The Angel

Owen gave a curt nod.

Simon felt a measure of sympathy for his friend. “I’m sorry I put you in this position.”

“You didn’t. It just happened.”

“I should have lied.”

“You did lie. You just didn’t get away with it.”

The song ended, and the band transitioned right into the “The Rising of the Moon,” a song Simon knew well enough from his days in Dublin pubs to hum. But he didn’t hum, because if he’d been mistaken for an art critic—or at least an art snob—already tonight, next he’d be mistaken for a music critic. Then he’d have to rethink his entire approach to his life, or at least start a brawl.

“In some ways,” he said, “my lie was more true than the truth.”

Owen grabbed a glass of champagne. “Only you could come up with a statement like that, Simon.”

“There are facts, and there’s truth. They’re not always the same thing.”

A whirl of movement by the entry drew Simon’s attention, and he gave up on trying to explain himself.

A woman stood in the doorway, soaking wet, water dripping off the ends of her long, blond hair.

“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.