Free Heron's Cove by Carla Neggers Page B

Lucas,” Wendell said, pouring himself more tea. “I’m physically and mentally fit for a man my age, but I can’t help but feel that moving back to Heron’s Cove will mean I’m about to die. People will take it that way, though. Mark my words.”
    Lucas felt a spray of drizzle and sat back, wishing now he’d stayed inside and turned on the Irish news instead of trying to have a conversation with his grandfather. Coffee first. Then talk of going home to die.
    The rain didn’t develop, and the sun popped out again.
    Finally Lucas said, “Granddad, if you’re having second thoughts about retiring, we can work something out. You’ll still be a consultant but if you miss going into an office, there are options.”
    “I know, I know.”
    “And there’s a difference between retirement and death, you know.”
    His grandfather gave a wry smile. “Yes, I do know, Lucas. What about you? You never thought you’d be running the show at your age. You thought you’d have more time to sow your wild oats.”
    “Dad’s accident changed all that.”
    “And Emma,” Wendell said. “The convent, the FBI. We thought you would share the responsibility of running the business with her.”
    “It’s all worked out. Dad’s still a valuable asset to the business even if he can’t run it. Mom, too.”
    With another sigh, Wendell ate his toast, drank more of his tea. “Your father’s strength was always research and analysis. He and Emma have that same ability to dig into something and see all the pieces and how they might fit together.”
    Lucas again reined in his impatience and focused on enjoying his coffee and toast. He could feel his run in the backs of his thighs. He had pushed too hard. He could blame jet lag, but he didn’t. He blamed Emma’s email, and his grandfather’s attempt to deflect the questions about Pavlova and Rusakov—and his melancholy mood. Lucas had hoped that his presence in Dublin would be a boost for his grandfather. Instead, he was just another reminder that Wendell Sharpe had more days behind him than ahead of him. Transferring what he knew—what wasn’t in the files—to his grandson drew him into the past and underscored that he was at the end of a long and storied career.
    “I don’t know what the next chapter will be for me,” Wendell said, buttering his last triangle of toast, “but it’ll be short.”
    “Granddad, that’s morbid.”
    He shrugged. “It’s true.”
    “You could live to a hundred-and-five. That’s more than twenty years.”
    “I shudder at the thought.” He winked. “It’s all right, Lucas. I’m not about to leap off the Cliffs of Moher. In fact, I’ve decided to take a sort of walkabout on the southwest coast.”
    “Of Ireland?”
    “Yes, of Ireland. Of course.”
    “It’s late October, Granddad.”
    “The weather’s fine. There’ll be rain, of course, but the days are getting shorter. I’ll just have to find my way to a pub once it gets dark.”
    “When will you leave?”
    “As soon as you do. I presume you’ll be going to London to look into this Tatiana Pavlova. Ah, Lucas.” His grandfather looked up at the sky again, peeks of blue showing now. “Sometimes it’s best not to ask too many questions. Have you learned that yet in your work?”
    “I treat every situation individually—”
    “That sounds like a line from a Sharpe Fine Art Recovery brochure, or these days its website.” Wendell looked across the table, his blue eyes as incisive as ever. “It’s against Emma’s nature not to ask a question, to dig deeper. She wants to have all the pieces, the whole picture. I’m convinced that’s one reason she entered the convent. Asking, probing, analyzing, thinking. Those practices come naturally to her.”
    “She can also kick ass,” Lucas pointed out, if only to lighten the mood.
    “And shoot,” his grandfather added with a laugh.
    Even as teenagers, Lucas had noticed Emma’s fascination with the intersection of art crimes and