Keeper's Reach (18 page)

Colin treated the rectory as if it were a crime scene. He knew he had to take this one step at a time. He also knew Kevin wouldn’t let him get too far in before he forced his brother to step back and let the local and state police take the lead in finding Emma.

First things first.

He scanned the walks, snow, ice, porch and garage for anything he could have missed earlier. Prints that could be hers. Parts of the package from England. Signs of injury or struggle. Blood, a dropped scarf or phone.

There was nothing.

Had someone beat Emma to the package?

He got back in his truck. He had to gather the evidence and see which way it pointed. Tunnel vision wouldn’t help.

Except this was Emma.

Kevin called as Colin started the engine. “She’s not at the sisters’ shop,” his brother said. “I called Hurley’s, in case she walked down there from your house and let time get away from her. No luck. We’ll find her, Colin.”

He drove back to his house, pulling in behind Emma’s car. As he got out, Yank called. “I’m on my way to the airport. Padgett’s heading up there. Keep us informed.”

“Yank, we don’t have anything that confirms she’s in trouble.”

“Let’s hope she’s not. We can all have a beer at Hurley’s. Padgett’s never been to Hurley’s.” But Yank’s voice was clipped, his concern unmistakable. “Go up to this inn. Talk to Kavanagh. Find out what the hell’s going on up there.” A slight pause. “Don’t go in with guns blazing. It won’t help.”

“If Kavanagh stirred up York...”

“Don’t go there. I’m betting her phone got busted and she’s not worrying about it right now, since she knows we all think she’s with the sisters. She’s probably visiting a friend, enjoying her long weekend.”

Colin knew he didn’t have to tell Yank that Emma never would have left Sister Cecilia hanging. She’d have found a way to cancel their lesson. But why not indulge in a few seconds of wishful thinking? In wishful-thinking mode, Sister Cecilia would have missed Emma’s message canceling their lesson.

He hung up with Yank and walked up to Emma’s car. He inspected it without touching it, but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary—no package, no signs of a struggle or any problem.

Emma...

Colin sucked in a breath, knowing she was in trouble. Feeling it. Did she know he would find her?

Because he would.

There was no question in his mind, no other option. He would find her.

19

Near Stow-on-the-Wold, the Cotswolds,
England
Friday, 7:00 p.m., BST

Finian inhaled deeply at the fear he heard in his American friend’s voice. “What else can I do?”

Colin didn’t respond right away. Although he refused to give details, it was clear that something was terribly wrong, and whatever it was involved Emma and, at least potentially, the situation with the American pair, Naomi MacBride and Ted Kavanagh. This obviously was a difficult call for Colin. Finian was glad he’d been in the guest suite, alone, when his phone rang. So far, he hadn’t been much help. No, he didn’t know what was in the package Oliver had sent to Rock Point for Emma. No, Finian didn’t know who else knew about the package. It had been picked up on Wednesday afternoon, before the American woman—Naomi MacBride—had discovered Martin Hambly at the dovecote yesterday morning.

“MacBride checked into the pub on Wednesday,” Colin said. “She had time to go to the dovecote? Did your waiter put her at or near York’s farm then?”

Finian understood what Colin was getting at. Could Naomi MacBride have pushed Martin Hambly down the stream bank, or possibly have seen the package, then intercepted it in Rock Point? Leaving it behind in England would make sense given her flight to the United States and tight airport security and customs. She could wait and intercept it upon its arrival at the rectory.

What did she think was in the package? Or did she know?

“The waiter didn’t mention seeing her at the York farm,” Finian said. “He did see the man who was with her at breakfast—Ted Kavanagh.”

“The waiter’s positive it was Kavanagh?”

“Seems so. He says Kavanagh spoke with the courier. I can ask him to confirm—”

“
No, Fin, don’t ask,” Colin said. “No prowling around. My
advice is to think up an excuse and get the hell out of there. Go back to Ireland or come home.”

Finian didn’t remind him that Ireland was home. It wasn’t a time to get bothered by semantics. “Don’t worry about me, Colin. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”

“Say a prayer for Emma, Fin.” Colin’s voice was ragged, choked.

“I will. Take care, my good friend.”

It was a moment before Finian realized Colin was gone. He held his phone, aware of raindrops striking the windows in the guest suite. The day’s sunshine had lasted until midafternoon before giving in to clouds and rain. Ruthie Burns had promised to light a fire for him, but he’d assured her he could manage.

What’s happened to Emma?

Finian steadied his breathing, then left the suite, his phone still in his hand. He walked down a chilly hall to the living room. He found Oliver standing by the fire, staring at the flames as if transfixed. Could
he
know what had happened to Emma? Could he be a part of it, even? Finian dismissed the questions. He would focus on what he knew and not speculate about what he didn’t know.

Oliver stood straight, as if he were deliberately jerking himself out of his thoughts. “Martin’s remembered something. He’s at the pub. Care to go down there with me?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent. We’ll take the Rolls.”

* * *

Oliver was a mad driver, but fortunately it was a short distance to the village pub. Finian was downright relieved his host had hired a car for him for the drive from London. They went inside together. The pub was crowded with locals, but Martin had secured a table by the fire. He was nursing a pint, looking stronger. He held up a hand as Finian and Oliver joined him. “Not a word about mixing alcohol and head injuries,” he said.

Oliver grunted, sitting across from Martin. “You wouldn’t keep your mouth shut if I were the one with the bashed-in head.”

“You’re not,” Martin said. “Be grateful and leave me alone. Besides, I’ve a gash not a concussion. I’ll have a roguish scar, nothing more, for my ordeal.”

Oliver turned to Finian. “We’ll have whiskey, shall we? You choose.”

Finian remembered Oliver was partial to Scotch and ordered Talisker for them both. Martin stuck to his pint. They waited to continue their conversation until the waiter—the same lad who’d spotted Ted Kavanagh at the York farm—delivered their glasses.

Oliver clinked his glass onto Finian’s.
“Sláinte.”

Finian mumbled
“Sláinte”
in return. He noticed Oliver’s furrowed brow, but he withheld comment and turned to Martin. “Have you remembered how one manages to get a gash on the back of one’s neck while falling down a Cotswolds stream bank? It wasn’t the snowdrops that did it.”

“A sharp rock would do.” Martin glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying them any mind. He frowned at Oliver. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want to have to make a police report, and neither do you.”

“The bloody FBI are involved now,” Oliver said. “They can notify the local police with or without our knowledge.”

Martin shook his head knowingly. “They won’t if one of their own is out of control. I think it might be this Ted Kavanagh. I decided to retrace my steps on Wednesday to see if it would help jog my memory. I remember that I picked up amaryllis bulbs in the village that afternoon, then decided to walk past the church on my way back to the farm. I went over there...” He paused, still clearly in pain from his injuries. “I ran into a man there who identified himself as an FBI agent. Special Agent Ted Kavanagh. He showed me his credentials but I didn’t take a close look. He didn’t have a card with his contact information.”

Oliver frowned. “Our Agent Kavanagh gets around. Did he ask for me to get in touch with him?”

Martin shook his head, then shut his eyes, as if waiting for a wave of pain to pass. He opened his eyes again, his face noticeably grayer. “He knew about you, and he mentioned Agents Sharpe and Donovan.”

“Well, well,” Oliver said, leaning back against his bench.

“It felt like a fishing expedition,” Martin added.

“Obviously this encounter was before your mishap,” Finian said. “We’re putting together a fairly reliable timeline. We know Agent Kavanagh stayed here Wednesday night and spoke that afternoon with the courier who picked up the package we sent to Emma—Agent Sharpe. Do you remember seeing the courier?”

“No,” Martin said. “I don’t remember anything about the package. It’s driving me mad.”

Oliver tapped the rim of his glass with the tip of one finger. “The courier apparently didn’t notice anything amiss. I suspect you were ass-over-teakettle down the bank by then, Martin. Are you certain you don’t remember what happened at the dovecote?”

“My memory of the fall hasn’t fully returned,” Martin said, his tone even.

“I’m not getting impatient,” Oliver told him.

“Yes, you are.”

Oliver scoffed, “I’m feeling the urgency of the situation. I know badgering you won’t help your memory return.”

“You’d badger if it would help.”

“Most assuredly,” Oliver said, unapologetic, his eyes twinkling as he lifted his glass and took a sip of the Scotch. “You’d badger me if our positions were reversed. Don’t deny it.”

“I don’t,” Martin said, wincing, clearly in pain. “This is a bridge too far given my condition, I’m afraid, but it’s good to be out and about. I’ll remember more. I know I will. I can feel it.”

“Assuming there’s anything else to remember,” Oliver added.

Finian drank some of his Talisker, debating how much to tell the two Englishmen about Colin’s call. Colin hadn’t expressly forbidden him from saying anything. In fact, Finian could argue that his friend had implied he was to use his own judgment. He finally decided there was nothing to be gained from being circumspect.

He sat forward, feeling the fire. “Colin Donovan called from Maine a little while ago. The package was delivered to the rectory yesterday as scheduled but has disappeared, and, I gather, Emma Sharpe along with it.”

Martin blanched. “Good heavens.”

Oliver set his glass on the rough-wood table. Flames from the fire reflected in his eyes. “Tell us everything, Finian. Let us help if we can.”

Finian explained what he knew about Emma’s convent retreat and its cancellation, and the situation in Rock Point. He abandoned his Scotch for the moment. After all, what did he know about Oliver York and Martin Hambly? How deeply involved had Martin been in Oliver’s thefts? How far would Martin go to preserve the York reputation?

“What was in the package?” Finian asked finally.

“The contents are utterly harmless and of value only to the intended recipient,” Oliver said. “If some idiot believed otherwise...” He didn’t finish. “Dear Emma. I saw her once in Dublin, after she’d left the convent but before she joined the FBI. She had no idea. Still doesn’t. I was considering consulting her grandfather.”

Spying on him, he meant. Finian let it go. “I knew of Wendell Sharpe and Sharpe Fine Art Recovery prior to finding myself in Maine and meeting Emma. There’s a logical if roundabout connection. Father Callaghan, the priest at St. Patrick’s, chose Declan’s Cross as one of his destinations on a trip to Ireland prior to his sabbatical. He knew of Declan’s Cross because of the Sharpes. I happened to be there at the same time as Father Callaghan. He was staying at the O’Byrne House, which had just opened as a hotel.”

“The brainchild of Aoife’s sister, Kitty,” Oliver said.

Finian debated again. He wasn’t sure how much Hambly knew about the suspicions surrounding Oliver. “Kitty and Aoife inherited their uncle’s house and all its contents upon his death a few years ago. They recently had art that was stolen from the house ten years ago returned intact.” Finian listened to the pops and hisses of the fire. “The thief is still at large.”

Oliver lifted his glass and took another sip, then set the glass down again, firmly. “Sheepskins,” he pronounced.

Martin frowned at his employer and friend as if he’d lost his mind. “Sheepskins?”

“That’s what’s in the package. Three sheepskins, one for each side of Colin and Emma’s bed and one for wherever they want to put it.” Oliver gave a quick smile. “Sorry, Finian. Let’s assume the sheepskins are for the postmarital bed. I wouldn’t want to offend.”

As if Finian didn’t live in the contemporary world. He made no comment.

“Anything else in the package?” Martin asked.

Oliver waved a hand. “I enclosed a cross I created in my studio at the dovecote. It’s a traditional Saint Brigid’s cross but instead of being made of rushes twisted together, it’s made of silver. It was a difficult piece to make. Rushes would have been much easier. Emma called herself Sister Brigid during her days as a nun. Along with Saint Patrick and Saint Columba, Saint Brigid is one of the patron saints of Ireland. She’s a fascinating figure. The cross is my best work but I’m no artist. Its only value is the silver.”

“There’s nothing provocative about the package contents, then?” Finian asked.

“Sheepskins and a Saint Brigid’s cross?” Oliver looked mystified. “What could be provocative about that?”

“Unless they could be used against Agent Sharpe somehow,” Martin said, half to himself.

“How?” Oliver asked, clearly skeptical.

Martin shrugged. “Sometimes it only takes the belief and even just the suspicion of wrongdoing to cause trouble.”

Finian considered Martin’s point. If someone was trying to undermine Emma, or tie her to Oliver York in some unsavory way—prove she was covering for him, or had known about him for years and hadn’t done anything to stop him—it could explain the past forty-eight hours. More important, it could help lead to her whereabouts.

What if she was in hiding, trying to figure out her next move? But Finian couldn’t imagine her leaving Colin in the dark. The anguish in his friend’s voice had been genuine, Finian thought. He was convinced the call hadn’t been part of an elaborate ruse, whatever else was going on between his two FBI agent friends and Oliver.

“I’m giving up metal and stonework,” Oliver said. “It’s time for new pursuits.”

Meaning he was giving up art thefts, too? Finian had no intention of asking him outright, not here, at least.

“I would hate to think a simple, well-intentioned gift of authentic Cotswolds sheepskins and a beautiful silver Saint Brigid’s cross could cause harm to anyone,” Oliver added with a heavy sigh.

Martin pushed his empty pint glass aside. “I suspect we’re caught in the middle of something else that’s going on, and so, perhaps, is Agent Sharpe. What can we do to help, Father Bracken?”

“Permit me to call Colin and tell him what’s in the package.”

“Done,” Oliver said. “But you know he’ll tell you that you can’t trust me and you should go back to Ireland.”

“He already has.” Finian shifted to Martin, who looked as if he wanted to curl up by the fire for the night...or several nights. His skin had gone ashen, the bruising on his neck blossoming now into splotches of dark blue, purple and yellow. “A visit to the dovecote could help you remember more details of your fall, just as retracing your steps to the church did. Do you think you’d be up to it in the morning?”

“I’m up to it now if it would help,” Martin said.

“It’s dark and it’s raining,” Finian said. “Let’s go at daylight.”

“Brilliant.” Oliver smacked the table with the palm of his hand. “We’ll all go.”