Carla Neggers - Liar's Key

“It’s a signed print. I can’t afford her original art.”

“Who can these days? But a signed print is worth something. It’s only four o’clock here. That means it’s just eleven in the morning in Boston. Did you get fired?”

“Not yet. It could happen anytime with you in my life.”

“I see you tried and failed to smile while making that comment. What can I do for you, then, Agent Sharpe? Does the FBI need my help given my expertise in mythology?”

Emma barely heard him. She was looking past him, taking in his surroundings. She recognized the bright, contemporary furnishings and the view from the partially open window behind him of the Irish Sea. “Oliver...” She gritted her teeth. “Oliver, you’re in Declan’s Cross. You’re in a seaside room at the O’Byrne House Hotel.”

“I am, indeed. I’m taking in a delightful breeze off the sea as we speak. Spring on the south Irish coast is quite lovely. I believe I’m in the room where you and Colin stayed on your last visit this winter.”

“It’s not the same room.”

“As if you’d tell me if it were.”

“Why are you in Declan’s Cross?”

“I couldn’t resist Kitty O’Byrne’s scones.”

Kitty was Aoife’s older sister and the proprietress of the boutique hotel, which a decade ago had been a rambling old seaside house owned by their uncle. Ten years ago, the house had been broken into by a clever, brazen art thief, still officially unidentified and at large, although the stolen works had mysteriously reappeared last fall.

Oliver did have nerve.

“I’m leaving once we’ve finished our chat,” he said. “Kitty kindly allowed me a late checkout without extra charge. So, my dear, if you’re tempted to sic the Irish guards on me, there’s no need.”

He was referring to the Gardaí, the Irish police. Kitty’s love interest happened to be a Dublin-based garda detective who owned a farm in Declan’s Cross.

Sean Murphy would love an excuse to interrogate Oliver York.

“I’m not going to sic the guards on you,” Emma said. “But if you’re hatching a plan to resteal the art you returned to the O’Byrnes, you can forget it. You’ll be arrested. MI5 won’t be able to save you.”

Oliver waved a hand. “You and your fantasies about me, Emma—Agent Sharpe. I flew into Dublin from London yesterday thinking I’d have a pint with your grandfather, but I discovered he’s already in Maine. I consoled myself with a quick visit to quaint, pretty Declan’s Cross.”

“Why did you want to see my grandfather?”

“Wendell and I always have things to talk about.”

“He was in London last week before he flew here on Saturday. Did you see him?”

“I shared a dram of an interesting new Scotch with him. Now, what can I do for you, Agent Sharpe?” Oliver made a show of glancing furtively around him, then leaned close to the screen. “Keep in mind MI5 is likely listening to us.”

Emma wouldn’t be surprised if they were. “You were at a party at Claridge’s on Sunday. Tell me about it.”

“Tell you what?”

“For starters, why were you there?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Don’t sound so surprised. I live in the neighborhood and Claridge’s is one of my favorite hangouts.”

It wasn’t a direct answer to her question but Emma let it go. “Who else was there?”

“Your parents.” His brow furrowed. “Did the good Faye and Timothy Sharpe see or hear something of interest to the FBI, or to you personally?”

“I haven’t spoken to them. This is a voluntary interview on your part, Oliver, but I’d like to ask the questions if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. By all means.” He sat back farther, clearly relaxed. “Ask away.”

“A retired FBI agent was there. I believe you know him. Gordon Wheelock.”

“Do I?”

“He investigated your US thefts. San Francisco, Dallas. He’s responsible for putting away a number of art thieves and was sorry he retired before he could put you away.”

“My thefts? Me? The still unidentified thief, you mean.” Oliver gave an obviously faked yawn. “I want to take a walk before I return to London this evening. Aoife O’Byrne is in Declan’s Cross painting sunrises, did you know? They aren’t a cliché subject in her hands, although I am partial to her short-lived phase painting porpoises.”

Emma refused to be distracted. “Agent Wheelock stopped in my office this morning and told me he saw you at Claridge’s.”

“Did he? Hmm. He must have been the disheveled American who gave me the dirty look. We didn’t speak but someone mentioned he was an American agent of some sort.”

“Who mentioned him?”

Oliver made a face. “Take a guess.”

“Your MI5 handler?”

He pressed a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

“Was he at the party?”

“Obviously you already have the answer, but I’m not going to confirm or deny his presence. It was an uneventful, perfectly civil English tea. No guns, no blood, no arrests. I wish you’d been there, Emma—although given your life these days, I suspect the afternoon would have taken a different turn and ended up in the papers.”

She ignored his remark. “Any particular interest in late antiquity or the Victoria and Albert Museum?”

“Of course. Both. I’m a mythologist and I’m devoted to the museum. You’ve been, haven’t you?”

“A number of times. Did you see anyone with Agent Wheelock?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. He arrived alone but he met up with Claudia Deverell. I believe you know her? She’s an American who used to work at one of the big auction houses. She specializes in Mediterranean antiquities. She lives in London.”

“I know who she is,” Emma said.

“That’s what I thought. She and her family are no strangers to the Sharpes. Wasn’t her mother once a Sharpe client? Victoria Norwood Deverell. She died last year. Cancer. Very sad. The Norwoods were great collectors of antiquities, with a special passion for mosaics. They’ve owned a house in Heron’s Cove for generations.” Oliver sat forward, as if he were in the same room with Emma instead of on the other side of the Atlantic. “Is Agent Wheelock meddling in FBI business, Emma?”

She kept her expression neutral. “Did you hear any interesting rumors while you were at the party on Sunday?”

“Ah. You mean the rumor about stolen Byzantine mosaics. Did that get your retired FBI agent worked up? I know nothing.”

“How, when and where did you hear the rumors yourself?”

“I was eating a delightful mini scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam when I overheard two elderly gentlemen say they’d heard someone had nicked a couple of ancient mosaics from a London collector. I got jam on my shirt cuff and went to the men’s room. I don’t know the gents and heard nothing further before I left.”

“Since then?”

“Not a peep.”

He could be lying, or he could be telling the truth. Emma couldn’t tell. “Did you speak with Claudia Deverell yourself?”

“Your parents introduced us but I didn’t linger. Didn’t Claudia once date your brother? But that’s none of my business, and I must be going. By the way, the sheepskins I sent you and Colin this winter are wonderful in warm weather, too. You’ll see.”

“Oliver—wait.”

But he was gone.

Emma shut her laptop. No point trying to get him back. He wouldn’t answer. She rolled to her feet and went into the bedroom. She’d rented the apartment when she’d first moved to Boston, months before she’d met Colin. It was small for the two of them but they’d decided to keep it, given its convenient location and Boston’s sky-high rents. They had his house in Maine for more space. Not that they’d needed space lately, given his absences.