“Not the dirtbag’s style.”
Straightforward enough but she wasn’t satisfied. “It’s a busy street. The docks are right behind us. Running out of a burning house would draw attention.”
“A bomb’s a statement to an FBI agent and world-renowned art detectives.”
“Do you think this is about ego?”
Colin seemed even taller under the slanted ceiling. “I wish I knew, especially if it can help us find who’s responsible.”
“Ego, revenge—maybe this person blames my family for something.”
“It’s tempting to jump ahead of what we know.”
She opened a wooden file drawer next to the vault and pushed back a sudden flood of memories of her work side by side with her grandfather. She focused instead on the task at hand. How would a woman fleeing tragedy and an unhappy marriage have managed to transport an art collection of even a modest size to her family home in Maine?
What if the art had already been there? Would that make any difference?
“Piecing together the life of Claire Peck Grayson and her family could take time,” Emma said, half to herself. “Art theft and recovery investigations can go on for years. We don’t have years.”
Colin knelt down and opened up a cardboard box. “First things first.”
“I keep seeing Sister Joan lying in the tower entry. It was as if she didn’t matter. Her life, her work.” Emma shut the file drawer. There was nothing in there worth digging through.
“Why did Claire Grayson come to your grandfather in the first place?”
It was a good question, one that had been bugging her. Emma seized the moment and emailed her grandfather in Ireland. Thirty seconds later, he called her. “I’m still up,” he said, obviously welcoming the distraction.
Emma sat on a stack of boxes with her cell phone. “I’m in the attic with Colin Donovan. We’re wondering how you first came to know Claire Grayson.”
Her grandfather answered without hesitation. “She stopped by my office to ask how fine art and antiques are authenticated. That’s how we met. She didn’t have an appointment. She just walked in.”
“Was she alone?” Emma asked.
“Yes. I gave her the basics on the process. I’ve done it a thousand times. She never took it further. She told me she was a painter herself. A few days later she came by and said she was looking for a painting teacher.”
“So that’s when you referred her to Mother Linden. Did Mrs. Grayson mention any particular artists?”
“It was a long time ago.” He sounded exhausted. “I think I’d have remembered if she’d asked about specific artists, but I can’t be sure. She was sweet, eccentric, very pretty and very troubled.”
“Sleep on it, Granddad,” Emma said. “You’re taking care of yourself?”
“I don’t have any choice with your parents hanging over me. Be safe, Emma.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“You’ve got that tough FBI agent with you?”
She laughed. “I do, indeed.”
“Good. I like him.”
“You met him for two seconds, and you had a concussion—”
“No concussion,” he said, then added, his tone serious again, “Emma…”
“We’ll figure this out. Get some sleep. Say hi to Mum and Dad for me. We’ll talk again tomorrow.” Emma disconnected and got to her feet, tried to smile at Colin. “He likes you,” she said, then repeated what her grandfather had told her.
“It’s hard to know what Claire Grayson was up to.” Colin stood back, eyeing Emma. “You need to get some sleep, Agent Sharpe.”
She nodded. “I know. You’re tired, too. Go. You don’t have to stay here.”
“I think I will, though.”
She felt a rush of warmth. “I’ll be okay by myself.”
“You’d sleep well after finding a bomb in the attic?”
“It was meant to burn up my grandfather’s old files and obscure the theft of the Sunniva painting. Any harm to me was secondary.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“Because Yank—”
“It’s got nothing to do with Yank. Not anymore.”
Colin started toward the stairs, and Emma took a quick breath, turned off the overhead and followed him down to her grandfather’s old office and back out to the kitchen.
“We could go back to my place,” he said matter-of-factly. “I don’t know what it is with you Sharpes and furniture. Your apartment in Boston is bare bones. Your brother’s house is bare bones. This place here’s practically empty and ready be gutted. I have furniture.”
“There’s a cot in the attic.”
“Uh-uh. I’m not sleeping in the attic and I’m not carting a cot down two flights of stairs.” He leaned in close to her. “Relax, sweetheart. I have a spare bedroom.”
She busied herself putting away the wine, cheese and apples.
“Emma? You’re thinking, aren’t you? Sometimes there’s nothing to be gained by thinking.”
She shut the refrigerator and turned to him. “You rely on your instincts. Have they ever failed you?”
His eyes darkened even as he smiled. “They might be failing me right now.”
She opened the porch door behind her. “All right. No more thinking. We’ll go to your place. You and your brother drank up my cider and it’s going to be chilly tonight. I don’t want to turn on the heat.”
* * *
Emma drove her own car to Rock Point. Her suitcase from her whirlwind trip to Ireland was still in back. Colin’s house was perfect—small, quiet, masculine, with classic Craftsman-style lines. A life vest hung on the back of a chair and framed photographs of Maine scenes were on the walls.
Saying there was a spare bedroom, however, was a stretch.
“I don’t have a lot of company,” he said, leading her to a study off the living room, behind the stairs. “There are two bedrooms upstairs. Mine, and one I’ve converted into a weight room—a dusty weight room.”
“Who needs a weight room when you can haul lobster pots and kayak when you’re home.”
“The couch pulls out in here. If you’d rather sleep on an exercise mat—”
“This is great, thanks,” she said quickly.
Too quickly. Colin leaned against the varnished woodwork, looking casual, amused and very sexy. “Safer to keep a set of stairs between us, maybe.
