Saint's Gate (22 page)

35

SISTER CECILIA LEANED HER BICYCLE AGAINST THE trunk of a birch tree by the d’Auberville studio—the d’Auberville barn, really. She’d set off for the village but made a small detour. She wanted to see the spot where Claire Grayson had lived.

No one was around. She was relieved, since she didn’t want to intrude.

She started down the lane toward the ocean, partially visible through the trees. It was cooler than she’d expected. She wished she’d worn a jacket and not just her thick sweater, but she tried to enjoy the beautiful surroundings. How could Claire Grayson have been so unhappy in such a place? But her troubles, Sister Cecilia had come to realize, had been soul deep. A change of scenery, pretending, lying to herself and to others—none of that could possibly have helped her.

As she came closer to the water, Sister Cecilia could hear the tide swirling on rocks and sand. It was foggier here than at the convent, although the fog wasn’t the impenetrable, depressing gray that had encompassed the entire southern Maine coast the morning Sister Joan was killed.

How much had she known when she’d made that call to Emma Sharpe?

Not enough, Sister Cecilia thought. Yet how much did she herself know for sure?

The lane veered off to a house on the right, but she continued onto a narrow, sandy path parallel to the water. She noticed the occasional footprint but expected Ainsley d’Auberville and her fiancé would favor this route for romantic walks.

The path curved closer to the water, the coastline not rockbound here but a mix of sandy beach, marsh grasses and the occasional boulder.

She saw a house tucked onto the wooded hillside above the ocean. It was new construction, with a large enclosed front porch, its exterior sided in natural cedar shingles not yet weathered by the salt sprays, rain and wind. The house reminded her of the one in the fleeting look she’d had of
The Garden Gallery,
but most houses in the area coast would—even the new ones.

She followed the path to the back of the house, slowing her pace as she came to a more formal, bark-mulched path that led into newly planted roses and hydrangeas. Up ahead, she could see French doors and, through them, a painting on an interior wall. She walked into the garden as if she were being pulled toward the house. Her heartbeat quickened.

The garden. The French doors. The painting of a woman in a cave.

It was as if she were standing in the garden, looking into the garden room, depicted in the Jack d’Auberville that disappeared the morning Sister Joan was killed.

With a gasp of shock, Sister Cecilia whirled around, but already she knew she was too late. She heard footsteps inside the house, then the creak of the French doors opening, and she ran, praying. She slipped on the wet mulch.

The blow to the back of her head was hard and quick, and she felt herself sprawling into the roses as unconsciousness overtook her.

36

COLIN STOOD ON THE DOCKS IN HERON’S COVE with his brother Kevin, below the house where Wendell Sharpe had started his art theft and recovery business more than a half century ago. Kevin had the grim, pessimistic Donovan look that Colin had seen staring back at him in the mirror more often than he’d care to admit.

“What if Wendell Sharpe had a thing for Claire Grayson?” Kevin asked, referring to the grandfather of a fellow FBI agent and woman Colin had just slept with. “What if he unloaded some phony artwork to help her out, then covered it up with the fire, except she got killed in the process? Or he unloaded them for himself—to expand his business—and he killed her, or she was so upset she committed suicide?”

Colin noticed colorful kayaks lined up on the opposite shore. He could just head out on the water. Disappear until the police had their killer in custody.

Kevin wasn’t finished. “The buyers could have known the art was fake but played the game. Or maybe the art was stolen.” He ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. “This all could take more time than we have to sort out.”

“Don’t sort it out, then. Just find out who killed Sister Joan.”

“Yeah. Easier said than done.” Kevin glanced over his shoulder again at the gray-shingled house, quiet in the midday mix of sun and clouds. “Lucas Sharpe stands to lose a lot if his grandfather was corrupt. Even if old Wendell did everything by the book the rest of his career, it won’t matter.”

“A lot of people lose if Wendell Sharpe crossed the line.”

“Emma Sharpe could have told her brother about Sister Joan’s call. He heads up to the convent, grabs the painting, kills Sister Joan and scoots. The young nun—the novice, Sister Cecilia—sees him but doesn’t get a good description. And, anyway, his little sister’s there to clean up any mess.” Kevin stood at the very edge of the wooden dock and eyed his older brother. “Tell me you haven’t thought about all this.”

He had, Colin thought. All of it. “Anyone can speculate,” he said.

“Then there’s Father Bracken. For all we know right now he’s lying to you and isn’t in Maine to get hold of himself. What if he’s our killer? What if he knows about this etching and Viking vase—”

“Bracelet,” Colin said.

Kevin waved a hand. “Whatever. What if he knows about those cases because he’s the one who did the stealing? What if he’s after the killer for his own reasons? What if he thinks it’s the same person who’s responsible for the deaths of his wife and daughters, and he’s so obsessed, he’s willing to endanger other people to get what he wants?”

“Damn, Kevin. Fin’s a rich, bored Irish priest. That’s it.”

“What if he’s a target?”

“What if there are giant green monsters in the ocean?” Colin asked, then shook his head. “Hell, Kevin. My head’s spinning.”

“No, it’s not. You’ve been running all this through your head, too. Even with Emma—” He broke off. “Never mind. I’m not going there. I have to go. Stay in touch, okay?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

Kevin returned to his boat, and Colin, with a last, yearning glance at the kayaks across the tidal river, headed up to the Sharpe house. As he reached the porch steps, his cell phone rang, and he saw it was Emma. He decided not to share his conversation with Kevin with her.

Not that he had a chance even to say hello. “I’m supposed to meet Yank,” she said. “He’s on his way up from Boston, if he’s not already here. Colin, we need to find out what became of Claire Grayson’s husband.”

“He’s dead.”

“I know that. Were there any children? Did he have an affair? Did
she
have an affair?”

She sounded just like Kevin, except there was a strain in her voice—a clear note of urgency. “Emma, what’s going on?”

“Claire Grayson wanted to enter the convent, Colin. She couldn’t. She was married.”

“That could help explain her state of mind when she died.”

“Sister Cecilia found a picture of Claire and Jack d’Auberville. I think it was taken at her house. The one that burned.”

Colin heard something in Emma’s voice. “Where is Sister Cecilia now?”

“She took off to Heron’s Cove on her bike but she never got there. We need to find her.”

He didn’t hesitate. “On it.”

“You’re—”

“I’m at the docks. I’ll intercept Yank.”

Colin slid his phone back in his pocket as Matt Yankowski came around from the front of the house. “I tried to reach Emma on my way up here but my call went straight to voice mail. She must be in a dead spot.”

“She just left the joyful sisters,” Colin said, using irreverent humor to cover his own sense of urgency, then filled Yank in.

The senior FBI agent squinted out at the water, two sailboats passing into the deep channel to the ocean. “Where’s Father Bracken?”

“Rock Point.”

“The man’s well connected. He’s just the sort my unit could end up hunting if he turns. Let’s hope he’s on our side and stays there.”

Colin was silent.

Yank pulled his gaze from the water and narrowed his dark eyes on Colin. “I’m counting on you to be the tough son of a bitch you are, Donovan.”

“Works for me.”

“We need to find Sister Cecilia,” Yank said. “And Emma.”

37

SISTER CECILIA FOUND HERSELF IN A FETAL POSITION on a hardwood floor when she regained consciousness. She tried to sit up but realized her hands and feet were bound. Confused, she shut her eyes, telling herself she’d woken up in the middle of a nightmare and should just go back to sleep and wake up again.

She heard the creak of hinges. Her heartbeat quickened with fear—real fear. Her head ached, and she tried to move again and felt the pull of the binds on her wrists and ankles, the painful dig of them into her flesh.

A breeze floated over her, as if to give her courage, to bless her with hope. She could smell the ocean, and she could hear the rhythmic wash of the tide.

She opened her eyes and noticed the dappled light on the polished wood floor.

She felt the presence of another person behind her and prayed silently.

“What do you want?” she asked finally.

There was no response.

Roses…she could smell roses now, and she remembered.

The house. The garden. The French doors.

Her head pulsed with pain, and she could feel the swelling at the base of her neck. Her white headband was gone, her hair in her face.

In front of her was a white wall with two paintings leaned against it side by side. On the left was
The Garden Gallery,
the Jack d’Auberville painting that she’d glimpsed the morning of Sister Joan’s death. It was in a simple frame now, and it had been cleaned, no longer dulled and obscured by yellowed varnish and grime. The cheerful, vibrant colors for which Jack d’Auberville was known were striking against the stark surroundings of the otherwise empty room.

Just as Sister Cecilia remembered, the scene was dominated by the painting of a beautiful woman in an island cave.

Blinking back a surge of pain and fear, she focused on the larger canvas next to
The Garden Gallery.
She’d seen it as she’d approached the house. It was the painting of the woman in the cave. She recognized the island, the light, the beautiful woman, the Viking warship—Jack d’Auberville had captured them all in his painting of the gallery room.

On the floor next to the d’Auberville painting was a silver bracelet etched with images of ancient Norse gods.

“Claire Grayson had a child, didn’t she?” Sister Cecilia spoke quietly, gently. “And you’re that child.”

38

EMMA WALKED QUICKLY ON A NARROW PATH OFF the lane that led to the water below Jack d’Auberville’s former studio. Marsh grass slapped against the lower legs of her jeans. She’d stopped at the converted carriage house to check if Sister Cecilia had detoured to see the site of Claire Grayson’s house for herself, but no one was around. Then Emma had spotted one of the convent’s sturdy, inexpensive bicycles leaned up against a tree. She texted Colin to meet her there and started down the lane, hoping to find Sister Cecilia.

Instead, up through the trees, she swore she’d seen someone in a black suit with a Roman collar, running toward the water.

A priest? Father Bracken?

Was he here, too? Had Sister Cecilia called him to meet her?

Emma shook off the questions. Now wasn’t the time for them. She had to find Sister Cecilia. She had to be out here somewhere.

Fresh footprints on the path reassured Emma that she was going in the right direction. This, she thought, was where Claire Grayson had fled to start a new life—and where she’d died. Last night, Colin had produced the police report of the fire forty years ago. Claire had died of asphyxiation—smoke inhalation—before the fire reached her. The house hadn’t burned to cinders but it had sustained massive damage, especially the room in the back that opened onto the flower garden.

As the sole surviving Peck, Claire had inherited the property from her grandfather. Upon her death, her husband had the remains of the house razed and sold the land.

The path curved through the trees, close to the water just below a house under construction. It had to be the one Gabe Campbell was building, that he and Ainsley would move into. It was more finished than Emma had expected. The front wasn’t landscaped, and she saw footprints on the wet sand and gravel path. Two sets of footprints, she thought—a man’s and a woman’s. She followed them her around to the back of the house.

She sucked in a deep breath, containing a shudder of dread, when she saw that the backyard was landscaped, a garden laid out and partially planted. Hydrangeas, their creamy blossoms turning burgundy with autumn, grew next to rosebushes laden with late-blooming dark pink blossoms.

French doors opened out onto the garden. They were ajar, as if someone had just gone inside.

Emma let out her breath and drew her weapon, then followed a mulched path to the doors. The sun had dipped behind gray clouds, but she could make out a figure—a woman—lying on her side on a polished floor of narrow oak boards.

“Don’t…Emma…” Sister Cecilia’s voice was weak, barely audible.

Emma stepped inside. Except for the sister, the room was empty. Moving quickly, Emma ran to Sister Cecilia, saw that her hands and feet were tied and knelt next to her. Blood seeped from three two-inch slits evenly spaced across her upper chest, just below the collarbone.

“He wants me to bleed to death,” she said.

Like Saint Cecilia,
Emma thought. And he was only getting started. “Where is he now?”

“I…I don’t know. I didn’t take the name Cecilia because of how she died.”

“I know, Sister. I need to get you out of here.” Emma grabbed Sister Cecilia’s cast-off headband. “Can you hold this to your cuts? It’ll help stop the bleeding.”

Without responding, Sister Cecilia raised a trembling hand and clutched the headband, pressing it against her wounds. “Don’t… Emma. Save yourself. Let me go to God.”

“God is with you now, Sister.” Emma did her best to encourage the young novice. “Let’s get those binds off you, okay?”

Sister Cecilia maintained a weak grip on the headband, but there was almost no color left in her face. Behind her, in a smear of blood, was a painter’s tray holding a utility knife, pliers, scissors, razor blades and a screwdriver. Emma forced herself not to let her mind spin off into imagining what torture could be accomplished with such an array of tools and instruments.

Keeping her gun in her right hand, she reached for the scissors. “Sister, I’m going to cut the binds on your ankles first. Do you know who did this? Did you get any description at all?”

“A collar,” the novice whispered. “A priest.”

No, Emma thought. It was someone pretending to be a priest.

Sister Cecilia shut her eyes. “The child.”

“Claire Grayson’s child.”

She had been a mother as well as a wife. A small child would have been a second blow to her becoming a nun. Had her husband and child known?

Emma opened the scissors and positioned the blades on the twine securing Sister Cecilia’s ankles. It was awkward work with her left hand, but she wasn’t relinquishing her gun. She half sawed, half cut the thick twine until it fell to the floor.

“All right.” She set the scissors aside and put her free arm around the younger woman’s thin shoulders, helping her to sit up. “Sister, I need you to stand. We have to get out of here before he comes back.”

Sister Cecilia didn’t respond. Her body went slack against Emma’s arm, the bloody headband dropping down her front as she fainted. Emma lowered her slowly back to the floor. She hoped Colin and Yank weren’t far behind, because she wasn’t about to leave Sister Cecilia.

She heard the click of a weapon behind her. “Put the gun down, Agent Sharpe.”