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Liam didn’t blink for a moment, and before he could open his mouth, Linc said, “Malcolm and others may inquire. If anyone asks you, you’ll say Sorcha must have been behind it. Ghislaine will be sharing the video of her with the press and online. Understand?”
He shifted on his feet, frowning. Linc put a hand on his shoulder.
“Son, I know the kind of man you are, but you need to trust me. Sorcha played a hand in this. That’s our line here. Don’t deviate from it. At least not until I speak to our lawyers, all right? There’s more at stake here than either of us know, I suspect.”
As if prompted by his remark, an eerie scream sliced through the air. Linc’s head whipped toward it. Mary Kincaid was standing at the edge of the parking lot in a brown dress, her fists raised to the air in rage.
Linc’s gut trembled at the view of her in full witch mode. He motioned for Bets to stay put. Mary was unpredictable and dangerous, and he didn’t want her anywhere near his woman. Then he started toward her, waving off the others too. Wilt sidled up to him as he reached her.
“Morning, Mary,” he managed over the sudden dryness in his mouth.
“You will paint over this monstrosity today, Linc Buchanan.” The whites of her eyes seemed to be filled with veins of fire. “This is the worst kind of defamation. It’s criminal. I’m calling the Garda. Whoever did this is going to go to jail.”
Wilt shot him a look before Linc stepped in to answer. “This mural was painted on private property—ours—and we sanction it. Feel free to talk to the Garda, Mary, but I fear you’re shit out of luck on this one. Or… You can deny that’s you down there burning books and ready to shove little children into your oven. That’s what I would do if I were you.”
She stepped forward until she was an inch away from him, a vein throbbing in her forehead. “If I can’t get it taken down, you can be sure Malcolm will. And he won’t stop at repainting. We’ll take over your arts center, Linc Buchanan, and close it down for good. You wait and see.”
Watching her storm off in her plain brown shoes, Linc rubbed the bridge of his nose. Bets arrived at a jog. “I know you were trying to protect me, so I stayed back, but what did she say?”
“Same shit, different day, Bets.” He drew her to him because he needed a little comfort after that altercation. “We need to make some plans. She’s right about one thing—Malcolm won’t be far off.”
Sure enough, Malcolm arrived only forty minutes later, under Garda escort from his town, likely to help him arrive faster. He had more goons this time. Eight in total. All in black leather, looking like they would happily break old ladies’ kneecaps.
“You finally made the wrong move,” the man of the hour called, his ten rings flashing as he straightened his suit jacket and ambled closer. “You need planning permission for street art, and I happen to know you don’t have it. Veritas doesn’t work like that. You will paint over it. Today. Or you will go to court for obstruction of justice. And I will have them close down the Sorcha Fitzgerald Arts Center once and for all.”
Bets took Linc’s hand and clenched it hard. “You just try, you—”
“Bets,” he said softly, never taking his eyes off Malcolm.
Wilt leaned in and whispered, “If it’s on private property, you’ve given permission, and it has artistic or cultural merit, it doesn’t need planning permission.”
Malcolm would know the law too, and Linc could feel the noose dangling in the air between them. The bastard wanted them to commit to a story. They weren’t going to do it today.
“Malcolm, you go on and do what you need to do,” he drawled, picking lint off his jacket as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Personally, I’d think you would love the attention you’re about to get in the media. I mean, look at that depiction of you. If people weren’t scared of you before, they sure as hell will be now. Won’t they?”
Linc could all but hear the music swell like it would in a Western when two men faced each other down in the street for a gunfight at high noon. Malcolm spat on the ground in the direction of the mural, which only made Linc smile more broadly and rest back on his heels.
“Your little Yank does look so very small in that depiction, doesn’t she?” Malcolm threw an eerie smile toward Taylor, whom Liam was standing with beside one of the sheds. “But we all know that St. Joan of Arc’s life ended so tragically. I wonder what Veritas was trying to say. It’s so hard to know with art, isn’t it?”
Bets’ audible intake, along with Malcolm’s second straitjacket smile in Taylor’s direction, had Linc saying, “While you’re looking into that planning permission detail, we’ll be informing the Garda about the threat you just made to Ms. McGowan.”
“Threat?” He looked around at his goons and the couple of Garda officers with him. “Did you hear me make a threat?”
They all shook their heads.
So that was how it was going to be.
“You know, Malcolm, if you stopped a stranger on the street and asked him which was worse—threatening a woman repeatedly or putting a bunch of paint on a wall—guess what the majority of people would say? You think investors want to work with someone like that? Do you think tourists will want to go to Watertown after they learn you’re the one who runs it? Your businesses are the ones that will be closing, especially after we’re done with you in the media.”
“You’ll soon see what a mistake you’ve made,” Malcolm said as he flashed his overbleached teeth. He signaled for a goon to open his car door. “You have my word on it.”
Linc watched as Malcolm and his entourage took off, the Garda sirens wailing their complicity.
“Planning permission!” Bets raved. “Are we really back to that? Linc, tell me he’s bluffing.”
“Sugar, I think so, but we’ll want to be sure.”
He needed to call their lawyers stat.
