Heron's Cove. Carla Neggers
Читать онлайн книгу.
the woman down on the docks. She had looked up at the house several times. She was small, with long, straight dark hair, and she wore a pumpkin-colored barn jacket that, even at a distance, was obviously too big for her.
A Sharpe Fine Art Recovery client? A sightseer who had wandered down to the waterfront and now was trying to figure out how to get back out to the street with its attractive houses, shops and restaurants?
Emma noticed her cerulean-blue was leaking down the page into her burnt-sienna. Probably should have stuck to one color. Perfecting a flat wash wasn’t as easy as it looked. In the weeks since Colin had gone after his arms traffickers, she had started taking painting lessons with Sister Cecilia, a young novice with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. She and Emma had become friends since their encounter with a crazed killer in September. The lessons at the sisters’ shop in the village were therapeutic for both of them, and always followed by a walk, tea or just a good chat. Sister Cecilia especially loved hearing the latest about Rock Point and the Donovans.
Yank had called an hour ago. He and Colin had arrived in Boston and were on their way to Maine. Yank would drop Colin off in Rock Point. Then he was on his own.
No handing over the phone to Colin to say hello. Not Yank’s style.
Colin, Emma knew, would want to know about her source. He would have figured out the tip about the Fort Lauderdale house had come from her, or Yank would have told him outright.
She stood back from her painting, her brush in hand. Not her best effort.
A lobster boat drifted from the open ocean through the channel into the tidal river. It was late on a still, cool autumn afternoon. Several pleasure boats had passed by, heading to the marina and adjacent yacht club, but there were fewer boats now, with the colder weather and the foliage past peak. In midsummer, Heron’s Cove would be bustling with boats and people.
Colin had been a lobsterman in his teens, before joining the Maine state marine patrol. Emma didn’t know why he had decided to become an FBI agent. Boredom? Ambition? A precipitating incident? An unsolved case?
How could she have fallen for a man about whom she ultimately knew so little?
She had showered and changed in Colin’s house that morning, putting on fresh jeans and a sweater she had brought up from Boston. She’d had little sleep, dozing in his bed. When she got word that he was safe, she called Mike Donovan, then Finian Bracken, and let them know all was well and Colin would return to Rock Point later today.
She had stopped at Hurley’s for coffee and a cider doughnut and took them with her to Heron’s Cove. A run on the beach, a visit to a local apple orchard, a stop at her brother Lucas’s house to check on his cats while he was away—it had been a long day. She had known she wouldn’t hear from Colin until he was fully debriefed and back home.
The woman in the pumpkin-colored jacket had circled up to the retaining wall and was squeezing past tall hydrangeas, their white blossoms turned burgundy with autumn, into the Sharpe yard.
Emma set her brush in a jar of water on a small dresser against the back wall of the covered porch and stood at the rail. “Hi, there,” she called down to the woman. “It’s a beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?”
“It is. And it’s a beautiful place.” The woman spoke with an accent that Emma couldn’t immediately place. “You’re Emma Sharpe, yes?”
“That’s right. What’s your name?”
“Tatiana,” she said, crossing the yard to the porch. “Tatiana Pavlova.”
Emma stiffened at the Russian name, what she now realized was a Russian accent with a British undercurrent, as if Tatiana Pavlova had learned English on the streets of London. “What can I do for you, Tatiana?”
She started up the porch steps. “You mind?”
“Just keep your hands where I can see them, okay?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. You’re an FBI agent. You must worry about villains.”
Villains? “Are you a Sharpe client?” Emma asked.
Tatiana joined her on the small porch of the gray-shingled house where Wendell Sharpe had started Sharpe Fine Art Recovery in a front room. “A friend was,” she said. “I’m a jewelry designer in London. One of my clients once hired your grandfather. But that’s not important. It’s not why I’m here. Your grandfather is retired now, yes?”
“He’s semi-retired.”
“Ah. I can see that. I want to work until I can no longer lift a pencil.” Tatiana tightened her oversize jacket around her slim frame. “It’s colder here than I expected but I’m used to the cold.”
Emma leaned back against the rail. Tatiana wore black leggings and black flats more suited to London than a walk on the docks of Heron’s Cove, but no makeup or jewelry. Her nails were blunt, unpolished. Stylishly unstylish, Emma thought. “You’re Russian?” she asked.
Tatiana nodded. “But I left Russia years ago.”
“Years? You must have been a child. You’re young—”
“Twenty-five. I was twenty when I left the country for good. It’s a long story.” Her dark eyes gleamed with emotion. “Are there any short Russian stories? Some of our fables and folktales, perhaps. Do you know the fable of the cat and the nightingale?”
“I don’t think so,” Emma said.
“It’s very short. Of course, since it’s a fable.” Tatiana stood at the porch rail and watched a great blue heron swoop low to the water. “A cat catches a nightingale and taunts the poor bird to sing for her. The terrified nightingale can only manage pitiful squeaks, which remind the cat of annoying kittens. Disgusted, the cat eats the nightingale.”
“Charming,” Emma said with a smile. “What made you think of this particular fable?”
“My walk, maybe. Seeing all the birds here.” Tatiana sighed as the heron dipped past a sailboat, then out of sight. “The cat and the nightingale remind us that we can’t expect beautiful songs from a bird trapped in the clutches of a creature that can devour it. Their story tells us that fear isn’t always the best instrument to get us what we want.”
“Are you describing yourself, Tatiana?”
She turned, smiling enigmatically. “But am I the scary cat, or am I the terrified nightingale?” She waved a slender hand in dismissal. “It’s just a fable. It’s best in Russian, of course. Do you speak any Russian?”
“A few words,” Emma said truthfully.
“Heron’s Cove is very beautiful. I knew it would be, but I hoped to get here for peak leaves—that’s what you say?”
“Peak foliage.”
“That’s it.” Tatiana’s smile brightened. “There are still many orange and yellow leaves, but the reds are all on the ground. But I’m not here as tourist.” She spied the easel and frowned at Emma’s attempt at a watercolor wash. “Such a pretty blue, but watercolor is not so easy, yes?”
Emma groaned. “Watercolor isn’t easy at all.”
“A painter and an FBI agent. I suppose that’s not such a surprise since you’re a Sharpe.” Tatiana lifted the brush out of the jar and blotted it on a sheet of paper on the small chest of drawers that held Emma’s painting supplies. “My English is better when I concentrate, have you noticed?”
“Your English is fine. When did you arrive in Heron’s Cove?”
“This afternoon. I have a cottage just on the other side of the yacht club. I have it for a week but the owner said I can stay longer if I wish. It’s very small. Adorable. It’s one room on legs—stilts. We’re neighbors.”
“Why Heron’s Cove?” Emma asked.
Tatiana laid the rinsed brush on the dresser,