Keeper's Reach (8 page)

“Is that why you invited me here, Oliver? To talk to me about how you hurt Aoife?” Finian tried some of his scone. It was light and simply made, good after the drive from London. He hadn’t expected Oliver to dive straight into such deeply personal matters. “Or did you invite me here so you can reassure yourself that I plan to stay a priest and the way is clear for you to pursue her?”

Oliver laughed, his eyes crinkling with good humor. “Aoife knows far too much about me to allow me into her life. No, Father Bracken, I invited you here to see the farm. I have many acquaintances, but I don’t have many friends. I’m...” He stood abruptly, took in an awkward breath. “I’m trying to change that.”

Finian thought he understood. “Change begins with one step.”

“In my experience, one step can lead you off a cliff. Come. Ruthie will show you to your room. She’ll bring your tea and scones. You can get settled.”

“Who was your last guest, Oliver? Dare I ask?”

He grinned, setting his teacup on a side table. “Wendell Sharpe.”

Finian wasn’t surprised. He had met the octogenarian private art detective, the determined, dedicated founder of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. For a decade, Oliver had been the thief that world-renowned Wendell Sharpe couldn’t catch. Finian didn’t have all the details—nor did he want them—but he doubted Oliver would ever be publicly identified or prosecuted as a serial art thief.

“Did you invite Wendell or did he invite himself?” Finian asked.

“A bit of both. Better to invite Wendell than find him sneaking around in the shrubbery. It’s hard to tear a Sharpe off a theory. I arranged for him to do a talk at Oxford and had him stay here.”

“The talk went well?”

“He was brilliant. He didn’t tell Emma about the visit.”

Finian very much doubted he had, either. “He keeps saying he’s retiring.”

Oliver scoffed. “That will never happen. No Oxford seminar for you, I’m afraid,” he added.

Finian laughed. “Thank goodness.”

“You might want a walk in the countryside while you’re here. There are maps in your room. You don’t suppose you can lay hands on Martin and cure his headache? Pass some sort of miracle? I need him.”

Finian smiled, getting to his feet as he polished off the last of his scone. Oliver clearly knew the liberties he was taking, but he also clearly didn’t care whether he was being offensive, never mind wrong. “I recommend that he see a physician.”

“I
did
recommend it, but he’s stubborn. You’ll see.”

Ruthie appeared with a small tray and loaded up Finian’s tea and remaining scone. After breakfast with Declan and then a business lunch, Finian wasn’t particularly hungry, but good scones were impossible to resist. He kept silent and followed the housekeeper down another hall. The door was open to a guest suite, in its own small wing at the back of the house. It consisted of a small living room, bedroom and private bath, done in soothing neutral colors that invited relaxation. Someone—Ruthie, presumably—had drawn the drapes, filled a water pitcher and small fruit bowl and laid out a bathrobe and slippers.

“Is there anything else you need?” she asked him.

“I can’t think of a thing, thank you.”

After she retreated, shutting the door behind her, Finian went to a window and drew back a heavy drape. It was dark now, and as he looked out at a small stone terrace, contemplating his sanity, he noticed a light from the house shining on a puddle. Having never been to this part of England, he had paid close attention to the scenery on the drive from London. Even in February, the rolling hills and honey-stone villages possessed a beauty and charm that were easy to appreciate.

He felt a pang of nostalgia for South Kerry and its brightly colored villages and stunning natural scenery. Before leaving for London, he and Declan had walked the old road, now part of the Kerry Way walking route, from Killarney to Kenmare, talking about family and whiskey, never mentioning Maine, Finian’s FBI agent friends or Aoife O’Byrne. Most of all, they had steered clear of talk of the priesthood and what Finian would do when Father Callaghan, now on sabbatical, returned to his post in Rock Point.

Sally and the girls had come into the conversation a few times, naturally, with smiles and even laughter at memories of their antics. In years past, Declan would blanch when accidentally speaking their names, as if to do so were a breach of etiquette, if not forbidden then at least an unwelcome reminder of pain and loss.

His dear Sally would have loved this place, Finian thought with a smile.

He pushed opened a glass door and stepped out onto the terrace, welcoming the brisk air and clear evening sky. He could smell the damp ground, the garden dormant now in winter. The York farm struck him as being as contradictory and unpredictable as its owner.

He went back inside, pulling the drapes again. He noticed the painting above the bed, featuring more dogs in a scene of rural nineteenth-century English prosperity. The house—
this
house, Finian thought—was featured in the background. During the time of the painting, his own family in southwest Ireland had struggled to survive famine and eke out a subsistence living.

He poured more tea. Although not yet convinced, he was hopeful this trip to the Cotswolds hadn’t been a bad idea after all.

9

Heron’s Cove,
Maine
Thursday, 5:00 p.m., EST

Emma managed to get out of Boston by midafternoon. In less than two hours, she was in southern Maine. She had anticipated that by now she would be putting work aside and focusing on her mini retreat at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, but instead she found herself at the small shop and art studio they ran on a side street in her hometown of Heron’s Cove. In summer, it would be difficult to find a parking space, but not on a late-February Thursday afternoon.

Sister Cecilia Catherine Rousseau emerged from the studio and greeted Emma in the shop. “Emma!” she said, smiling. She wore a wide white headband, on slightly crooked over her wispy blunt-cut brown hair, and a dove-gray tunic and skirt with dark tights and walking shoes. “I didn’t expect to see you until this evening at the convent.”

“How are you, Sister?”

“I just finished teaching a wild after-school pottery class for fifth and sixth graders. I broke up several clay fights. It must be cabin fever.” She spoke cheerfully, her passion for art education evident. “Did you just get in?”

Emma nodded, fingering a beautiful pottery bowl for sale. She’d never had a knack for pottery, although she’d tried it a few times. Her expertise as a novice had been in the convent’s work in art preservation and conservation. “I’m not staying at the convent tonight,” she said. “I’ll call Mother Superior, but I wanted to let you know myself.”

“Has anything happened? You’re all right, Emma?”

“Nothing’s happened. I’m fine. I’m heading to Colin’s house in Rock Point.”

“And that’s where you need to be right now,” Sister Cecilia said.

Emma touched the ring on her finger. There were times it still felt new, not quite real. “I guess that sums it up. I don’t belong at the convent. I haven’t in a long time. Planning the retreat helped me see that.”

“Mother Superior will understand.”

“I hope canceling won’t cause any trouble.”

“Of course not,” Sister Cecilia said with confidence. “The whole point was
not
to plan anything special, wasn’t it?”

Emma nodded. She’d wanted to experience the life she’d left behind—but driving to Maine, getting closer and closer to walking through the convent gates for her retreat, she had realized that she wouldn’t stay. Not tonight, not ever again. It wasn’t a question of bad timing given Oliver York’s latest news. She always had cases, developments, unfinished work.

“Are we still on for your painting lesson tomorrow?” Sister Cecilia asked.

“Absolutely. I look forward to it.” Emma smiled. She would never be much of a painter, and both she and Sister Cecilia knew it. That wasn’t the point of the ongoing, if erratically scheduled, lessons.

Sister Cecilia clapped her hands together. “Excellent. I’ll see you then. Enjoy your evening in Rock Point. Will Colin be joining you?”

“He’s on his way back to Boston from Washington. I haven’t told him I’ve canceled my retreat yet.”

“I’m going to make a bold guess that he will be pleased you did,” the young sister said, her eyes twinkling.

Relieved to have the decision about the retreat made and dealt with, Emma left Sister Cecilia to closing up the shop. They had become friends last fall, after the murder of a longtime nun with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart and Sister Cecilia’s own close call with the killer.

Emma drove back through Heron’s Cove, a pretty southern Maine village known for its quaint shops and restaurants and sprawling summer “cottages.” She continued on to Ocean Avenue, along the tidal river and out to the ocean. Just past a marina, at the mouth of the river, she parked in front of the small, gray-shingled Victorian house where, sixty years ago, Wendell Sharpe, a museum security guard, had launched his fine art recovery business in the front room. Fifteen years ago, he had opened an office in Dublin, the city of his birth. No one had expected him to stay. His wife had died too young, too soon, and he needed a break. He would be back.

Her grandfather was still in Dublin, and Emma doubted he would ever return to Heron’s Cove to live.

At first, her father had run the Maine offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, but his chronic, debilitating pain had forced Emma’s older brother, Lucas, to step in far sooner—and far more alone—than he had planned. She’d worked for her father and grandfather in high school and always expected to join the family business. Then came college and a calling—or whatever it had been—to a religious life, or, more specifically, to the Sisters of the Joyful Heart and their romantic coastal convent and work in art preservation, conservation and education.

Even before Matt Yankowski had visited her as Sister Brigid, Emma had known she would never profess her final vows. The process of discernment she’d gone through as a postulant and a novice had done its job, leading her to where she was now. She had left the Sisters of the Joyful Heart shortly after meeting Yank, then worked for her grandfather in Dublin for almost a year before heading to the FBI Academy.

Early on in her work in art crimes, she had discovered that the FBI had less than Wendell Sharpe did on a serial international art thief who had first struck in Ireland, in a tiny village on the south coast.

And her grandfather hadn’t had much.

She climbed out of her car, welcoming the cold air. There was more snow in Heron’s Cove than in Boston, but with no fresh storms in more than a week, the snowbanks were partially blackened and turning icy. The house backed up onto the mouth of the tidal river, between a marina and a popular inn and within sight of the ocean. The big houses that overlooked the ocean up the street were mostly empty now, in the off-season.

The front walk was neatly shoveled and sanded, but Emma knew no one was there. She stood at the base of the steps, noting the shiny black paint on the front door. Over the past six months, the house had been gutted and renovated to create modern offices for Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. She had managed to persuade her brother, who didn’t have a sentimental cell in his body, to keep the back porch, but he had already included a small apartment in the plans. It wasn’t a house anymore, but the apartment was available to their grandfather, should he finally decide to return to Maine.

Emma decided not to go inside. Lucas was in Dublin with their grandfather. Their parents were in London. The process of shutting down the temporary offices and moving everything back here would be getting under way and didn’t need her input. There was talk of a grand opening party. She’d be invited, although she had no official role any longer with Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.

She returned to her car, looking forward to her evening in Rock Point. She took the coast road northeast to Rock Point and its working harbor and smattering of houses on narrow streets. Donovan country, Emma thought. She continued up to the Craftsman-style house Colin had bought as a refuge at the height of a long, difficult undercover mission. His independence, always an asset, had proved to have a dark side, isolating him, fraying his relationships with some of his FBI colleagues and even his family.

Not that he saw it that way.

Emma let herself into the house through the back door, but she didn’t stay. She slipped back outside, hunching her shoulders against a cold gust of wind. Before leaving Boston, she had changed into casual leggings, an oversize sweater and her Frye boots, in anticipation of her convent retreat. She grabbed her hat and gloves out of her car. She would walk to St. Patrick’s rectory to see if Oliver York’s package had arrived. If it had, she would decide what to do once she saw the contents. Enjoy her long weekend in Maine, or delve back into the world of an accomplished art thief.

* * *

Clouds and fog moved in, adding dampness to the air, making it feel colder. Emma navigated an icy patch on the sidewalk that curved onto the quiet, narrow street where St. Patrick’s was located. The rectory, a small Victorian, was next to the white-sided church, which had started life a hundred years ago as an American Baptist Church. Both church and rectory were dark now, with Finian Bracken in Ireland.

Actually, in England, Emma thought with a sigh of frustration. Finian was likely settling into a guest suite at Oliver York’s Cotswolds farm.

She didn’t run into any residents or passing cars, everyone either at work, running errands or inside their homes. She wasn’t used to Rock Point on a weeknight in winter. She and Colin had been up a few times since Christmas, but always on a weekend.

She adjusted her scarf, covering more of her face against the breeze and damp air. The fog was thick and bone-chilling, tasting of salt. There was definitely no sign of spring tonight on the southern Maine coast.

If the package was too large to carry, she would have to go back for her car, but the walk and fresh air were doing her good after her drive, especially given her crowded mind. She needed to sift through everything simmering—her wedding, her canceled retreat, this latest with Oliver—and create some order. Walking, inevitably, helped.

She passed in front of the church and turned onto the walk that led to the front door of the rectory. Finian Bracken was a hit with parishioners with his good looks, Irish accent and approachability. His tragic past, while nothing anyone would wish upon him, seemed to help people identify with him. He and Colin were already friends when Emma had met them both in September. Finian had agreed to perform their wedding service before he returned to Ireland in June—if he did return, Emma thought. She had her doubts, whether or not Father Callaghan resumed his post in Rock Point.

She didn’t need to tell Finian that Maine couldn’t be an escape. Neither could the priesthood. That was one of the lessons she’d learned at the convent. He would have gone through a rigorous process of discernment before being admitted into seminary, but how had life in Maine affected him? His friendships with the Donovans—seeing Aoife O’Byrne in Boston in November?

None
of her business, Emma reminded herself. She shook off her ruminating and headed down the walk to the rectory, built around the same time as the Sharpe house in Heron’s Cove and as in need of an overhaul as it had been.

There was no package on the front steps. Oliver wasn’t above sending her on a wild-goose chase, but his package might not have arrived yet, or the part-time church secretary or a volunteer could have picked it up. It was also possible delivery trucks would circle through the church parking lot and drop off packages on the rectory’s side porch, easily accessible for the driver and out of view of passersby.

Emma took a narrow, icy walk to the enclosed side porch. If anything, the fog seemed denser, impenetrable. She wished she had thought to bring a flashlight with her. She mounted the porch steps, immediately noticing a large package in front of the kitchen door. She flipped on the porch light and checked the label.

It was Oliver’s package.

What did he consider a surprise she would love? Short of the missing Dutch landscapes or a confession, she couldn’t think of anything she would want to receive from him. Whatever he had sent, she would promptly report to Yank. She wasn’t accepting gifts of any kind from Oliver York.

She turned off the porch light and, using both arms, lifted the package. It was bulky but not heavy. A sweater? A stuffed sheep? It was too big for a shipment of English scones and not heavy enough for jam or whiskey.

She was tempted to rip open the package there on the porch but resisted. She’d get back to Colin’s house first. She debated whether to leave the package and fetch her car but decided she could manage carrying it.

While she’d been on the porch collecting the package, a car she didn’t recognize had parked on the street in front of the rectory, its trunk open. She didn’t see the driver or any passengers. Probably a parishioner dropping off something at the church, although there were no lights on yet in the building.

Slowing her pace, Emma adjusted the package in her arms.

She heard a sound behind her—a quick intake of breath, like a warning of what was to come. She started to drop the package, but she knew she was too late.

A blanket thrown over her head...a choke hold...

Give in to it. Don’t risk permanent injury or death.

Fight later.

She let her body go limp, felt the pressure on her carotid artery as unconsciousness overtook her.

* * *

Breathe...

Emma pushed back the instant panic as she regained consciousness, dizzy, unable to move, suffocating.

Not suffocating.

It was the blanket. She could smell the fleece, taste the fibers.

Her hands were bound behind her. Her ankles, too, were bound.

Her attacker would have had only seconds before she regained consciousness and must have been ready, must have waited for her and known exactly what to do.

An ambush.

She slowed her breathing. She had to stay calm.

I’m in the trunk of the car that was parked at the rectory.

She felt the movement, heard the engine.

Where are we going?

Her attacker hadn’t killed her straightaway. That was something, even if the plan was to kill her outside the village and dump her body.