Saint's Gate

by Carla Neggers

  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.”

  9

  THE RETREAT HALL WAS NEWER THAN THE REST OF the convent buildings but fit in with the former late-nineteenth-century estate. It had a cheerful, welcoming feel, but Colin had no desire ever to spend a weekend learning how to unlock his creative muse or how to preserve family art treasures—the sort of workshops the Sisters of the Joyful Heart offered on their retreats with laypeople. They also offered professional retreats to educators and conservators. Always—naturally, since it was a convent—there was time for prayer, contemplation and religious study.

  “The meeting rooms are all on the first floor,” Sister Cecilia explained as she led her two guests into a large, open room. “Living quarters are upstairs. They’re simple but comfortable. Of course, the views are spectacular.”

  “Any retreats coming up?” Colin asked.

  “We have a small group of college art majors arriving next weekend, unless they cancel, given what happened yesterday. We’d like to offer more off-season retreats, but that depends on demand and costs. Right now we shut down the retreat hall during winter. Heat, hot water, electricity all would have to be paid for.”

  “Who shovels the walks during the winter?” Colin asked.

  Sister Cecilia smiled. “We do.”

  He smiled back at her. “Good for you.”

  Emma Sharpe eased past them to a seating area in front of a brick fireplace. She didn’t believe he’d accidentally slammed into the rocks, but he hadn’t expected her to. His escapade wasn’t about interfering in the homicide investigation or even sneaking into the convent. It was about her.

  She pointed to an attractive oil painting above the mantel of a wrought-iron gate, flowers and a stone statue of Saint Francis of Assisi. “When was this moved here?”

  Sister Cecilia seemed to go weak at the knees at Emma’s question. “I don�
�t know exactly. Recently. Sister Joan found it in storage in the tower and cleaned it herself. We all agreed it belonged here.”

  “It’s a Jack d’Auberville painting,” Emma said. “Are you familiar with his work?”

  “I just know that he was a local artist.”

  “He’s been dead for thirty years. The statue is Mother Linden’s work.” Emma glanced back at the young novice. “But you know that, right, since you’re writing her biography?”

  Sister Cecilia nodded, but she looked on the verge of hyperventilating. “The statue’s one of her few works in stone.”

  “The tail feathers of the bird Saint Francis is holding are missing now. They’re still there in the painting.”

  “Mother Linden wanted her work to age naturally. Expert conservators know that art changes over time and some signs of aging should be left alone.” Sister Cecilia waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m not an expert, though.”

  “D’Auberville must have done this painting early in his career,” Emma said.

  “Sister Joan estimated it was about ten years after the order moved here. He donated the painting to the convent.” Sister Cecilia bolted for a project table on a side wall and retrieved a small towel from a basket, handing it to Colin.

  He smiled. “Thanks.”

  “Help yourself to as many towels as you need, Mr. Donovan.”

  “Call me Colin,” he said with a wink.

  She took in a breath. “Of course.”

  He thought Emma might have rolled her eyes. She moved back from the fireplace. He noticed the curve of her hips under her leather jacket. She wore a close-fitting sweater in a green a couple of tones darker than her eyes. She was in good shape, but she’d have to be to work for Matt Yankowski, even at a desk.

  Colin made a stab at drying off the ends of his jeans, but he wasn’t worried about being wet. He glanced around the bright room, sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a courtyard. “You all specialize in art, right? What’s your area of expertise, Sister?”

  “Art education and creative rejuvenation,” she said.

  “Religious art?”

  She shook her head. “Not exclusively, no.”

  “Was Sister Joan involved in retreats?”

  “She was our expert in conservation and restoration. We have a long history and excellent reputation in that area. We take in artwork from abbeys, churches, schools and other institutions and advise owners on how to protect and safely transport their works. Sister Joan did most of the hands-on work. She seldom left the convent grounds.”

  Colin tossed the towel into a basket by the table. According to what he’d learned last night from his brother in the Maine marine patrol, Sister Cecilia had witnessed a figure running near the tower yesterday and had been with Emma Sharpe when she discovered Sister Joan’s body. That’d rattle anyone, but Sister Cecilia was more than rattled. She was hiding something, and he suspected Agent Sharpe knew it.

  “Have a seat, Sister,” Emma said, still by the fireplace.

  Sister Cecilia faked a smile. “I’d prefer to stand, thanks.” She walked over to the windows and looked out at the courtyard, shaded by an apple tree. “Sister Joan loved her work. She spent many hours alone. She appreciated solitude, but she wasn’t antisocial. She couldn’t be and live here, according to the teachings and example of Mother Linden.”

  Emma approached the windows. “But you two didn’t always get along.”

  “I don’t know any two people who always get along. That’s not how life works.” Sister Cecilia spoke quietly, wrapping her arms around herself as if she were cold. “It feels so lonely here right now. The police were at the tower late into the night. I could see the lights through the trees from my bedroom window. I couldn’t sleep. I kept picturing Sister Joan lying in the entry. I kept trying to put a face to the figure I saw running….” She blushed again at Colin and quickly looked out the window.

  Colin was aware of the effect he was having on Sister Cecilia. He could see that Emma Sharpe was, too. She glanced at him, her dark green eyes unreadable, then turned to the novice. “Mother Natalie mentioned that Sister Joan recently cleaned several Jack d’Auberville paintings.”

  Sister Cecilia paled visibly. “Mother Natalie told you that?”

  Emma nodded. “Do you know Ainsley d’Auberville, his daughter?”

  “No—no, we’ve never met.”

  Colin slouched against the edge of the project table, his arms crossed in front of him as the FBI agent and the nun talked. He had time before the tide would be high enough for his boat to be in danger of drifting off into the Atlantic. He doubted Yank had expected him to slam a boat onto the rocks. It’d probably go on the transgressions list.

  “Did you know she’d dropped off the paintings to be cleaned?” Emma asked.

  “I’d heard. It wasn’t a secret.”

  But from Sister Cecilia’s tone—defensive and frightened more than combative—Colin guessed that something was a secret.

  Emma persisted. “Did you see the paintings?”

  Sister Cecilia shook her head. “No.”

  “Would you recognize Jack d’Auberville’s work?”

  “I don’t know. I teach children. I know a little about local artists but I’m not an expert.”

  “Sister Cecilia,” Emma said, “is there another Jack d’Auberville painting—besides this one here and the ones Sister Joan already cleaned?”

  “I don’t know for certain. I think so.” Sister Cecilia’s voice was almost inaudible. She tucked stray strands of hair into her headband, her fingers shaking. “I don’t know where it came from. I don’t think I was meant to see it. I’d stopped by the tower to say hello to Sister Joan.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday morning, around ten o’clock. I was taking a break from studying and was on my way down on the rocks—to look at the tide pools. Sister Joan was committed to her routines, and I tend not to make a lot of noise when I move. I surprised her.”

  “And you saw a painting?” Emma was very still, her voice quiet, nonthreatening.

  “Yes. Just one. It was leaning against the wall by the stairs in the tower. Sister Joan didn’t want to talk about it. I think she was annoyed that I saw it.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I don’t know.” Sister Cecilia squeezed her eyes shut, as if she wanted to block out everything around her, then opened them again. “I’ve looked everywhere. Last night, after the police left, I slipped out of my room and checked the motherhouse and here and I didn’t find it. I haven’t said anything. I don’t want to mislead anyone. The police have enough to do without me sending them off in the wrong direction.”

  “They have the capacity to follow multiple leads at once,” Emma said. “That’s their job. Don’t worry about misleading them. Can you describe this painting?”

  “I didn’t get a good look at it. I didn’t think it would disappear—”

  “It’s okay, Sister. Just say what you remember.”

  “It’s called The Garden Gallery.”

  “It’s in a frame?”

  Sister Cecilia shook her head. “It’s on stretched canvas, but I saw the name on the top edge, handwritten in black ink. It’s an oil painting of a scene in a large house. Looking at it, I felt as if I were standing in a beautiful summer garden, about to walk through French doors into a gallery room filled with art.”

  “What kind of art?” Colin asked.

  She jumped, startled, and smiled back at him. “I almost forgot you were there. Several paintings are depicted, but one in particular dominates. It’s clearly the focal point.” Sister Cecilia sniffled, visibly calmer. “It’s of a woman deep inside a cave on a small island. She’s young and very beautiful, with long, blond hair. She appears to be asleep. The entrance to the cave is blocked by fallen rock. White light emanates from her body, out through the top of the cave and into the sky and onto the ocean.”

  Emma stepped back from the window. “What is th
e woman wearing?”

  “A white dress and a gold cross.”

  “A saint?”

  “Maybe. I can’t say for certain.”

  Colin could see Sister Cecilia was shivering again, her lips purple, although it wasn’t that cold in the retreat hall. Emma’s questions were getting to her. He eased closer to the novice, the sun angling in through the windows onto her blunt-cut hair. “Cecilia was a saint, wasn’t she?” he asked.

  “Yes—yes, that’s right. Saint Cecilia of Rome. She’s the patron saint of musicians and poets.”

  He kept his tone even, interested. “Are you a musician or poet yourself?”

  “I love to sing. The painting…the woman in the cave…” She struggled to catch her breath. “It’s not Saint Cecilia. She lived in the second century, during a brutal time of Roman persecution of Christians. She was a noblewoman who converted to Christianity.”

  “She didn’t meet a good end, I take it,” Colin said.

  “She was executed after she buried two brothers who themselves had been executed for burying other victims of persecution. She was supposed to be beheaded, but the executioner botched the job. He tried three times, but Roman law didn’t allow a fourth, so she was left to bleed to death.”

  “That’s unpleasant.”

  Color rose high in Sister Cecilia’s pale cheeks. “Her death was terrible but the memory of her life is a joyful one.”

  Emma moved to the sitting area in front of the fireplace. “A sixteenth-century painting by Raphael, The Ecstasy of Saint Cecilia, shows her with a choir of angels. That painting is an example of bad restoration. We know so much more about what to do—and what not to do—than when it was touched up over the years.”

  “I know the painting,” Sister Cecilia said. “Saint Cecilia is holding a small organ.”

  Emma leaned against the arm of a club chair. “That’s how we identify her. The various attributes, symbols and stories of saints and biblical figures tell us who we’re seeing in a painting. Much of Western art involves religious imagery.”

  “You mean like halos and crosses?” Colin asked.