Carla Neggers - Harbor Island

He glanced around the room. Sean Murphy was in close conversation with two other gardai. Yank knew he had to update his team back in Boston. Someone needed to talk to Aoife O’Byrne, keep an eye on her. Could she have faked the break-in for reasons of her own? Could someone have broken in looking for the stone cross that had ended up in Rachel Bristol’s hand on Bristol Island?

If Rachel stole the cross from Aoife last night, why call an FBI agent? Had she figured she had information so important that Emma would overlook the theft?

What if Rachel hadn’t stolen the cross? What if that was a story Aoife O’Byrne had made up?

Those were the first questions off the top of his head. Sean Murphy would have the same questions, as well as ones of his own. Despite their personal connections to the events of the day, Yank knew he and Murphy would do their jobs. They wouldn’t go off half-cocked. They wouldn’t leap to conclusions based on emotion or urgency.

Lucy’s trembling eased. She seemed ready to fall asleep. “Do your thing, Matt. I’m fine.”

“Are you hungry?”

She stirred, smiling suddenly. “Starving.” Her eyes sparked with mischief. This was the Lucy he’d known and loved for so long, and had seen too little of the past year. “And my first Guinness on Irish soil sounds damn good about now.”

8

Boston, Massachusetts

Maisie Bristol sank onto a frayed leather sofa in the front room of the classic nineteenth-century bow-front house her family owned on a tree-lined section of West Cedar Street on Beacon Hill. To maintain eye contact with her, Emma sat across from her on an equally frayed wingback chair. Colin stayed on his feet by the foyer door. As they’d arrived on West Cedar, Yank had called them about the attack on his wife at Aoife O’Byrne’s studio in Dublin. It wasn’t something they planned to bring up with the Bristols, at least not right now.

Danny Palladino had led them inside, explaining the place was getting a much-needed face-lift. Maisie, he’d said, was more Southern California than Beacon Hill and didn’t want the house to feel like a museum. He’d seemed out of place, not sure what he should do with himself, but finally settled on standing behind the sofa where Maisie was sitting. Travis Bristol, Maisie’s father and Rachel’s ex-husband, was pacing in front of the windows overlooking the tree-lined street. He and Maisie were both clearly struggling to come to terms with the news of Rachel’s death.

“I saw Rachel just this morning,” Maisie said, half to herself. “She was looking forward to our brunch at the marina. She was excited, she said.”

Maisie grabbed a set of rolled-up architect’s drawings on the coffee table and stood them on the floor. She looked younger than thirty, with her unkempt reddish-blond hair and spray of freckles across her nose and upper cheeks. She wore an unassuming outfit of a green-plaid flannel shirt untucked over boyfriend jeans and dark orange suede ankle boots.

“Rachel didn’t do anything if she wasn’t excited about it,” Travis said, taking a seat next to Maisie on the sofa. His eyes were the same shade of pale blue as hers, but his hair was gray and he had no freckles. He wore a navy sweater that had to be too warm for the room and wide-wale corduroys a tone lighter than the sofa’s cognac leather. Hours after his ex-wife’s death, he still looked gut-punched, ashen and in shock. “The Rachel I knew could fire up a room with her excitement and passion for whatever she was doing.”

“That was Rachel,” Maisie echoed with a small smile. “Pushy, intense, generous, formidable, especially when she was convinced she was right.”

Travis nodded sadly. “She had clarity of vision but she was also tenacious.”

“She could be exhausting, though. She’d wear you out to get her way. There wasn’t one thing wishy-washy about her.” Maisie leaned her head against her father’s shoulder. “We’re going to miss her.”

“You didn’t go to the marina together?” Emma asked.

Maisie sat up straight, shaking her head. “We all had things to do later and went on our own. Rachel left early and said she would meet us there. I didn’t think twice about it.” She raised her chin at Emma. “I told the detectives all of this.”

“Rachel loved the island and this place,” Travis said. “I invited her to stay here whenever she was in town. Last week was her first time back since we split. I put her in a guest room upstairs. I’ve been back and forth between here and L.A. more often than usual because of the renovations. I used to tease Rachel that she married me because I came with an island and a Beacon Hill house.”

Maisie nodded to the blueprints. “She wanted to know about the work we’re doing. She’d had her own ideas about renovations when she and Dad were together.”

Travis glared up at Danny Palladino. “How could you have let this happen?”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” Danny said, his voice even. “Rachel wasn’t my responsibility. Neither are you. Technically, neither is Maisie. I’m not here in a protective capacity.”

Maisie sprang to her feet, her freckles standing out against her pale skin. “You’re here snooping on me. You never liked Rachel.”

“I barely knew her,” Danny said, matter-of-fact.

Travis slumped back against the couch. “Are you sure you didn’t kill her yourself, Danny?”

Maisie spun around at him. “Dad!”

Danny didn’t seem surprised at Travis’s outburst, but the older man winced and immediately waved a hand in apology. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I didn’t mean it. Truly. It was raw emotion. Nothing more. Danny, please. Have a seat. Rachel’s death is a shock for all of us.”

Danny shrugged but made no move to sit. “Let’s just hope the cops find her killer soon. Even if it was an accident, someone is responsible for her death.” He settled his steady gaze on Emma. “That’s not why you and Agent Donovan are here, though, is it, Agent Sharpe?”

Emma didn’t answer, instead keeping her focus on Maisie. “What do you know about Rachel’s relationship with Aoife O’Byrne?”

Maisie frowned. “Why don’t you ask Aoife? Why ask me?”

Despite her unpretentious appearance, Maisie Bristol was clearly used to being in charge. Her father leaned forward, fingering one of the decorating magazines on the table. “We’ll be happy to answer any questions you have, Agent Sharpe. I’ve never met Miss O’Byrne. I only learned of her last night when Rachel told us she had invited her to Boston, and she had just arrived. I understand that she’s a remarkable artist.”

Emma glanced at Colin, his expression unreadable, then shifted back to the Bristols. “Rachel told Aoife she was working on an independent film inspired by an Irish art theft. Were you involved, Maisie?”

“It’s complicated,” she said, her voice almost inaudible.

“It’s Maisie’s project,” Travis said. “Rachel knew that. I’m sure she’d say the same thing if she were with us right now.”

Maisie seemed hardly to hear him. “Rachel had her ideas about the direction we should take. We were going to talk about everything this morning at the marina. I have so many ideas. It’s easy for me to get ahead of myself. I wanted to get more details on what Rachel had in mind and get Dad’s take. We were also going to talk about plans for the island.” She blinked back tears. “It was supposed to be a good get-together. Fun. Stimulating.”

“We all love the island,” her father said. “Rachel as well as Maisie and me.”

Maisie nodded. “Mom, too. Some of my fondest memories are of the three of us digging clams on the beach. She’d like us to let the island become part of the national park system along with most of the other islands. That’s an option, but I’ve been exploring the idea of launching a film school and production company on the island. It would be nonprofit. Who knows, maybe it could be part of the Boston Harbor Island Recreational Area, too.” She waved a hand. “None of that matters right now.”