Saint's Gate

by Carla Neggers

  That didn’t mean she wasn’t trouble. “Is she in danger, Yank?”

  “A bomb in my attic would have me thinking I’m in a little danger. You, maybe not.” Yank stopped at a corner as the water came into view. “Maybe this is a test. For Emma. Me. The team.”

  A pickup truck rattled past them. Colin realized he’d let himself get drawn into Emma’s problems, first by Bracken, then by Yank.

  He followed Yank across the street to Hurley’s, the tide washing in under its floorboards. The restaurant was filling up with early diners. Father Bracken, still in Ireland, wouldn’t be at his table in the back.

  The water was a grayish-blue in the fading afternoon light. “I never should have asked you to keep an eye on Emma,” Yank said. “We’re in a major shit-storm if your cover unravels.”

  “It won’t, and let me worry about that.”

  “Sometimes you know exactly what you’re getting into and who you’re after, how they think, what they want. Not this time. Who the hell would sneak into a convent on a foggy morning and kill a nun?” Yank stared out at the docks, most of the working boats in for the night. “How is this d’Auberville painting—The Garden Gallery—worth stealing, never mind killing anyone over?”

  “Maybe the artwork it depicts is worth stealing,” Colin said.

  “Claire Grayson’s painting of this saint in the cave isn’t worth anything. Why would any of the other artwork be valuable? What are the odds?”

  “I don’t know, Yank.”

  They continued down to the water’s edge, a mix of polished stones, sand and seaweed. “This might not be about money. It could be about secrets. Revenge, jealousy, reputation. Who’s got something to hide?” Yank squatted down in his neat suit and scooped a thread of floating seaweed. “Slimy, isn’t it?” He stood, casting the seaweed back into the water. “Who knows where I’d be now if I’d gone to Colorado that weekend instead of coming up here. I like the Rockies. You’d still be working undercover, but you’d be driving someone else crazy.”

  Colin let him talk. He wondered if that was why Yank had come to Rock Point.

  “Instead, I had to come up here myself to check out a hotshot agent who’d volunteered for a deep-cover assignment. I nearly drowned on that damn boat ride with you, and I end up meeting Emma Sharpe.”

  “You weren’t even close to drowning.”

  “I almost barfed.”

  “See? You did fine.” Colin watched the Julianne roll in a swell in the harbor. “You and Emma—”

  “Nothing between us. Ever.”

  “Because you met her as Sister Brigid?”

  “Because I had a woman in my life. She’s now my wife.” Yank winced as if in pain, then turned from the water. “I’m on my way to a meeting with Maine CID. We have to find this killer, Colin. Soon.”

  After seeing Yank off, Colin walked to the quiet side street where Saint Patrick’s Church and rectory were located and saw that he hadn’t, in fact, made a mistake. The car that had blown past him as he’d started back up from the harbor belonged to Ainsley d’Auberville. It was now parked crookedly in front of the rectory.

  Ainsley was on the walk, pacing, her hair as golden as the autumn sunset. She whirled around at Colin. “Where’s Father Bracken?”

  “I don’t know,” Colin said truthfully.

  “He’s not at the church.” She sounded impatient, faintly annoyed.

  “What do you want with him?”

  She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “I wanted to ask him if he’d marry Gabe and me. Probably not, since we’re not Catholic.”

  It struck Colin as a made-up excuse to see Bracken, but he said nothing.

  Ainsley raked her fingers through her long curls. “I took off yesterday. Ran away, really. I drove up to Mount Desert Island. Acadia National Park. I have a commission from a television personality who has a house in Northeast Harbor. It’s a gorgeous place. I’m painting her garden.”

  “So you managed to escape and still get work done.”

  “I like to think I’m following in my father’s footsteps. He got his start with commissions from owners of some of the big summer cottages. I’d love to get my hands on some of these paintings for my show. Most of the cottages—mansions, really—were destroyed in the 1947 fires. Something like a third of the island burned, did you know? I guess there are still signs now, but I couldn’t tell.” Ainsley looked at Colin with sudden focus. “Do you think The Garden Gallery could be from one of the houses that burned then?”

  She seemed unaware of any possible connection between her father’s missing painting and Claire Peck Grayson, the woman who’d once owned the building that became Jack d’Auberville’s studio and died when her house burned with her inside.

  “You saw it,” Colin said, watching Ainsley for her reaction. “What do you think?”

  “I wish I’d studied it more closely. I figured I’d do that after I had it cleaned. Maybe whoever commissioned it didn’t want it anymore. I might not want a painting of my beautiful Mount Desert Island house and garden if I lost them to a fire. The memories might be too painful.” Ainsley rushed on, barely aware of Colin’s presence. “I ran across one of my father’s old ledgers. Of course it’s incomplete. He kept terrible records. I didn’t find any mention of The Garden Gallery, any hint of who might have commissioned it.”

  “Maybe he painted it as a favor to a friend.”

  “It’s such a mystery, isn’t it? I keep thinking if only we knew more about it, we could figure out who stole it.” She looked up at him, the gold flecks in her eyes the same color as her hair. “You’re not a lobsterman, are you?”

  “FBI,” Colin said.

  “You’re from here in Rock Point?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you ever consider becoming a lobsterman?”

  “I was one for a while. It’s hard, dangerous work.”

  She tilted her head back and smiled, less agitated. “Harder and more dangerous than being an FBI agent?”

  He grinned. “Most days.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him. “I heard you were with Emma Sharpe when she discovered the bomb. Was it scary?”

  Colin had no intention of answering her. “If you’re concerned for your safety—”

  “I’m not. I have my personal Viking, remember? I’m not worried, really. Gabe isn’t, either. If this killer wanted anything from me, I’d know it by now, I’m sure.” Her engaging, flirtatious mood seemed to drain out of her. “The stress of all this is getting to me. Will you tell Father Bracken I stopped by?”

  “Sure. Looks like Bono, doesn’t he?”

  “He does!” Ainsley laughed, even as her dark lashes glistened with tears. She sniffled, smiling. “It feels good to laugh. That’s what you intended, I know. I’ve been debating whether to attend Sister Joan’s memorial service. The funeral is private, but the service will be open. It’s to be a celebration of her life.”

  “Do you know any of the other sisters?”

  “Not really, no. Gabe’s done some painting jobs at the convent. I’d love to paint Mother Linden’s meditation garden, but they say it’s private. Nuns only, and I’m definitely not a nun.”

  She glided to her car and drove off as people started arriving at the church next door for choir practice or a meeting. Both of Saint Patrick’s priests were in Ireland now, but Colin figured Bracken would be back soon. He recognized his fourth-grade teacher and imagined all the things she could tell good Father Bracken about her former pupil.

  He headed back to his house and found Kevin in his kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator. “This is pathetic.” He grabbed two beers and give Colin one. “Beer and horseradish cheese dip. That’s it.”

  “The beer and dip go with the crackers,” Colin said, pointing to a box of Stonewall Kitchen crackers on the counter.

  Kevin shook his head. “You’re a train wreck, brother.”

  “I showered and changed clothes after my flight.”

  “It’s in
your eyes.” Kevin drank some of his beer. “Where’s Agent Sharpe?”

  “Boston.”

  “You’ve been liberated from keeping an eye on her? Don’t deny it’s what you’ve been doing. Are you and Yankowski sure she isn’t covering up past Sharpe crimes?”

  Colin uncapped his beer. “I’m not sure of anything.”

  “What about the brother? Lucas. He’s got a lot of money tied up in renovating the Sharpe place in Heron’s Cove. He also bought a place of his own that needs a ton of work. If he’s under financial pressure—”

  “How does killing a nun and stealing one painting of modest value and another of no value relieve any financial pressure?” Colin held up a hand. “Never mind. Don’t answer. I’m not on this investigation.”

  “It won’t be good for you or Yankowski if the Sharpes turn out to be mixed up in Sister Fabriani’s murder in any way, shape or form.”

  Kevin was a master of understatement. Colin changed the subject. “Do you have anything new?”

  “CID looked into Claire Grayson’s death. It was an electrical fire that burned down her house. It started in the walls. She was overcome with smoke and collapsed. The fire spread….” Kevin grimaced, leaning against the sink. “Firefighters found her body in an upstairs bedroom. They weren’t able to get there in time to save her or the house.”

  “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 ov
erlooked 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?”