Sister Cecilia Catherine Rousseau stared at the dense pine and spruce trees on the steep hillside just outside the main entrance to the Sisters of the Joyful Heart convent. Her breathing was shallow, her blue eyes wide with dread, even fear. Emma understood. The young religious sister—her friend—still had scars, physical and emotional, after surviving capture and torture by a murderer last fall, just weeks before she professed her final vows. Her faith, her work as an art educator and her daily routines at the convent—gardening, food prep and cleanup, meditation, prayers, singing—all helped, but healing took time. “This missing kayaker,” she said. “Are you worried he’s come to harm?”
“We just want to find him. We don’t know what’s happened.”
Sister Cecilia nodded. It was obvious she knew there was more to it. She wore a simple dove-gray tunic and skirt, with thick-soled sandals. A wide black headband held back her white-blond hair. “He’s there,” she whispered. “I know he is. I can feel it.”
She’d been at the main gate when Emma had arrived and explained the situation, and she’d seized on it, plunging along the outside of the black-iron fence that enclosed the convent. They’d stopped at a path that would take them straight downhill to the trail Emma’s father had taken on Saturday when he met up with Verity Blackwood.
“It’s okay, Cecilia,” Emma said quietly. “You can stay here. You don’t need to go with me.”
“No. I want to go.”
“If you want to tell Mother Natalie—”
“She’s not here. She won’t be back until late. I can go.”
“We can go back to the convent.”
“No—no, I want to help. I know these woods. I take the trail and wander in the woods all the time to gather things for my art classes. Pinecones, ferns, sticks, leaves—whatever I see provided it’s sustainable. I’ve been learning about mushrooms, but I don’t trust myself yet to gather them for eating. It’ll be wonderful when I’m confident I know what I’m doing, won’t it?”
Emma smiled. “It will be.”
She laughed, her pale cheeks taking on a bit of color. “I’ll have an expert confirm my haul before I serve mushroom soup to anyone.” Her laughter faded, and she took a small step onto the path. “You’d think it’s Mordor and we’re Sam and Frodo. I’d say I’m more Sam and you’re more Frodo, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I met your missing kayaker’s wife. She was at the shop on Friday. I don’t know her name, but she told me she and her husband had rented the house by the cove and wanted to go kayaking. But she’s not missing?”
“No, she’s not missing. We don’t know for sure he’s missing, either.”
“But you’re looking for him.”
“We want to talk to him,” Emma said.
“I pointed out your father to her—the wife. Well, she asked me if he was Timothy Sharpe, and I said yes. That was all right, wasn’t it?”
“Cecilia—”
“She was gracious, interested in everything—she said she’d heard about us through a friend. I was under the impression she stopped in for that reason rather than as a passerby. She was perhaps a bit self-conscious, but that’s not unusual. People are often self-conscious around religious sisters.” She grasped her tunic at her chest. “We should go. I need to know.”
She plunged down the trail, the first few yards covered with pine needles. Emma dove in after her. Sister Cecilia wasn’t impeded by her skirt, lifting the hem as she descended the steep, rough trail, navigating protruding tree roots, rocks, pine needles, pinecones and no small measure of sharp curves. She was going faster than was safe or necessary.
After about a hundred yards, she slowed, pausing at a gnarly spruce sapling. “Sorry.” She was breathing hard, her face flushed. “I’d never make a good FBI agent, I’m afraid. I got thinking about orcs.”
Emma smiled. “It’s that spider that grabbed Frodo that’d get me running.”
They both laughed, a short-lived moment of levity. Cecilia pointed ahead, to the spot where their shortcut intersected with the main trail from the cove. Bear right, they’d end up back at the house the Blackwoods had rented. Bear left, they’d end up at the old stone gazebo. “Which way, Emma?”
“I’d like to go out to the gazebo. You can go back—”
“No. I’ll go with you. The trail’s rough in spots—not many hikers make it as far as the gazebo. Technically it’s on convent land, but I doubt we’ll ever do anything with it.” Sister Cecilia adjusted her wide headband and flicked perspiration off her brow. “It’s fairly isolated out here and the trees are dense. It can get spooky, but I promise not to do anything impulsive.”
“Good idea.” Emma reached for her phone. “I’ll let Colin know where we are.”
Sister Cecilia shook her head. “You won’t get a signal here. You might have a better chance at the gazebo.” She paused, gazing at the narrow trail. “It’ll settle my mind, just to know...this kayaker...”
“Stay close, okay?” Emma smiled, hoping to reassure her friend. “I haven’t been out here in a long time. I’m not used to these trails.”
* * *
Emma touched Sister Cecilia’s upper arm a few yards from the gazebo. “Hold on, Sister.”
She nodded. “I see it.”
A bright red ocean kayak was wedged between two boulders below the trail, a few yards from the gazebo, a sturdy hexagon designed as a place to relax and take in the view, the ocean air. The kayak was partially submerged, buffeted by the incoming tide. With the angle of the rocky coast and the tall evergreens, it wouldn’t be easily seen by passing boats.
“Emma...is it your missing kayak?”
“It could be the twin of the kayak Colin and I found at the rental house.”
She crept down the steep hill toward the wedged kayak. Where was the paddle? Had there been a dry pack? If so, where was it? Most important, where was the paddler? It had to be Graham Blackwood.
“It’s a tricky spot,” Sister Cecilia said from the trail. “If the paddler ran into difficulty... I hate to think what could have happened.”
The kayak looked wedged tightly enough it wouldn’t dislodge in the rising tide. How long had it been out here? Had it endured more than one tide cycle? Emma scanned the immediate area—rocks, pine needles, ferns, exposed tree roots—but she didn’t see the paddle, a life vest, an emergency whistle or any other gear.
And no signs of anyone having crawled up to the trail.
She checked her phone. Still no decent signal. She rejoined Sister Cecilia, whose face, red with exertion and heat two minutes ago, had lost some of its color. “Let’s continue to the gazebo and see if I can get a call or a text out,” Emma said.
Sister Cecilia nodded. “If there’s no body, it could mean your missing kayaker is okay.”
Or it could mean he’d drowned and his body hadn’t turned up yet, but Sister Cecilia was accustomed to life on the water. Emma didn’t need to tell her the grim possibilities.
They continued to the stone gazebo, part of the original nineteenth-century estate. It occupied a prominent spot almost at the tip of the peninsula, on an outcropping thirty feet above the sea. Emma stood on the edge of the sheer rock face and checked her phone. A seagull caught her eye to her right, down by the water. It flew up and away, and then she saw a body, not quite in the water. A man. Obviously dead.
Next to her, Sister Cecilia gasped. Her first impulse was to rush to help, but Emma caught her by the elbow. “He’s beyond our help, Sister. It’s best we wait for the police.”
“Aren’t you—”
“The state and local police will lead the death investigation.”
“It’s him, isn’t it, Emma? The man you’re looking for. Graham Blackwood.”
“It appears to be.”
He lay sprawled facedown among the ubiquitous rocks
on this part of the Maine coast. He wouldn’t be easily visible from either the trail or the gazebo, or even from passing boats. He wore street clothes—khakis, a T-shirt, sport sandals—rather than swimming trunks or a wet suit. He wasn’t wearing a life vest. Emma spotted one bobbing in the water a few yards from Graham’s body. Had he taken it off or never put it on? The wind kept any odors from the body from reaching them, but at this distance, she couldn’t tell how long he’d been out here.
Sister Cecilia stared down at the body as a wave crashed on the rocks, spraying salt water up toward them. “He wouldn’t be the first kayaker to underestimate the conditions out here, but I don’t think anyone’s ever...” She took in a breath. “Is Colin meeting us here?”
“That’s the plan.”
Emma tried texting him. Found GB dead by gazebo.
She turned to Sister Cecilia. “Why don’t you sit down?” She pointed to a knee-high boulder next to them. “You can look out toward the gazebo.” In other words, away from the body. “It won’t be long until the police get here.”
“Is this a crime scene now, Emma?”
“There’ll be an investigation to determine how Mr. Blackwood died. The police will want to speak with you.”
Sister Cecilia nodded. “I understand.”
An opioid overdose, a mishap, homicide, suicide—nothing could be ruled in or out at this point. Emma remained standing, phone in hand. Why had Graham paddled out here? Had he known about the gazebo? It wasn’t on a map or tourist brochure. He could probably see it from his rental house with a set of binoculars.
She felt her phone vibrate and saw Colin had responded to her text. On our way. Ten minutes.
Knowing the Donovan brothers, they’d get here in five.
Sister Cecilia gazed up at the sun, slanting through clouds, and whispered a prayer. The only sounds were the wind in the trees, waves, a distant seagull. She turned, the knife scar from last fall visible on her arm. “‘Fill us at daybreak with your love that all our days we may sing for joy.’”
Emma felt her throat tighten. She knew the words Sister Cecilia recited. They were the motto of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, taken from Psalm 90. “I’m sorry, Sister.”
“No, don’t be. It’s good I was with you.” She paused, staring down at the ground. “I knew he was here.”
“Any specific reason for that, or just gut instinct?”
“I heard him.”
* * *
Colin and Kevin Donovan arrived in under five minutes, as Emma predicted.
An awful ending to their search for Graham Blackwood.
Kevin took charge. He walked up to the gazebo and made calls. The state and local police would confirm the identity of the deceased and lead the death investigation. They’d contact investigators in England who would see to the notification of next of kin—his wife, fighting for her own life in a London hospital.
“The gazebo’s not known as a teen or drug hangout,” Colin said as he stood next to Emma. “What do you think, does Graham paddle out here to clear his head and gets in trouble because he’s inexperienced? Bangs up against the rocks, falls out of the kayak, loses his paddle, hits his head.”
“Why no life vest? You always wear one.”
“Didn’t bother. Cocky. It’s hot. Or lands the kayak on the rocks, takes off the vest, wave catches the kayak and he goes after it—falls, and so on.”
“I’m not surprised no one saw him out here, even if he struggled and called for help.” Emma looked down toward the kayak. “What if he was meeting someone here?”
“You’re thinking about Tamara McDermott,” Colin said.
“I’m still thinking she could have stopped up here to see Graham. Adalyn told her about Stefan Petrescu at brunch and said her mother was upset. I can see Tamara wanting to talk to him. Maybe he told her on Saturday at the airport he wasn’t going back to London with Verity and mentioned where he’s staying. She decides to ask him about Stefan—maybe tell him and his wife to stay out of her daughter’s life until police made an arrest. Or just get a gauge on Adalyn’s new friends.”
“Why meet here instead of a cute coffee shop in the village?”
“Maybe Tamara doesn’t like cute coffee shops.”
“Maybe Graham was meeting someone to buy drugs. Well, we know better than to waste time speculating. It’s possible a witness will come forward who saw him on the water before he got in trouble. It could happen fast. Paddling along one minute, bashed up against the rocks the next.” Colin rubbed a palm through his hair, sweat dripping down his temples from his hustle to get here as quickly as possible. “I was hoping we’d find him high on opioids and just have to get him cleaned up and on his way home to his wife.”
Kevin walked back down the trail from the gazebo. He started to say something to Sister Cecilia, but she shook her head and told him she was holding her own. In a few more minutes, the local police arrived, quickly followed by state detectives. Whatever their British tourist had been up to out here, Emma doubted he’d simply curled up and died of a drug overdose, even if drugs proved to be a contributing factor to his death. The autopsy would determine cause of death and whether other factors were involved—drugs, hypothermia, preexisting medical issues. There was much work to be done.
After giving their statements, Emma walked with Sister Cecilia back up the narrow trail to the convent. They didn’t speak until they reached the fence. Sister Cecilia nodded to the wooded hillside. “I told Colin’s brother... Kevin... I told him I was investigating wild mushrooms yesterday when I heard a man’s voice down the hill through the trees. It was indistinct—I couldn’t make out what he was saying. He must have been speaking to someone, but I didn’t hear a second voice, maybe because it was too low or didn’t carry as well. I thought he was in a boat in the cove—rather than on the trail. I didn’t detect any distress or anger. I had no reason to investigate or call the police.”
“It might not have been Graham Blackwood, Cecilia.”
“I wish I’d gone to check, but the heat and mosquitoes drove me away.” She attempted a smile. “I postponed my mushroom education for another day.”
“I can walk with you to the motherhouse—”
She shook her head. “No, you have work to do. I’m so sorry about today, Emma. I know what you do can be challenging. Give Colin my best, won’t you?”
Emma didn’t argue with her. She watched her friend go through the convent gate. She was pale and subdued, but she was where she needed to be—with her small order of religious sisters, resuming her routines and her life at their quiet convent. Emma knew their friendship could go only so far. Sister Cecilia had professed vows that guided her life. When Emma left the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, she’d taken everything she’d learned during her time as a novice with her, along with countless good memories, but she’d never looked back. She’d never doubted her decision to pull off her modified habit for the last time, say goodbye to Sister Brigid and walk through the convent gate into a new life—the life she had now, with Colin.
He drove up to the gate and rolled down his window, his ocean blue-gray eyes on her. “You set?”
She nodded. “Set.”
“Rock Point?”
His hometown, a struggling fishing village a few miles up the coast from Heron’s Cove. She climbed into the passenger seat. They’d stop at his house—their house—and put the blueberries her father had given her in the refrigerator, and then head to Hurley’s, a comfort-food restaurant on the harbor.
Chowder, friends, family.
They were what both she and Colin needed now.
13
Declan’s Cross, Ireland
Wendell Sharpe gazed up at the late-day sky, relishing the quiet and peace of this spot on the south Irish coast. He could hear the rhythmic wash of the sea across the garden, past an ancient stone wall. Behind him, the O’Byrne
House Hotel was bustling. The boutique hotel, once the home of its current owner’s uncle, John O’Byrne, was the site of a celebrated, brazen art theft a decade ago—Oliver York’s first heist, for which no arrest was pending nor would ever come about. Few people even knew his secret identity as a thief.
“An interesting, complex man, our Oliver,” Aoife O’Byrne said across the small metal table.
Wendell smiled at her. She was a beautiful, brilliant artist herself. “Reading my mind, are you?”
“You have that I’m thinking about my wily art thief look about you.”
He didn’t doubt it. He’d chased Oliver for years but hadn’t known his identity until recently. Had the Englishman paid enough for his crimes? In Wendell’s world, yes. MI5 was extracting retribution from him, and he’d returned the art intact over the winter, save for an unsigned landscape he’d pinched from the O’Byrne drawing room. It was of a local scene, undoubtedly painted by Aoife O’Byrne long before she’d become something of an international sensation.
Kitty O’Byrne, Aoife’s older sister, had renovated their uncle’s house in the tiny Irish hamlet of Declan’s Cross and converted it into a popular boutique hotel. It was booked solid tonight, packed with Irish and American guests. The Americans included a dozen cyclists on a two-night stay on their tour of the south and the west of Ireland. Wendell figured he’d have enjoyed a bike tour back in the day. He liked to walk, even now in his eighties—maybe especially now. This part of the Irish coast offered countless trails and lanes for a good wander.
But that wasn’t why he was here.
He’d flown from London to Cork instead of home to Dublin and taken a taxi to Declan’s Cross with the dead-certain knowledge this was where he needed to be.
He wasn’t like that, really. He was a feet-flat-on-the-floor type. Pragmatic, driven by facts and evidence more than instinct. He’d never been one to hear voices—deities, saints, fairies. When he was a boy, his mother had told him tales about fairies and old Ireland, the one she’d known as a girl. Wendell had never been convinced his mother had believed in banshees, leprechauns, pookas and the rest, but maybe she had.
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