Page 37 of The Dead Come to Stay

“Do you ever purchase anything older? Or foreign?” Green asked. Ava’s look remained aloof, if slightly vacant.

“I don’t follow,” she said, replacing the glass bird.

“Antiquities. From Syria,” MacAdams clarified—and watched her eyes narrow precipitously.

“As in a building site full of stolen goods, Detective? No.” She stood up. “I am not a fool. We’ve already answered to York police, and I understand you have questions. But don’t pretend pleasantries and don’t make assumptions.”

Whatever else Ava might be—philanthropist, pianist, patron of the arts, suspected murderer—she was at least impressive about

it. And he had to respect plain dealing.

“All right. I do plan to ask about the artifacts.”

“I don’t know anything about them.”

“Perhaps your friends do? Gerald Standish?” MacAdams asked.

“I don’t know him, either,” she said resolutely. He didn’t believe her in the slightest. But it wasn’t his last card trick.

“He was one of the collectors on the guest list for the gala. But no matter. Maybe you can help me with this instead.”

The sketch artist had produced a rough but serviceable rendition based on Arianna’s description back at the hotel. A young

subject looked up from the folded paper, peaked chin, round cheeks still in puppy fat. The eyes were dark and large, almond

shaped. Hair: black. He presented the image to Ava.

“Do you recognize this woman?” he asked.

“Not immediately. Should I?”

“She’s missing, and possibly in trouble. Look carefully,” he said. Ava reengaged her attention.

“What kind of trouble?” she asked, peering down with greater interest.

“The kind that got Ronan Foley killed,” MacAdams said.

“I told you, I didn’t know Ronan Foley.”

“That’s strange. He called your house several times.”

“Well, I never spoke to him.”

“You’re sure?” MacAdams asked. Ava’s gaze could freeze quicksilver.

“I am,” she assured him.

Thankfully, Green picked up the broken thread. We’re asking because he’s been keeping company with this girl,” she said, crossing the room. Now she and Ava looked at the sketch together. “Young. Very young, we gather. Vulnerable.”

“Is she an immigrant?” Ava asked.

It surprised MacAdams—Green, too.

“Why would you ask that, Ms. Burnhope?”

Ava handed back the drawing and fixed her with those pale eyes.

“I spend most of my time in charity work for refugees. Most of them are young—very young—and vulnerable.”

“We think she’s in trouble,” Green said.

“Trouble is what makes a refugee,” Ava assured her. “Ukraine, Gaza.”

“And Syria,” MacAdams said suddenly.

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s where Maryam comes from, isn’t it?” MacAdams asked. “You said she’d been with you for a year, from Syria.” Ava’s face

remained placid as ever, but the hard edge had returned again.

“I don’t see why that is relevant.”

“Don’t you?” Green asked. “You could scarcely find more trouble than the Syrian crisis. Thirteen years of people displacement—”

“Funding war crimes through traffic in artifacts,” MacAdams added. “Like the ones we found in York.”

“I know of the horrors,” Ava said tersely. “Better than you. And I don’t condone the looting of vulnerable cultures. But frankly,

I don’t see what that has to do with Maryam or why you insist on asking me about her.”

“All right. Let’s talk about Fresh Start instead,” MacAdams said. “How many Syrian refugees have you sponsored?”

“Many. Obviously.” Ava stood up and walked to the tall windows.

“You say you know how terrible it is there. Have you seen it? Have you looked into the eyes of children who have?” She wrapped her arms around her willowy frame, despite the sun and its warmth.

“I suppose for you I’m a wealthy socialite, making good on my charitable giving.

Don’t think I haven’t heard that before. ”

Her voice changed with emotion; the velvety quality grew somehow stronger, more intense and varied. A symphony.

“We cannot take them all,” she said, still looking away over the manicured gardens. “We bring a few, and they weep at night

for their sisters and brothers, cousins and grandparents. Why can’t we save them?”

When Ava turned about, her glass-like eyes held unfallen tears.

“Do you know what it’s like to say we can’t ? Half of Maryam’s family remains behind. We don’t even know if they are still alive. All this—all this —” she swept her arm about the room with its bespoke furnishings “—and we cannot save them all because of paperwork and politics

and because no one cares .”

MacAdams allowed her to finish, and for the silence to stretch. Then he held up the sketch again.

“I care,” he said. “Ronan Foley wasn’t who he pretended to be. His real name is Rhyan Flannery, and he was mixed up in antiquities

trafficking, art theft, forgery and maybe worse. He was also involved with this woman—or girl. You say you didn’t know him. If it’s true, then you have every reason to help me—because this woman is missing, and I think she’s

in trouble.”

Ava’s cool exterior had softened when she spoke about the refugees. Now it shattered. She looked no different to the unpracticed

eye, but there was a human under there.

“A forger. An art thief,” she repeated. “And you say he was Stanley’s partner?”

“ And that he called your house. Repeatedly,” Green added.

MacAdams watched the import of that sink in before adding, “There’s a connection here somewhere between money and artifacts and murder and that girl. If you really want to help, then it’s about time your husband finished his meeting.”

Ava nodded. It was slight, but resolute. Then she turned around and walked out of the room.

“Follow me, please.”