The Angel

“The missing artist, I presume.”

Even as he spoke, Simon saw that something was wrong. He heard Owen’s breath catch and knew he saw it, too. The woman—she had to be Keira Sullivan—was unnaturally pale and unsteady on her feet, her eyes wide as she seemed to search the crowd for someone.

Simon surged forward, Owen right with him, and they reached her just as she rallied, straightening her spine and pushing a sopping lock of hair out of her face. She was dressed for the woods, but even as obviously shaken as she was, she had a pretty, fairy-princess look about her with her black-lashed blue eyes and flaxen hair that was half pinned up, half hanging almost to her elbows.

She was slim and fine-boned, and whatever had just happened, Simon knew it hadn’t been good.

“There’s a body,” she said tightly. “A man. Dead.”

That Simon hadn’t expected.

Owen touched her wrist. “Where, Keira?”

“The Public Garden—he drowned, I think.”

Simon was familiar enough with Boston to know the Public Garden was just down Beacon Street. “Are the police there?” he asked.

She nodded. “I called 911. Two Boston University students found him—the body. We all got caught in the rain, but they were ahead of me and saw him before I did. He was in the pond. They pulled him out. They’re just kids. They were so upset. But there was nothing anyone could do at that point.” Despite her distress, she was composed, focused. Her eyes narrowed. “My uncle’s here, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Simon said, but he wasn’t sure she heard him.

He noticed Detectives Browning and O’Reilly working their way to Keira from different parts of the room, their intense expressions indicating they’d already found out about the body through other means. They’d have pagers, cell phones.

The well-dressed crowd and the lively Irish music—the laughter and the tinkle of champagne glasses—were a contrast to stoic, drenched Keira Sullivan and her stark report of a dead man.

Abigail got there first. “Keira,” she said crisply but not without sympathy. “I just heard about what happened. Let’s go into the foyer where it’s quiet, okay?”

Keira didn’t budge. “I didn’t see anything or the patrol officers on the scene wouldn’t have let me go.” She wasn’t combative, just firm, stubborn. “I’m not a witness, Abigail.”

Abigail didn’t argue, but she didn’t have to because Keira suddenly whipped around, water flying out of her hair, and shot back into the foyer, out of sight of onlookers in the drawing room. Simon knew better than to butt in, but he figured she wanted to avoid her uncle, who was about two seconds from getting through the last knot of people.

Simon wished he still had his champagne. “I wonder who the dead guy is.”

Owen stiffened. “Simon—”

“I’m just saying.”

But Owen didn’t have a chance to respond before Detective O’Reilly arrived, his hard-set jaw suggesting he wasn’t pleased with the turn the evening had taken. “Where’s Keira?”

“Talking to Abigail,” Owen said quickly, as if he didn’t want to give Simon a chance to open his mouth.

O’Reilly gave the unoccupied doorway a searing look. “She’s okay?”

“Remarkably so,” Owen said. “She’s not the one who actually found the body.”

“She called it in.” Obviously, that was plenty for O’Reilly not to like. He sucked in a breath. “How the hell does a grown man drown in the Public Garden pond? It’s about two feet deep. It’s not even a real pond.”

Good question, but Simon didn’t go near it. He wasn’t on O’Reilly’s radar, and he preferred to keep it that way.

The senior detective glanced back toward his daughter, Fiona, the harpist. She and her ensemble were taking a break. “I need to go with Abigail, see what this is all about,” O’Reilly said, addressing Owen. “You’ll make sure Fiona stays here until I know what’s going on?”

“Sure.”

“And Keira. Keep her here, too.”

Owen looked surprised at the request. “Bob, she’s old enough—”

“Yeah, whatever. Just don’t let her go traipsing back down to the Public Garden and getting into the middle of things. She’s like that. Always has been.”

“There’s no reason to think the drowning was anything but an accident, is there?”

“Not at this point,” O’Reilly said without elaboration and stalked into the foyer.

Simon didn’t mind being a fly on the wall for a change. “Does the uncle get along with his daughter and niece?”

“They get along fine,” Owen said, “but Bob sometimes forgets that Keira is ten years older than Fiona. For that matter, he forgets Fiona’s nineteen. They’re a complicated family.”

“All families are complicated, even the good ones.” Simon moved closer to the foyer doorway just as Keira started up the stairs barefoot, wet socks and shoes in one hand. She was prettier than he’d expected. Drop-you-in-your-tracks pretty, really. He noticed her uncle scowling at her from the bottom of the stairs and grinned, turning back to Owen. “Maybe especially the good ones.”

Ten seconds later, the two BPD detectives left.

The Irish ensemble started up again, playing a quieter tune.

Owen headed for Fiona O’Reilly, who cast a worried look in his direction. She had freckles, but otherwise didn’t resemble her father as far as Simon could see. Her long hair had reddish tints but really was almost as blond as her cousin’s, and she was a lot better looking than her father.

People in the crowd seemed unaware of the drama over by the door. Caterers brought out trays of hot hors d’oeuvres. Mini spinach quiches, some little flaky buttery things oozing cheese, stuffed mushrooms, skewered strips of marinated chicken. Simon wasn’t hungry. He noticed Lloyd Adler pontificating to an older couple who looked as if they thought he was a pretentious ass, too.

Simon went in the opposite direction of Adler and made his way to the back wall where Keira’s two donated watercolors were on display.

He decided to bid on the one with the cottage, just to give himself something to do.

It was a white stone cottage set against a background of wildflowers, green pastures and ocean that wasn’t in any part of Ireland that he had ever visited. He supposed that was part of the point—to create a place of imagination and dreams. A beautiful, bucolic place. A place not entirely of this world.

At least not the world in which he lived and worked.

Simon settled on a number and put in his bid, one that virtually assured him of ending up with the painting. He could give it to Abigail and Owen as a wedding present. Even if he didn’t plan to go to the wedding, he could give them a present.

He acknowledged an itch to head down to the Public Garden with the BPD detectives, but he let it go. He’d seen enough dead bodies, enough to last him for a long time. A lifetime, even. Except he knew there would be more. There always were.

Instead, he decided to find another glass of champagne, maybe grab a couple of the chicken skewers and wait for a dry, calmer Keira Sullivan to make her appearance.

Chapter 4

Beacon Hill

Boston, Massachusetts

8:45 p.m., EDT

June 17

Keira peeled off her hiking shorts and added them to the wet heap on the bathroom floor of her attic apartment. Her hands shook as she splashed herself with cold water and tried not to think about the dead man and the expressions of the two students as they’d frantically checked him for a pulse, uncertain of their actions, desperate to do the right thing even as they were repulsed by the idea of touching a corpse.

“The poor man,” she said to her reflection. “I wonder who he is.” She saw herself wince, and whispered, “Was.”

She towel-dried her hair as best she could, expecting a twig or a dead mosquito to fall out, a souvenir from her earlier hike to her mother’s. None did, and she combed out the tangles and pinned it up. She’d been looking forward to tonight’s auction and reception, but her visit with her mother and then the awful scene in the Public Garden had sucked all the excitement out of her. She just wanted to get the evening over with and be on her way to Ireland.

But for Ireland, she wouldn’t have even been in the Public Garden tonight. She’d dropped her car off with a friend in Back Bay to look after for the next six weeks and ran into the students dragging the man out of the pond on her way to the Garrison house. As she’d raced up Beacon Street after the police had arrived, she couldn’t shake the notion that her mother’s talk about sin and evil had put her in the Public Garden at exactly the wrong moment.

But that was unfair, Keira thought, and as she returned to her bedroom, she found herself wishing she could call her mother and tell her what had happened.

Everything changes.

She dug through her small closet, pulling out a long, summery skirt and top. The apartment was no more permanent than anywhere else she’d lived, but she liked the space—the efficient, downsize appliances, the light, the view of the Common. It wasn’t on the grand scale as the rest of the house, but it had charm and character and worked just fine for now. Compared to her mother’s cabin, Keira thought, her apartment was a palace.

In five minutes, she had wriggled into her outfit, put on a bit of makeup and was rushing back down the stairs again. Two deep breaths, and she entered the drawing room. Her cousin Fiona’s ensemble was playing a jaunty tune that didn’t fit Keira’s mood, but she tried to appreciate it nonetheless.

Owen immediately fell in alongside her, and she smiled at him. “I’m okay,” she said before he could ask.

“Good.”

He had a way about him that helped center people. Keira could imagine how reassuring his presence would be to a trapped earthquake victim. “Who was the man I saw you with earlier?” she asked. “Big guy. Another BPD type?”

She thought Owen checked a grin, but he wasn’t always easy to read. “You must mean Simon Cahill. He’s a volunteer with Fast Rescue.”

“From Boston?”

“From wherever he happens to be at the moment.” Owen smiled as he grabbed a glass of champagne from a caterer’s tray and handed it to her. “A little like you in that regard. I don’t know what happened to him. He was here two seconds ago.”

Just as well he’d taken off, Keira thought. She’d spotted him at the height of her distress, and if Owen was a steadying presence, Simon Cahill, she thought, was the opposite. Even in those few seconds of contact, she’d felt probed and exposed, as if he’d assumed she had something to hide and was trying to see right through her.

She thanked Owen for the champagne and eased into the crowd, realizing her hair was still damp from the downpour. For the most part, people she greeted seemed unaware of her earlier arrival, which spared her having to explain.

Colm Dermott, a wiry, energetic Irishman, approached her with his usual broad smile. She’d met him two years ago on a trip to Ireland, where he was a highly respected professor of anthropology at University College Cork. He’d arrived in Boston in April after cobbling together grants to put together the Boston-Cork conference and had immediately recruited Keira to help.

“The auction’s going well.” He seemed genuinely excited. “You must be eager to go off tomorrow.”

“I’m packed and ready to go,” she said.

“Ah, you’ll have a grand time.”

She’d given Colm a copy of the video recording she’d made of Patsy McCarthy telling her story, but hadn’t told him about her mother and her long-ago trip to Ireland.

They chatted a bit more, but Keira couldn’t relax. Finally, Colm sighed at her. “Is something wrong, Keira?”

She took a too-big gulp of champagne. “It’s been a strange day.”

Before she could explain further, her emotional younger cousin burst through the crowd, her blue eyes shining with both excitement and revulsion. “Keira, are you okay?” Fiona asked. “Owen just told me about the man you found drowned. I wondered why Dad and Abigail left so fast.”

Colm looked shocked. “I had no idea. Keira, what happened? No wonder you’re distracted.”

She quickly explained, both Colm and Fiona listening intently. “It wasn’t a pleasant scene. I wish I could have arrived sooner, but it might not have made any difference. He could have had a heart attack or a stroke, and that’s why he ended up in the water.”

“Do you know who he was?” Colm asked.

Keira shook her head. “No idea.”

“I hope he wasn’t murdered,” Fiona said abruptly. “I hope not, too,” Keira said, reminding herself that her cousin was the daughter of an experienced homicide detective. “The police are there in full force, at least.”

Owen returned and spoke to Fiona. “I just talked to your father. He’s going to be a while and asked me to give you a ride back to your apartment—”

“I can take the subway.”

“Not an option.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “My dad worries too much.”

But she seemed to know better than to argue with Owen. She and some friends were subletting an apartment for the summer that her father considered a rathole, on a bad street, too far from the subway and too big a leap for a daughter just a year out of high school. Keira had stayed out of that particular discussion.

“I’ll water your plants while you’re in Ireland,” Fiona said, giving a quick grin. “Maybe I’ll talk Dad into buying me a ticket to Ireland for a week. You and I could visit pubs and listen to Irish music.”

“That’d be fun,” Keira said.

“It would be, wouldn’t it? Right now I guess I should go pack up.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to hear more of your band.”

“They were fantastic,” Colm interjected.

Fiona beamed and headed across the room with Owen.

Colm turned back to Keira with a smile. “Fiona’s more like her father than she thinks, isn’t she?” But he didn’t wait for an answer, his smile fading as he continued. “If there’s anything I can do, you know how to reach me.”

“I appreciate that. Thanks, Colm.”

He rushed off to speak to someone else, and Keira found herself another glass of champagne. As she took a sip, feeling calmer, she noticed small, white-haired Patsy McCarthy in the foyer.

Keira immediately moved toward her. “Patsy—please, come in. I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for inviting me.” Within seconds of meeting almost a month ago, Patsy had dispensed with any formalities and insisted Keira call her by her first name. She nodded back toward the door. “I thought it’d never stop raining.”

“I know what you mean. It was quite a downpour.”

With a sudden move, Patsy clutched Keira’s hand. “I wanted to see you before you left for Ireland. You’re going to look for the stone angel, aren’t you?”

“I’ll be in the village that undoubtedly inspired the story—”

“You’ll be there on the summer solstice. Look for the angel then.”

The summer solstice played a key role in the story. “I’ll do my best.”

“The Good People want to find the stone angel as much as you do. The fairies, I mean. The angel’s been missing for so long, but they won’t have forgotten it. If you’re clever, you can let them help you.” Patsy dropped Keira’s hand and straightened her spine. “I’m not saying I believe in fairies myself, of course.”

Keira didn’t tackle the older woman’s ambivalence. “If they believe the angel’s one of their own turned to stone and want it for themselves, why would they help me?”

“That’s why you must be clever. Don’t let them know they’re helping you.”

“I’ll try to be very clever, then.”

“The brothers will be looking for the angel, in their own way. They and the fairies all want the tug-of-war over it to resume. It’s meant to resume.” Patsy tightened her grip on Keira’s hand. “If you find the angel, you must leave it out in the open. In the summer sun. It’ll get to where it belongs. Don’t let it go to a museum.”

“I promise, Patsy,” Keira said, surprised by the older woman’s intensity. “I’ll look for the angel on the summer solstice, then, I’ll be clever and if I find the angel, I’ll leave it out in the sun—assuming that’s up to me. The Irish might have other ideas.”

Patsy seemed satisfied and, looking more relaxed, released Keira’s hand and eyed a near-empty tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries.

Keira smiled. “Help yourself. Would you like to take a look around?”

“I would, indeed,” Patsy said, lifting a fat strawberry onto a cocktail napkin. “I have every one of your books, you know. Do you think you’ll illustrate my story one day?”

“I’d love to.”

“That’d be something. It’s a good story, isn’t it?”

“It’s a wonderful story.”

Patsy smiled suddenly, her eyes lighting up. “Irish brothers, an angel and fairies. All the best stories have fairies, don’t you think?”

“I love stories with fairies.”

With Keira at her side, Patsy ate her strawberry and moved from artwork to artwork, as if she were in a museum, gasping when she came to Keira’s two paintings. “Oh, Keira. My dear Keira. Your paintings are even more incredible in real life.” She paused, clearly overcome by emotion. “This is the Ireland I remember.”

Whether it was an accurate statement or one colored by time and sentiment, Keira appreciated Patsy’s response. “It means a lot to me that you like my work.”

When Patsy finished her tour of the drawing room, she took another chocolate-covered strawberry and started for the foyer. “Can I see you back home?” Keira asked.

Patsy shook her head. “My parish priest drove me. Father Palermo. Like the city in Sicily. He couldn’t find a parking space, so he’s driving around until I finish up. Did you know that my church is named after Saint Ita?”

Keira smiled. “The Irish saint in your story.”

“It’s strange how life works sometimes, isn’t it?” They walked outside together. A simple black sedan waited at the curb. A handsome, dark-haired man in a priest’s black suit and white clerical collar got out and looked across the car’s shiny roof. “Are you ready, Mrs. McCarthy, or shall I drive around the Common one more time? I don’t want to rush you.”

“I’m all set. This is the artist I told you about, Father. Keira Sullivan.”

“Ah. Miss Sullivan. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Keira couldn’t read his tone, but Patsy added politely, “Keira, I’d like you to meet Father Michael Palermo.”

He tilted his head back slightly, as if appraising her. “Mrs. McCarthy tells me you’re collecting stories from twentieth-century Irish immigrants.”

“That’s right. She’s been very generous with her time.”

Patsy waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m just an old woman with an ear for a good story.”

Father Palermo kept his gaze on Keira. “Your mother grew up a couple doors down from Mrs. McCarthy.”

“Two,” Keira said without elaboration. “A pleasure to meet you, Father.”

“Likewise.”

He climbed back in behind the wheel, and Patsy got into the passenger seat and smiled at Keira. “Give my love to Ireland,” she said with a wink.

After they left, Keira lingered on the sidewalk. The wind had picked up, but after the heat and humidity of recent days, she appreciated the drier conditions that came with the gusts. The puddles that had formed in dips in the sidewalk would be dry by morning.

“So you’re off to Ireland in search of angels and fairies.” Simon Cahill grinned at her as he leaned against the black iron railing to the steps of the Garrison house. “Do you believe in fairies?”

“That’s not what’s important in my work.”

“Ah, I see. That’s a dodge, but whatever. Keira, right?”

“That’s right—and you’re Simon. Owen’s friend. I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“I have to pay for my painting.”

“Your painting?”

“Your watercolor of the Irish cottage. I couldn’t resist.”

“You bid on my painting? Why?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

Keira didn’t answer. He was obviously a man who could charm his way into or out of anything. And he made her uncomfortable—no, not uncomfortable…self-conscious. Aware. Maybe it was because he was the first person she’d spotted when she’d arrived from the Public Garden. Some kind of weird imprinting that was inevitable, unavoidable.

Finally, she said, “You don’t care about a painting of an Irish cottage.”

“I care. I just didn’t bid on it for myself. Abigail wanted it, but she was going to lose out. I decided it’d be a nice wedding present for her and Owen. He’ll like it because she likes it.” The corners of Simon’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Don’t frown. He thinks you’re good, too.”

Not only, Keira thought, was Simon dangerously charming, but he was also observant. And frank. “Thank you for bidding on the painting. The proceeds from the auction will be put to good use. You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Not really.”

“Then where do you live?”

“Direct, aren’t you? I have a boat. It’s at a pier in East Boston at the moment, but it’s only been there since yesterday. Before that, it was in Maine. I met Owen and some other Fast Rescue people at his place on Mount Desert Island after our mission to Armenia.”

Keira had read about the devastating earthquake. “That must have been tough.”

“It was.” He didn’t elaborate. “I was in London when it happened. I go back tomorrow.”

“What’s in London?”

“The queen. Castles. Good restaurants.”

The man had an appealing sense of humor, and, in spite of the tension of the past few hours, Keira felt herself relaxing. “Very funny. I meant what’s in London for you?”

“I’m visiting a friend. What about Ireland? What’s there for you, besides angels and fairies?”

Answers, she thought, but she shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out.”

His eyes narrowed on her, and she noticed they were a vivid, rich shade of green. “Up for a bit of adventure, are you?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Have a good trip, then.”

He ambled off down Beacon Street. When she returned to the drawing room, Keira checked with Colm. “How much did my cottage painting go for?”

“Ten thousand.”

She couldn’t hide her surprise. “Dollars?”

“Yes, dollars, Keira. It was four times the highest bid. Simon Cahill bought it. Do you know him?”

“No, I just met him tonight. What about you?”

“I talked with him for all of thirty seconds. Well, he must want to support the conference.”

“He must. I’m grateful for his generosity.”

“As am I,” Colm said.

Keira said good-night and headed for the stairs up to her apartment, amazed at how Simon had managed to get under her skin in such a short time.

It had to be because of the intensity of the past few hours. What on earth did they have in common?

She’d be back to normal by morning, finishing up her packing and heading to the airport by evening. At least she wasn’t going to Ireland by way of London; there was no risk they’d be sitting next to each other on the same flight.

It was a long way across the Atlantic.

Chapter 5

Boston Public Garden

Boston, Massachusetts

10:00 p.m., EDT

June 17

Abigail Browning paced on the sidewalk along the edge of the man-made pond where the two college students had discovered the body of Victor Sarakis, a fifty-year-old resident of Cambridge who apparently, even according to the initial take of the medical examiner, had drowned in about two feet of water.

Normally, Abigail found the Public Garden a soothing, pleasant place to be, with its graceful Victorian walks and statues, its formal flower beds and labeled trees, its mini suspension bridge over the curving pond. Technically, it was a botanical garden—a refuge in the heart of the city of Boston.

Tonight, it was the scene of a bizarre, as yet unexplained death. Police lights and the garden’s own Victorian-looking lamps illuminated the scene as detectives, patrol officers, crime scene technicians and reporters did their work. By tomorrow morning, there would be virtually no sign of what had gone on here tonight. The swan boats, a popular Public Garden attraction for over a century, could resume their graceful tour of the shallow water.