in Dublin the next day.”
“Tell me.”
Emma didn’t interrupt Lucas as he related the rest of his conversation with Aoife and their grandfather. When he finished, she took a moment to collect her thoughts. “Did you get the sense Granddad told you everything about Aoife’s going-away party and seeing Henrietta that evening?”
“I think so, but you know him, Emma. If he doesn’t want to tell me something, he won’t, and I’ll be the last to know he’s holding back. Doesn’t surprise me that he and Oliver York get along as well as they do.”
Nor Emma. She could picture her brother and grandfather in pretty Declan’s Cross. “What’s Granddad up to while you’re in the garden?”
“He’s having coffee on the terrace.”
“How is he, Lucas?”
“Grieving. He misses Dad, but he carries on. He wants to take me out to the cliffs where he heard the banshee in the days before Dad died.”
“It’s gorgeous out there.” Emma heard the catch in her voice even before she felt tears hot in her eyes. She sniffled, reminded herself these surges of emotion while sudden weren’t unexpected. Part of grieving. She blinked back the tears and smiled. “I hope you don’t hear a banshee.”
“If I hear a banshee, Emma, I’m beating a path back to the hotel and the whiskey cabinet.”
She laughed. “I don’t blame you.”
“Emma...” Lucas paused, probably taking a moment to collect his own thoughts. “Can you tell me anything about why Henrietta and Oliver are in Rock Point?”
“I don’t know why they’re there, Lucas.”
“You have your hands full, don’t you? Get in touch if there’s anything else I can do. How’s Colin?”
“He got home on Friday, in time for the rehearsal dinner at Hurley’s.”
“Give him my best. I’ll let you know if I learn anything else. I’m just here hanging out with Granddad.”
“Don’t underestimate his ability to walk forever.”
“This I’ve learned,” Lucas said with a chuckle as they disconnected.
Emma tossed her phone onto the passenger seat. Next stop was the hospital. Colin would give Jeremy, Henrietta and Oliver only so much time before he started pushing hard for answers about their presence in Maine, what they knew about the Aoife O’Byrne painting and the nature of their relationship with Georgina Masterson, the young chef responsible for a dozen people getting sick yesterday.
Probably from consuming inedible mushrooms.
Russula emetica, Emma thought, as she drove down the convent’s tree-lined access road, her Sunday not even close to the one she’d planned. Except for the doughnuts. She and Colin would have had doughnut
s before peeling apples, kayaking, taking a long walk on the water.
She took in a breath as she came to the main road. She’d missed Colin when he was away. She loved having him in her life. She wanted to get up with him and go to bed with him. She wasn’t used to such feelings. Her life now was different from the one she’d had before she’d met him last September—certainly than the one she’d had as Sister Brigid with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart—but it was good.
Whatever was next for him—for her, for HIT—they’d figure it out.
Right now, though, it was on to the hospital and their British friends.
11
The medical types made Colin wait to see Jeremy Pearson, aka William Hornsby. The nurse explained their patient needed to rest after his previous visitors. Henrietta and Oliver hadn’t beaten Colin to Jeremy. He’d let them go first, knowing he wouldn’t get anything out of any of them until they’d had a chance to talk. He’d run into Henrietta and Oliver by the nurses’ station. She’d suggested he meet him in the hospital cafeteria. Colin figured he knew where to find them if they took off. Unfortunately. It’d been their idea to stay at the rectory, but he felt guilty for bringing the pair into Fin Bracken’s life. Not that Fin would complain. He even liked Oliver, and Henrietta was impossible not to like.
Finally, Colin got the all clear and went in. Jeremy had the double room to himself and was in the bed by the window, which overlooked not much of anything—a parking lot, a playground, a few trees in full autumn color.
Colin approached the bed. “I see you’re upright and awake.”
“Progress.” He held up his left arm, an IV taped to his hand. “Still have this, though.”
“You lost a lot of fluids.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Sorry about Henrietta and Oliver dropping into your quiet little village.”
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