Saint's Gate (18 page)

“Anything in the report about artwork?”

“Not a word. She was bat-shit crazy, Colin. For all we know, any of the artwork depicted in this missing Jack d’Auberville painting was all in her head, and he just indulged her and painted what she wanted him to paint. Sister Cecilia said the focal painting was this one Grayson painted herself of Saint Sunniva. Why hang it in a prominent spot if you had a Picasso or a Monet or some damn thing?”

“Because you’re bat-shit crazy,” Colin said, echoing Kevin’s own words.

“Yeah, and forty years later, here we are. This killer hasn’t left us much of a trail.”

“We’re looking for a ghost,” Colin said.

Kevin set his beer on the counter. “You know how hard ghosts can be to find.”

“Kevin—”

“You don’t have to say anything. You know how to reach me if you need me.” Kevin grinned suddenly. “I’m on my way to dinner at the Donovan family inn. Dad’s trying out a new recipe. All I know is that it involves apples and leeks. Hell.”

He left, and a few minutes later, Colin abandoned his beer and headed out. Emma wouldn’t stay in Boston. She’d be back in Heron’s Cove tonight. He had work to do before she got there.

28

LUCAS OPENED HIS FRONT DOOR BEFORE EMMA could ring the doorbell. It was already dark by the time she’d crossed into Heron’s Cove from Boston. She’d stopped at the HIT offices, then walked back to her apartment. Colin, at least, had made the bed after he’d searched the place. She noticed he’d stacked the throw pillows in the closet. She appreciated his directness, anyway. Being skilled in the art of deception as an undercover agent didn’t mean he wasn’t direct.

Lucas was in a tux, on his way to a charity event in Kennebunkport that he’d had on the calendar for weeks. He was good at mixing, a necessary and often worthy part of being in their business. Their parents were, too. Emma was more like her grandfather, best at the work itself.

She smiled at her brother. “Aren’t you the heartbreaker.”

“I hate tuxes. I almost decided not to go to this thing after what happened in Dublin but there’s no point staying here and stewing. I talked to Granddad a few minutes ago. He’s on the mend. He wants to find whoever attacked him. Mum and Dad must be sitting on him to keep him from going off on his own manhunt.”

“If I’d gotten there fifteen minutes earlier…” Emma could feel the fatigue from her long flight. “I was late again.”

“You’re not clairvoyant,” Lucas said.

She noticed one of his two cats perched on a side table in the entry. He liked to say they were easier to live with than women. Most days Emma thought he was joking.

He left the outer door open. “We’re all doing everything we can to find out what the hell’s going on.”

“If Sister Joan hadn’t violated her own protocols, we’d have more information on this painting Ainsley dropped off. Are you working the Claire Peck Grayson angle?”

“The Pecks were avid, even reckless, collectors. It’s been tougher to pin down information on the Graysons. Claire’s husband died about fifteen years after she did.” The outdoor light above the door struck Lucas’s face, accenting its sharp angles, and his tension. “We’re looking into any art theft cases involving Vikings, Norse mythology, Catholic saints, Maine, Jack d’Auberville—all of it. I assume you are, too.”

“Was Ainsley into Vikings last summer when you were seeing each other?”

“A budding obsession,” he said wryly.

The cat leaped off the table, almost upending a lamp. Despite minimal furnishings and much work ahead, Lucas had managed to make his antique house feel like his space. He wasn’t putting his life on hold, waiting for a wife, children. He was getting on with things. Waking up in her Irish hotel that morning, Emma had been half tempted to call Yank and tell him she’d stay there until the killer was under arrest. If he or Maine CID had any questions, they could find her at the spa.

Of course, she’d dragged herself out of bed and down to the hotel’s elegant dining room, taking Finian Bracken’s advice and having the full Irish breakfast. Eggs, bacon, sausages, black and white pudding, with a garnish of grilled mushrooms and tomatoes and a basket of scones, toast and brown bread.

A good thing, too, because she’d hardly eaten a thing since.

She watched Lucas’s cat slink off down the hall. “Ainsley was at the house a few hours before I discovered the bomb. She said she was looking for you.”

“I haven’t seen her since June, and then only for a quick hello. We ran into each other in the village.” Lucas gestured toward his tux. “I do this, Emma, but I’m an art detective, heart and soul. Ainsley wants something different.”

“Gabe Campbell fits what she wants?”

“I don’t know him well. He strikes me as easygoing. She’s not into appearances but she likes a lot of attention. She gets along with people—everyone’s her best friend—but she’s also firm in what she wants. I do okay, Emma, but we Sharpes are still working stiffs compared to Ainsley’s family. She’s not a snob, though. The opposite. She just isn’t a hard worker.”

“Did your long hours get to her?”

“We weren’t together long enough for anything to get to her. Gabe’s not your average housepainter. He’s in high demand by architects and designers, but my bet is either he comes from money or he and Ainsley won’t last.” Lucas grabbed the door. “I have to go. Sure you don’t want to join me?”

Emma shook her head. “I’ve been traveling since before dawn East Coast time, and I feel it.”

Her brother frowned. “You’re not staying at the house, are you? You can stay here, or I can stay there with you—”

“Relax, will you? I’ll be fine, Lucas. Don’t worry.” Emma cuffed him on the shoulder. “I’ll sweep for bombs before I go to bed.”

“That’s not even a little bit funny. Where’s Colin Donovan?”

“I don’t know. Ireland, maybe.” She doubted that, though.

“I know you’re a tough FBI agent and all that, but be careful. I’ll stay at this thing tonight just long enough to make an appearance and get back to work.”

She headed back out to her car. After the dry, hot air on the plane, she welcomed the cool temperatures and smell of the ocean, but she felt a tightness in her throat at how alone she was. It was her own doing. Colleagues in Boston had offered her a place to stay. Lucas had just offered. She’d turned everyone down because the truth was, she wanted to be alone, or at least back in Heron’s Cove, in her grandfather’s house where she’d first seen Claire Grayson’s painting of Saint Sunniva. She might remember more, or find some overlooked piece of information, once she was back there.

She parked on the street. The police tape was down, and someone—probably Lucas—had arranged for the front door to be fixed. She walked around to the backyard and stood on the retaining wall, shivering in the refreshing breeze. Lights from boats and the inn and marina reflected on the still, dark water. She could hear the tide lapping against wooden posts and boats, washing on the polished rocks, but she noticed there was no
Julianne
tied up at the docks. Had Colin found another brother’s boat to borrow? Was he out there in the dark?

She heard footsteps behind her and turned sharply.

“Easy,” Colin said, stepping off the last porch step. He nodded back to the house. “It’s safe. I’ve been through it.”

Jet lag or just the surprise of seeing him seemed to slow her thinking. “You went through the house?”

“From the attic to cellar. I only checked for bombs and intruders. I didn’t look for old pictures of you in a nun’s habit.”

“Mother Linden wore a traditional habit, but the sisters switched to plainclothes after her death.”

He made a face. “Hell, Emma.”

She laughed. She thought he had to be the sexiest man on the Maine coast right now. Maybe on the entire East Coast. Dark fleece, jeans, boots. The ever-present stubble of beard and tousled hair.

“How’s Granddad?” he asked.

“I hope he’s enjoying a glass of Bracken whiskey or sleeping one off. He won’t rest until we catch whoever attacked him.”

Colin smiled, crossing the lawn to her. “You Sharpes.”

“I have a feeling the Donovans would leave no stone unturned.” Her hair blew into her face with another welcome gust of wind. “Lucky I didn’t find you in the kitchen. I’d have shot you. I’m just in the mood.”

“You’re a pro.”

“Not a very good one when it comes to weapons. I work hard to stay qualified.”

“I’ll consider that a fair warning.” He maneuvered himself in front of her and turned up her jacket collar against the wind. His fingers were warm on her skin, and he let them linger a few seconds longer than was necessary. “How was your night in Ireland?”

“Luxurious. Yours?”

“I slept at the airport.”

She wouldn’t be surprised if he were telling the truth. They headed inside. Only the light above the kitchen sink was on. The house felt dark, cold and empty. Then Emma noticed a bag of apples on the counter and smiled. “You brought food?”

Colin shut the porch door behind him. “Apples, cheese, bread, wine. Having seen how you live, I figured you wouldn’t think to stop at a grocery on your way back here.”

“Sounds like a feast.”

“And chocolate.” He tapped two Hershey bars on the counter. “I did not, however, pick the apples myself.”

“There’s a great orchard in Rock Point.”

“I know it well.”

Emma debated between chocolate and an apple. “Yank’s not happy,” she said.

Colin leaned against the counter. “Yank’s never happy.”

Opting for an apple, she reached into the bag and chose one, quickly rinsing it off and toweling it dry. “I’m sure he wishes I’d told Sister Joan to call the local police and picked apples instead of going to see her. If this goes badly…” She didn’t finish. There was no point. It had already gone badly.

“Yank still has faith in you. If he didn’t, he’d have found a way to keep you in Ireland.”

“If he loses faith in me, I’ll be looking for a new job.”

“You can always return to your family’s business.”

Emma bit into her apple, a crisp Macintosh. “Not if my reputation is in tatters.”

“What if their reputation is the one that ends up getting screwed up?”

“I’m not speculating.” She ate more of her apple. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. “What would you do if you had to go to a desk job for real?”

“I could always become a guide like my brother Mike and head to the Maine woods.”

“Is that what you want—to be alone up in the wilds with the moose and mosquitoes?”

His eyes darkened as he turned to her. “Some days.”

“Today?”

“Not today.” He opened a drawer, got out a knife and cut a piece of the cheese, then handed it to her. “It goes well with apple.”

She felt as if she’d dreamed her Irish breakfast so many hours ago. She ate her apple and the cheese while Colin poured wine and divided a chocolate bar. He gave her half, studying her with an intensity she found unsettling. “What? Did you discover I have a secret obsession for Jane Austen movies when you searched my apartment?”

“You don’t add up,” he said.

“Nobody adds up. Look at you. Why would a man rooted in Rock Point, with a great family, disappear for months at a time to chase arms traffickers? Doesn’t add up.”

“It just worked out that way.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

He frowned at her as if she made no sense. “Never mind. Let’s have a look upstairs. Your grandfather hadn’t been attacked when we found the bomb. Maybe we missed something.”

He went into the dark hall. Emma grabbed another apple but skipped wine. She needed her wits about her when dealing with Colin Donovan with nothing to do after dark. She followed him through the empty rooms, then up the two flights of stairs to the attic, feeling the long day in her leg muscles.

Colin turned on the dusty overhead, its light not reaching into all the corners under the eaves. Emma ducked over to the vault. “Why leave the bomb and take a chance it would be discovered before it went off? Why not just toss a match and set the place on fire?”

“Not the dirtbag’s style.”

Straightforward enough but she wasn’t satisfied. “It’s a busy street. The docks are right behind us. Running out of a burning house would draw attention.”

“A bomb’s a statement to an FBI agent and world-renowned art detectives.”

“Do you think this is about ego?”

Colin seemed even taller under the slanted ceiling. “I wish I knew, especially if it can help us find who’s responsible.”

“Ego, revenge—maybe this person blames my family for something.”

“It’s tempting to jump ahead of what we know.”

She opened a wooden file drawer next to the vault and pushed back a sudden flood of memories of her work side by side with her grandfather. She focused instead on the task at hand. How would a woman fleeing tragedy and an unhappy marriage have managed to transport an art collection of even a modest size to her family home in Maine?

What if the art had already been there? Would that make any difference?

“Piecing together the life of Claire Peck Grayson and her family could take time,” Emma said, half to herself. “Art theft and recovery investigations can go on for years. We don’t have years.”

Colin knelt down and opened up a cardboard box. “First things first.”

“I keep seeing Sister Joan lying in the tower entry. It was as if she didn’t matter. Her life, her work.” Emma shut the file drawer. There was nothing in there worth digging through.

“Why did Claire Grayson come to your grandfather in the first place?”

It was a good question, one that had been bugging her. Emma seized the moment and emailed her grandfather in Ireland. Thirty seconds later, he called her. “I’m still up,” he said, obviously welcoming the distraction.

Emma sat on a stack of boxes with her cell phone. “I’m in the attic with Colin Donovan. We’re wondering how you first came to know Claire Grayson.”

Her grandfather answered without hesitation. “She stopped by my office to ask how fine art and antiques are authenticated. That’s how we met. She didn’t have an appointment. She just walked in.”

“Was she alone?” Emma asked.

“Yes. I gave her the basics on the process. I’ve done it a thousand times. She never took it further. She told me she was a painter herself. A few days later she came by and said she was looking for a painting teacher.”

“So that’s when you referred her to Mother Linden. Did Mrs. Grayson mention any particular artists?”

“It was a long time ago.” He sounded exhausted. “I think I’d have remembered if she’d asked about specific artists, but I can’t be sure. She was sweet, eccentric, very pretty and very troubled.”

“Sleep on it, Granddad,” Emma said. “You’re taking care of yourself?”

“I don’t have any choice with your parents hanging over me. Be safe, Emma.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“You’ve got that tough FBI agent with you?”

She laughed. “I do, indeed.”

“Good. I like him.”

“You met him for two seconds, and you had a concussion—”

“No concussion,” he said, then added, his tone serious again, “Emma…”

“We’ll figure this out. Get some sleep. Say hi to Mum and Dad for me. We’ll talk again tomorrow.” Emma disconnected and got to her feet, tried to smile at Colin. “He likes you,” she said, then repeated what her grandfather had told her.