Saint's Gate (17 page)

“It’s not a life of solitude, then.”

“There’s time for solitude, but sisters commit to communal life.”

Colin shook his head. “I couldn’t do it. I guess you couldn’t, either, when push came to shove. What about Sister Joan? Was she a pain in the neck?”

Emma slowed her pace as they walked uphill, under a vine-covered arbor and past more lush subtropical greenery. “She was incisive and direct.”

“What would she do if she thought the convent had something to hide?”

“It would eat away at her, but she’d get her ducks in a row before taking any action.”

“Like call you without telling her Mother Superior?”

Emma nodded. She and Colin followed the walk to a stone terrace overlooking the inner waters of Kenmare Bay and the hills behind the old burial ground. Ignoring the cool temperature and the damp air, she sat at a painted cast-iron table.

Colin remained on his feet, his eyes on her, not the view. “You’re wondering if Sister Joan’s death and the missing paintings have something to do with your family. That’s bugging you.”

“Not having Sister Joan’s killer under arrest is bugging me.”

He grinned unexpectedly. “That was just a little self-righteous, don’t you think?”

“Self-righteous? Just because I was a nun?”

“Relax, Sister Brigid. I did that on purpose. I wanted to get your adrenaline flowing. You were getting pale, and I think you were a little winded from the walk up the hill.”

“I wasn’t winded.” She wasn’t ready to return his grin. Not even a little. “Have you considered that your friend Father Bracken isn’t telling the truth, even now? What if he targeted you—sucked you in, manipulated you, befriended you—for reasons of his own?”

“Then I’ll arrest his Irish ass.”

“He’s rich and connected. He could have figured out who you are and that’s why he chose Rock Point.”

“Have a glass of whiskey, Emma. Put your feet up and relax.” Colin slipped his hand into her jacket pocket and withdrew her cell phone. “I’ll put my number in here.” He did so, efficiently, then slipped the phone back in her pocket. “Call me if you need me.”

“Thank you, but I won’t need you,” she said.

“I know. You don’t need anyone. That’s what you’ve been trying to prove all this time, isn’t it?”

“I believed I had a calling to become a member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. I discovered I didn’t. I wasn’t running from anything, and I wasn’t hiding from life.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

He shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”

She stared up at him, then shook her head and looked away. She noticed the sky was a deep lavender-gray now, clearing as the clouds pushed eastward. “Sister Joan always knew I didn’t belong. Asking for my help the other day must have been difficult for her.”

“Maybe she was setting you up, getting information from you—using you—and it backfired.”

Emma kept her gaze on the incredible view. “Maybe.”

“We can run scenarios all night. Here’s another. Maybe your granddad helped Claire Grayson unload the last of her family’s art collection and then split the profits with her. Or maybe she was young, pretty and vulnerable and he let her keep the money.”

“You’re a hard man, aren’t you, Agent Donovan?”

He grinned. “I hope so.” He leaned down to her and spoke in a half whisper. “Emma, it might be different if I’d known from the start you’d been one of the joyful sisters, but I didn’t, and now I can’t help it. I can’t get the idea of sleeping with you out of my mind.”

Before she could respond, Colin stood straight and headed off the terrace, back to the hillside garden.

26

EMMA STAYED ON THE TERRACE AND ORDERED tea. No whiskey, Bracken or otherwise, for her. The tea came with cookies—“biscuits”—that were fat, soft, chocolaty and the perfect antidote to a grilling by one very sexy, relentless undercover FBI agent.

Finian Bracken came through the hotel bar and joined her outside, settling across from her at the small table. A waiter brought out his glass of whiskey and glass of water. “I’m sorry I’m late. I saw you chatting with Colin and didn’t want to interrupt. I have no intention of coming between you two. Aren’t you cold?”

“I have tea.”

“Yes, so you do.” He cupped his brandy glass, taking in the aroma of the whiskey. “It’s a fantastic Scotch, very peaty.”

“Father—”

“We’re not after some opportunistic SOB,” he said, peering at her over the rim of his glass. “We’re after a brutal, calculating, knowledgeable killer.”

Emma waited a moment before responding. “There’s no ‘we,’ but what have you found out?”

Bracken shrugged. “Nothing yet. In my mind, a profile is emerging of a violent, clever thief with a personal agenda that goes beyond profit and adventure.”

“Father, you can’t get mixed up in this investigation at any level. You identified Saint Sunniva. That’s enough. I don’t want your help. And your friend Colin—”

He held up a hand. “I’m aware of Colin’s feelings on the matter. You know the FBI has no authority over me here in Ireland, right?”

“You’re a free man, Father Bracken. I don’t have authority over you anywhere. However, I can arrest you in the States for certain offenses, and I can call the guards here.”

“Ah, and you would, too, Emma,” he said with a smile.

“Damn right I would.”

Unruffled, he tried his whiskey, savoring that first sip. In his dark sweater, with his midnight-blue eyes and Bono look, Emma couldn’t imagine anyone assuming he was a priest.

“How’s your grandfather?” he asked. “Have you had an update?”

“He’s on the mend. My parents are with him in Dublin.” She broke off more of one of her cookies. “I meant for this to be a fun trip. I’d help him pack up his office and listen to him talk about the old days. Sister Joan’s death, the bomb and now the attack on him…” She ate her piece of cookie, savoring the sweetness. “I can’t stay. I’m going back to Boston tomorrow. What about you?”

“I’ll spend the night at my brother Declan’s house. It’s not far from here.” Bracken drank more of his whiskey. “You have a generous, curious nature, Emma. Your time with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart served you well. I’ll let you know what I discover.”

“Take no risks, Father.”

“Finian, remember?”

“Finian, then. If this killer would hit a nun on the back of the head, why not a priest?”

Bracken leveled his dark blue eyes on her. “I’m not afraid, Emma.” He abandoned his whiskey and sipped some water as he got to his feet. “I’ve arranged a room for you here for the night. It’s a long flight back to Boston. Enjoy a full Irish breakfast before you leave.”

Emma watched him head back through the hotel. He’d have parked his rented BMW out front. She hoped his brother would distract him from wanting to help the FBI.

Then again, Colin Donovan might lock his Irish friend in a closet until their killer was under arrest.

The early-evening air was chilly now. Emma gave up on her tea and went inside and sat up at the curving polished wood bar. She ordered a glass of red wine. She was alone but she didn’t mind. She was in a beautiful place.

She could stay right here, indulge herself and forget she was chasing a killer.

A killer who would strike again. There was no question.

After she finished her wine, she walked out to the terrace again, then wandered in the garden as she called Matt Yankowski. She’d debated calling Lucas and didn’t want to read anything into her decision not to.

“How’s Ireland?” Yank asked.

“Green.”

“How much whiskey have you had?”

“None. I’ve had wine.” She could hear the displeasure in his tone and figured he had the Sharpe family tree and Finian Bracken’s baby pictures up on his computer by now. “You’ve been in touch with the Irish authorities about my grandfather?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’d have called you sooner,” she said, “but—”

“But you didn’t. Talk to me, Sharpe.”

Emma filled him in as darkness descended over her corner of southwest Ireland.

When she finished, Yank said, “Keep me posted, and trust no one.”

“Colin Donovan?”

“That’s between you, him and the leprechauns,” Yank said, and disconnected.

27

COLIN UNLOADED HIS KAYAK GEAR IN HIS GARAGE when he arrived back in Rock Point the next afternoon. He didn’t mind flying. He just hated sitting on planes. He hung his kayak paddle and his life vest on hooks and pretended he’d gone on to his fifth island and Emma Sharpe was still just the name of an agent who’d helped take down an arms trafficker.

He wasn’t good at pretending. Deception, yes. Not pretending.

Emma Sharpe wasn’t just a name anymore. He could see her luminous green eyes as she’d walked next to him in the Irish park. He could have whisked her off for a night of dinner, Irish music, laughter and lovemaking.

Instead, he’d left her to chat with Finian Bracken and had gone off on his own. He’d checked with sources and looked into Wendell Sharpe and the Bracken brothers. He was satisfied the troubles in Heron’s Cove didn’t lead back to Vladimir Bulgov, his Russian arms trafficker with a passion for expensive fine art.

He hung his dry bag on another hook. He wasn’t satisfied about anything else.

As if to drive home that point, Matt Yankowski appeared in the doorway of Colin’s one-car garage, his suit coat hung over one shoulder, his white shirt still looking crisp. He’d loosened his tie. “I see you didn’t decide to stay in Ireland and chase rainbows.”

“I was tempted. I could use a pot of gold.”

“Was Emma tempted?”

“I didn’t ask.” Colin lifted his kayak and propped it against the wall. “Did you just get here?”

“I parked at the docks. Thought I might find you there but I ran into your brother Andy. He said you were up here. I figured I could use the exercise and walked.” Yank nodded to the dark red sea kayak. “Heading out?”

“I probably should be.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you disappeared. Emma just landed at Logan. I half hoped she’d stay in Ireland.” He blew out a breath. The walk up from the harbor didn’t seem to have affected him. “Things changed with the bomb and then the attack on Wendell Sharpe. Whatever’s going on involves the Sharpes. There’s no getting around it.”

“Your ex-nun FBI agent is trouble, Yank.”

He gave a small smile. “She says that about you.”

“I’m not an ex-nun.”

“You’re from Rock Point, which some days I think should be called Rock Head. You’re an ex-lobsterman. That’s not so different from being an ex-nun. I only do lobster in a roll with a little mayo and lettuce. I suppose it’s different when the lobster’s your paycheck.”

“Everything’s different when it’s your paycheck.”

Colin headed out of the garage and stood at the edge of the driveway. He looked back at Yank. “You know what there is to know about me. Can you say the same about Agent Sharpe–slash–Sister Brigid?”

Yank put his suit coat back on. “She’s not Sister Brigid anymore. Focusing on that part of her life is like blaming a kid for playing dress-up.”

“That’s a little patronizing, don’t you think, Yank?”

“She was nineteen when she knocked on that convent door.”

“Who are you trying to convince? Have you heard her talk about her life there? It was a serious commitment. Study, contemplation, rules. Vows.”

“I know,” Yank said heavily.

“Are you digging into the grandfather and brother? They’ve hunted down their share of bad actors over the years. They’ve worked with the FBI, various local law enforcement agencies, Interpol, who knows who else. They have their own sources and methods to protect. If they wanted to hire some creep to do their dirty work, they’d know where to go.”

“So would you.”

“That’s right,” Colin said. “But I have no reason to find someone to break into a convent and steal a painting, or leave a bomb in an attic, or beat up an old man.”

“The Sharpes leave no stone unturned in an investigation but there’s never been even a whiff of scandal around them.”

“They could just be better at hiding the bad stuff than most.”

Yank nodded toward the street. “Walk with me. Tell me about your friend the priest.”

Colin was done in the garage, anyway. He closed the door. His friendship with a meddling Irish priest with a tragic past would be another transgression in Yank’s eyes, that he had ventured to Heron’s Cove at Finian Bracken’s request further proof that he was burned out, in need of a change in direction in his work.

He walked with Yank back down to the harbor. Rock Point had no cute village the way Heron’s Cove did but Yank didn’t seem to care. “You probably know as much about Finian Bracken as I do,” Colin said.

“Do you think he was just shocked by Sister Joan’s murder and got hold of you because you’re friends and he knows you’re a federal agent?”

“He’s also bored and figuring out his purpose in life. He worked hard to become a priest. Now what? He’s looking at thirty years of visiting sick people, burying dead people, baptizing babies. After running a high-end distillery, having a family, that might seem daunting.”

“So insert yourself in a murder investigation,” Yank said. “I was in Ireland once. It’s a hop, skip and jump from Boston. I spent a few days in Dublin checking on Emma when she was working with her grandfather. I was right about her, you know. She’s good.”

That didn’t mean she wasn’t trouble. “Is she in danger, Yank?”

“A bomb in my attic would have me thinking I’m in a little danger. You, maybe not.” Yank stopped at a corner as the water came into view. “Maybe this is a test. For Emma. Me. The team.”

A pickup truck rattled past them. Colin realized he’d let himself get drawn into Emma’s problems, first by Bracken, then by Yank.

He followed Yank across the street to Hurley’s, the tide washing in under its floorboards. The restaurant was filling up with early diners. Father Bracken, still in Ireland, wouldn’t be at his table in the back.

The water was a grayish-blue in the fading afternoon light. “I never should have asked you to keep an eye on Emma,” Yank said. “We’re in a major shit-storm if your cover unravels.”

“It won’t, and let me worry about that.”

“Sometimes you know exactly what you’re getting into and who you’re after, how they think, what they want. Not this time. Who the hell would sneak into a convent on a foggy morning and kill a nun?” Yank stared out at the docks, most of the working boats in for the night. “How is this d’Auberville painting—
The Garden Gallery
—worth stealing, never mind killing anyone over?”

“Maybe the artwork it depicts is worth stealing,” Colin said.

“Claire Grayson’s painting of this saint in the cave isn’t worth anything. Why would any of the other artwork be valuable? What are the odds?”

“I don’t know, Yank.”

They continued down to the water’s edge, a mix of polished stones, sand and seaweed. “This might not be about money. It could be about secrets. Revenge, jealousy, reputation. Who’s got something to hide?” Yank squatted down in his neat suit and scooped a thread of floating seaweed. “Slimy, isn’t it?” He stood, casting the seaweed back into the water. “Who knows where I’d be now if I’d gone to Colorado that weekend instead of coming up here. I like the Rockies. You’d still be working undercover, but you’d be driving someone else crazy.”

Colin let him talk. He wondered if that was why Yank had come to Rock Point.

“Instead, I had to come up here myself to check out a hotshot agent who’d volunteered for a deep-cover assignment. I nearly drowned on that damn boat ride with you, and I end up meeting Emma Sharpe.”

“You weren’t even close to drowning.”

“I almost barfed.”

“See? You did fine.” Colin watched the
Julianne
roll in a swell in the harbor. “You and Emma—”

“Nothing between us. Ever.”

“Because you met her as Sister Brigid?”

“Because I had a woman in my life. She’s now my wife.” Yank winced as if in pain, then turned from the water. “I’m on my way to a meeting with Maine CID. We have to find this killer, Colin. Soon.”

After seeing Yank off, Colin walked to the quiet side street where Saint Patrick’s Church and rectory were located and saw that he hadn’t, in fact, made a mistake. The car that had blown past him as he’d started back up from the harbor belonged to Ainsley d’Auberville. It was now parked crookedly in front of the rectory.

Ainsley was on the walk, pacing, her hair as golden as the autumn sunset. She whirled around at Colin. “Where’s Father Bracken?”

“I don’t know,” Colin said truthfully.

“He’s not at the church.” She sounded impatient, faintly annoyed.

“What do you want with him?”

She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “I wanted to ask him if he’d marry Gabe and me. Probably not, since we’re not Catholic.”

It struck Colin as a made-up excuse to see Bracken, but he said nothing.

Ainsley raked her fingers through her long curls. “I took off yesterday. Ran away, really. I drove up to Mount Desert Island. Acadia National Park. I have a commission from a television personality who has a house in Northeast Harbor. It’s a gorgeous place. I’m painting her garden.”

“So you managed to escape and still get work done.”

“I like to think I’m following in my father’s footsteps. He got his start with commissions from owners of some of the big summer cottages. I’d love to get my hands on some of these paintings for my show. Most of the cottages—mansions, really—were destroyed in the 1947 fires. Something like a third of the island burned, did you know? I guess there are still signs now, but I couldn’t tell.” Ainsley looked at Colin with sudden focus. “Do you think
The Garden Gallery
could be from one of the houses that burned then?”

She seemed unaware of any possible connection between her father’s missing painting and Claire Peck Grayson, the woman who’d once owned the building that became Jack d’Auberville’s studio and died when her house burned with her inside.

“You saw it,” Colin said, watching Ainsley for her reaction. “What do you think?”

“I wish I’d studied it more closely. I figured I’d do that after I had it cleaned. Maybe whoever commissioned it didn’t want it anymore. I might not want a painting of my beautiful Mount Desert Island house and garden if I lost them to a fire. The memories might be too painful.” Ainsley rushed on, barely aware of Colin’s presence. “I ran across one of my father’s old ledgers. Of course it’s incomplete. He kept terrible records. I didn’t find any mention of
The Garden Gallery,
any hint of who might have commissioned it.”

“Maybe he painted it as a favor to a friend.”

“It’s such a mystery, isn’t it? I keep thinking if only we knew more about it, we could figure out who stole it.” She looked up at him, the gold flecks in her eyes the same color as her hair. “You’re not a lobsterman, are you?”

“FBI,” Colin said.

“You’re from here in Rock Point?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you ever consider becoming a lobsterman?”

“I was one for a while. It’s hard, dangerous work.”

She tilted her head back and smiled, less agitated. “Harder and more dangerous than being an FBI agent?”

He grinned. “Most days.”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “I heard you were with Emma Sharpe when she discovered the bomb. Was it scary?”

Colin had no intention of answering her. “If you’re concerned for your safety—”

“I’m not. I have my personal Viking, remember? I’m not worried, really. Gabe isn’t, either. If this killer wanted anything from me, I’d know it by now, I’m sure.” Her engaging, flirtatious mood seemed to drain out of her. “The stress of all this is getting to me. Will you tell Father Bracken I stopped by?”

“Sure. Looks like Bono, doesn’t he?”

“He does!” Ainsley laughed, even as her dark lashes glistened with tears. She sniffled, smiling. “It feels good to laugh. That’s what you intended, I know. I’ve been debating whether to attend Sister Joan’s memorial service. The funeral is private, but the service will be open. It’s to be a celebration of her life.”

“Do you know any of the other sisters?”

“Not really, no. Gabe’s done some painting jobs at the convent. I’d love to paint Mother Linden’s meditation garden, but they say it’s private. Nuns only, and I’m definitely not a nun.”

She glided to her car and drove off as people started arriving at the church next door for choir practice or a meeting. Both of Saint Patrick’s priests were in Ireland now, but Colin figured Bracken would be back soon. He recognized his fourth-grade teacher and imagined all the things she could tell good Father Bracken about her former pupil.

He headed back to his house and found Kevin in his kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator. “This is pathetic.” He grabbed two beers and give Colin one. “Beer and horseradish cheese dip. That’s it.”

“The beer and dip go with the crackers,” Colin said, pointing to a box of Stonewall Kitchen crackers on the counter.

Kevin shook his head. “You’re a train wreck, brother.”

“I showered and changed clothes after my flight.”

“It’s in your eyes.” Kevin drank some of his beer. “Where’s Agent Sharpe?”

“Boston.”

“You’ve been liberated from keeping an eye on her? Don’t deny it’s what you’ve been doing. Are you and Yankowski sure she isn’t covering up past Sharpe crimes?”

Colin uncapped his beer. “I’m not sure of anything.”

“What about the brother? Lucas. He’s got a lot of money tied up in renovating the Sharpe place in Heron’s Cove. He also bought a place of his own that needs a ton of work. If he’s under financial pressure—”

“How does killing a nun and stealing one painting of modest value and another of no value relieve any financial pressure?” Colin held up a hand. “Never mind. Don’t answer. I’m not on this investigation.”

“It won’t be good for you or Yankowski if the Sharpes turn out to be mixed up in Sister Fabriani’s murder in any way, shape or form.”

Kevin was a master of understatement. Colin changed the subject. “Do you have anything new?”

“CID looked into Claire Grayson’s death. It was an electrical fire that burned down her house. It started in the walls. She was overcome with smoke and collapsed. The fire spread….” Kevin grimaced, leaning against the sink. “Firefighters found her body in an upstairs bedroom. They weren’t able to get there in time to save her or the house.”