Читать книгу Harbor Island - Carla Neggers - Страница 15

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.”

“What time did you arrive on the island?” Colin asked from the foyer door.

Maisie looked startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there, but recovered quickly. “Just before the police did. I knew something terrible had happened. I threw up.”

“I arrived a few minutes later,” Travis said.

“It’s been a long day. I know you understand.” Maisie pointed vaguely toward the back of the house. “Why don’t I show you my workroom? It’s just downstairs. I don’t like sharing the details of a project too soon, but...” She tried to smile. “But you’re the FBI, and you want to know. And I have nothing to hide.”

“I’ll go with you,” Danny said.

Maisie bristled visibly. “You don’t have to stay, Danny. You can go anytime. Dad and I will be fine.”

He shifted his impassive gaze to Emma. “Maisie is independent. That’s cool, but it doesn’t occur to her that someone might not wish her well.”

“That’s not what today is about, Danny,” she interjected, clearly annoyed with him. “I’m not the one who was in danger, obviously, and we don’t know that Rachel’s death has anything to do with me. In fact, I can’t imagine how it could.”

“Rachel had her own life apart from Maisie and me,” Travis said.

Maisie nodded. “She could have had her own enemies, too. More likely, what happened this morning was just a stupid accident. With the cottages falling into disrepair, vagrants and people out for a good time have been using that side of the island. Developing it would end all that. But we don’t know what happened today, except that Rachel is gone.”

Travis eased in next to his daughter. “Danny, you’re welcome to move in here. If we’d known you were coming, we’d have had a room ready for you.”

“I’m good with my rental,” Danny said. “No rats or roaches.”

Maisie gave him a cool look before turning to Emma. “Shall we go downstairs?”

Danny made a move to join them, but Colin shook his head. “You sit tight, Danny. We’ll be back.”

“Feds,” he said, good-naturedly. “Love you guys. Go do your thing.”

* * *

Maisie Bristol’s workroom was down a half flight of stairs at street or “garden” level. French doors opened onto a brick courtyard with a stone fountain, statues and pots now mostly empty with the cooler weather. In the fading afternoon light, Emma noticed chips and cracks in the fountain. Moss and crabgrass covered patches of the brick. A six-foot stepladder leaned up against the back wall, reminding her that the Bristols were having work done on the place.

Maisie grabbed a book off a worktable pushed up against multipaned windows. “I’m sorry, I don’t have many chairs in here, and the few I have are stacked with books. I’ve been collecting them like a madwoman. I don’t know when I’ll get to read even half of them.”

“We don’t mind standing,” Emma said.

Colin walked over to the window. He’d said little since arriving at the Bristols’ house, but she had no doubt he was paying close attention. That she’d found a dead woman and Yank had found his wife trapped in Aoife O’Byrne’s Dublin studio hadn’t sat well with him—as an FBI agent or as Emma’s fiancé and Yank’s friend.

Maisie set her book back on the table. Emma saw it was on Jack B. Yeats. “I wasn’t familiar with his work until recently,” Maisie said, brushing her fingertips across the cover, one of his western Irish landscapes. “Rachel told me about him, as a matter of fact. I didn’t realize at first that her interest in Yeats cuts to our different approaches to the film we were working on together. She wanted flash and dazzle. I want...” Her eyes shone with fresh tears. “Well, I don’t know what I want.”

“When did Rachel introduce you to Yeats’s work?” Emma asked.

“About a week ago. She’d done some research and thought she’d found the perfect hook for our movie.”

“And you weren’t sure?”

“I wasn’t, no. I’m interested in the intersection of pagan Celtic Ireland and Christianity and the integration of those two worlds. I’ve been gobbling up everything I can.” Maisie gave a broad gesture to more books stacked on the worktable. “It’s fascinating.”

Maisie—or someone—had turned the end wall into a collage of color printouts of photographs of Irish Celtic scenes. Emma recognized ogham stones, Celtic crosses, beehive huts and church ruins, pages from the Book of Kells.

“I wasn’t upset by Rachel’s ideas,” Maisie added quickly. “Differences are to be expected in a creative endeavor. I like to throw everything out onto the table—without self-censorship—and see what develops. Let things simmer and percolate until what’s meant to be emerges. It’s not always a neat and tidy process, but it works, at least for me.”

“You’ve had a great deal of success,” Emma said.

“I support good people and get out of their way and let them do their work.”

“That takes a certain vision, doesn’t it?”

Maisie smiled, brushing at her tears with the heel of one hand. “And luck.”

“Did Rachel—”

“All my successes were flukes according to Rachel. She said it was a positive viewpoint. If they were flukes, I wouldn’t expect to duplicate them in the future. I wouldn’t be disappointed.”

“She was lowering your expectations?”

“Helping me to a soft landing,” Maisie said. “She and my dad started seeing each other when I was fifteen. I was even more awkward than the average awkward fifteen-year-old. Living in Las Vegas with my erratic but loving mother. Traveling back and forth to Los Angeles and Boston to see my father. It’s not like not knowing where your next meal is coming from or going to bed hungry, but I coped by watching movies, talking movies, eating and sleeping movies. Rachel was very kind to me in her own way, and she taught me a lot.”

“But part of her still thought of you as that awkward fifteen-year-old,” Emma said.

“She admitted as much.”

Colin turned from the window. “Was she hijacking your movie, Maisie?”

“She knew I wouldn’t let that happen. She told me last night that she realized I wasn’t the insecure girl breathless for whatever words of wisdom she had for me—that just because I’m open to ideas doesn’t mean I don’t have ideas of my own, or a strong vision of my own. That I...I...” Maisie gulped in air, her face crumpling as she sobbed, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. “I can’t believe she’s gone. I can’t believe someone killed her.”

Emma pulled out the one chair that was pushed under the table and lifted a stack of books from the seat. Colin eased Maisie onto the chair. “Try not to hyperventilate,” he said. “It won’t help.”

She nodded, still gulping in air. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been in such a state of shock that I’ve hardly cried at all. I don’t know what all Rachel was up to—I think she was trying to manipulate me or bully me into doing the movie her way. I’m sure that’s why she invited Aoife O’Byrne here. How awful it must be for her to arrive in Boston and not twenty-four hours later, the woman who got her here is shot to death in cold blood. I can’t believe—” She clutched her shirt at her solar plexus. “I’m going to be sick.”

Colin placed a hand on her shoulder. “Easy, Maisie. Just breathe normally.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking out of the corners. Her nose was running. She sniffled, letting go of her shirt and wiping her nose on the sleeve. She opened her eyes and sniffled again. “Sorry. I never seem to have a tissue. I’ll change in a few minutes. God, what an awful day.” She raised her gaze to Emma. “I know you’re the one who found Rachel this morning. The police asked us—Dad and me—if we knew that she’d called you. We didn’t. We’ve no idea what she wanted. Did she tell you? When Rachel called—” Maisie stopped abruptly and shook her head. “Never mind. I know you can’t tell me things.”

“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.”