“That’d be great, but right now—”
“You have to go easy, my friend,” Finian said. “Precipitous action will only lead to mistakes and regrets.”
Colin checked his impatience; Finian wasn’t going to be rushed. “Think I should do things Emma’s way?”
“You can only do things your way.” He sighed heavily, looked away from his book. “On Saturday night, after I left Hurley’s…” He stopped himself with a small groan. “It sounds ridiculous now that I’m mentioning it aloud. I’m being a fool.”
“What happened?”
“A man followed me across the street after our drink at Hurley’s.”
Colin leaned forward. “He followed you?”
“All right, ‘followed’ is a bit strong.”
“What did he want?”
“He didn’t seem to want anything but it was an unusual conversation, at least for me.” Finian paused, clearly reluctant to explain further. “He said it was his first time in Rock Point and that he’d asked about you and your brothers at Hurley’s. He told me what each of you does for a living.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. It was a quick conversation. I asked him if he wanted me to give you a ring, and he said no, he was on his way to Heron’s Cove.”
“Heron’s Cove? Why?”
“He went on his way before I thought to ask.” Finian glanced past Colin as if he didn’t want to meet his eye. “I didn’t ask enough questions. I wanted him to go.”
“It wasn’t your job to ask questions. It was your job to get home safely.” Colin took in a breath, hating the idea that his friend had been upset by someone claiming to know him. “Describe this guy.”
“Your height, and fair-skinned. He seemed to be in good condition.” Finian patted his own stomach. “No fat at all in the middle. He wore a black fleece jacket and a baseball cap. Those are the only details of his appearance that I remember.”
“Did he speak with an accent?”
“American,” Finian said with a slight smile. “He called you and your brothers ‘tough guys.’”
Tough guys,
Colin thought. He didn’t like that one. “Did he mention Emma?”
“No. I suggested he come to our bean-hole supper and he moved along. When I went into the rectory, I had the feeling…” Finian sat straight, cleared his throat. “I left the front door unlocked. I’m sure that’s all it was.”
Colin got to his feet. “You had the feeling what, Fin?”
“That someone had been in the rectory. I attributed it to my mood, given the worry over your silence. I was on alert, I suppose.”
“It’s fine to be on alert. It’s good. Keeps you on your toes. I’m sorry you all were worried about me.” Colin looked down at Finian’s book on the Iveragh Peninsula and imagined himself there with Emma and no concerns, no FBI baggage, no Sharpe baggage. Just the two of them. But he pulled himself out of his thoughts and nodded to his friend. “Want me to take a look around the rectory?”
Finian shook his head. “There’s no need. Nothing’s missing or out of place. I’m sure my reaction is out of proportion to the offense, if there even was an offense.” He rose stiffly. “Whiskey and adrenaline talking.”
It was possible, Colin thought, but Finian Bracken wasn’t one to overreact. “This guy hasn’t turned up again?”
“I can’t say for certain…” Finian hesitated, flipped the pages on his yellow pad so that the cover was back on top. “I might have seen him in the village this morning. As I told Mike, I ran into the Russian girl, Tatiana, at the sisters’ shop. We chatted a bit, and she left. Then I left, and I saw a man in a black jacket. For a moment I thought he might be following her, but I don’t know—I don’t even know if it was the same man from the other night.”
“Did you see him speak to Tatiana?”
“No, no. I didn’t see them together. Perhaps I just reacted to the black jacket.”
“Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”
Finian stared at the ancient Irish stone hut on the cover of his book, then looked at Colin. “I think so, yes. I’m sorry I can’t provide a better description. But this man’s done nothing wrong, has he? Tatiana…”
“I saw her earlier. She’s fine.”
“Thank God,” Finian said, visibly relieved. He came around from behind his desk and started across the shabby but comfortable office. “I’m allowing myself to be influenced far too much by you Donovans. Especially Mike and you, but even your father. I imagine only Andy doesn’t keep a gun under his pillow—and I don’t know for a fact that he doesn’t, too.”
Colin ignored his friend’s rant. “Anything unusual—anything at all—you call me, right? Or call my father or one of my brothers. Any one of us will help. Understood?”
Finian nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Don’t hesitate,” Colin added, hoping he’d gotten through to him.
“I won’t. Of course, I could just be naturally embellishing a good story.”
“Is that what you think?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter? I’ll clean up and head to Hurley’s in a bit.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Good man,” his friend said, the spark back in his expression.
Colin swung by his house but Emma wasn’t there yet. He texted her to meet him at Hurley’s instead but drove first to his parents’ inn. When he got out of his truck, he saw that she hadn’t responded. For all he knew she was back aboard the
Nightingale,
drinking champagne with her family’s Russian billionaire client and her Russian source.
Ivan Alexander, the first man she was interested in after she gave up being Sister Brigid.
Colin gritted his teeth. He had fallen for one hell of a complicated woman.
He found Mike planting tulip bulbs out front in the light from the porch. “Tell me you’re not bringing me another hundred bulbs,” his brother grumbled, getting to his feet with trowel in hand.
“I’m not bringing you more bulbs.”
“You came to help then? Ground’s soft. Full of worms, which I know you don’t like, but no snakes. A big, tough FBI agent should be able to handle a few worms.”
“Worm, yes. Planting tulips, no. At least not right now. I’d go out of my mind.”
Mike cast him a dark look. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“You’re contributing to the economic and emotional welfare of our folks. People love tulips. Guests will be raving about them in their reviews on TripAdvisor.” But Colin heard the edge in his voice and gave up on any attempt at normal conversation. “I talked to Finian Bracken.”
Mike set his trowel atop a burlap bag of Dutch-grown tulip bulbs. He wasn’t wearing garden gloves, and his hands were crusted with mud. “Something happened, right?”
Colin told his older brother what he knew. “If this guy turns up again, I don’t want Fin dealing with him on his own. Think you can check on him from time to time?”
“Not a problem.”
“If you see this guy, call the police, Mike. I just want Fin to have a friend nearby. It’s not just that he’s a priest and an outsider. I’ve gotten to know him, and he’s a risk-taker at heart.”
“Since he wasn’t on board that boat with his family,” Mike said, not making it a question.
“Even more so since then. He and his twin brother started a whiskey distillery at twenty-two. The odds of success were against them. Fin’s wired for taking risks.”
“No wonder you two get along.”
Colin looked up at the inn’s wide front porch, decorated with pumpkins and pots of mums. His parents were enjoying working on the place, giving it a charm and a level of sophistication that people liked. Word was getting out about the breakfasts. It would do fine.
His brother wasn’t finished. “This woman. Emma. Hell, Colin. Are you sure you can think straight where she’s concerned?”
“You don’t like her,” Colin said, matter-of-fact.
“I don’t have a reason to like or not like her. I just don’t think we get her world.”
“Can’t argue with that. Everything’s good here?”
Mike narrowed his eyes, studied Colin a moment, then sighed. “Everything’s fine. Only four hundred tulip bulbs to go. I won’t finish tonight. I’ll do a few more and see you at Hurley’s in a little while.”
Colin returned to his truck. Still nothing from Emma. He drove back to his house and walked down to the harbor. He was crossing the street to the waterfront when he got a text message from Emma:
I’m at Hurley’s with your brothers and whiskey. HELP.
He grinned, his tension lifting as he slid his phone back into his jacket and went to join her.
* * *
Finian had settled into his favorite table by the back window. Hurley’s was reasonably populated for a Monday and what had turned into the coldest night yet that fall. Emma, Mike, Andy and Kevin Donovan had arrived ahead of Colin and were finishing off an order of steamed clams. Not one of Finian’s favorites.
Colin didn’t look thrilled with them, either, as he joined them and took off his jacket. “Perfect timing,” he said, pulling out a chair by the window. “Clams are gone, and there’s whiskey left.”
As he sat down, Julianne Maroney swept over to them and set a plastic pitcher on the table so hard water splashed out. Andy Donovan calmly blotted the spill with the callused palm of his hand. “A lot of energy there, Jules,” he said.
“It’s Julianne. Or Ms. Maroney.” She addressed Finian with a controlled smile. “No ice in the water, as requested, Father.”
“Thank you, Julianne,” Finian said.
“You’re welcome.” She seemed to want to get away from them as fast as possible but stood there, adjusting her half apron. “I wanted to thank you for visiting my grandmother this morning. She said it did her a world of good to talk with you.”
“She did?” Finian was mystified. “She all but ran me out with a pitchfork.”
Julianne laughed. “That’s my granny.” Her smile vanished as she glared at Andy, then spun back to the kitchen.
Andy watched her with a wince. “She’s got a temper like her grandmother.”
“What’d you do to her?” Mike asked.
“Why did I have to do anything?”
“Because she’s Julianne Maroney, a hardworking marine biologist, and you’re Andy Donovan, the rake of Rock Point.”
Andy shrugged, as accustomed to the eldest Donovan’s bluntness as the rest of his brothers—and, by now, Emma. “Julianne’s decided I cheated her father out of his boat.” He glanced at Finian and Emma then filled them in. “The
Julianne
is a classic wooden lobster boat I’m restoring and using as a backup. It’s a heap. The Maroneys are lucky I took it off their hands and have managed to keep it afloat. It’d be rotting in their shed if they’d had to deal with it.”
“It’s named after Julianne?” Emma asked.
“Yeah, her father named it in her honor when she was a baby. Crazy thing to do but that’s how he is. They figured I’d give it another name but I haven’t gotten around to it. The whole thing’s a thorn in Julianne’s side.”
“I’ll bet it’s not the only thorn in her side when it comes to you,” Mike muttered.
Andy ignored him. Julianne returned with a basket of crackers, warm rolls and butter. Finian noticed that she was flushed, more so than she should have been even with the running back and forth from Hurley’s kitchen to their table. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said, crisp, marginally controlled.
“I’ll see you tomorrow on the docks?” Andy asked.
“Bright and early. You’ll be there with my boat?”
“I’ll be there with the
Julianne.
” Andy tilted his chair onto two legs. “Bright and early for me is four.”
“Good, you won’t keep me waiting,” she said and spun off again.
Finian poured the whiskey as Mike, Colin and Kevin grinned at their lobsterman brother. Andy didn’t look at all embarrassed. “Jules and I go way back. She’ll get over whatever’s eating her.”
“What are you doing with the boat?” Emma asked him, nibbling on a cracker.
“Showing her the progress I’ve made on restoring it.”
Mike reached for a cracker, too. “And that’s supposed to calm her down?”
“She’ll see I’m treating it with respect and calm down. What chance would it have had if her father had kept it? So,” Andy said, obviously looking to change the subject, “what’s the story with this Russian yacht in Heron’s Cove? I was down there today. Wow. Emma, you know the owner? I hear he’s a Sharpe client.”
“Former,” she amended.
“Colin had a drink on board,” Kevin said.
He pushed aside a plate of clamshells. “Think I’ve arrived?”
“Yeah, Colin, you’ve arrived,” Andy said. “Rusakov invite you to the Bahamas?”
“Not yet. There’s time.”
Mike ate his cracker in two bites. “I don’t know if it’s the whiskey but I don’t have a good feeling about what’s going on.”
Kevin Donovan sat forward, out of uniform but looking every inch the Maine state marine patrol officer he was. “I don’t, either.” His gray-eyed gaze leveled on Emma, then Colin. “We don’t have anything on Rusakov.”
“Pop and I talked while we planted tulip bulbs,” Mike said. “It was the Russian mob who gave you those bruises, wasn’t it, Colin? You don’t have to answer, but if any of those bastards show up around here—”
“You’ll call Kevin or me,” Colin said.
“Or Emma,” Mike added with a devilish grin.
Finian held up his bottle of Bracken 15 year old before the battle was on. “Shall we retaste my favorite Irish whiskey?”
The early risers Andy and Kevin said good-night and left after a modest amount of whiskey. In another few minutes, Mike and Colin excused themselves and headed outside and down to the pier in the dark, for reasons Finian couldn’t fathom. Emma stayed at her place at the table. When he saw her troubled look, he got up and went behind the empty bar, returning with a bottle of Auchentoshan.
He uncorked the Scotch and splashed a little in a glass. “A
taoscán
of Auchentoshan will put the color back in your cheeks,” he said. “This is Auchentoshan 12 year old. You’ve had it before. It’s a delicate yet complex single-malt Scotch whisky, made without a trace of peat, triple-distilled and matured in oak casks. It’s a gorgeous whisky.”
“I remember I liked it.” She took the glass from Finian and gestured with it toward the silhouette of the two men down on the pier. “Colin and Mike are thick as thieves.”
“The Donovans are quite a clan.”
“Mike’s right. I don’t belong here.”