Saint's Gate

by Carla Neggers

  Sister Cecilia had been transported by ambulance to the hospital, then treated and released into the care of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. She was eager to get back to work on the biography of Mother Sarah Jane Linden. As they’d waited for the ambulance to arrive, Sister Cecilia, bloody and in pain, had asked Emma if she could interview her grandfather about his friendship with Mother Linden.

  Colin watched Emma stare out at the water, quiet and a dark purplish-blue in the fading light. “Gabe was looking for Sunniva when he searched the attic, but he also wanted information on the Rembrandt and any other valuable art his family had owned.

  He broke into my grandfather’s Dublin office for information. He might have wanted to get closer to his mother with his little scheme, but he especially wanted to get his hands on a genuine masterpiece.”

  “He stole the Dürer etching because his family once owned it and he felt entitled to it.”

  “And because he liked stealing,” Emma said.

  When Sister Joan discovered the Jack d’Auberville painting of Mother Linden’s statue of Saint Francis tucked away in the convent, she could have run across the painting Claire Grayson had given the sisters. Then Ainsley d’Auberville dropped off The Garden Gallery to be cleaned, and Sister Joan recognized the dead woman in the cave as the same woman in the painting in storage and started putting two-and-two together, or at least asking questions—and calling Emma Sharpe, an FBI agent, a former nun and a friend.

  “Gabe was brazen,” Colin said.

  Emma nodded. “Yes, he was.” She pointed at the rocky, jagged section of coast where the Sisters of the Joyful Heart lived and worked. “Imagine sneaking up here in the fog and killing a nun, then making off with a stretched canvas.”

  When the police finally searched Gabe Campbell Grayson’s property, they’d discovered a small motorboat pulled up onshore that he must have used that day. Ainsley claimed she didn’t know he could operate such a boat never mind owned one.

  Colin stood, wanting to put his arms around Emma but resisting. After the events of the past few days, part of her was Sister Brigid again. She had to figure that out.

  Maybe so did he.

  Mother Natalie joined them. She looked drawn and tired, but also peaceful—as if she’d reconnected with a deep sense of purpose that gave her strength and comfort. She turned to Emma. “Vespers starts in a few minutes. I hope you’ll join us.” She smiled. “As a friend.”

  “I will,” Emma said.

  The Mother Superior withdrew, and Colin cleared his throat. “I think I’ll scoot.”

  Emma surprised him by reaching for his hand. “Later,” she said.

  So much for Sister Brigid. He winked at her. “Damn straight, sweetheart.”

  Colin drove to the d’Auberville place and pulled in behind Finian Bracken’s BMW. On his way down the winding road from the convent, he’d received a terse text message from the priest telling him to meet him there.

  Moral support, Colin figured as he headed into the house, not bothering to knock. Every light in the place seemed to be on. He called a greeting but saw Bracken and Ainsley in the seating area by her artistic mishmash of a wall. She was alone, with no family or friends—just Father Bracken. She’d changed into another outfit, another long sweater and slim pants, as if that would help her exorcise Gabriel Campbell Grayson from her life.

  She acknowledged Colin with a quick flick of her fingers. “I keep asking myself how many times he said he was working on a project in Rhode Island but really was in London—or who knows where—stealing art and assaulting people. The police are checking. His passport is in his legal name, Gabriel Grayson.”

  Bracken didn’t interrupt her. Neither did Colin, but he wasn’t as patient a listener.

  “I don’t know if I’d have recognized the room he was re-creating as the same room as in my father’s painting,” Ainsley said. “I’d have needed the artwork depicted in The Garden Gallery to make the connection, for sure. Maybe he planned to dump me before I ever moved in there. Or kill me.” She fixed her gaze on Bracken. “I don’t know how I could have been so wrong about him.”

  Colin wondered if vespers had ended and if Emma was on her way. He felt bad for Ainsley d’Auberville, but she’d be fine. She was resilient, driven and positive, and she had a wide circle of family and friends willing to help her get through her ordeal.

  “Gabe had to have The Garden Gallery,” she said when Bracken didn’t respond. “He wanted it because it showed his mother’s gallery and what pieces she’d brought to Maine, and it confirmed she’d had the Rembrandt here with her. But he also didn’t want me to see it. I don’t know what he planned to do to keep it from me. Destroy it, maybe. The minute I saw any of the artwork that he’d collected—that he stole—I’d know the truth.”

  “He also stole pieces that had nothing to do with his mother’s family collection,” Colin said.

  “He liked stealing. And hurting people.” Ainsley’s cheeks were flushed with emotion. “Gabe wasn’t always violent. The police say he used a variety of methods in his thefts, which made it harder to realize they were related, done by just one person.”

  Colin noticed how she didn’t seem to consider him “the police.” Not a bad thing, maybe. He wasn’t there as a federal agent. He was there as Finian Bracken’s friend.

  Bracken shifted on the chair, not sitting too close to Ainsley. “You and Gabe met here in Maine. He wanted to rebuild his family home, and he was looking for clues to his mother’s collection and the Rembrandt.”

  “I don’t think he ever expected that I’d find the painting of his mother’s gallery, though.” She bit back tears. “I don’t know if I want to keep this place. The history, having the house he was building right next door—it’s all unsettling.”

  “His house will be sold now that he’s gone, certainly,” Bracken said. “It’s a beautiful place. Surely someone will want to turn it into a loving home.”

  Ainsley brightened almost immediately. “I can burn incense in here. They say sandalwood in particular is good for restoring positive chi.”

  Bracken smiled. “I know nothing of chi, but I’m all for incense.”

  Some of Ainsley’s natural spirit sparked. “I can’t wait to show you the Viking cup I found. The police have it right now, but, oh, my. It’s amazing. Now I’m sure it’s the real deal. I thought it was just another piece of junk my father left here. It was holding paintbrushes.” She jumped up with excitement. “I can’t wait to learn more about the Viking hoard we think it was part of.”

  She wanted to show them a map of England and pinpoint where the hoard was discovered but, mercifully, Colin thought, Ainsley’s family arrived. They didn’t want her to be alone tonight.

  Bracken walked out with Colin, the stars out now, sparkling in the night sky. “It’s been a long day,” Bracken said, opening the door to his BMW. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Fin, let me know if you want to talk over a glass of whiskey.”

  “A taoscán of whiskey, yes. Talk, no. Tomorrow, my friend.”

  When Colin arrived back at his house in Rock Point, he found a bottle of Bracken 15 year old on his kitchen table. It had a short note with it: “Remember—no ice.”

  He smiled as he collected two glasses and carried them and the whiskey upstairs.

  Emma wasn’t in the tub this time. She was in his bed.

  42

  FINIAN BRACKEN SAT AT HIS TABLE AT HURLEY’S AND poured his first glass of whiskey since the ordeal, his ubiquitous glass of water next to him. It had been three days, and the Donovan brothers were telling stories. Boats, bombs, lobsters and three beautiful women in danger—an innocent young nun, a troubled artist and a smart FBI agent ready for love in her life.

  Donovan heaven, Finian thought with a smile.

  Ainsley d’Auberville had decided to return to Florida with her family and work on her painting and her issues with intimacy. She’d let things quiet down in Maine before she resumed putting together the
show of her and her father’s work. But she would return. She was a strong, engaging, resilient young woman. Whatever Jack d’Auberville’s role in Claire Grayson’s life, he hadn’t been dishonest, and he’d seemed only to be trying to help an unhappy woman. Ainsley, given her outlook on life, had decided they’d never had an affair. “Claire wanted to be a nun,” she’d said, as if that sealed it.

  Sister Cecilia would be making her final vows in November. Finian had been invited to participate in the ceremony. He looked forward to it. Emma Sharpe would be there, too.

  Finian took a moment to savor the aroma of the whiskey as Colin sat across from him. His three brothers were on their feet, drinking an appallingly awful whiskey—they said they didn’t want to take advantage of Finian’s generosity but he thought they genuinely liked the stuff. Which was fine, really, he told himself. He didn’t want to be a snob. Colin had abstained.

  Finian sipped his Bracken whiskey.

  “That’s almost too good to drink near my brothers,” Colin said with amusement.

  “To each his own,” Finian said.

  His friend’s eyes settled on him in such a way that Finian remembered that Colin Donovan was a federal agent and a dangerous man.

  “You okay, Fin?”

  “Well, I don’t know, Colin. I’m trying to figure out if I should find a way to be out of town for the Saint Patrick’s Church annual baked-bean supper. We have baked beans in Ireland, but this is a bean-hole supper. It sounds frightening.”

  “Best baked beans you’ll ever eat.”

  “Emma says she’ll bring an apple pie. I think she’s serious.”

  “She’s like that.”

  “You must visit Ireland when you’re not chasing villains. We’ll hike Kerry Way and find ruins and rainbows, and I’ll give you a tour of the distillery.” Finian looked out at the harbor, glasslike in the gray light. “You live in a beautiful part of the world, my friend.”

  “When I’m here, Fin.”

  Finian detected a change of tone and turned back to his friend. “You have more villains to catch.”

  Colin said nothing.

  “Emma Sharpe does, too,” Finian added, watching the man across from him.

  “Not the same ones.” Colin’s gaze shifted to the bottle of whiskey, as if he didn’t want to meet Finian’s eye. “A man I arrested a few weeks ago is talking.”

  “Leading you to more bad guys?”

  “Ones who are planning serious violence. I can stop them. I know how.”

  His tone was matter-of-fact, objective and professional. He wasn’t a man who bragged about his skills, or his work. Finian drank more of his whiskey. “No one would blame you if you decided to stay here and catch lobsters and repair your roof. Am I right?”

  Colin looked up, and it was as if Finian hadn’t spoken. “Your family, Fin. What happened?”

  He set his glass on the table. “I should have been there. We were sailing up the coast on holiday, but an important business matter came up and I let Sally and the girls go on without me. I would join them the next day. For a long time I believed they’d be alive if I gone with them. More likely, I’d be dead, too.”

  “Maybe in the end they were comforted knowing you weren’t with them.”

  “Maybe so, but in a way, I was there, Colin, and have been ever since.” Finian looked across the rustic restaurant as the Donovan brothers laughed and joked with one another. “I’m alone in this world, Colin, but you’re not.”

  “You’re not alone, either, Fin. You have a brother and sisters and nieces and nephews and friends in Ireland, and you’re a man of faith.”

  “My wife and daughters are with God. You know I believe that, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “My call to the priesthood wasn’t a fiction.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “I’ll miss them every day of my life. Every day, my friend.”

  Finian splashed whiskey into a glass and passed it over to Colin, then raised his own glass. “Sláinte.”

  Colin raised his glass. “Sláinte.”

  43

  MATT YANKOWSKI JOINED EMMA ON HER BACK porch. She was painting another scene of the docks. “I tossed the other one I was working on,” she said. “I couldn’t look at the boat without thinking seagull.”

  “Some things you just can’t fix.”

  She pointed her paintbrush at her current project. “This is a lobster boat.”

  “Uh-huh. Yeah. I knew that. I like lobster boats. They’re classic coastal Maine. I just don’t want to ride in one.” He sat on the balustrade, the docks behind him quiet so late on a cold autumn afternoon. “Is Colin Donovan the sort of man you used to dream about as a nun?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, hell.” Yank groaned. “You two are serious? I thought he was another of your whims. He’s not a lobsterman, and he doesn’t know anything about art.”

  “Neither do you, and we’re friends.”

  “We’re not that kind of friends.”

  Emma set down her paintbrush. “Everyone else in my life knows art. He’s refreshing.”

  Yank frowned as she stood back from her work in progress. “Colin can probably paint at least as well as you.”

  She laughed, then looked at him seriously. “Yank, I’m not making a mistake.”

  “He’s not going to change. You know that, right?”

  “I wouldn’t want him to.”

  “That’s easy to say now when he’s kayaking and picking apples with you in Maine. That won’t always be the case. What’ll you do if he disappears for a few months?”

  Emma had a feeling they weren’t just talking about her. “I like what I’m doing with the team. I’m looking forward to being closer to Heron’s Cove. I’ll be fine. Sometimes the work has to come first, Yank. I know that.”

  “Yeah. So you say.” Yank stood. “Colin’s always gone his own way. So have you. You both need space. I guess you’ll see what happens. He’s not easy, but you know that.” He paused. “Do I smell applesauce?”

  “A pie,” she said.

  He grinned. “Even better. Did you pick the apples yourself?”

  She smiled back at him. “Colin and I did.”

  Emma arrived late at Hurley’s. The Donovan brothers and Father Bracken were in the midst of a friendly, if heated, discussion on the art and science of whiskey distillation and the merits of various types of whiskey. Finian Bracken, of course, knew what he was talking about, but she’d already come to realize that a Donovan didn’t necessarily allow lack of knowledge to get in the way of a good argument. She liked that about them. They weren’t tentative, but they also didn’t mind being wrong—at least about the ins and outs of distilling whiskey. About lobstering, boats, law enforcement work and people—they hated being wrong, and seldom were.

  As she approached their table, she noticed Colin’s gaze slide over her and she immediately reacted and was grateful for the dim light in the place. No one could see the heat rushing to her face or the slight wobble in her knees.

  “We’ll do a taste test,” Father Bracken said, “and you can decide what you like.”

  “I like them all,” Mike Donovan, down from the north of Maine, said.

  “In moderation, of course,” Bracken added, as he always did.

  Colin was on his feet and slipped an arm around Emma’s waist. He led her outside, down to the docks. She touched a finger to his lips. “Me first,” she said. “Vladimir Bulgov is talking. He’s a major player but not the only one.”

  “Emma…”

  “You have to go back.”

  He didn’t argue with her, and she thought she could see his relief that she understood what he had to do. He nodded toward Hurley’s. They could hear the laughter of the Donovan brothers and Rock Point’s Irish priest. “You won’t be alone.”

  “Neither will you,” she said.

  He grimaced but there was a spark in his gray eyes. “Yank’s putting me on his team and making himself my cont
act agent. He’s turning me into one of his ghosts. It’s that or let him stick me at a desk for real.”

  “You two,” Emma said with amusement, but she took Colin’s hand and lifted it to her lips, kissing his fingers. Then she held on to him as she raised her mouth to his and kissed him softly. “I can handle loving you, Colin. And I do love you.”

  “Emma. Ah, Emma.” His voice was low, hoarse, as he kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be back.”

  She walked up to Hurley’s alone. Father Bracken and Mike, Andy and Kevin Donovan were taste-testing Bracken 15 year old and what she suspected was a very expensive single-malt Scotch.

  They all insisted she join them. “I don’t even like whiskey all that much,” she said as she sat at their table.

  Father Bracken pushed a glass toward her. “You’ll notice the complexity of flavors.”

  She didn’t tell him she would notice nothing of the sort.

  As the taste test got under way, he explained that in his research on various break-ins and art crimes, he had come across a manor house in Dublin with a long, complicated history that included multiple art thefts over the past half century.

  He thought Emma would be fascinated.

  She was, and she listened to him as she watched the sun set on the harbor. No one was on the docks.

  Colin was gone.

  “There’s nothing a Sharpe likes more than an unsolved art crime,” Father Bracken said, and poured a little of his rare and dear Bracken single-malt Irish whiskey.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Researching this book was both fascinating and fun. I wish to thank my friend Sarah Gallick, author of The Big Book of Women Saints, for her help and insights on saints and convent life, and for recommending such invaluable books as Saints in Art by Rosa Giorgi and Saints and Their Symbols by Fernando and Gioia Lanz. I also consulted many excellent websites and wandered through museums with a new appreciation and perspective on the art.

  For sharing his expertise on whiskey and the southwest Irish coast, I wish to thank my friend John Moriarty. Kenmare is, of course, a real village, and the Park Hotel, Reenagross Park, the burial ground, the ruins of St. Finian’s church and St. Finian’s Holy Well are all places I’ve visited. I’ve hiked the Old Kenmare Road many times. My husband and I can’t wait to join John for another trek soon!