Carla Neggers - Harbor Island

“How long had you and Rachel been working on the movie?” Emma asked.

“Since October. In the last week or so I could see it was turning into two different movies. Hers and mine. Rachel wanted to take my interest and knowledge of the Irish Celtic pagan and Irish Celtic Christian worlds and use them as the backdrop for a movie about an art thief and the private art detective chasing him.”

Emma kept her expression neutral. “What prompted Rachel to go in that direction?”

“She read a news story about the murder of an American in a little Irish village. Declan’s Cross. It mentioned an unsolved art theft of two Jack B. Yeats paintings, and she was off and running. Obsessed. She looked into this art detective and Aoife O’Byrne. The art detective is in his eighties now. She said ours would have to be younger.”

“Did she give you his name?” Colin asked.

Maisie shrugged her slender shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe. I wouldn’t remember. I’m terrible with names.”

Emma narrowed her gaze on her. “Wendell Sharpe,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Maisie straightened, gaping at Emma. “Wait. Sharpe? You two are related?”

“He’s my grandfather.”

“Oh. Oh. No wonder Rachel called you this morning, then. Now it makes perfect sense.”

Emma picked up the book on Yeats. “How so?”

“You’re an FBI agent and the granddaughter of a renowned art detective. Rachel could have been shifting and thinking of making you the art detective in her version of our movie. Maybe doing a composite of you and your grandfather. It’d all be fiction, of course—as Rachel said, inspired by but not based on real events. Anyway, with Aoife O’Byrne arriving yesterday, I can see that Rachel would want to talk to you. Pick your brain. With my scheduling a meeting at the marina this morning, it makes sense she asked to meet you on the island. Pure convenience.”

“Did she tell anyone she was going out there?” Emma asked.

“She didn’t tell me. She died before she could go into much detail about what she’d learned so far about the thief and her art detective—your grandfather—but I know she was excited. I was resistant to letting her take over this project, but I was willing to hear her out with as open a mind as I could.”

Colin walked over to a closed door. “What’s in here?”

“A guest studio apartment. It has its own entrance onto West Cedar. A friend of mine is staying there.”

He cocked a brow at her. “What friend?”

Color rose in Maisie’s tear-stained cheeks. “His name’s Oliver Fairbairn. He’s a mythologist. He worked as a consultant on one of my films. We got to talking on the set one day—he inspired my interest in Celtic Ireland.”

“He’s Irish?”

“English, actually. His expertise isn’t restricted to Ireland or even to Celtic myths and legends. They’re what I latched on to.”

“Where is he now?” Emma asked.

“He went out for a walk. He doesn’t live here—he stays here when he’s in town. Most of the time that’s when I’m in town, too. I’m mobile, but I’ve been in Boston a lot this fall, mostly to pull together plans for the island. Oliver’s latest movie-consulting job ended in October, and he took the opportunity to do some research in Boston. He comes and goes. As Dad mentioned, he’s been back and forth a lot, too. He lives in Malibu. He grew up here, though.”

“Got it,” Colin said. “Have the police talked to Mr. Fairbairn?”

“I don’t know. Not that I know of.”

“Was he at your brunch at the marina this morning?”

“He was invited,” Maisie said. “Of course, there was no brunch. We were about to get started when the police descended and we found out about Rachel.”

She looked out the window at the courtyard. Darkness was descending fast now. She seemed more tired and preoccupied now than in shock and disbelief.

Emma moved from the table and stood next to her. “Have you settled anything for your movie—time period, location, theme, characters?”

“I was still casting a wide net when Rachel told me about Declan’s Cross. I did some cursory research. I could see why the theft caught her interest, but I was captivated by Saint Declan. I’d love to visit Ardmore, where he established his monastery.” Maisie smiled sadly, her energy clearly fading. “The photos I’ve seen on the internet are intriguing. Is it as beautiful as it seems?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it is,” Emma said.

“It seems like such a leap to get from a theft in a small Irish village ten years ago to Rachel’s death this morning. It must be hard to take things step by step in a criminal investigation and not get ahead of yourself.” Maisie’s eyes narrowed, her gaze again turning cool. “Does your grandfather’s involvement complicate your role, Agent Sharpe?”

Emma had no intention of answering the question. Maisie Bristol might look as if she cut her own hair and had just flunked high school algebra, but Emma could see her tackling Hollywood and coming out on top.

She drew a business card from her jacket and placed it on the table. “Call me if you think of anything else, or if you want to talk more.”

Maisie had gone pale again. She didn’t pick up the card. She bit down on her lower lip as she touched the black lettering. “The FBI. My God.” She seemed to force herself to breathe. “I get sick to my stomach and maybe a little bitchy—maybe a lot bitchy—when I think that something I did could have led to Rachel’s death. Rachel said the murder in Declan’s Cross last week has been solved and the killer is dead. That investigation is all wrapped up, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You say that with such certainty.”

“Call anytime, Maisie,” Emma said. “Day or night.”

Her shoulders slumped but she gave a small nod. “Thank you.”

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