Carla Neggers - Heron's Cove

As it was, by the time he read Emma’s email, it was the middle of the night on the U.S. East Coast. He would have to wait several hours before he could call his sister for more information.

Was Emma referring to Russian tycoon Dmitri Rusakov?

“Bloody likely,” Lucas muttered, jogging past a curving ornamental pond, ducks grooming themselves in the rain-soaked grass.

He slowed to a walk on a meandering path that led to a gate on the east end of the iconic green. The rain had let up but he was already soaked to the bone. Dublin was quiet so early on a drizzly Sunday morning. He crossed the normally busy street and continued into the heart of residential Georgian Dublin where his grandfather had lived for the past fifteen years.

Three days ago, Lucas had seized on the disruption of the renovations at the Sharpe house in Heron’s Cove as an excuse to fly to Dublin. He had barely had time to adjust to Irish time and get over jet lag before he had received Emma’s urgent message.

Having a sister who was an FBI agent had its drawbacks, but Lucas didn’t doubt that she was as concerned about their grandfather as he was. Ostensibly Lucas was in Dublin to check out the status of the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery office there, but he was also checking out the status of his grandfather. His health, his well-being, his plans for the future.

Easier said than done with an independent-minded old codger like Wendell Sharpe, Lucas thought with a sigh of exasperation.

He came to the narrow brick town house where his grandfather had an apartment. Born in Dublin, Wendell Sharpe had been just two when he had left Ireland with his parents for Boston. They soon moved to southern Maine, where his father had worked as a property manager and his mother as a domestic at large summer homes. Wendell had started out as a security guard at a Portland museum, ultimately finding his calling in investigating and recovering missing fine art and antiques.

His decision to open a Dublin office and return to Ireland had been a surprise, but it had also worked out well. At first, his only son—Lucas’s father—had run the Heron’s Cove office. Then a fall on the ice landed Timothy Sharpe in chronic pain, and bit by bit Lucas took over.

Now in his early eighties, Wendell, a widower for almost two decades, was giving up day-to-day work in the business to which he had devoted his life and edging into retirement, or at least semi-retirement.

Lucas went around back and ducked through a gate onto the terrace and into the kitchen. It was past eight but still no sign that his grandfather had yet rolled out of bed. Lucas was dying for coffee but returned to the small guest room and stripped off his wet clothes, leaving them in a heap on the tile floor. He pulled on a robe and headed for the apartment’s only bathroom.

A hot shower, shave and dry clothes didn’t ease his tension.

He headed back to the kitchen, filled the electric kettle with tap water and plugged it in. He dumped loose-leaf Irish Breakfast tea into an earthenware pot for his grandfather and fresh-ground beans into a glass coffee press for himself. By the time he had tea and coffee steeping, his host entered the kitchen dressed in dark gray wool trousers, a crisp white shirt, black vest and red bowtie.

“It’s Sunday, Granddad,” Lucas said.

“I thought I might go to church. Don’t worry. The rafters won’t cave in. I’ve been going more frequently in recent months.”

Lucas was worried, although not about his grandfather’s churchgoing habits. “I just don’t want you to be depressed,” he said, loading the tea, coffee, plates, silverware and a basket of toast onto a tray.

His grandfather looked mystified. “Depressed? Why would I be depressed?”

“Sometimes there’s not a reason. It just happens. Come on. The rain’s stopped. Let’s have breakfast outside.”

Lucas carried the tray and Wendell grabbed a towel to dry off the chairs and two-person round table on the small brick terrace. The sun broke through the clouds as they sat across from each other. They were both lanky and blue-eyed, but any resemblance ended there. Except for her green eyes, Emma favored their grandfather more than Lucas did.

He watched his grandfather butter a piece of toast with a steady hand. For all his expertise in fine art, Wendell Sharpe lived simply. The only art he owned was by contemporary artists and craftspeople, mostly Irish, whose work appealed to him for whatever reason. He didn’t care about critics, reviews, whether a particular work or particular artist would ever end up in a museum or prized by discerning collectors. He just bought and bartered for what he liked. His lack of snobbery, combined with his knowledge, experience and extensive contacts, made him a formidable, insightful expert in art theft and recovery. He could see, think and feel what others couldn’t or overlooked because of their blind spots and prejudices.

Lucas wanted to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps, but he knew, too, that he had to carve out his own path. And he was just thirty-four. Wendell did have a few decades on his only grandson.

Wendell took a bite of toast and poured tea. “What’s on your mind, Lucas?”

“Do you know a London jeweler named Tatiana Pavlova?”

“No, I don’t, but that’s a Russian name. Why? Who is she?”

“I don’t know. Emma sent an email last night asking about her. She said she’d call today.” Lucas poured his coffee, appreciated its heat. “She also wants anything we have on the Rusakov collection.”

“The Rusakov collection?” Wendell went still, knife and toast in hand. “You’re sure?”

Lucas nodded. “I’m sure. You can read the email if you’d like.”

“No. I don’t need to read it.” He set his toast on his plate and glanced at the sky, the sun back behind the shifting gray clouds. He seemed to give himself a mental shake, then picked up his teacup and focused again on Lucas. “What else did Emma say?”

“Colin Donovan is back.”

“I met him in September when he and Emma were in Ireland chasing that killer. Good-looking fellow. All the Donovans are.”

“I didn’t realize you knew them,” Lucas said, already wishing he’d made more coffee.

“They’d come by the waterfront from time to time, mostly in a lobster boat. I’d wave. They’d wave. That was the extent of it. They were teenagers. I was old even back then. Their father was a town police officer.”

“Did you think Colin would become an FBI agent?”

“No, I thought he’d become a lobsterman. I’m better at figuring out art thieves than I am at figuring out law enforcement officers. They surprise me every time. Look at Emma. You said Colin’s back? Where did he go?”

“Washington, supposedly. I don’t think that’s the whole story. I think he was in trouble.”

Wendell nodded thoughtfully. “I suspect trouble’s a way of life for Colin Donovan. As it’s becoming for Emma, I fear.”

“They’re FBI agents, Granddad. It’s their job to look for trouble. What about this collection? Does it in fact belong to Dmitri Rusakov?”

Wendell shifted in his chair, a ray of sunlight catching his thinning white hair. “I haven’t been back to Maine in far too long. How is life there?”

“It’s fine,” Lucas said, not hiding his impatience well. “Granddad—”

“I’ll recognize the house when you’re finished with it?”

“Yes. I’ve worked with an architect and designer to make sure we keep its character. My main focus is modernizing the offices. You’ve seen the drawings.”

“The apartment will be ready by winter?”

“Yes, but you have a place to stay in Heron’s Cove anytime you want to be there. You know you can always stay at my place. And you’ll love the apartment when it’s done. I promise.”