Carla Neggers (20 page)

He picked up his coffee cup. “Good morning, Julianne.”

She smiled at Emma. “Sorry. We’re done now. Good morning. It’s such a romantic hotel, isn’t it? Are you sure you want me to join you two for breakfast—”

“We’re sure,” Colin said. “We need to talk.”

“Does this have anything to do with Andy’s escapade last night? I told him you’d kill him.”

“Julianne,” Emma said, “did Lindsey tell you how she ended up in Declan’s Cross?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

“Did she talk about her mother at all?”

“Her mother? No. Marine mammals, diving, how pretty it is here. We talked some about my internship, and she told me a bit about her father—not a lot. I got the feeling she’d landed here by accident and fell in love with the area.” Julianne frowned, noticing how serious Emma was. Colin, too. “What’s going on?”

Colin put his cup down. “Did Andy tell you what he and Mike learned last night?”

“No. What?”

Emma answered as she broke open a scone. “Fifteen years ago, David Hargreaves and his wife at the time visited Ardmore and bought two works by Aoife O’Byrne.”

Julianne reached for a scone. “O’Byrne as in—”

“John O’Byrne’s niece and Kitty’s sister,” Emma said. “The two works—a seascape and a silver Celtic cross—were in David Hargreaves’ library until last week. He told his housekeeper he sent them out to be appraised.”

“Well, that’s quite the coincidence. Do you think that’s why Lindsey ended up in Declan’s Cross?”

“Her mother was a painter herself,” Colin said, his eyes—so like Andy’s—on Julianne.

Using the silver butter knife, she put a pat of Irish butter on her bread plate. Hurley’s didn’t have separate butter knives. Suddenly Maine seemed so far away, even with Colin and Emma at the table with her. She looked up from her scone at them. “Have you talked to Lindsey’s father about this?”

Emma shook her head. “Not yet. Colin and I are meeting my grandfather this morning in Ardmore. I want to talk to him first. We’d like for you to join us. He might want to ask you a few questions.”

“No problem. I’d love to meet your grandfather, and I want to see Ardmore. You guys can read all the emails between Lindsey and me if you want. I don’t mind.” Julianne spread the butter on her scone and tried to keep her mind from racing. “When did you talk to Andy?”

“Last night,” Colin said. “Late. He and Mike ran into Matt Yankowski on their way out of the Hargreaves’ place.”

Julianne knew Yankowski from the attack on Andy in late October. “And they’re not under arrest?”

“They’re lucky it was Yank and not me.”

She looked at Emma. “He’s not kidding, you know.”

Emma smiled. “All’s well that ends well. Can you meet us at reception in forty-five minutes?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Please don’t discuss the Aoife O’Byrne works with anyone else,” Emma added as she and Colin got to their feet.

They headed out of the dining room, and Julianne slathered thick rhubarb jam onto her scone. She’d seldom seen Colin in full-blown FBI mode. Never Emma. “Scary, those two,” she muttered under her breath. Then again, they had reason to be in FBI mode.

She ordered yogurt and fruit to go with her scones. The trip to Ardmore would be interesting. Wendell Sharpe was a legend in southern Maine. She did want to meet him. She replayed in her head everything Lindsey had said to her from the moment they’d met at Hurley’s to the moment they’d parted that evening, promising to stay in touch. Julianne was positive not a word had come up about art, the O’Byrnes or the Sharpes. There had been so much to see and talk about, given their mutual interest in marine science. It hadn’t occurred to Julianne to mention Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, even with Emma in Ireland.

She finished her breakfast and headed up to her room. Housekeeping had already slipped in and done their thing. The bed was made, the bathroom was clean, fresh towels were hung. The drapes were open, sunlight streaming in. She looked out at the glistening ocean and suddenly felt lonely. Her thoughts automatically went to Andy. He wasn’t easy, but he was good in a fight. Was she in a fight?

She checked her messages. He’d called and left a voice mail, probably while she was consuming her third scone.
“Woke up thinking about you, Jules. I don’t know if that’s welcome news or not, but I’m here if you need me.”

She didn’t know if it was welcome news or not, either.

19

EMMA WALKED AMONG
old graves on the uneven ground at the base of the Ardmore round tower, a twelfth-century landmark rising a hundred feet above the picturesque village. The view of the bay from the hillside location was enough reason for a visit, but the early Celtic Christian ruins, the scattered graves and the inescapable sense of history made it a must-see for tourists, at least as far as she was concerned. Today, though, with the cool, crisp air, they had the cemetery and its ancient structures to themselves.

Colin had hung back, reading worn headstones splotched with orange and white lichen as he watched for her grandfather. Julianne had joined Emma for a closer look at the tower. She squinted up at the impressive block-and-mortar structure. “What’s the purpose of a round tower?”

“We don’t know for certain,” Emma said. “Dozens of round towers were built throughout Ireland, most between the eighth and tenth centuries. This one offers a bird’s-eye view of the coastline, so some think it might have served as a watchtower against invaders.”

“Kind of elaborate for a watchtower.”

“I think so, too. Notice the door and how high it is aboveground—at least twelve feet. One theory has it as a deliberate defensive measure. During raids, monks would hide inside with their valuables.”

“Pull up the ladder, so to speak, and play possum until the bad guys sail off again,” Julianne said. “You’d want enough food and water to last awhile.”

Emma hunched her shoulders against a gust of wind that went right through her leather jacket. “More likely using the tower as a hideout was opportunistic and the high doors were necessary for structural stability.”

Julianne smiled. “Pretty amazing, though.”

Colin joined them, his jacket unzipped despite the wind. “Leave it to your grandfather to have us meet him in a cemetery.”

“It’s historic,” Julianne told him. “Saint Declan established his monastery here over a thousand years ago. Can you imagine?”

“Some other day, maybe,” he said.

Julianne rolled her eyes, but Emma just smiled. She appreciated their company—their easy familiarity with each other—and was glad she wasn’t meeting her grandfather alone.

“Granny would love this,” Julianne said. “I don’t remember learning anything about Saint Declan. I like the name Declan, though. A cute guy in my college organic chemistry class was named Declan.”

Colin muttered under his breath, but Emma suspected he was relieved to see Julianne more animated, more herself, today. “Saint Declan believed God guided him to Ardmore,” Emma said. “According to accounts of his life, when he and his companions set sail from Wales, they inadvertently left behind a small bell that Declan believed God had sent to him as a gift early in his priesthood. They prayed, and the bell appeared on a large stone that then guided them to Ardmore.”

“Saint Declan’s Stone,” Colin said. “It’s in the harbor. It’s actually a large boulder. We could walk to it from here. The bell’s gone, though.”

“You read that on the internet,” Julianne said.

He grinned at her. “Always so smart.”

Emma led the way among the headstones and grave slabs—some new, most very old—and the plantings of junipers, yews and euonymus to what was left of Ardmore cathedral. It was without a roof but was still recognizable as a church, part of it dating back to the ninth century. More graves were located inside its intact walls. Stone panels depicted biblical scenes, perhaps the most well-known of the Archangel Michael weighing souls, but Emma didn’t point it out—she’d spotted her grandfather by the end gable.

So, clearly, had Colin. He picked up his pace, but she and Julianne kept up with him as they made their way to the gable. Wendell Sharpe, Emma thought, was still a good-looking man in his early eighties. He was tall and lean, with thinning white hair and a penchant for bow ties, although today he wore a Burberry coat that he’d had for as long as Emma could remember. “Hi, Granddad,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for meeting Colin and me. This is our friend Julianne Maroney.”

He took Julianne’s hand. “I’m sorry to meet you under such strained circumstances,” he said, then stood back and eyed her. “Are you related to Jack Maroney? I used to buy lobsters from him years ago.”

“My grandfather. He died last fall.”

“Sorry to hear that. Good man. Did he ever get to Ireland? He talked about it frequently.”

Julianne shook her head. “He never did.”

“That’s life, isn’t it? I’ll never do half the things I talk about doing.” He glanced at Colin. “You don’t look happy, Special Agent Donovan.”

“I’m in a cemetery, Wendell.”

“Ha. Yes, indeed.” He sighed out at the view, the tide washing onto the sand of a horseshoe-shaped beach far below the hilltop cemetery. “I love this place. I haven’t been down here in far too long. Did you know there are two ogham stones here? They were moved some time ago to within the walls of the cathedral.”

“So that’s how you pronounce it,” Julianne said. “
OH-am.
Early Celtic alphabet inscribed on stone monuments. I read about it. Lots of arguments and theories.”

“These particular ogham stones probably date from the fifth century, around the time we think Saint Declan established a Christian settlement here.” He beamed at Julianne, obviously already charmed by her. “Have you had a chance to look around?”

“Some. It’s fascinating.”

“Your Declan’s Cross thief doesn’t just steal Irish art,” Colin said.

“And he’s the reason for our visit,” Wendell said with a sigh. “He’s an interesting character, our thief. We don’t really know if he has a particular interest in Saint Declan. It could be the O’Byrne house was simply his first heist. He’s like rain through our fingers.”

Julianne gestured vaguely. “I’ll go wander about and let you guys talk art thieves and such.”

“The oratory is worth a look,” Wendell said, nodding to a small building above them on the hill. “It’s the reputed burial site of Saint Declan, although his remains have long since vanished. Quite an unusual market over the years for the relics of saints.”

“I’ll check it out,” Julianne said, the wind whipping her hair as she headed to a narrow dirt path that wound through the graves, shrubs and grass.

Emma drew her grandfather into a sheltered spot between two slanted stone supports on the outside of the gable, out of the wind off the bay. She noticed that he looked happier, healthier, since venturing into the Kerry hills a few weeks ago—unless he was just energized by talk of a thief that had eluded him for a decade.

Colin touched a bit of white lichen on the old stone. Emma understood he wouldn’t necessarily appreciate the role of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery in a decade of unsolved art thefts. He turned from the stone and studied her grandfather. “Have you heard from your thief since Lindsey Hargreaves arrived in Declan’s Cross?”

“No,” Wendell said.

“Would you tell me if you had?”

“If Emma said to.”

If he’d meant to get Colin to smile, it didn’t work. “What do you know about Kitty and Aoife O’Byrne?”

“Pretty. Smart. Headstrong. Talented. Kitty is good with business and puts her artistic flair to work in the hotel. Aoife is more of a mystery.” Wendell turned to Emma. “Ten years ago, they were twenty-five and twenty-seven. Kitty had a young son. Her marriage had just ended. Aoife had just moved back to Dublin. She’d spent a few years living and working here in Ardmore.”

“Who do they think broke into their uncle’s house?” Colin asked.

Wendell eyed him. “Is this an FBI interrogation?”

“Like it would matter.”

“I’m not the thief, and I didn’t kill that girl in Declan’s Cross—”

“Just tell us what you know.”

Emma intervened. “Granddad, we need to know if the thief is back—if he’s in some way responsible for Lindsey Hargreaves’ death.”

“I’m doing my best to help,” he said.

She touched his shoulder. “Colin knows about the crosses. I told him.”

Her grandfather made a face. “I suppose you had no choice.”

Colin swore under his breath. “Emma, you might want to remind your grandfather that I’m a federal agent—”

“I don’t care if you’re the prime minister of Ireland,” Wendell said. “The details of this investigation are closely held for good reason.”

Colin didn’t back down. “What do these cross-inscribed stones tell you about our thief? What’s the point—what’s he trying to say?”

“If I knew that, maybe I could catch him.”

“Granddad,” Emma said, “do you know if Kitty and Aoife O’Byrne have a suspect in mind?”

He stepped back from the gable, into the wind, and turned up his jacket collar. “It doesn’t matter who either one of them suspects.”

Colin eyed him. “Was Kitty with Sean Murphy that night, Wendell?”

He sighed. “Not all night.”

Emma noted her grandfather’s matter-of-fact tone. “Granddad, that’s not in the files—”

“No reason for it to be. Sean arrived in Declan’s Cross that evening and stopped by the O’Byrne house to tell his uncle he was there. He was the last person Paddy saw before retiring to the kitchen. Kitty had already left. She had dinner at a restaurant in the village and walked up to Shepherd Head.”

“How do you know she and Sean weren’t together all night?” Colin asked.

“She told me she left her friend’s house for a short time to take a walk by herself.”

“You didn’t ask if the friend was Sean?”

“I didn’t need to.” Wendell smiled. “Not being an officer of the law, I can just know what I know.”

“Granddad...” Emma reined in her frustration. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think to.”

“Didn’t think to,” she repeated, but forced herself to take a deep, calming breath. “There’s a difference between ‘didn’t think to’ and ‘just didn’t.’”

He shrugged. “Not enough to matter. Whatever was between Kitty O’Byrne and Sean Murphy obviously didn’t end well, and exactly where they were that night won’t tell us who the thief is. Even if they could provide each other with an alibi, it wouldn’t be reliable.” He toed a tuft of grass with his walking shoe. “I’ve been through this in my head a few times over the past ten years, you know.”

Emma gritted her teeth, but she saw Colin bite back a smile, as if she’d just had a taste of her own medicine. “What about Aoife?” he asked. “Do you believe she was home alone in Dublin that night?”

“I don’t know where she was,” Wendell said. “From all accounts, John O’Byrne and his nieces got along well. He was a convivial fellow. He loved Declan’s Cross.”

Emma stepped out from the protected enclosure, but the wind had died down. The sky was clear, the small village bathed in the bright morning sun. “Granddad, have you told Irish authorities all you know about the thief?”

He bent down to peer at a grave marker, then stood straight, rubbing his lower back. “I’m not as spry as I used to be.”

“Granddad...”

“Never could stall with you. I’ve told the gardai all I’m required to tell them. The same goes for the FBI.”

Wendell Sharpe, Emma remembered, could be exasperating. “If you’re withholding evidence, I wouldn’t blame the gardai if they lock you up and throw away the key.”

He didn’t look concerned. “Will the FBI meet me at customs when I go back to Heron’s Cove?”

“It could be arranged,” Colin muttered.

Wendell grinned at him. “Good answer. I wish I could be of more help. The Declan’s Cross thief has never resorted to violence. That doesn’t mean he won’t. I’ve always felt he’s responding to loss, regret, heartbreak—maybe all of them rolled into one—and it got mixed in with entitlement, control and a desire to best someone who wants to put an end to his party.”

“You,” Emma said.

“Us now, I think,” he said, matter-of-fact. “He’s trying to fill a black hole that can’t be filled no matter what he steals, or how much he steals. That’s my judgment, anyway. I worry the rage is building inside him and one day it will explode. If it already has and he did kill Lindsey Hargreaves...” He shook his head. “I just don’t think that’s what’s happened.”

“Let’s go find Julianne,” Colin said.

He dropped on the dirt path. Emma suspected his timing was deliberate, that he wanted her grandfather a little off guard for what came next.

As they walked the short distance to the oratory, Colin said casually, “We suspect David Hargreaves might have had art stolen last week.”

“What kind of art?” Wendell asked.

“Early works by Aoife O’Byrne. An Irish seascape and a Celtic cross. David and his wife at the time—Cynthia, Lindsey’s mother—bought them here in Ardmore fifteen years ago.”

“Ah.”

Emma recognized her grandfather’s tone. “You knew?”

“About the purchase. Not that they might have been stolen.” He winked at her. “Don’t be mad. I’m always careful about what I say when I’m dealing with the FBI.”

Colin looked as if he could throttle him. “Dodgy answer, Wendell.”

He waved a hand, dismissive. “I’ve had ten years to figure out who’s bought Aoife’s work, especially anything to do with Saint Declan and Declan’s Cross. The Hargreaves name didn’t jump out at me at first. Not until I asked Lucas to check the files.”

“Lindsey met her father in Dublin over the weekend,” Emma said. “He drove here to Ardmore on Monday and stayed on his own. It seems he was recreating his last good time with his wife before their divorce and her death a few years later.”

“Do we know where David Hargreaves was when the O’Byrne house was broken into?” Colin asked.

“I don’t.” Wendell gave him a half smile. “I like how you say ‘we.’ I’m not in law enforcement for a reason, you know.”

Colin continued along the path without comment. Emma walked beside her grandfather. “Aoife was living in Ardmore fifteen years ago,” she said. “She couldn’t have been more than twenty when she did the pieces the Hargreaves bought.”

Wendell nodded, less combative. “She was experimenting with seascapes then, and she did several copies—variations on a theme—of the cross on her uncle’s mantel. She stopped after the original was stolen. Now one of those copies and one of her seascapes are—what did you say? Missing?”

Emma had no doubt he remembered, but Colin glanced back at him and answered, “We said we suspected Hargreaves had art stolen. We don’t know it for a fact. He told his housekeeper he sent the two O’Byrne pieces out to be appraised, but she doesn’t believe him.”