Saint's Gate (5 page)

7

A UNIFORMED STATE TROOPER LET EMMA THROUGH the convent’s main gate on what had already turned into a clear, brisk, beautiful fall morning. She walked alone to the motherhouse, a stone mansion built in 1898, with leaded-glass windows, porches, dormers and more drafts than a haunted house. As a child, on a visit there with her grandfather, Emma had convinced herself it
was
haunted.

She entered through the front door. The sisters again were singing in the chapel down the hall. They would need time to mourn the violent, unexplained death of one of their own, a fifty-three-year-old woman who’d committed her life to her religious vocation.

Emma went into a simple sitting room overlooking a flower garden and the Atlantic Ocean. The horseshoe-shaped cove and the meditation garden were on the opposite side of the small peninsula. The trooper had told her that CID had released the tower as a crime scene and completed their initial interviews, searches and evidence gathering but would be back later this morning.

Too restless to sit on the dove-gray sofa or chairs, Emma stood on the edge of the soft hand-hooked rug and studied a wall of photographs. She noticed several of Mother Linden in her later years. She’d been a stout, cheerful woman, a talented artist, a formidable scholar and a dedicated religious sister. As a much younger woman, she’d encouraged Wendell Sharpe, then a security guard at a Portland art museum, to pursue his interest in art theft and recovery.

Emma turned at the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor in the hall.

Natalie Aquinas Williams, only the second Mother Superior in the history of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, entered the sitting room. “Emma, it’s so good to see you again. I’m sorry it’s under such difficult circumstances.”

“I am, too. I know this is a difficult time for you and the sisters.”

Pain flickered in Mother Natalie’s pale green eyes. She held a doctorate in art history and had the mind, the sensibility and the dedication to run a small but active religious order. In her early sixties, she’d been a sister for more than two-thirds of her life.

Her gray hair was cut short, and she wore a simple gray tunic and skirt, black stockings and shoes, her profession cross and ring signifying that she’d made her final vows.

“Nonetheless, welcome, Emma,” she said. “I wanted to speak with you yesterday, but the police wouldn’t allow it until they’d finished interviewing us all. By then you were gone. How are you this morning? The detectives said you weren’t injured.”

“I wasn’t. I’m fine. I only wish I could have done more yesterday.”

“We all do.” Mother Natalie glanced out at the flower garden, the bright colors of the coneflowers, tall phlox and black-eyed Susans a contrast to the somber mood inside the motherhouse. “Of course, we’re cooperating fully with the police. They kept a cruiser here overnight, but it’s gone now. It left shortly after you arrived, I assume because you’re a law enforcement officer yourself.”

“The detectives—”

“They’ll be back later this morning,” Mother Natalie said briskly, shifting her gaze from the garden. “They might have follow-up interviews, and they want to search the coastline again now that the weather’s cleared. It was almost dark when the last of the fog finally moved offshore. Of course, they want to talk to any potential witnesses on the boats that anchored in the cove during the fog.”

“Has anyone come forward?” Emma asked.

“Not that I know of. It’s hard to imagine anyone having seen anything in that soup yesterday. Our security hasn’t changed in the four years since you were here. We take reasonable precautions, but we’re not an armed fortress. We’re reviewing our procedures.”

“That’s a good idea. Mother, do you know why Sister Joan called me?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

If she didn’t know Mother Natalie as well as she did, Emma would have missed the faint note of disapproval under the older woman’s fatigue and sadness. Her face was ashen, the soft wrinkles at her mouth and eyes more pronounced.

A blue jay descended into the thick branches of a spruce tree just outside the tall, paned window. Emma said, “She wanted my opinion on a painting.”

“The detectives told me. I don’t know what painting it would be. We all do occasional favors for family and friends. It’s the only thing I can think of.”

Emma stood next to Mother Natalie at the window. “Had you noticed any change in her behavior recently?”

“She seemed unusually preoccupied the past few days.”

“Afraid?” Emma asked.

“I wouldn’t say afraid, no. Sister Joan would often become preoccupied with her work. I thought that was the case this time, as well. In fact, it might have been. What did she tell you about the painting?”

“Nothing. She was going to show it to me and then explain.”

“I see.”

Emma watched the blue jay dart from a spruce branch to a cheerful folk-art angel that Mother Linden had constructed out of bits of copper. The mission of the order she’d founded couldn’t have motivated the violence yesterday. Who could be against restoring and preserving art? Teaching art to children and educators? Living, working and serving with joy?

“Why are you here?” Mother Natalie asked quietly.

Emma didn’t give a direct answer. “Could Sister Joan have been afraid that something about the painting she wanted to show me could hurt your community?”

“I don’t know what her state of mind was, Emma. I wouldn’t want to speculate.”

“What was she working on?”

Mother Natalie didn’t answer at once. “She was between projects, but she’d just finished cleaning several Jack d’Auberville paintings for his daughter, Ainsley.”

That was unexpected. “I didn’t realize Ainsley d’Auberville was in Maine.”

“Then you know her. Her father was a popular local artist who was commissioned by various people to paint their gardens and summer houses. I’m sure you’re familiar with his work.”

“Somewhat,” Emma said.

“Ainsley’s following in his footsteps, at least artistically. I understand she’s quite talented. She inherited his old studio here in Maine and decided to organize a show of both his work and her work. I think Sister Joan was happy to help her.”

“How many paintings did Ainsley bring here to clean?”

“Two or three. I don’t really know. Ainsley picked them up early this week—on Monday, I believe. I didn’t see her. The detectives have Sister Joan’s work log.”

“She often worked in the tower alone.”

“Yes, often, but Sister Joan was as devoted to our community as any of the rest of us. She was an individual, with her own gifts and struggles. Aren’t we all? I don’t mean to sound defensive.” Mother Natalie paused, her gaze fixed on the lush, restful landscape outside the window. “We all loved Sister Joan. We miss her already.”

Emma felt her throat tighten with emotion, but her attention was drawn to a lobster boat barreling toward shore. The tide was starting to come in on a brisk wind, the ocean almost navy blue in the late-morning sun. She didn’t see any buoys marking lobster traps. Was he placing new ones?

Then why go so fast?

More likely, he was curious about yesterday’s violence at the convent.

Again, Emma thought, why go so fast?

Mother Natalie stepped back from the window. “The police said that burglars often break into churches thinking they’ll find cash and perhaps valuables—gold, silver, computers. I suppose it could be the same for a convent, especially one such as ours that takes in fine art.”

The lobster boat shifted in the swells. Emma saw the name
Julianne
emblazoned on the stern and stiffened, recognizing it from last night on the docks. She couldn’t make out the man at the wheel but expected it would be the broad-shouldered man she’d seen talking with Matt Yankowski.

“Sister Joan was meticulous in her work,” Mother Natalie continued, sounding reflective as well as tired and drained. “I don’t want to imagine what went on at the tower yesterday, but I can seem to do little else.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Sister Joan must have interrupted a burglar who panicked, pushed her and ran.”

“On the same day she asked me here?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“The blow to the back of her head didn’t look to me as if she hit her head in a fall. It looked as if someone deliberately struck her—”

“There’s to be an autopsy,” Mother Natalie said quickly, her face, if possible, even more ashen.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “The medical examiner will determine cause of death.”

The Mother Superior of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart sank onto the sofa, regaining her steady manner as she stared at an unlit fireplace. Finally she looked up at Emma. “It’s been a very long twenty-four hours. I almost let myself forget that you’re a law enforcement officer now yourself.”

The words and the tone didn’t register at first. Emma glanced back at the lobster boat, which seemed to have slowed as it came closer to the rocks, then turned back to Mother Natalie. “You blame me.”

“I wish Sister Joan had confided in me. I wish she’d told me she wanted to call you.” Mother Natalie drew in a long breath and let it out again. “I wish when she sneaked you onto the grounds, you’d insisted on coming to me.”

“And what could you have done?”

“I don’t know. Kept you both out of the tower.”

“The attacker could have hidden until Sister Joan returned, or could have come here looking for her and hurt even more people. I’m not saying what would or wouldn’t have happened, Mother. The point is that we don’t know. We have to accept what did happen.”

“I understand that,” Mother Natalie said, without a trace of sharpness.

“Is it possible Sister Joan was involved in anything illegal?”

Her head snapped up. “Illegal? Why would you ask such a thing?”

“As I mentioned, she was visibly nervous. If she wasn’t involved in anything illegal herself, maybe she had information that would implicate someone.”

“Another sister?”

Emma didn’t answer. She could see that the lobster boat was much too close to the rocks for comfort. Experienced lobstermen were accustomed to all sorts of conditions, but a crime scene—the murder of a nun in a beloved convent—was an unusual distraction. Was he just not paying attention to his surroundings?

“What illegal activities could any of us be involved in?” Mother Natalie asked.

“You receive valuable works of art here.” Emma kept her gaze focused on the lobster boat as she spoke. “You know the possibilities as well as I do. Forgery, theft, fencing, fraud—”

“We’ve been at this work for a long time. We have an unblemished reputation for integrity as well as for the quality of the work we do.” Mother Natalie didn’t raise her voice as she stood and moved back to Emma’s side. “If I’d had so much as an inkling of illegal activity or that Sister Joan was afraid or even nervous, I’d have spoken to her immediately.”

“I know you would have,” Emma said quietly. Four years ago, she’d blindsided Mother Natalie, walking into this same room to announce that she was packed and would be leaving the convent that afternoon.

“Is this why you came back here this morning—to ask questions?”

“I want to know why Sister Joan called me. Why she died. Who killed her.”

“You don’t think yesterday was a random act of violence unrelated to her reasons for inviting you here.” The Mother Superior crossed her arms over her chest, her jaw set hard, then slumped suddenly, as if surrendering to what she knew to be true but didn’t want to admit was so. “Neither do I. I doubt anyone else here does, either.”

“Under the circumstances, it’s a logical conclusion, but we can’t get ahead of the facts.”

“I understand. That’s what the police said, too.” Mother Natalie’s stance seemed to soften. “Yesterday was your first time back here. You’re our friend, Emma. I hope you know you’re always welcome.”

“I do, thank you.”

“I’d like to think you’d have stopped in here after your meeting with Sister Joan, but that was never your plan, was it?”

“I was here at Sister Joan’s request. I had no plans beyond meeting her and finding out what I could do for her.”

Mother Natalie stared out the window. “You used to spend a lot of time down on the rocks, by the water. I should have realized you were questioning your call.”

Emma smiled, even as she kept an eye on the
Julianne.
“Or just enjoying the view.”

“It is a beautiful spot. You’re more centered than you were four years ago.”

“Maybe so.”

“Harder, too, I think.”

“I want to know what happened yesterday. That’s all.”

Emma frowned as the lobster boat banged against exposed rocks, a hazard even an inexperienced boatman would know to avoid. Was he just being nosy—or creating a diversion?

Who owned the
Julianne?

Mother Natalie took a sharp breath. “What’s he doing?”

The boat had hung up on the rocks, at a halt. The
Julianne
wouldn’t be going anywhere until the tide was in.

Emma placed a hand on Mother Natalie’s upper arm. “Keep everyone here. I need to see what’s going on with this lobster boat.”

“All right. The police are returning any moment. I’ll let them know.”

“Good,” Emma said, already at the door.

She charged down the hall, a hand-hooked runner thick under her feet. She passed the chapel, where the sisters were still singing, and headed out a side door into the flower garden.

Five years ago, here in this spot among the coneflowers and evergreens, the bite of the ocean in the air, had she ever even dreamed of becoming an FBI agent?

Never, she thought, her right hand on her Sig Sauer in its holster on her hip as she ran toward the water.

8

EMMA CROSSED A WIDE LAWN TO THE TUMBLE of large boulders that led straight down to the water. A man waved up at her from the stranded lobster boat. She recognized the broad shoulders, the wavy brown hair and the stubble of beard of the lobsterman she’d seen with Yank on the docks last night.

“Good morning, Sister,” he called up to her.

She still had her hand on her weapon under her leather jacket. “I’m a federal agent. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“No problem.” He put up both hands at chest height. “Thought you were one of the nuns.”

“FBI.”

“Ah.” He grinned up at her. “Well, don’t shoot.”

Emma had a feeling he knew exactly who she was. “What are you doing here?”

“Having a look for myself. I got hung up on the rocks.” He jumped lightly out of the boat onto a flat boulder covered in seaweed and barnacles. He had on jeans, trail shoes and a plain black sweatshirt that had seen a lot of wear. “Dumb.”

“Your boat’s not going anywhere until the tide comes up.”

“You got that right.”

“Walk up here.” Emma nodded to her right, where the drop down to the tide line wasn’t as steep. “Go that way. Just keep your hands where I can see them.”

“What if I trip?”

He didn’t look worried about tripping. “Take your time,” she said.

Obviously accustomed to the Maine coast terrain, he hopped onto another boulder, then another, heading up to the lawn in a few long strides.

“Hold on,” Emma said. “That’s close enough. No sudden moves, okay?”

He stopped next to a spreading, prickly juniper. “Understood.”

Up close, he was just as rugged and muscular as she’d expected looking at him from the porch and kitchen window. He moved with a casualness that she immediately suspected was deceptive, if not deliberately misleading. He struck her as a man who missed nothing—including the hazards of Maine’s rocky coastline.

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Donovan. Colin Donovan.”

“Convenient to shipwreck on a rising tide, isn’t it, Mr. Donovan?”

“It is.” He swept his gaze over her. His eyes were as gray as yesterday’s fog. “An FBI agent who knows tides. Imagine that.”

“Where are you from?”

“Rock Point.”

Not far, then. “What are you doing here?”

“Right now I’m trying to figure out how to tell my brother I ran aground. It’s his boat. It’s trickier to maneuver than I thought it’d be. I’ll never live this one down.”

“Why did you borrow your brother’s boat, Mr. Donovan?”

“Because I don’t have one.”

His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes were half-closed, alert, as if he were calculating just what he’d do if she decided to shoot him. Whoever he was, Emma had the feeling Colin Donovan wasn’t a regular lobsterman.

“I’ll be checking you out, Mr. Donovan,” she said.

“By all means. It’ll be at least an hour before the tide rises enough for me to get Andy’s boat off the rocks.” He nodded to her. “Don’t let me keep you from your work.”

Emma considered the situation. He wasn’t a suspect, and he had done everything she asked. She had no reason to detain him or search him for weapons. She couldn’t help noticing that he was extremely fit. “How did you get yourself hung up on the rocks?”

“I got too close.”

“On purpose, or you weren’t paying attention?”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and she had her answer. He’d run aground on purpose. But he said, “Just one of those things.”

A state marine patrol boat made its way around the tip of the small peninsula and maneuvered toward the
Julianne
. “I’ll notify them of your situation,” Emma said.

“No worries.”

He turned and whistled and waved at the two officers on board, giving them an all clear.

They waved back.

“They know you,” Emma said, relaxing slightly. Whoever he was, he wasn’t a direct threat.

“We lobstermen know a lot of people. I got my feet wet jumping out of my boat. Anywhere I can dry off before I get hypothermia?”

Just his shoes and the ends of his jeans were wet. Maine’s notoriously cold water didn’t seem to bother him at all. He didn’t look any more worried about hypothermia than he had been about tripping on the rocks.

“You’ll be fine,” Emma said. “You were at the docks in Heron’s Cove last night.”

“That’s right. How’d you know?”

“I saw you and I saw your boat.”

“My brother’s boat,” he amended.

Not a man easily intimidated. “Are you spying on me, Mr. Donovan?”

Again he gave no hint of uneasiness. “Why would I do that, Special Agent—”

“Sharpe,” she supplied. “Emma Sharpe. Enough with the games, Mr. Donovan. You know who I am. Did you see me leave this morning and figure I’d head out here to the convent?”

He shrugged without answering.

“Who are you? CID? Marine patrol?”

“Aren’t FBI agents supposed to have partners? Why did you come here alone?”

“I want to know who you are. You ran your boat aground deliberately. Why?”

“Would you have let me in through the main gate? No. Neither would the nuns or the state cops.”

He hadn’t wanted to go through the main gate. He’d wanted to do exactly what he’d done. Emma could see that her approach with him wouldn’t get her far. Colin Donovan would tell her what he wanted to tell her and not one word more.

She glanced down at his boat, still hung up on the rocks. “Don’t tell me you’re an average, everyday lobsterman, because you’re not. What’s your interest in what happened here?”

“Maybe it’s you.”

“You’re checking me out? Last night, too?”

He raised his eyes to her and she saw that they were a flinty gray now. She remembered Yank lingering on the docks as if he were discussing seagulls with a Maine lobsterman.

Yank hated boats and couldn’t care less about seagulls.

And she knew.

“You’re FBI.” She sighed. “You could have said so.”

He grinned at her. “No fun in that.”

Emma gritted her teeth, but she heard someone panting behind her in the trees.

“Agent Sharpe?” Sister Cecilia emerged tentatively from the cover of a spruce. “I saw you from the motherhouse and wondered what was going on.”

“This is Colin Donovan,” Emma said, noticing Sister Cecilia eyeing him nervously. “He ran his lobster boat aground.”

“Oh. So I see.” She hugged her oversize sweater to her and peered down at the battered boat. “It can’t get swept to sea, can it?”

“Not until the water rises,” Colin said.

“I don’t know much about boats. The police scoured every inch of the grounds and the surrounding coastline for evidence and possible entry and exit points. They’re coming back soon for another look. I’ve racked my brain trying to think how anyone could have gotten in and out of here without being seen.”

“Probably not as hard as it looks,” Colin said, “especially in the fog.”

Sister Cecilia didn’t seem satisfied. “Still, you’d think someone would have seen something. I wish I hadn’t panicked. If I could have gotten close enough to get a better description of whoever it was I saw, the police—”

Colin didn’t let her finish. “The police would have two dead nuns to deal with instead of one.”

Emma gave him a sharp look, but his blunt words seemed to snap Sister Cecilia out of her self-recrimination. She stood straight, color high in her pale cheeks. “I should be working. We’ve temporarily closed our shop and studio in Heron’s Cove, out of respect for Sister Joan. I teach classes there three days a week, but I’m also writing a biography of Mother Linden. I have plenty to do….” She lowered her eyes, her lashes so fair as to be almost imperceptible. “You’d think I’d find comfort in the routines of our lives here.”

“Yesterday was a shock for you,” Emma said quietly.

Sister Cecilia pursed her lips and lifted her chin, as if steeling herself to what she had to do. She pointed at the sparkling water. “Isn’t the difference between yesterday and today amazing? The weather can change so fast. Our lives, too. Yesterday I woke up to fog and a sense of mission and purpose. By evening, it was all gone. The fog, the mission, the purpose.”

“Give yourself some time,” Emma said.

“I’m so keyed up,” Sister Cecilia added, half to herself, “and yet I feel so aimless.”

Colin Donovan looked ready to jump off the rocks, Sister Cecilia’s introspection obviously sorely testing his attention span. Emma, on the other hand, understood the struggles the young novice was facing. “Sister,” she said, keeping her tone firm but neutral, “have you told the police everything you know about what happened yesterday?”

“I answered all of their questions.”

Colin raised his eyebrows at her careful response, but Emma continued before he could barrel in. “That’s good, but you want to be sure you haven’t left anything out. If there’s something on your mind, now’s the time to speak up.”

Sister Cecilia shivered, running her slender fingers over the needles of the gnarled juniper. “Boats were riding out the bad weather in the cove below the meditation garden, but it was so foggy, who would have seen anything? Who would even be looking? I’d be huddled in a cabin staying warm. Anyway, for all we know, the person I saw could have been hiding for hours right here among the rocks.”

“Do you think the attack on Sister Joan was premeditated?” Colin asked.

“I don’t think what happened yesterday was a spontaneous, opportunistic act. I certainly don’t think she fell down the stairs and hit her head.” The young novice frowned suddenly, as if just tuning into Colin’s presence. “Are you a police officer?”

He held up a foot, the ends of his jeans dripping. “Got a towel around here anywhere?”

“In the retreat hall.” She waved a hand vaguely back toward the main convent grounds. “It’s not far.”

“Thanks. Lead the way, ma’am.”

Emma didn’t think Colin Donovan needed a towel or anything else, but Sister Cecilia blushed, obviously taken in by him. “Please, you can just call me Sister Cecilia. I’m a novice here.” She bit her lower lip. “Unless I’m asked to leave.”

Colin started past the spruce tree. “Why would you be asked to leave?”

“Mother Natalie wants me to seek counseling after—after yesterday. I don’t think that’s a very good sign, do you?”

“I think she’d recommend counseling for any sister who witnessed what you did.” Emma stayed focused on the young novice, even as she was aware of Colin watching both of them. “Is there another reason—?”

“No, no, I’m just being silly,” Sister Cecilia blurted. “I profess my final vows in a few weeks. Novices do so much thinking, questioning. It’s all good, but it’s not always easy. Yesterday felt like a sign from God that I don’t belong here. Yet that seems so self-absorbed, doesn’t it? What happened isn’t about me.”

“What do you want to do?” Emma asked her.

Sister Cecilia stiffened visibly. “I want to find whoever killed Sister Joan, and I want to make sure no one else gets hurt.” She fixed her gaze on the horizon. “I want to feel safe again.”

“Let’s get that towel,” Colin said.

She seemed almost to smile at his comment and turned to Emma. “We’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll meet you back here—”

“She’s coming with us,” Colin said easily. “Agent Sharpe’s not about to let me wander around here on my own.”