Saint's Gate (20 page)

31

GABE CAMPBELL CARRIED A SMALL, DUSTY CHEST down the front steps of the former carriage house. “Hey, there,” he said, smiling as he set the chest on the driveway.

Emma managed a tight smile back at him. “My brother’s here?”

“Ainsley took him down to the water to show him where Claire Grayson’s house used to be.”

Colin came around from the other side of his truck. “The police have talked to you, then.”

Gabe squinted at him and nodded. “They came by last night. There’s nothing left of the original house. Man. What a tragedy, though. I had no idea. No one said a word when I bought my lot. It’s been forty years, and she wasn’t from here. I guess not many people remember.” He wiped his palm over the dusty top of the chest. “This was in Jack d’Auberville’s studio. Ainsley’s clearing everything out. Cleaning, sorting, hunting for treasures. She likes staying active, but she’s easily distracted.” He grinned at Emma and Colin. “Lucky for her I’m not.”

“Anything of interest in the chest?” Emma asked.

“Nothing, actually. It was empty.” He straightened, looking down the lane, birches, their leaves turning yellow against the blue sky, swaying in the ocean breeze. “Ainsley’s freaked out about a woman burning to death so close by. It’s tragic, but it doesn’t bother me as much, maybe because of my work. Every property has a history.”

Colin kept his attention on Gabe. “Is your lot on the original site of the Grayson house?”

Gabe shook his head. “The property was subdivided into three lots after she died. My lot’s to the north of where the Grayson house was—it’s not as protected but it’s got a better view. You can’t see it from here. I’m doing most of the work on the house myself. Taking my time. I’m worried about Ainsley. She took off for a couple days on Mount Desert. I think it helped. She said she needed to get away and clear her head.”

“The past week hasn’t been easy,” Emma said.

He walked over to his van and opened up the back. “I think she’s been trying to get close to her father with this show she’s planning. Following in his footsteps with her painting, fixing up his former studio, sorting through everything—I don’t blame her, but I don’t know if it’s what’s best for her.” He yanked a splotched white rag out of an old apple crate. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

Emma stood at the edge of an overgrown flower garden, crabgrass and goldenrod vying for space and nutrients along with purple petunias and assorted miniature dahlias that looked as if slugs had been at them.

Colin watched Gabe as he rubbed his rag over the dust-encrusted chest. It looked like an inexpensive unfinished pine chest that been painted—badly, at that—a warm, neutral tan. It was splattered with a few drips of what must have been Jack d’Auberville’s paint.

“I’m a housepainter,” Gabe said, half to himself. “I thought that’s what Ainsley wanted but I’m not sure. There’s nothing dark and mysterious about me. I’m not much of an alpha-male, Viking type.”

Emma frowned. “Are you and Ainsley still engaged?”

His gaze drifted back to the lane where she’d gone with Lucas. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. I have to get cleaned up. This can wait.” Gabe dropped the rag on top of the chest. “Her folks are up here. We’re going over to a cookout at their beach house. The police have talked to them, too. They’re not at all happy about having Ainsley in the middle of whatever’s going on.”

Colin peered into the back of the van. “Has Father Bracken been by?”

Gabe bristled but any irritation quickly dissipated. “Not that I know of. She’s a little obsessed with him right now, because he’s Irish, I think. Maybe that’s why I’m out of sorts.”

“Have you done any painting jobs at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart?” Colin asked, stepping back from the van.

“Yeah, I painted the exterior windows of all the convent buildings this spring. The nuns are mostly self-sufficient but they needed a pro for that. I work all over New England. It’s always nice when I can work close to home.”

Gabe abruptly headed back up the steps and went inside. Emma walked over to the chest and ran her fingertips over the drips of vibrant pink, deep red and white paint. She glanced at Colin but said nothing as Lucas came around a curve on the lane with Ainsley at his side, her golden hair blowing in the breeze. The fair weather wouldn’t hold. Fog and rain were moving in. From her brother’s stiff gait, Emma guessed he was keeping a careful distance between himself and Ainsley.

“Agent Donovan and Agent Sharpe,” Ainsley said brightly, despite the obvious strain in her eyes. “I wondered when you two would show up. Would you like to come inside? I can make coffee.”

“Thank you, but I’d like to enjoy the sun while it lasts,” Emma said.

Ainsley gestured broadly down toward the water. “There’s not even a trace left of the foundation of Claire Grayson’s house. I’d never even heard her name until the police told me about her. I knew the house that went with my father’s studio had burned, but I didn’t know any details and never really gave it any thought. I assumed the fire happened a long time ago. Forty years is a long time, I guess, but I was thinking it was seventy-five or a hundred years ago.”

Lucas smiled but he looked as strained as she did. “Some people wouldn’t consider that very long ago, either.”

“The detectives said the fire and her death were accidental. That’s something, anyway.” Ainsley moved away from Lucas to take a look at the chest Gabe had brought out. “Gabe and I went kayaking first thing this morning. Very relaxing. Perfect conditions. It won’t be long before the weather turns and it’ll be too cold. I’m thinking of sticking around here this winter. A Maine winter instead of a Palm Beach winter—it’ll be different. I love working here.” She picked up the discarded rag and started dusting. “Emma, how’s your painting going?”

“It’s a hobby. I have a good time.”

“Do you take lessons?”

“Not since I was a novice,” Emma said deliberately.

She was clearly shocked. “A novice? As in nun, novice?” Emma nodded.

“Really?
You,
Emma?”

Colin stood back, gauging Ainsley’s reaction but also Emma’s, and Lucas leaned against his car, his arms crossed on his chest.

“I was a novice with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart for three years,” Emma said.

“No kidding? Lucas, why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugged. “Why would I?”

“There’s not a big difference between an FBI agent and a Sharpe art detective, but a nun? That’s
huge.
”

Gabe came out the front door and walked slowly down the steps. “I never thought about there being artistic nuns until I heard about the sisters just down the road. Now I understand why the sister who was killed called you, Agent Sharpe.”

Ainsley paled. “Emma, were you and Sister Joan friends? You must have known each other when you were at the convent.”

“We did,” Emma said without hesitation. “Yes, we were friends, but I hadn’t seen any of the sisters in several years.”

“Finding her must have been awful for you.” Ainsley opened one of the chest drawers and tossed the rag inside, then shut the drawer again. “I asked my mother about my father’s relationship with the convent and Mother Linden. She didn’t even know he’d painted one of the convent gardens, so she’s not much help.”

“Did you ask her about his relationship with Claire Grayson?”

“I did, and so did the police. She knows nothing. She didn’t meet my father until almost ten years after Claire Grayson died.”

Emma moved back to the garden. “She gave my grandfather the painting of Saint Sunniva that we think is the primary depiction in
The Garden Gallery.
”

“Then it’s a real painting,” Gabe said. “Old Jack didn’t make it up. He actually painted another artist’s painting. That’s amazing, don’t you think?”

Ainsley clutched her fiancé’s arm as if for support. “It really is amazing,” she said. “If the focal painting is real, maybe all the artwork depicted is real. The police said that Claire was new in the area. She was alone, troubled. Could Mother Linden have introduced her to my father?” Ainsley frowned, not waiting for an answer. “Oh, good heavens. Maybe he painted
The Garden
Gallery
for her and still had it because she died in the fire before she could pick it up.”

“Your father’s painting might help us figure out exactly what was and wasn’t destroyed in the fire,” Emma said.

Ainsley gasped. “We could be talking about a forty-year-old murder or fraud case—or both—couldn’t we?”

Lucas walked over to the garden and stood next to Emma. “We’re pulling out all the stops to find out everything we can about Claire’s family art collection and what happened to it.”

Emma noticed her brother’s tight, controlled response—traits when he was holding back.

He squatted down and plucked a few oversize hunks of crabgrass. “I was up late last night and early this morning working.”

“And?” Ainsley asked. “You obviously know something, Lucas.”

“Claire’s grandfather was in the Netherlands in the chaos after World War II.” Lucas’s voice was steady, professional, as he flung the crabgrass into the tall brush on the other side of the driveway. “He bought a painting and had it shipped back to the States. He and the seller assumed it was a fake Rembrandt.”

“It was never appraised?” Emma asked.

“There’s no record that it was, or of what happened to it. If it was good enough for him to go to the trouble of buying and shipping home, it’s doubtful he’d have just trashed it.”

Ainsley clung to her fiancé. “Do you think it was here?”

“She could have brought it with her from Chicago,” Lucas said, “or her grandfather could have had it here, since she inherited the house from him.”

“Then it burned in the fire,” Gabe said.

“Maybe.” Lucas reached for more crabgrass, as if he had nothing more important on his mind than weeding. “Ainsley, you got a look at your father’s painting. Could the art in this garden gallery include a possible Rembrandt?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She was shaking visibly, her knuckles white as she tightened her grip on Gabe’s arm. “The painting was yellowed and dirty, and I wouldn’t be able to distinguish a Rembrandt from a who-knows-who.”

Colin looked over at Lucas. “How’d you find out all this?”

“We’re art crime investigators,” he said stiffly. “It’s what we Sharpes do.”

“Okay,” Colin said, not pushing for more information.

Lucas sighed, his tension easing. “I spoke to a colleague in Chicago. Emma worked with him on a case when she was in Dublin, before she joined the FBI. More people have questions about a possible Rembrandt in their collection than any other artist’s work.”

“He had a lot of students who painted in his style,” Emma said. “That’s added to the confusion over the years. His students’ paintings are in high demand and can sell for a good deal, although nowhere near what an original Rembrandt would. His work is also frequently copied. Even a good copy can bring a decent price.”

Ainsley, more under control, released her grip on Gabe. “An undiscovered, authenticated Rembrandt painting would sell for substantially more than a painting by Claire Grayson—or my father.”

“How much more?” Colin asked.

Emma answered him. “Rembrandts sell at auction for tens of millions of dollars.”

Gabe’s eyebrows went up. “A
lot
more.”

Lucas nodded grimly. “That kind of money could motivate someone to go to great lengths to find out if a Rembrandt escaped the fire that killed Claire Grayson.”

Ainsley was fascinated but pale. “Do the police know?”

Lucas dusted loose dirt off his hands. “I’m on my way to talk to CID now,” he said, then glanced at Colin and Emma, “and I just told the FBI.”

32

COLIN FOUND A KEY TO THE RUN-DOWN RECTORY in Rock Point where Finian Bracken lived and let himself in through the back door. He’d left Emma in Heron’s Cove to talk Rembrandts with her brother. She and Lucas both knew that troubled Claire Grayson had asked their grandfather how to authenticate a work of art. Had Claire guessed, or even just hoped, she might have a genuine Rembrandt in her possession? What about Wendell Sharpe?

Putting aside his questions, Colin entered the rectory kitchen. Bracken had pulled the plug on his electric kettle, and he either hadn’t turned on the rectory’s heat yet this fall or he’d turned it off while he was out of town. Colin opened the refrigerator. He didn’t know what he expected to find there, but it was better stocked than either his or Emma’s. Plain yogurt, plums, imported Irish butter, eggs, slab bacon, parsnips and celery. There were onions and an enormous rutabaga on the counter.

He didn’t find any whiskey in the cupboards.

He continued through the prosaic dining room, living room and library, then mounted the stairs to the three small bedrooms and bathroom.

Finian Bracken might be rich, but he lived a simple life as a priest.

On a scratched nightstand, Colin noticed a key to Bracken’s office next door at the church, but he didn’t want to run into any of the church ladies while he was searching their priest’s office.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, anyway, or even why he was here.

He headed back down the carpeted stairs. It’d been a hell of a night on the sofa bed in his study, with the thin mattress, metal bars and no Emma. He’d been restless after the long flights to and from Ireland, but he wasn’t about to go upstairs and make love to Emma just because he wanted to burn off a little excess energy.

He heard a sound down the hall and found Bracken in the musty dining room. He wasn’t wearing a collar, just a sweater and khakis. “I didn’t pick out the furniture,” he said with an enigmatic smile.

“I hope not.”

He patted the lace-covered oval table. “The tablecloth is Irish. I think Jimmy Callaghan ordered it when he was getting nostalgic about the homeland.”

“Waste of time searching the damn place if nothing in here is yours.”

“This is mine.” Bracken walked over to the sideboard and picked up a small dark wood case. “It’s an antique Sikes hydrometer. I bought it during my distillery days. It’s one of the few things I’ve kept.”

“Fin—”

He placed the case on the table and lifted the lid. “It’s a rare miniature version.” He pointed at the contents, laid against black velvet. “It has all its components—thermometer, floats, weights and measuring flask. It was invented by Bartholomew Sikes in the early nineteenth century to more accurately measure the proof of a particular batch of spirits. The tax man took right to it. It’s an efficient little gadget.”

“Fascinating. You can demonstrate another time.”

Bracken closed the case. “This situation with Emma Sharpe could expose you, couldn’t it, Colin?”

“Expose me to what?”

The priest didn’t smile. “You’re a natural undercover agent. You don’t mind going into dangerous situations alone. You have good skills and experience but you rely on gut instinct.” He set the case back on the sideboard. “You and your brothers are similar that way.”

“Yep. We don’t like overthinking, which is what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

“Emma Sharpe has you tied up in knots. I’m not sure you’re aware of just how much that’s the case, but perhaps you’ll want to take a moment to stand back and use your head.”

Perhaps he would, Colin thought. “Thanks for the advice,” he said dryly.

Bracken opened a drawer in the sideboard and took out two small navy blue soft velvet pouches. He carried them to the table as if they were fragile. His hands shook as he emptied first one, then the other, on the white lace.

“They’re rosary beads,” he said, touching the two sets, one of clear glass, the other of pink glass.

Colin nodded. “I see.”

“My brother, Declan, gave them to my daughters on their first communion.” He delicately lifted the strand of clear glass beads. “They were handmade by a friend in Sneem.”

“I’m sorry, Fin.” Colin didn’t know what else to say. He was better at action and quick decisions than he was at figuring out what to say to a man who’d lost everything.

“I came here with a foot planted in my old life. I don’t mean the whiskey business.”

“Your wife and daughters.”

Bracken set the clear beads on the table and picked up the pink ones. “I’ve had to examine my heart. Walking this coast alone, being here in Rock Point alone…” He rubbed tiny beads between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve found I have to live in the present. You’re good at that, Colin. It’s one of your strengths. Your work demands it, but it’s your nature, too.”

“I’m not a deep thinker. You, Emma Sharpe—deep thinkers.” Colin gestured toward the hall behind them. “Hungry?”

Finian gently replaced the beads in their velvet cases and returned them to their drawer. “Yes,” he said finally, “I’m hungry. How thorough were you in searching this place?”

“Not at all. I thought I might at least find a couple grand in the couch cushions, as rich as you are.” Colin started down the carpeted hall, shifting back to Bracken when they reached the kitchen. “Ainsley d’Auberville was here yesterday. She’s half in love with you, Fin. It’s the sunglasses.”

He grunted. “She has boundary issues.”

Colin made no comment.

“The FBI is investigating the information I provided?”

“Oh, yes.” Colin grinned. “Why do you think I searched this place?”

Bracken all but rolled his eyes. “I involved you in this situation and you want to be sure I’m not going to do anything that reflects badly on you. I’ve been thinking. If we can get the d’Auberville painting back, we can see if the Dürer etching and Viking bracelet are depicted.”

“There is no ‘we,’ Fin, and you’re in Emma Sharpe land now.”

“In another life, maybe I’d have joined the guards, or become an art detective myself.”

Colin placed the purloined key on the counter. “Were you tempted to stay in Ireland?”

“It doesn’t matter. I made a commitment to serve this parish.” He brightened. “We’re having a bean-hole supper in a few weeks. You’ll have to explain that to me.”

“Fin—”

“I know. I’m worried, too. Answers seem as hard to grasp as the fog.”

They drove separately to Hurley’s. A fire crackled in its traditional brick fireplace, and a few parishioners at tables up front greeted Bracken. Colin realized they didn’t know he’d chartered a plane to Ireland.

Tourists occupied most of the waterfront tables, drinking, laughing, reading on their printed placemats about how to eat a lobster and exclaiming about assorted lobster facts.

Bracken’s table, however, was vacant. He sat down and motioned for Colin to sit across from him, but he didn’t fetch glasses and a bottle of Bracken’s finest. “Sister Joan, the security guard wounded in Wexford, the bomb in the Sharpe attic.” Bracken spoke in a low voice. “Colin…this killer must be found and brought to justice. This violence must stop.”

“I don’t disagree, Fin, but you’re a priest now.”

“All the more reason for me to do what I can to help.”

Colin thought he understood his friend’s frustration and sense of impotence, but he said, “I’m having coleslaw—real coleslaw, not the slime I had in Ireland.”

Bracken smiled and said nothing. He didn’t order whiskey, or the coleslaw.