Heron's Cove

“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, so that its natural bristles hung over the edge. “You shouldn’t leave your brushes in water. They will last longer.” She picked up the tube of cerulean-blue watercolor paint and screwed the top back on, then set it back on the dresser. “A rare, valuable collection of Russian Art Nouveau jewelry and decorative arts is arriving in Heron’s Cove soon. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow. I’m afraid it’s another long, sad Russian story, but I don’t need to tell it, do I, Emma Sharpe? This one you already know.”

“I’ve learned in my work not to make assumptions.” Emma kept her voice neutral, despite her shock at mention of the collection. “Why don’t you tell me what you know?”

Tatiana sighed at the practice painting. “You didn’t wait for one color to dry before you tried another color. They bled together, and now you have mud.” She glanced disapprovingly at Emma. “You must not give in to the excitement of creative inspiration at the expense of craft. You must make the tension between the two work for you. That’s true mastery.”

“Tatiana…”

“You grow impatient,” she said lightly. “It’s the Rusakov collection. A dozen works of great beauty and artistry crafted during the last days of the Romanovs. You know it, yes?”

Emma nodded. “I know it, yes.”

“Twenty years ago, Dmitri Rusakov discovered the collection hidden in the walls of his Moscow mansion and hired your grandfather to help him understand it. Its history, its provenance, its value. We were just small girls then, you and I.”

Emma remembered her grandfather coming home from Moscow and reading Russian fairy tales to her and Lucas. Later—four years ago, when she dealt with Dmitri Rusakov herself—she had learned that each of the dozen works in the collection was inspired by some aspect of Russian folk tradition. Dmitri was a former army officer who had made a fortune in oil and gas in post–Soviet Russia.

He was also the trusted friend of the man who had called Emma last night with the Fort Lauderdale address.

“Dmitri Rusakov has never publicized his discovery of the collection,” Emma said. “How do you know about it?”

Tatiana pulled open the top dresser drawer and helped herself to a soft lead pencil, her dark hair hanging in her face as she continued. “Everyone in Russia knows about Dmitri Rusakov. I hear things in my work. Fabergé, Tiffany, Gaillard, Lalique—I study all the great designers of the late nineteenth century. It was a time when art met life, when an object as simple and ordinary as a cane knob, a picture frame or a cigarette case could become an artistic creation.” Tatiana smiled, a dimple showing in her left cheek. “I especially love Art Nouveau.”

“I do, too. Who is bringing the collection to Heron’s Cove?”

“Natalie Warren, the daughter of Rusakov’s American ex-wife.” Tatiana checked the tip of the pencil with her thumb. “Her mother died earlier this year in Tucson. I don’t think Natalie realized her mother had the collection, or perhaps even of its existence. That’s why she’s coming here. She wants to talk to the Sharpes.”

“My brother and grandfather are both in Dublin.”

“Ah. Well. Perhaps Natalie wants to talk to you.”

Emma noticed streaks of pale lavender high in the sky. It was dusk. Colin would be back in Rock Point soon after weeks of dangerous undercover work, after escaping certain death just hours ago. How could she tell him about Dmitri Rusakov?

About his connection to last night’s call?

She turned back to Tatiana. “Do you and Natalie know each other?”

“No, no. We’ve never met. She lives in Phoenix. I’m relatively invisible at my studio. I listen. I hear things. I heard about the collection.”

“That’s not all there is to it,” Emma said. “Why are you really here?”

Tatiana looked out at the water, gray now in the fading late-afternoon light. “I believe someone will steal the collection.”

“Who?”

“A villain,” she said, half under her breath.

“Tatiana, if you have specific information about an imminent crime, then you need tell the local police. I’ll put you in touch.”

She shook her head. “I have no proof of anything. I know you’re not with Sharpe Fine Art Recovery any longer, but can you help, Emma—Agent Sharpe?”

Emma considered her response, then said, “If the Rusakov collection arrives in Heron’s Cove, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good.” With a few swift strokes of the pencil, Tatiana sketched a graceful great blue heron, incorporating Emma’s washes and muddy drips, so that suddenly they didn’t look amateurish and awkward. She stood back from the easel and appraised her handiwork. “You can go from here. I love grand blue herons.”

Emma smiled. “Great blue herons.”

The young Russian laughed. “Yes, just so. Thank you, Emma Sharpe. I appreciate your help.”

She skipped down the porch steps and back across the yard, her hair flying in the wind as she jumped from the retaining wall down to the pier.

Emma abandoned her painting and went back inside. Although she had been to the house a number of times since renovations had started, she still felt a tug of nostalgia when she entered the kitchen and saw the counters were now home to carpenters’ tools, rags, cabinet brochures, paint chips and an empty box of Hurley’s cider doughnuts. Most of the guys working on the place were from Rock Point. She had promised them she would clear out the rest of the kitchen over the weekend.

She stepped past a roll of insulation. Renovations had been a long time in coming and a joint family decision, but Lucas was in charge. The idea was to transform the small house into a modern base for Sharpe Fine Art Recovery while still retaining its Victorian charm and character. Lucas, who had his own house in the village, had asked the architect to include a guest suite for family and friends, or for their grandfather should he eventually return to Heron’s Cove.

Getting Lucas to acquiesce to preserving the porch had taken some doing. He had envisioned taking over that space for the interior and adding a stone terrace out back, but Emma had reminded him how much of their family life had centered on the porch, especially before their grandmother’s death, the fall on the ice that had relegated their father to a restless life of chronic pain and their grandfather’s relocation to Dublin.

Emma rinsed dried watercolor paint off her hands and saw she had a text message.

It was from Colin: I’m home.

She smiled as she typed her response: I’ll come to you.

She headed out through the front and got his message back: Yank just left. I’ll be at Hurley’s.