climbed into his truck and pulled the door shut. Dmitri Rusakov’s arrival in Heron’s Cove no doubt had prompted the calls from Emma and Yank, as well as helped explain the presence of the Russian jeweler, Tatiana Pavlova.
What were the odds they had nothing to do with Emma’s tip about Pete Horner’s Fort Lauderdale house?
Lousy, Colin thought. Damn lousy.
He skipped dropping off his kayak at his house and drove straight to Heron’s Cove, trying Emma on her cell phone. His call went to her voice mail. He didn’t leave a message. In a few more minutes, he would be on her doorstep.
He called Yank next. “Dmitri Rusakov’s in Heron’s Cove,” Colin said.
Silence.
He gripped his phone. “You didn’t know, or you’re surprised I know?”
“I’m never surprised by what you know. That’s why I called. To tell you about Rusakov.”
“Emma’s been in touch with you?”
“Yeah,” Yank said. “She didn’t tell you?”
“Nope. She’s in Heron’s Cove. I’m in Rock Point.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t get excited. We’re not splitting up.” Colin navigated a curve that took him close to the rocks and water, a sailboat on the horizon, about to disappear from view. He loosened his grip on his phone. “Talk to me, Yank.”
“Rusakov is apparently here to see about a collection of Russian jewelry and decorative arts that he owns. It disappeared a few years ago and now it’s turned up in his dead ex-wife’s belongings. She left it to her daughter.”
“He brought in the Sharpes to investigate?”
“Right. Emma was working for her grandfather then. He sent her to London to talk to Rusakov. Rusakov discovered the collection himself in the walls of his Moscow house twenty years ago. Wendell Sharpe helped him out back then.”
“How long have you known about the Sharpes and Rusakov?” Colin asked.
“Since the beginning.”
“‘Beginning’ as in before you ventured to the Sisters of the Joyful Heart four years ago and met Emma as Sister Brigid, or after she quit the sisters and went to work with her grandfather, or when she applied to become an agent—”
Yank cut him off. “It’s all in her file. Where are you now?”
“Pulling in front of the Sharpe house. ‘In her file’ is a vague answer. What else is in Emma’s file?”
“Consider it an expression,” he said. “Keep an eye on things up there.”
Colin came to a stop. “I keep an eye on Emma. Emma keeps an eye on me. Your idea of a perfect world, Yank. Anything else I need to know?”
“Talk to her. Tell her to tell you everything.”
As if that would do any good, Colin thought as he disconnected. Emma wasn’t one to act first and think later. She would hold her fire until she knew what she was dealing with. She tended not to operate on impulse and instinct, especially when the situation involved her family and their work as art detectives.
Colin turned off the engine and got out of his truck. The small restaurant across the street was busy, drawing a decent crowd even late in the season. He’d had their lobster rolls himself.
He headed up the Sharpe’s short, paved driveway, a carpentry sign and a Dumpster the only obvious indications the house was under renovation. He eased past Emma’s car and a one-car garage to the backyard. The afternoon had turned still and cool, daylight leaking out of the sky earlier now that it was late October. He’d missed October in Maine and the best of the fall foliage last year, too.
He didn’t see Emma in the backyard or on the porch and walked across the yard to the retaining wall. Down on the stony beach, a white-haired man tossed a yellow Frisbee into the water. His golden retriever leaped in and swam out to it, snatched it up in his mouth. Colin wondered if he and Emma were ever destined for such normalcy as an afternoon out on the water with a Frisbee and a dog.
He looked upriver at the sleek luxury yacht that dominated the waterfront. It had multiple decks and no doubt all
What were the odds they had nothing to do with Emma’s tip about Pete Horner’s Fort Lauderdale house?
Lousy, Colin thought. Damn lousy.
He skipped dropping off his kayak at his house and drove straight to Heron’s Cove, trying Emma on her cell phone. His call went to her voice mail. He didn’t leave a message. In a few more minutes, he would be on her doorstep.
He called Yank next. “Dmitri Rusakov’s in Heron’s Cove,” Colin said.
Silence.
He gripped his phone. “You didn’t know, or you’re surprised I know?”
“I’m never surprised by what you know. That’s why I called. To tell you about Rusakov.”
“Emma’s been in touch with you?”
“Yeah,” Yank said. “She didn’t tell you?”
“Nope. She’s in Heron’s Cove. I’m in Rock Point.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t get excited. We’re not splitting up.” Colin navigated a curve that took him close to the rocks and water, a sailboat on the horizon, about to disappear from view. He loosened his grip on his phone. “Talk to me, Yank.”
“Rusakov is apparently here to see about a collection of Russian jewelry and decorative arts that he owns. It disappeared a few years ago and now it’s turned up in his dead ex-wife’s belongings. She left it to her daughter.”
“He brought in the Sharpes to investigate?”
“Right. Emma was working for her grandfather then. He sent her to London to talk to Rusakov. Rusakov discovered the collection himself in the walls of his Moscow house twenty years ago. Wendell Sharpe helped him out back then.”
“How long have you known about the Sharpes and Rusakov?” Colin asked.
“Since the beginning.”
“‘Beginning’ as in before you ventured to the Sisters of the Joyful Heart four years ago and met Emma as Sister Brigid, or after she quit the sisters and went to work with her grandfather, or when she applied to become an agent—”
Yank cut him off. “It’s all in her file. Where are you now?”
“Pulling in front of the Sharpe house. ‘In her file’ is a vague answer. What else is in Emma’s file?”
“Consider it an expression,” he said. “Keep an eye on things up there.”
Colin came to a stop. “I keep an eye on Emma. Emma keeps an eye on me. Your idea of a perfect world, Yank. Anything else I need to know?”
“Talk to her. Tell her to tell you everything.”
As if that would do any good, Colin thought as he disconnected. Emma wasn’t one to act first and think later. She would hold her fire until she knew what she was dealing with. She tended not to operate on impulse and instinct, especially when the situation involved her family and their work as art detectives.
Colin turned off the engine and got out of his truck. The small restaurant across the street was busy, drawing a decent crowd even late in the season. He’d had their lobster rolls himself.
He headed up the Sharpe’s short, paved driveway, a carpentry sign and a Dumpster the only obvious indications the house was under renovation. He eased past Emma’s car and a one-car garage to the backyard. The afternoon had turned still and cool, daylight leaking out of the sky earlier now that it was late October. He’d missed October in Maine and the best of the fall foliage last year, too.
He didn’t see Emma in the backyard or on the porch and walked across the yard to the retaining wall. Down on the stony beach, a white-haired man tossed a yellow Frisbee into the water. His golden retriever leaped in and swam out to it, snatched it up in his mouth. Colin wondered if he and Emma were ever destined for such normalcy as an afternoon out on the water with a Frisbee and a dog.
He looked upriver at the sleek luxury yacht that dominated the waterfront. It had multiple decks and no doubt all
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