13
Declan’s Cross, Ireland
The rain got worse during the mercifully short night and ended before dawn.
Served him right, Oliver thought, that the long spell of beautiful June weather ended the night he decided to hide on a remote—at least by his standards—Irish headland.
And all was well, really. He’d forgotten how dark it got out here at night, but in addition to a late sunset, June brought an early sunrise.
By the time Oliver made his way to the low stone wall and through two small holly trees, Wendell Sharpe had arrived in his sporty Audi and was waiting on the lane. “I brought you coffee and a scone,” he said, handing Oliver a small bag. “I decided against tea. I figured coffee would go down better after a night in the rain, and personally I hate cold tea.”
Oliver welcomed the warmth of the coffee inside the bag. He knew he must look dreadful. “My high-tech emergency blanket worked reasonably well to keep me dry. Didn’t help with the rocks and tree roots, unfortunately.” He placed his jacket on the stone wall in front of a holly tree, the only spot not covered in dripping moss and foliage. He sat, glancing up at Wendell, who was clad in a waxed-cotton jacket, a cap, khakis and walking shoes. “Thank you.”
“Coffee will get cold soon and the scone’s leaden.”
“I don’t mind. I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, that you managed to find me.”
“I know you pretty well.”
“Perhaps better than was wise on my part.”
Wendell shrugged. “Too late now.”
Oliver got his breakfast out of the bag. He’d awakened early, shaking off nightmares. He hadn’t escaped getting wet entirely, but he was in relatively decent shape after his long night. He had to admit he appreciated Wendell’s company. “Do you want to sit down?”
“I’ll stand. Sciatica’s acting up. The drive from Dublin feels longer in my old age.”
Oliver sipped the coffee and unwrapped the scone. A marginal breakfast, but he was grateful for it. “We’ve bonded. Inviting you to visit in January sealed our friendship.”
Wendell grunted. “I wouldn’t go that far but it was a pleasant couple of days. I’d never stayed in an English farmhouse. Amazing you turned into an art thief with all the lousy paintings of dogs on your walls.”
Oliver smiled, remembering Wendell sipping Glenfiddich by the fire, the hunter and the hunted ending the chase. “As if you’re an art connoisseur.”
“I buy what I like.”
“Irish artists.”
“For the most part,” Wendell said, wincing as he rubbed his right hip. But he didn’t complain of any pain. “I hear you have a dog of your own now.”
“Yes. He’s named Alfred, after Batman’s manservant. Martin sees to him.”
“He must be worried about you. Martin, not the dog.”
“I do regret that.” Oliver swallowed a chunk of the dry, heavy scone. Wendell hadn’t exaggerated its flaws. “Talk to me, Wendell.”
He told Oliver about the break-in at his home. “Wasn’t you,” he said when he finished.
Oliver shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”
“That wasn’t a question. I know it wasn’t you. I wasn’t convinced it had anything to do with you, but turns out this guy who died on your doorstep showed up in Heron’s Cove the first of the week, and probably Rock Point, too. It was Davy Driscoll, wasn’t it?”
Oliver nodded solemnly but said nothing as he drank the dreadful coffee.
“I haven’t spoken to Emma and Colin since I decided to drive down here,” Wendell added. “They’re in your village. Emma’s left messages.”
“You don’t want to call her back until after you’ve seen me.”
“That’s your story. Maybe I haven’t called her because I’m getting old and forgetful.”
Oliver doubted that. “Everything you do is deliberate, Wendell.”
“Used to be, maybe. I’m slipping now that I’m retired.”
With the toe of his shoe, Wendell pushed at the muddy edge of a hole in the lane now filled with rainwater. For a man in his early eighties, he did well. He was in excellent shape mentally and physically, especially for a man of his years.
“I wonder,” Oliver said, breaking off a piece of scone. “How dangerous might you be if you were cornered?”
“Not very these days, unless I’m armed, and I’m not.”
“I don’t mean physically cornered. If you had something to hide and someone was forcing you to face it—threatening your reputation, your relationship with your family, your freedom—what would you do?”
Wendell pulled his foot away from the puddle and stood straight, his green eyes narrowing on Oliver. “What’s going on, Oliver?”
He ate the piece of scone and sipped more of the coffee. Bleak, it was. “If you were guilty of something in your past, how far would you go to preserve your reputation and that of the company you built?” He set the coffee next to him on the moss-covered stone. “When was your first contact with my family?”
“Your family?” Wendell was silent a moment. “I’ve only met you.”
“Did you know my parents?”
“No. I was living in Maine when they were killed. I read about their deaths in the paper.”
Oliver stretched out his legs, leaning back slightly, the holly’s prickly evergreen leaves poking him in the ribs. He kept his gaze on Wendell. “Which paper?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You traveled frequently for your work back then. Were you in London?”
Wendell sighed. “I could have been. It doesn’t matter. I never knew your parents.”
“My grandparents?”
“I didn’t know them, either. What, do you think I had something to do with the attack on you and your parents? Is that why you taunted me after each of your thefts?”
“You were in London,” Oliver said. “You stayed at Claridge’s, just blocks from where my parents were killed. I’m surprised you don’t remember where you were.”
“I see.” Wendell walked over to the wall, to Oliver’s right, and brushed his fingertips across a yellow wildflower. “How did you learn that tidbit?”
“We’ve been doing this dance for a decade.”
“Yes, we have. All right. I was at Claridge’s. I didn’t want to tell you once I realized you were our thief because I knew you’d be tempted to connect dots that don’t connect. It was a coincidence, Oliver. I was there on a job unrelated to your family.”
“You weren’t planning to meet with them?”
Wendell shook his head. “No, I was not.”
“I’m trying to make sense of things.” Oliver left it at that and picked up his scone again, broke off another chunk. It had come with a small triangle of butter and a plastic knife, but he didn’t bother with them and had left them in the bag. “It really is leaden, isn’t it? Ruthie Burns makes fresh scones every Friday, enough to last the weekend.” He ate the bit of scone. “I’m afraid Ruthie was first on scene yesterday.”
“She saw you with Driscoll?”
“Yes.”
“That’s rough. Did she recognize him?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure she got a good look at him. I heard her gasp. She didn’t scream.” Oliver pushed back the images of less than twenty-four hours ago. “I suspect she was in such a state of shock she couldn’t get out a proper scream at first. I had to stay focused on Driscoll. He was bleeding out. I did what I could but it was too late. He was unconscious by the time Ruthie came upon us.”
Wendell moved back from the yellow wildflowers, sidestepping his puddle. “How long was that after you encountered him?”
“Seconds. He got to me—or I got to him—too late. There’s so little time with that sort of injury.” He paused. As bad as the scone and coffee were, they were helping to clear his head. The sunshine no doubt helped, too. “I’ll go over everything in detail with the police.”
Wendell nodded. “You need to turn yourself in to the gardai and let them get you back to England. For your own good.”
“I know. I’ll do it.”
“Was this man murdered, Oliver?”
“Yes. I’m certain, but it’s not for me to say.”
“Was the cut meant for you instead of him? Did he intervene and save you?”
Oliver got his feet. He noticed raindrops on the waxen holly leaves. “Holly is said to protect against fairies with malevolent intent. Maybe that’s what’s at work here. Malevolent fairies.” He turned to Wendell. “But that’s just one traditional belief about holly. Celtic mythology tells us about the holly king who ruled during the dark half of the year. He’d have given way by now to the oak king.”
“Oliver.”
“I don’t believe the cut was meant for me.”
“Davy Driscoll didn’t come to your farm to kill you and changed his mind and killed himself?”
“By cutting his brachial artery? I could have saved him if I’d gotten to him sooner.”
“He could have saved himself,” Wendell added.
“Possibly. He might not have known what to do. Whether it was an attack or an elaborate suicide, he’s dead and the police are investigating and need to talk to me.”
“You didn’t kill this man, Oliver. Acting guilty won’t help you.”
“I’d just been talking about flowerpots when he turned up.” Oliver gave a small laugh in disbelief. “If he was in Maine early in the week and at your place in Dublin on Wednesday, he must have taken an overnight flight to Ireland on Tuesday and then continued on to England later Wednesday or early yesterday.”
“We shouldn’t assume it was Driscoll who broke into my place,” Wendell said. “It could have been someone chasing him.”
“Fair point.” Oliver debated a moment before he continued. “Driscoll mentioned Finian Bracken at the end.”
“Did he confess to him?”
“I don’t know. Finian can’t reveal a sacramental confession. What if Driscoll told him about plans being made?” Oliver felt a rush of blood to his face. Tension, frustration, regret. “Why did Driscoll come to the farm?”
“You’re the one who saw him, not me.”
“It was a rhetorical question. All this time...” He cleared his throat. “I have so many questions.”
“What exactly did he say before he died?” Wendell held up his thin hands. “No, don’t tell me. Tell the police.”
Oliver was still. His nightmares roared back, quickening his pulse. His breathing was rapid, shallow. But he knew what to do. He’d learned. He listened to the breeze in the trees, concentrated on separating its sough from the sounds of the tide. He picked up his jacket off the wall where he’d used it as a mat. He calmed his breathing as he focused on being fully present in this moment. He was safe. Martin, Ruthie, Henrietta, the farm workers, his neighbors—the police would see to them. They were safe, too.
Finally he turned to Wendell and smiled. “It was a long night.”
“I’d have nightmares sleeping in a cemetery even if I wasn’t on the run from the police.”
“Did you come all this way because you feel sorry for me?”
Wendell zipped his jacket higher against the breeze. “So what if I did? What if someone figured out Reed Warren was Driscoll’s alias and was blackmailing him? Did he mention Bart Norcross? We can’t rush to answers. We can’t assume.” The old man winked. “I knew that even before Emma became an FBI agent.”
But Oliver saw something—felt it—as Wendell stepped across the puddle to his small Audi, parked at the end of the lane near a trail that would take them up to a cliff overlooking the sea.
“Wendell,” Oliver said. “Tell me.”
He stopped, shadows deepening the lines in his face. “I’ve been missing something about you. Your past.” He paused, as if to give Oliver a moment to let his words sink in. “I had you on my list of people of interest early on after the Amsterdam heist, but I didn’t know you were our bold, cheeky thief. Not until last fall. Oliver...” Wendell was silent again. “We’re going to figure this out.”
“You’re not going to do anything of the sort,” Oliver said firmly. “You’re retired. You’re going back to Dublin and doing as Emma and Colin say.”
“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah,” Wendell sputtered, waving a hand in dismissal. “You get to a certain age and everyone thinks they know better and can order you around.”
“This is a police matter. It’s not about your age.”
He pointed a bony finger at Oliver. “Whatever we missed is haunting you, too, isn’t it?”
“A lot haunts me.”
“Yeah, I know. What you went through, no child should ever have to go through. Still, though. Ever wished you’d gotten into raising Cotswold sheep to cope instead of thieving?”
Oliver grinned. “I’m glad we’ve become friends.”
“You fled the scene of a death.” Wendell softened. “Come on. I’ll drop you off—”
Oliver shook his head. “The less you’re involved with me, the better.”
“A little late for that. In the car, Oliver.”
As if Wendell could force him. All Oliver had to do was scoot up the path. It was steep, wet and rugged. As spry as Wendell Sharpe was, Oliver would be able to lose him in seconds. But what was the point?
“Are you heading straight back to Dublin?” he asked.
“Once the gardai send me on my way, which I hope they will. Lucas wants me to stop driving.”
“Maybe you should.”
“In my own good time.” Wendell twisted his mouth to one side, eyeing Oliver, then sighed. “Okay. Walk into the village. I’ll let the gardai know you’re on your way, but there’s no guarantee they’ll wait for you.”
“I’m not on the run. I bolted. There’s a difference.”
“You have friends in high places, Oliver. MI5 has your back.”
Friend wasn’t the word Oliver would use but he smiled at Wendell. “You Sharpes and your imaginations.” He looked at the tangle of holly, rushes and wildflowers along the stone wall. “The truth of what happened to my parents, to me... I don’t trust my memories anymore, Wendell.”
“You were eight.” As if that explained everything.
“I was the only eyewitness left alive,” Oliver said half under his breath.
Wendell stood by the driver’s door, his hand on the mirror as he studied Oliver. “Tell the police everything, Oliver. If you don’t trust them for any reason, tell Emma and Colin. Tell them, anyway. That’s my advice.”
“I’m only trouble for my FBI mates.”
“They’re used to trouble. It’s their job.”
“Yours, too, isn’t it, old man?”
But Wendell remained serious, didn’t respond to Oliver’s strained teasing. “I don’t think of you as trouble, Oliver,” he said quietly.
“I suppose you don’t have to. You’re a Sharpe. Trouble follows you.”
“You have a point there.” Wendell opened the car door. “These new cars. I like an old-fashioned key.”
“How long is Detective Garda Murphy giving me?” Oliver asked.
Wendell sighed at the mention of the senior Irish detective, who had connections to Declan’s Cross, to Finian Bracken—to the two sisters whose uncle’s home Oliver had broken into more than a decade ago. He and Kitty O’Byrne were engaged. “Sean’s waiting at his farmhouse,” Wendell said. “I’m meeting him there.”
“You’re to report our conversation?”
“Every word.”
Oliver smiled. “Of course.”
“It’s for your own good, Oliver.”
“You see? We truly are friends.”
* * *
As Wendell Sharpe started off in his Audi, he managed not to bump into the stone wall but not to avoid the puddle. He tore through it, splashing Oliver with muddy water. A night in the rain without getting drenched but let his elderly art-detective friend get behind the wheel, and here he was, splattered. He laughed and poured the rest of his coffee into the dirt, wrapped the remains of his scone and shoved them into his rucksack.
He took the narrow, winding trail up to the cliff, relishing the rush of wind and sunlight when he reached the top. Waves crashed on the rocks below. Sunlight glistened on the sea. No hint of rain now.
“Glorious,” he said. “Absolutely glorious.”
He looked back at the trio of tall Celtic crosses on the hill. He wondered if he’d ever see them again. Looking at them now, against the blue sky and green pastures, gave him comfort and solace. He could feel the presence of his mother and father, younger than he was now when he’d lost them. And yet they didn’t feel lost to him right now. They felt close.
They’d protected him that night.
Whatever else remained elusive, out of his reach, that he knew.
He returned to the lane and set off toward Sean Murphy’s farmhouse. For a moment, he pretended it was an ordinary morning. He walked along pastures dotted with grazing sheep and along cliffs above white-crested waves rolling onto the rock-bound coast.
Finally he came to a yellow-painted bungalow. Aoife O’Byrne waved to him from a clothesline with laundry blowing in the breeze. She was a brilliant artist and a beautiful woman. Gleaming black hair, vibrant blue eyes, angular features, tall and slender—and in love with a man she couldn’t have. “Not me,” Oliver muttered. “More’s the pity.”
Six months ago, he might have been at least modestly serious. Now...
“No.”
He could see her with Finian Bracken in Boston last fall. Finian had been in his clerical garb, insisting he was nothing more than a friend. Oliver didn’t know the details of their history but there was no question they had one.
Poor Aoife. In love with the forbidden fruit.
And Finian?
Oliver was convinced that his friend loved her, too, if not in the way she loved him. Then again, what did he know of Father Bracken’s hopes and dreams on lonely nights on the Maine coast, far from home?
Aoife had told Oliver a few months ago she considered herself free, unbound by her past love for a man who had spurned her for the priesthood.
Not content to wave, she crossed the grass to the lane.
“Paintbrush in hand,” he said with a smile. “Appropriate.”
Aoife didn’t return his smile. “I’ve been painting nonstop all spring. Kitty will tell you it keeps me out of trouble, although here I am, talking to you. I promised Sean I would stay inside and lock my doors. He wanted me to stay with him and Kitty last night, or at the hotel. I refused. I’m in the zone with a series I’m painting. I can’t deal with disruptions. They’ll derail me.” Her blue eyes steadied on Oliver. “And I’m not afraid of you.”
“You’ve no reason to be afraid of me.”
“Sean knows that, too, I think.”
“I’m on my way to see him now.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to be the one to turn you in.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Oliver, my God. It must have been awful yesterday. Did coming here help?”
“In its own way.” He nodded to her paintbrush, noted its blue tip. “Sky?”
“Blouse,” she said. “It’s the wrong blue for the sky.”
“Of course. I see that now.”
Now she smiled. “Liar.” She gestured with the brush to the string of bright-colored clothes hanging on the line. “I’m into clotheslines these days. Normalcy. The routines of daily life.”
“When’s the last time you washed your own laundry?”
“First thing this morning, I’ll have you know.”
Oliver pointed to the clothesline. “Those work pants aren’t yours.”
She crossed her arms on her chest, paintbrush tucked between her fingers, its tip almost hitting her in the jaw. “They belong to Sean’s uncle Paddy. They’re practically in tatters. Uncle Paddy doesn’t believe in buying new until the old is ready for the rubbish. Past ready, in my opinion.”
“But they add authenticity to your scene. Your stylish, expensive clothes wouldn’t create the look you want on their own.”
“Not everything I own is expensive or stylish.” The breeze blew dark hair in her face, but she left it, keeping her arms crossed as she scowled at him. “If you keep this up, I’m not going to be a sympathetic witness at your trial.”
Oliver grinned, pleased she’d walked over to say hello. He’d met her a few times since fall—in Boston, at a gallery showing her work in London and here in Declan’s Cross. She could be starchy and always gave as good as she got, but her vulnerabilities bubbled close to the surface. She’d been inspired to become an artist on visits to Declan’s Cross with her childless uncle and aunt, whose home was now the O’Byrne House Hotel. Aoife would steal away to paint local scenes, including the crosses where Oliver had spent last night. Now in her midthirties, she was beloved in Ireland and a highly successful, internationally recognized artist.
She uncrossed her arms and dropped them to her sides, giving the paintbrush a good shake. “I was up early. There’s something meditative about pegging out the wash.”
“I think Martin made me do it as punishment once.”
“For swiping something?”
“Possibly,” Oliver said without hesitating. “My grandparents tended to let me get away with misdeeds after I came to live with them. Martin compensated. He can be stern.”
Aoife smiled, brushing back the strands of straight hair that had blown into her face. “I’m not surprised, but I like him.” Her smile faded. “Why did you come to Declan’s Cross, Oliver? Why did you run?”
“It seemed like the thing to do at the time. As I told Wendell Sharpe, I bolted, I didn’t run. A distinction without a difference to most, perhaps, but not to me.” He nodded to the clothesline. “It’s a charming scene but I keep hoping you’ll try porpoises again.”
“No one shares that hope, I assure you.”
He owned one of her few paintings of porpoises that swam in Ardmore Bay. Legitimately purchased, too. “I’m still trying to decide where to hang my Aoife O’Byrne porpoises. They’re in a closet in London at the moment.” He studied her. “I spoke with Finian Bracken recently.”
“Did you?”
He nodded. He decided not to be too specific. Whatever the police knew or didn’t know at this point was irrelevant. He didn’t want to involve Aoife in his problems. She was the one who’d initiated this chat, but it was a quick hello, nothing more.
She wiped the sable tip of her paintbrush on her pant leg, as if making sure it was dry. “I debated calling Finian last night,” she said, a bit too casually. “I was hoping you’d been in touch with him. I wasn’t sure you’d tell me if you had. He’s wrestling with something, isn’t he?”
“The man who died visited him this week.”
Her mouth thinned but she maintained control of herself. “Then he knows something he can’t say. He takes his priestly vows seriously.”
Oliver felt an unexpected tightening of his throat. Emotion, he thought with a mix of fear and disdain. It was the last thing he needed or dared to indulge at the moment. But he continued, unable to stop himself. “You and Finian aren’t done.”
“Oh, we are, Oliver. We are.”
“An inscrutable, solitary painter and a tortured, solitary priest. It’s the perfect forbidden love. You suit each other’s needs even now. You need to paint. He needs to be in Rock Point with his FBI agents and such.”
“He’s staying on in Rock Point, did you know? He was only supposed to be there a year. Now it’s open-ended.”
“And you’re waiting for him?”
“I’m living my life.”
“He’s a good excuse for you to be solitary.”
Her incisive blue eyes settled on him. “And your excuse?”
“I’m not as solitary these days. I have a dog. A bad-tempered wire fox terrier.”
“I bet he’s adorable.”
Where had Alfred been yesterday morning? Oliver wondered. He went still, the wind feeling cold now. Did the bloody bastard kill my dog? He didn’t know if he meant Davy Driscoll or whoever had killed him, or what, but it hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that Alfred might also have been a victim yesterday. He was a barker. Martin was diligently training him, but Alfred would have carried on if he’d spotted an intruder.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps he was accustomed now to the comings and goings on a working farm.
“Oliver, are you all right?”
He heard the worry in Aoife’s voice and gave her a quick smile. “Yes. Thank you. I’m fine.”
“You seem so alone,” she said. “You’re clever, charming, lonely and an unrepentant thief. You could have been violent but you never were. You weren’t yesterday. I know that, Oliver. So does Sean. I’m sure of it.”
“But I’ll never be Finian Bracken, will I?”
“An Irish priest? No, that’s never going to happen. And that was an obvious attempt to change the subject.”
He motioned down the lane. “I should go before Sean sends a hostage rescue team.”
“That’s not funny, Oliver.”
“Was I trying to be funny?”
She groaned and threw her arms around him, hugging him fiercely. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Be well. Godspeed, my friend.”
He hugged her back, a split second of human contact he knew he couldn’t let affect him, throw him off his mission—what he had to do. He stood back and smiled. “More porpoises, Aoife. Think about it.”
She pointed at his jacket. “I got a spot of blue paint on you.”
“It’ll be a reminder of your laundry painting when I’m in prison.”
She rolled her eyes and said nothing, and he continued along the lane.
* * *
Handsome Sean Murphy was waiting outside at his farmhouse, leaning on a muddy tractor at least as old as Uncle Paddy’s trousers hanging on Aoife’s line. “I was thinking I could have a full Irish breakfast before I turned myself in,” Oliver said.
Murphy was unmoved. “Wendell Sharpe brought you breakfast.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.” Oliver could see the Irish detective noting the spot of blue paint on his jacket, guessing how it had gotten there, but he said nothing. Oliver listened to sheep baaing in the distance. He inhaled deeply, taking in the clean air, the scents of farm and sea. “I need to go back to England, Detective Garda Murphy.”
“Yes, you do.”