Saint's Gate (7 page)

Sister Cecilia was staring at the closed solid wood door as if it had frozen her in place. “I thought coming here would help me remember more about the painting I saw, and the garden gallery it depicted,” she said half to herself.

Emma eased closer to her. “Did you recognize the house or the garden?”

“No, how would I?” Sister Cecilia seemed more defensive and confused than annoyed by the question. “Jack d’Auberville died before I was even born.”

When Emma let the comment slide, Colin placed a foot on the bottom step, his shoes almost dry. “Could Ainsley d’Auberville have picked up the painting yesterday morning after you saw it, before Agent Sharpe arrived?”

Sister Cecilia fastened her pale eyes on him. “I don’t know for certain that it’s her father’s work. Sister Joan didn’t say, and I didn’t look for a signature.”

It wasn’t an answer to his question. Emma caught on to that right away and asked, “Was Ainsley here yesterday morning?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t even know you were here until you helped me off the boulder. It was only by chance that I saw Sister Joan in the meditation garden.” Sister Cecilia was breathing rapidly. “I haven’t told anyone about the missing painting. Not even Mother Natalie. Sister Joan normally is very meticulous about logging in work, but not this one.”

Colin stood straight. “Maybe she found it in the attic—”

“No, definitely not,” Sister Cecilia said, cutting him off. “I’d never seen it before yesterday morning. There’s artwork throughout the convent, inside and outside, and I’m sure there’s tons in storage—but not this piece. I’m positive.”

“Why are you so sure?” Emma asked.

“I just am.”

“Is there anything else you can remember about the painting itself or the artwork depicted?”

Sister Cecilia’s eyes were half-closed. She seemed transfixed by the ocean, a deep blue under the clear sky. “In the focal painting of the woman in the cave, there’s a Viking warship on the horizon. At least, I think that’s what it was. It looked like a longboat with dragons.” She smiled suddenly. “The kids I teach love that stuff.”

Emma said nothing but Colin could see the comment about Vikings struck a chord with her. “Your security here isn’t that tight,” he said, addressing Sister Cecilia.

“We handle valuable art properly and carefully.” She spun around at him, agitated, the questions noticeably getting to her.

“We don’t have security cameras or an alarm system, just the gated entrance here and the fence around the tower.”

Colin pointed across the manicured lawn toward the water. “The fence doesn’t cover the ledges. The tower’s exposed to anyone willing to brave the rocks.”

Sister Cecilia went ashen, and Emma stepped beside her and touched her arm, then said gently, “Sister, the detectives investigating what happened yesterday need to hear your account. They run down leads all the time. Good, bad, neutral. It’s not a problem.”

“I’ve told you what I know. Isn’t that enough?”

She pulled her arm free and rushed across the lawn, barely making a sound on the soft grass as she headed for the water’s edge.

“Why is she so spooked?” Colin asked.

Emma watched the fleeing novice. “Fear of being wrong. Fear of hurting the community here. A number of reasons.”

“What about you, Agent Sharpe? Do you recognize the description of the missing painting?”

“No.”

“What about the painting of the woman in the cave? Think it’s real?”

She gave him the kind of firm look he’d learned at Quantico. “Tide’s up. You’ll be able to get your boat off the rocks any minute now.”

“What saint died in a cave?” Colin asked her.

“Probably more than one.” She shifted her position just enough that her honey-colored hair shone in the sunlight. “I know a bit about boats. Do you need help?”

“I’ll be fine.” He wasn’t relenting. “You and your family specialize in art that mysteriously disappears or turns up out of the blue. That’s why Sister Joan called you.”

“Goodbye, Agent Donovan.”

“Plus you’re in law enforcement. Do you have any reason to think the d’Auberville painting was stolen before yesterday?”

“We don’t know if it was stolen yesterday. Not yet, at least.”

“Do you doubt Sister Cecilia’s account?”

Emma gave him the faintest of smiles. “Be careful on the rocks. They can be slippery. I can watch you and call for help if you take a tumble.”

“Good of you.”

“You’ll get wet for sure with the tide up,” she added.

No way would he get a look at the rest of the convent grounds without her on his tail. Yank’s mission of Colin keeping an eye on his agent wasn’t going to be easy. Emma Sharpe, he was willing to bet, wasn’t accustomed to having anyone on her shoulder. Yank liked independent operators, until they caused him problems.

Colin recognized a Maine State Police detective from his marine patrol days, a wiry, middle-aged man from Lewiston, cross the lawn from the gate. “Donovan, what are you doing here?” Tony Renkow approached the tower and jerked a thumb back toward the water. “You going to get your boat off the rocks?”

“Relax. I’m under the watch of Agent Sharpe here.”

“Your brother know you’re here?”

“Kevin? Yeah, by now, I imagine he does.”

Renkow didn’t look happy. “How’s your desk in D.C.?”

“It’s good. Shiny. Neat. I don’t work with slobs anymore.”

Colin thought he noticed Emma stiffen, but Renkow grinned. “You didn’t forget how to handle a boat while you were in Washington, did you?”

“I got too close to the rocks.”

The detective glanced at Emma, then shifted back to Colin. “Are we after someone you’re looking for? Anything we need to know?”

“I’m in the dark.”

“Agent Sharpe?”

“She and I just met.”

The detective glowered, but Emma turned to him. “I think you need to talk to Sister Cecilia,” she said, and led Renkow to the novice.

Colin figured he’d take the opportunity to mount the tower steps and walk inside for a look. He had a little while before Andy’s boat would drift off in the rising tide.

10

EMMA LEFT SISTER CECILIA IN THE HANDS OF the CID detective and returned along the meandering stone walk to the main convent gate. She was relieved she didn’t run into any of the sisters—women she’d lived and worked with and still considered her friends, even if she hadn’t seen any of them in four years.

The state cruiser that had parked at the gate was gone, the detective’s unmarked car there now.

So, she thought. Her lobsterman from last night was another FBI agent.

First things first. She paused in the shade of a large oak, dialed her brother. “What’s Ainsley d’Auberville into these days?”

“Vikings,” Lucas said. “Her father was into Vikings, and now Ainsley’s into them. Why?”

“A hunch. I’ll explain later. Thanks, Lucas.” Emma hesitated, then dialed Yank’s number. “Colin Donovan’s your doing?”

“Donovan’s not anyone’s doing.”

“I didn’t buy his Maine lobsterman act. He ran his boat aground—”

“It’s his brother’s boat. Andy Donovan. There are four of them—Mike, Colin, Andy and Kevin. All rock-headed Mainers.

Andy’s a full-time lobsterman. Colin used to be one.” Yank was silent a moment. “That’s all I’m saying, Emma.”

“I don’t need a protector and I don’t need anyone interfering with what I’m doing. Is Donovan one of the ghosts on your team?”

Yank had already disconnected.

Emma glanced back at the shaded walk. Sister Cecilia would tell the detectives everything she knew. Then she’d have to tell Mother Natalie. Emma suspected it wasn’t confronting the Mother Superior of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart by itself that would give the novice pause. It was knowing that, in confronting Mother Natalie, Sister Cecilia would also have to confront her own fears and her own heart, and come to an understanding of why she’d kept quiet for so long.

In so doing, she could realize she wasn’t meant to be a sister, after all, and that might be more than Sister Cecilia Catherine Rousseau could bear.

11

FINIAN BRACKEN LINGERED AFTER BREAKFAST AT Hurley’s on the village harbor. The local lobstermen had been and gone, off now to check their traps, long before he’d arrived for wild-blueberry pancakes, sausage and pure New England maple syrup. By Rock Point standards, he was a very late riser. He was also still a stranger, and an Irish priest.

He didn’t mind. He’d come to America in part for solitude. He didn’t need dozens of parishioners and other townspeople trooping through the rectory or disturbing his morning coffee.

Not every morning, at least.

He paid for his breakfast and headed outside. A handful of working boats were still in the harbor, the autumn sky and water as clear and blue as he’d ever seen. He remembered driving into the bedraggled village three months ago and thinking it was perfect, exactly what he wanted. He’d stopped at the docks and happened upon Colin Donovan, a man clearly with more on his mind than lobster prices. They’d chatted a few minutes. Then, after a torturous welcome by a handful of parishioners as curious and uncertain about him as he was them, Finian had ventured to Hurley’s, as close to an Irish pub as he would find in Rock Point, and discovered Colin alone at a back table, sipping a perfectly horrible American whiskey. There were fine whiskeys distilled in the States, but Colin’s choice hadn’t been among them.

He’d sensed Finian’s disapproval. “It’s rotgut, I know. You’re welcome to join me, Father.”

Finian had found an acceptable Tennessee whiskey at the bar and had poured them each a glass as he explained the fundamentals of distilled spirits.

Colin had looked haggard, exhausted and solitary, an action-oriented man home for a brief respite. Not for a second did Finian believe his new American friend had just come from an office at FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., but he’d kept his skepticism to himself. The next day, they’d run into each other on the docks and had another drink—a quality Bracken Distillers blend—and Finian had found himself as both friend and spiritual adviser to a man with a tough, dangerous job.

A few days later, Colin had returned to his world. Now he was back again.

And a nun was dead, Finian thought with regret.

He paused on a narrow side street above the working harbor. He’d walked to Hurley’s on the assumption that he would have pancakes and would need the walk back to the rectory. He noticed the leaves on a maple tree turning red-orange. He looked forward to the spectacular display of multicolored autumn foliage. At home, the roadsides would be filled with fat blackberries and spikes of red-orange montbretia, and the heather would be turning a brownish-purple on the hills. The harsh Maine winter would be a new experience for him. Brushed by the Gulf Stream, the southwest Irish coast tended to remain mild even in winter and didn’t have the sharp, unmistakable change of seasons of New England.

Finian continued past several run-down houses. Yesterday’s murder and break-in at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart had made for a long night. He had first seen the convent up on the ledge on a scenic boat ride with Andy Donovan and his latest girlfriend. It was a beautiful location, and from all he’d heard, the sisters were an interesting, vibrant community.

In his horror at Sister Joan’s death—in his frustration at his impotence to help—he’d sent for Colin. He’d involved his friend in an investigation when what Colin needed was a break, the time he’d planned to kayak among the southern Maine islands, then hike and canoe in the northern Maine wilderness. He’d said as much when he’d arrived back in Rock Point, but one look at him would have told anyone the man was frayed and tired, deserving of a couple of weeks away from his troubles.

Last night, preoccupied, unable to sleep, Finian had almost called Aer Lingus and booked a flight from Boston back to Ireland.

He could yet. His brother, Declan, was running the distillery and would welcome Finian back—indeed, often asked when they could expect his return. Declan questioned his fraternal twin’s call to the priesthood.

“You’re hiding from your past, Fin, and you can only do that for so long.”

Finian understood his brother’s doubts.

He hadn’t called Aer Lingus. Sometime before dawn, he’d reconciled himself to his actions. Colin Donovan was an experienced FBI agent. The murder of a nun a few miles from his home, under the nose of another federal agent, was bound to have come to his attention. Finian had merely streamlined the process.

He came to Saint Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church, a granite-faced building that had once been an American Baptist church. Colin wasn’t a churchgoer. Finian knew little about his friend’s religious life. He wasn’t that kind of priest, or that kind of friend.

Next to the church was a Greek Revival house that served as a rectory. It had a new coat of paint outside but its interior hadn’t been touched since the first roar of the Celtic Tiger across the Atlantic. Finian went in through the front door. This was his home for another nine months. He’d requested an temporary parish in America. He’d return to Ireland after his year in Rock Point, but right now, he needed this solitude, this time away from family, friends, colleagues—from his past.

His isolation was due to personal choice. Colin Donovan’s isolation was due to his role with the FBI. He couldn’t talk about the true nature of his work with his brothers, or even with his hometown priest, and thus he remained apart, at least to a degree, from his family and friends.

Finian walked back to the shabby but perfectly functional rectory kitchen. He did little but boil water there. He felt the familiar melancholy settle over him and fought it by dialing his brother in County Kerry, Ireland. “What do you know about Sharpe Fine Art Recovery in Dublin?”

“I’ll look into it and call you back,” Declan said.

Finian pulled off his black suit coat and hung it on the back of his chair. Unlike at home, the bishop here was a stickler for wearing a collar in public and identifying himself as a member of the clergy. It wasn’t necessary when he was hiking, kayaking, jogging or cleaning the gutters, but certainly when he was having whiskey or blueberry pancakes at Hurley’s.

Ten minutes later, Declan called back. “Sharpe Fine Art Recovery is a family business with an unblemished reputation in its field. Lucas Sharpe has taken over from his grandfather, who still comes into the Dublin office from time to time but whom I gather is in the process of officially retiring.”

“What about the parents?”

“The father was disabled in a fall seven or eight years ago. He gets around all right but isn’t able to work full-time due to chronic pain.”

“What kind of fall?”

“On the ice, I believe—at home in the States. Maine, in fact. Near you. Fin, what’s this about?”

“I wish I knew.”

“You’re not getting involved in art crimes, are you?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Finian disconnected and reached again for his suit coat. It was a perfect day to enjoy a pleasant wander in pretty Heron’s Cove with its quaint shops, galleries and restaurants. He could treat himself to a sandwich and a pint at a waterfront café. Surely no one would perceive that as unfitting for a priest. Being a priest as well as an Irishman—an outsider—gave him access and insight others might not have, but he knew better than to interfere in police matters.

He headed out the back door and got into his BMW, the expensive car his one visible indulgence. Parishioners didn’t seem to mind. He took a scenic route along the sparkling ocean and the rockbound coast to upscale Heron’s Cove, a contrast to less affluent Rock Point to the north. Tourists jammed the village sidewalks on the beautiful early afternoon, but he wound his way to the docks at the mouth of the Heron River.

He drove past a gray-shingled house. Although there was no sign announcing the fact, according to his research, he knew this was the Maine home of Wendell Sharpe and the offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.

Not terribly imposing, Finian thought as he continued past a classic New England inn, then cut down a short side street to a parking lot above the riverfront docks. He pulled in close to the water, a small powerboat puttering toward the deep channel that led to the ocean. Almost directly below him, a young couple pushed a two-person kayak across polished rocks into the shallow water.

He got out of his car and glanced toward the Sharpe house, tucked between the street and the waterfront just past evergreen shrubs at the far end of the parking lot. He was comfortable here in well-off Heron’s Cove, he realized. More comfortable in some ways than in rougher Rock Point, and yet he was comfortable there, too. He hadn’t been born to wealth.

He frowned, noticing someone on the back porch of the Sharpe house.

A woman.

Emma Sharpe, the FBI agent?

Finian walked casually along the retaining wall. The woman seemed to be peering into a back window. She was tall and slender, with long, fair hair. As he squeezed between the shrubs onto the grass behind the Sharpe house, she yanked on the back door. She looked impatient, as if she were tempted to kick in the door and march inside. He’d never met Emma Sharpe and didn’t know what she looked like, but he expected she’d have a key.

The woman on the porch turned toward the water, hands on her hips, her long, golden hair flowing past her shoulders.

She spotted him and bolted, racing down the steps.

Finian responded immediately, running across the grass and intercepting her as she reached the brick walk. The sunlight glinted on her golden curls and a large silver buckle in the shape, oddly enough, of a dragon on a wide belt that cinched her waist.

“I wasn’t trying to break in.” Her tone was more defiant than worried as she tossed her head back. She was clearly agitated, and quite beautiful. “But if you want to call the police, go ahead.”

“What were you doing?” Finian asked.

Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t even know.”

She wore slim black pants, a hip-length, silky dark purple sweater and suede flat-heeled shoes. She glanced back at the house, showing no apparent concern that he might pose a threat. It was the collar, he suspected.

“You look troubled,” he said.

She turned to him again, her rich blue eyes sparkling with sudden pleasure. “You’re Irish!”

Her abrupt change in mood took him by surprise. “I am. My name’s Finian Bracken.”

She pointed to his clerical collar. “You’re a priest?”

“I serve a church not far from here. Won’t you tell me your name?”

“I’m Ainsley d’Auberville. It’s very nice to meet you, Father Bracken. I thought Lucas Sharpe might be here, but no one’s around. They’re getting ready to renovate. I forgot.”

“Does he live in Heron’s Cove?”

She nodded. “In the village. His folks have a house here, too. This is the grandfather’s house, and the offices of their family business—”

“I’m somewhat familiar with them,” Finian said vaguely.

“I’m not even sure anymore why I wanted to see Lucas. It seemed so urgent just a few minutes ago. I found myself here and rang the doorbell. When I didn’t get an answer, I headed around back. I didn’t see anyone, so I peeked in a window and tried the door.” She broke off, as if she just realized she was explaining herself to a stranger. “What about you, Father?”

Finian smiled, noncommittal. “It’s a lovely day for an outing.”

Ainsley returned his smile with a bright one of her own. “It is, isn’t it? I should get home and enjoy the rest of it. On second thought, would you mind if I talked to you about something?” Her rich blue eyes lost their sparkle almost as suddenly as it had appeared. “I’m in a quandary. I don’t know what to do.”

“Of course—”

“Will you walk with me?”

When he agreed, she seemed visibly relieved. With a burst of energy, she led him out to the front of the Sharpe house. Across the street, a small restaurant with outdoor seating was busy with lunch-goers. Ainsley paused and watched a couple with two young children be seated at a round table. An awning and plastic sheeting protected them from the cool temperature and wind.

Finally she said, without looking at Finian, “You must have heard about the nun who was killed yesterday.”

He watched her closely as he spoke. “I have, yes.”

“It’s unsettling, having such violence happen so close by. Did you know her?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Then you’re not here because Emma Sharpe was at the convent when the attack occurred? That’s what I’ve heard, at least.”

Finian kept his tone neutral. “I’m here walking off pancakes.” Technically, it was true. It wasn’t as if Colin Donovan had sent him to investigate the Sharpes.

Ainsley d’Auberville attempted another easy smile. “Wild-blueberry pancakes?”

He laughed. “We’re in Maine, aren’t we?”

“They’re deadly but delicious. The blueberries are good for us, though. They’re loaded with antioxidants. I suppose we’d be smarter to sprinkle them on bran cereal and low-fat milk, instead of in pancakes.”

Finian gently steered her back to the subject at hand. “Did you know Sister Joan?”

Ainsley’s bright expression dimmed and her eyes overflowed with tears. “We weren’t friends, but yes, I knew Sister Joan.”

“The Sisters of the Joyful Heart isn’t a cloistered order, but how did you meet her?”

She didn’t seem to hear him. “I don’t know what to do,” she mumbled, twisting her fingers together in front of her silver dragon buckle.

“The facts are perhaps a good place to start,” Finian said.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Simple, but not necessarily easy.”

“It depends on the facts, doesn’t it?” She crossed her arms over her chest, the wind catching her shining hair as she started up the street, past the inn and the entrance to the parking lot. “Do you know much about Vikings, Father?”

Vikings? Finian tried to keep his surprise to himself as he walked alongside pretty Ainsley d’Auberville. “Some.”

“They wreaked havoc on coastal Ireland for a couple hundred years, but they also founded Dublin, Cork, Limerick. Ireland had no real towns until the arrival of the Vikings.” Ainsley glanced sideways at Finian, a touch of color returning to her cheeks. “They’re also called the Norsemen, the Northmen—
Vikings
means ‘people of the bay,’ did you know?”