Saint's Gate (10 page)

Bracken walked farther down the quiet lane and looked out toward the Atlantic. “It’s a straight line from here to Spain. Ireland’s farther to the north. Yet it’s so much colder here.”

“Gulf Stream,” Colin said.

“Yes.” Bracken pulled his gaze away and turned back up the lane. “Why did Sister Joan call Agent Sharpe?”

“The Sharpes are internationally recognized art detectives. They must have had dealings with the convent before.”

“Why not call Lucas Sharpe instead?”

Good question, but Colin didn’t answer him.

“Agent Sharpe is based in Boston, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“What will you do now?”

“Go back to my boat and wait for her to come after me.”

“Because you came here with me,” Bracken said.

“And because she realizes I know she’s hiding something.”

“I wondered if you’d noticed that. You don’t have to go back to your boat and wait for her.” Bracken nodded up the lane as Emma walked in their direction. “She’s here right now.”

13

EMMA DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF COLIN Donovan and Father Finian Bracken. “The BMW is yours, Father?”

The priest nodded, his eyes invisible behind his dark sunglasses. “Yes, it is.”

“He’s a priest to the lobstermen of Rock Point,” Colin said, standing in the sunlight as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “My hometown.”

Bracken gave the slightest of smiles.

“Saint Peter is the patron saint of fishermen,” Emma said. “He was a fisherman. Imagine the centuries of fishermen who have prayed to Saint Peter to intercede on their behalf—”

“Like when the ship’s going down, or the fish aren’t biting,” Colin said.

He was, Emma thought, being deliberately irreverent, testing her, perhaps, for her reaction. “Saint Peter is often depicted in art with the accoutrements of a fisherman. Fishing rods, nets, that sort of thing. They help identify him.” She had only a vague idea of where she was going with this. She’d had saints on her mind ever since Sister Cecilia’s description of the painting of the woman in the cave, in
The Garden Gallery,
Jack d’Auberville’s missing painting. “Finian was an early Irish saint.”

Bracken turned from the partial view of the water. “There are several Irish saints named Finian, in fact. They all lived in the sixth century, when Christianity was still taking root in Ireland. My mother, God rest her soul, didn’t have a particular Finian in mind, but she grew up near the ruins of Saint Finian’s church and holy well in Kenmare.”

“That’s in the southwest,” Emma said. “I’ve been there.”

“The church and well are probably named for Saint Finian the Leper,” Bracken said. “There was no leprosy in Ireland at the time, but he could have had some sort of eye ailment. He founded the monastery at Innisfallen in County Kerry. It’s on an island in a lake in Killarney National Park. It’s a lovely site—a ruin now, of course. The early monks there wrote down the oral history of Ireland, capturing ancient pre-Christian tales.”

“The Annals of Innisfallen.”
Emma kept her tone conversational but professional. “They’re invaluable.”

“Ah, I see you know your Irish history.”

“I learned about the annals studying art and Irish history when I worked with my grandfather in Dublin.” Emma paused, but neither man spoke. She’d noticed Colin eyeing her with suspicion on Ainsley’s patio. His expression was difficult to read now, but she had no intention of letting down her guard. “What are you doing here, Father?”

“As I said, I ran into Ainsley in Heron’s Cove and she invited me to her father’s former studio. Are you two friends? I couldn’t tell.”

“Not exactly, no.”

“Your brother and she—”

“Let’s walk back to your car, Father,” Emma said coolly. She had no intention of explaining her brother and Ainsley d’Auberville to two strangers, one of them likely reporting to Matt Yankowski. She started up the lane.

Colin fell in next to her. He could have been a Maine lobsterman in his jeans and black sweatshirt, with his ocean-gray eyes and broad shoulders, but Emma knew better. “What if the paintings in the gallery d’Auberville painted are valuable?” he asked.

“We don’t even know if the gallery is real, or if it’s still intact—never mind whose it is, or was.”

Father Bracken eased in on her other side.

“I’m still trying to understand why Sister Joan called you specifically.”

Emma felt an unwelcome weakening in her knees but said evenly, “My family and the convent have a long history because of our work.”

“Any chance you were followed yesterday?” Colin asked, giving no indication he noticed her discomfort.

“By the killer, you mean?”

He shrugged. “Maybe you were the target and Sister Joan got in the way, and none of this has anything to do with the d’Auberville painting.”

“Then where is it?”

“The killer took it. A smoke screen, a diversion, seizing the moment.”

Bracken frowned. “A full-size painting would be awkward to carry, wouldn’t it?”

Colin took a long stride, getting a half step ahead of Emma and his priest friend. “Maybe our killer didn’t want anyone to see it and tossed it in the ocean—”

“Or had a boat waiting close by,” Bracken said.

Sister Cecilia hadn’t mentioned that the figure she saw in the fog was carrying anything, but she’d only had a glimpse before she’d panicked. Emma continued up the lane, imagining, just for a moment, what it might be like to enjoy a beautiful autumn afternoon with two good-looking men, instead of ruminating about a stolen painting and the brutal death of a woman she’d liked and respected, had even considered a friend.

She pulled herself out of any dip into self-pity and looked up at Father Bracken. He really was damn good-looking, she thought. “Did you know Sister Joan, Father?”

“No, I’m sorry to say. I haven’t visited the convent yet. I’ve only gone past it—by boat and by car. I wasn’t familiar with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart until I arrived in Maine.”

“When was that?”

“In June,” he said. “I’m in Rock Point for a year.”

“You’re replacing Father Callaghan,” Emma said.

“Yes.” Bracken was clearly surprised. “He’s American-Irish. He’s spending some time in his ancestral homeland.”

Colin dropped back alongside her. “Fin’ll love our Maine winters.”

“What about you, Special Agent Donovan? You have no involvement in the case. You knew the sisters wouldn’t let you in this morning. Neither would CID. That’s why you pulled that stunt with your boat.”

“Maybe I just wanted to get your attention.”

“I’m going to find out what’s going on,” she said half under her breath. “What do you know about Vikings and saints?”

“I know the Minnesota Vikings and the New Orleans Saints are two football teams.”

“I played Gaelic football as a youth,” Bracken said. “This year’s finals were just the other weekend. Cork versus Down. Cork won, but it was very close.”

“Do you root for a particular team?” Emma asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “Kerry.”

“Which means you never root for Cork.” She smiled, feeling herself relax slightly around the Irish priest.

Bracken laughed. “You truly are familiar with Ireland. You said your grandfather’s in Dublin. Is he Irish?”

“Irish born. He grew up in Heron’s Cove.” She adjusted her leather jacket. “You’re new to the priesthood, aren’t you, Father? I’m guessing you didn’t enter seminary at eighteen.”

Even with his sunglasses hiding his eyes, she could see he seemed surprised by her question. “You’re perceptive, Agent Sharpe. I had another life, and now I have this one.”

“Were you called to your vocation, or did you run to it?”

“I’m in just the right place to spark your suspicion, I see.”

“Did you collect art in your former life?”

“Some.”

“Did you keep it? You’re a diocesan priest. You don’t make a vow of poverty.”

“I sold it,” he said. “I didn’t involve your family business.”

They arrived back at the d’Auberville place and walked around to the front. Gabe’s van was gone. The unmarked state police car was still there. The detectives would be with Ainsley in Jack d’Auberville’s old studio.

“Emma will get out the thumbscrews next, Fin,” Colin said easily, then turned to her. “I keep telling him he looks like Bono.”

She refused to be distracted and kept her focus on the priest. “You know what I’m getting at, Father. I want to know if you have any possible connection to what’s going on here.”

“That would be quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“It’s not what I’m asking.”

“No, no connection,” he said, “at least none known to me.”

“So you just happened to be at my grandfather’s house today?”

“Not exactly. I’d heard about Sister Joan’s death and was curious about you and your family.”

As if that explained everything.

Colin stopped next to the sleek BMW. “Go on, Fin. Head back to Rock Point. Agent Sharpe here can give me a ride back to my boat. See you over whiskey later.”

Emma narrowed her eyes on the priest. “There’s more to you, Father. I’ll find out.”

“By all means,” he said.

Emma found herself liking Finian Bracken. He climbed into his BMW and drove off, leaving her alone with Colin Donovan.

“I might smell like seaweed,” Colin said next to her.

“If Father Bracken’s BMW can take it, so can my car. It’s not a BMW but it gets me where I’m going.”

“Good. While you drive you can tell me what you’re holding back.”

She ignored him and headed to her car, a dark blue Ford Focus that she’d bought as a present to herself when she made it through the FBI academy.

“Sister Cecilia came clean,” Colin said behind her. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Does Ainsley think you’re a lobsterman?”

“I am a lobsterman. It’s just not all I am, and you’re trying to avoid the issue. Something Sister Cecilia said struck the wrong note with you.” He came close to her as she stood at her car door. “What are you hiding, Emma?”

“I’m not hiding anything. I’m just not telling you everything. Why would I? I don’t even know who you are. An FBI agent. One of Yank’s friends. That tells me nothing.” She could feel the brush of Colin’s hip against hers. His eyes were that flinty gray again, narrowed on her knowingly. He was a physical, confident type. Dangerous, probably. She pulled open the driver’s door. “You can be back in Rock Point in time for happy hour at the local watering hole. What’s it called? Hurley’s, right?”

“Emma—”

“Get in,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.” Colin gave her a small grin. “Let’s go.”

The drive back to Heron’s Cove was interminable with Colin Donovan next to Emma in her little car. He was one of those men who exuded testosterone. She was accustomed to being around such men in her FBI work but not in her personal life. As she pulled into the parking lot at the docks, she imagined herself on a date with the man next to her. A walk along the ocean to look at the big houses and watch seabirds. A quiet dinner on a crisp fall night, with wine, fresh local foods and laughter.

She gave herself a mental shake and blamed adrenaline, and a fleeting memory she’d been trying to pin down since hearing about the missing painting that morning—a beautiful woman in a cave…a strange light…a Viking warship….

Emma steadied her hand as she turned off the car engine and noticed the
Julianne
tied up at the docks, bobbing in the tide. “I should search your boat,” she said.

“For what, an escaped lobster?”

Nothing bothered the man. Since everything was bothering her, she found his irreverent humor and unflappability alternately refreshing and irritating. She eased out of her car into the brisk afternoon air.

Colin got out, shut the door and joined her at the edge of the parking lot.

“Enjoy the trip back to Rock Point,” Emma said. “Use your GPS. Mind the shoals.”

“No problem.”

“It’ll be cold on the water. I hope you have a jacket.”

“In the boat.”

“And you don’t want to get wet again. The marine patrol might get suspicious.”

If he noticed her light sarcasm, he didn’t say. “Thanks for the ride, Agent Sharpe.”

He jumped down from the retaining wall to the river’s edge, then onto the dock. The tide was out. His lobster boat didn’t look worse for wear for its time on the rocks at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, but it was so battered, who could tell?

Interesting that he’d returned to Heron’s Cove and not to Rock Point.

Emma crossed the parking lot, wondering if he was watching her but refusing to look to see. She threaded her way through the shrubs to the backyard, then headed up the back porch. Nothing appeared to be disturbed since she’d left that morning.

She sighed at the canvas still clipped to her easel. Jack d’Auberville and his daughter had skill, passion, determination and artistry. She just liked to paint every now and again. Lucas, who had no interest in learning to paint, would shake his head at her efforts. Her father had tried painting to help take his mind off his chronic pain, but he’d found more relief in his investigative work. He’d given up the day-to-day operations and travel that came with running the family business, but he still did research and analysis, focusing on decades-old art thefts.

Her grandfather had encouraged her to paint because she enjoyed it so much.

“Ah, Granddad,” Emma said aloud, feeling the emotions of the past two days settle over her along with the afternoon chill.

She had no intention of canceling her trip to Dublin. With the description of the missing painting, she was anxious to talk to her grandfather about it and the events in Heron’s Cove, and perhaps a certain BMW-driving Irish priest up in Rock Point.

She unlocked the back door and entered the kitchen, welcoming the familiarity of the old white-painted cabinets, the butcher-block countertops and scratched stainless-steel appliances. The floors were the original narrow cherrywood. She’d left her mug and cereal bowl in the sink after the hasty breakfast she’d gulped down before venturing out to the convent that morning.

She pulled off her leather jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Only the kitchen and a first-floor bedroom and bathroom hadn’t yet been cleared out ahead of renovations, but they would be soon. After much debate, Lucas had decided to include living quarters in the plans and not convert the entire house into offices, but they’d be modernized. He’d worked closely with the architect, contractor and designer, all of them eager to get started on transforming the old house. They’d keep its character but install state-of-the-art wiring, security, plumbing, air-conditioning and heating, and decorate with an eye to the future.

Emma approved. So did her parents and grandfather.

That didn’t mean they wouldn’t miss the original place.

She walked down the hall to the empty rooms in the front of the house and paused at the open doorway to her grandfather’s first office, the late-day sun streaming through translucent panels on the windows. The floorboards were warped, scratched and water-stained from a long-ago hurricane that had swept up the coast. She could see markings where the glass drop-front bookcases had stood and remembered the old library table stacked with art books and manila file folders.