“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 noti
ced 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.
How many hours had she spent in here as a little girl, watching her grandfather work, listening to him talk about art and art thefts?
He’d solved his first big case here, a stunning theft of three Claude Monet paintings from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
She and Lucas had grown up around the business. Only when chronic pain from a freak fall on the ice had become debilitating had her father stepped away.
By then, Emma had been on Yank’s radar.
Colin Donovan appeared in the office doorway. Emma hadn’t heard a sound. He had on a black jacket and held a nine-millimeter pistol in his hand. He put a finger to his lips. “Easy, sweetheart. I’m on your side, remember.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Same as you.”
Not quite, she thought. “What’s going on?”
“Storm door out front’s broken.” He spoke quietly, everything about him intense but very steady. “Someone’s been in here.”
She nodded her understanding, drawing her own Sig from the holster on her hip. “Are you trying to cover for searching the place yourself?”
“No. If I’d been in here, you’d never know it.”
“Your priest friend?”
“Not a chance. He said Ainsley d’Auberville didn’t make it inside.”
“That’s what she told him. As you can see, there’s nothing here. And nothing’s missing. I was just in the kitchen. It’s fine.”
“Upstairs?”
“Empty, but there are old files in the attic.” She paused, thinking. “And there’s a vault.”
“Let’s have a look,” Colin said. “I’ll go first.”
It didn’t occur to Emma to argue with him.
14
THERE WAS NO SIGN OF AN INTRUDER IN THE cleared-out bedrooms and bathrooms on the second floor. Emma pointed to the open door to the attic. “Normally it’s shut, but I haven’t been up here in ages. My brother could have—”
Colin didn’t let her finish. “Stay behind me.”
He started up the steep stairs. The attic had low, slanted ceilings with a solitary window letting in the afternoon sun through a thick layer of dust. Sheets covered old furniture, and boxes were stacked everywhere. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed in years.
Colin edged over to a freestanding vault as tall as he was, its heavy metal door half open. “What’s in here?”
Emma stood next to him. “Archives. Nothing of substantial value. The conditions are good for storage. Humidity and temperature are fairly steady.”
“Why’s the door open?”
“We don’t keep it locked but it should be shut tight.” She swung the vault door open wider, stopping abruptly when she saw the mess inside—boxes upended, files strewn on the floor, old canvases shoved aside. “Someone’s been in here—”
“Hold on.” Colin touched her arm. “Don’t move.”
She followed his gaze to a small explosive device just inside the vault, a few inches from the toe of her boot. She took in the blasting cap, wires and ticking clock.
“Colin…”
“Yeah. It’s a bomb.”
He hadn’t moved. Emma, hardly breathing, forced herself to remain still. “I’ll call for a bomb squad,” she said. “My phone’s downstairs—”
“We don’t need a bomb squad.”
Without any warning, Colin snatched a utility knife from a coffee can on the floor of the vault, then knelt down and, in one swift move, cut a wire on the obviously homemade device. He winked up at her. “Done.”
“Show-off.”
He stood. “It’s crude. My guess is it was put here in a hurry.”
Emma tried not to let him see that her hands were trembling as she backed away from the vault.
Colin got on his phone and spoke to the police.
“You were a state trooper?” she asked when he finished.
“Marine patrol.” He slipped his phone into his jacket pocket and smiled at her. “I like boats. Let’s wait outside. I doubt there are more devices in here, but just in case.”
“This one was timed to go off—”
“Midnight.” He tilted his head back, his dark eyes on her. “You don’t need me to carry you down the stairs, do you?”
“No.”
He grinned. “Didn’t think so. I heard you jumped a fence yesterday.”
“I climbed over a fence. I keep telling people. Wonder Woman jumps. I climb.”
He glanced back at the vault. “Will you know if anything is missing?”
“Maybe. I doubt there’s a formal inventory of the contents.” She steadied herself, wishing now she’d eaten more of Ainsley d’Auberville’s apple muffin. “Placing the bomb up here in the attic means it was probably intended to distract and divert attention rather than to hurt anyone.”
“Or to destroy evidence.” Colin nodded to the stairs. “This time
you go first.”
Emma had holstered her weapon. Warm now, her heart skidding along rapidly, she felt him standing close to her, steady, watchful. Definitely a high-testosterone type. “Defusing bombs with a rusted utility knife and your fingernails. Honestly.”
“It wasn’t much of a bomb. You don’t do bombs as an art detective?” He brushed a few strands of hair off her face and tucked them behind her ear. “You don’t want hair in your eyes walking down steep stairs. Any ghosts up here?”
“I used to think so,” she said. “I’m not afraid to be here alone if that’s what you’re getting at.”
He stayed very close. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you, Agent Sharpe?”
“Bombs,” she said with a small smile.
“What about the prospect that your family might have done something wrong in the past that will come back to haunt you?” He found another few strands of hair to tuck behind her other ear. “I think you’re afraid that this mess yesterday is going to bite the Sharpes in the ass.”
“It already has, because I was with Sister Joan yesterday and couldn’t save her.”
In no apparent hurry to get out of there, he traced a fingertip along her lower lip, and when she took a quick breath and didn’t throw him down the stairs or go for her gun, he kissed her, a soft, inevitable kiss that unraveled her composure. Her heart was racing now, every part of her shaking, unsteady. She found herself grabbing his upper arm, clutching the sturdy fabric of his coat. She felt his tensed muscles. She was cerebral more than physical, analytical, a planner—not an agent who leaped tall fences to help a nun in trouble or cut wires to defuse an explosive device.
“Emma,” Colin said quietly. “The bomb didn’t go off. We found it.”
“I’d never have—”
“You’d have seen the broken window in the storm door. I just saw it first.”
She still could feel his mouth on hers and the effects of even a brief kiss. She gripped his arm again. The reality of his hard muscles brought her up short, and she jumped back.
He dropped his arm to her waist. “Easy. You don’t want to fall down the stairs.”
“I wasn’t going to fall.”
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