Emma eyed the mother superior. “You didn’t call the police?”
“No, why would I? There’s nothing in the tower to steal. They barely got inside before I spotted them. I showed them the motherhouse, retreat house and the gardens that are open to the public, and wished them a good day. They thanked me and left—through the main gate, I might add. I didn’t introduce them to the sisters. They were busy with their duties. I didn’t mention the intrusion, either.”
“What time did Adalyn and Verity arrive?”
“Nine thirty in the morning. That’s when I walk.”
“Tell me about your visit,” Emma said. “Everything you remember.”
“They explained they took the trail from the house Mrs. Blackwood and her husband rented for a few days down past the cove. They walked out to the gazebo first and noticed the trail up the hill on their way back. They decided to take it and see what they could of the convent.” Mother Natalie spoke crisply, as if she’d rehearsed her words overnight. “I might be getting ahead of my narrative, but I want to get this out. I’m aware the Blackwoods are friends with Jolie Romero and Adalyn McDermott works for her. It came up on Friday. Sister Joan and Jolie had a solid working relationship over the years, but they were never what I would call friends. I doubt their relationship is relevant to this death investigation. They were two exacting colleagues. Sister Joan didn’t leave behind any notes on Jolie. I checked this morning.” Mother Natalie paused, gazing at her hands a moment. “We miss her.”
“I do, too.”
“Of course.” Mother Natalie looked up, her clear, pale eyes fastened on Emma. “I didn’t sleep much last night. I was informed about the body and the investigation as I was leaving my family. I’m still somewhat rattled, and I’m worried about Sister Cecilia. I wish she hadn’t been with you yesterday. A case of twenty-twenty hindsight, but you do have a way of bringing trouble with you.”
Emma felt a cool breeze and realized a window was open. She couldn’t let Mother Natalie’s veiled criticism affect her, or get between Sister Cecilia and her mother superior. She’d let Cecilia explain why they’d gone down the trail together. “Did you show Verity and Adalyn the temporary conservation studio?” Emma asked.
“Yes, I did. They were both knowledgeable about art conservation and what we do here. Jolie’s doing, I imagine.”
“Did Jolie send Adalyn here because of her work?”
Mother Natalie shook her head. “She said no, she was just here to see Verity. I understood they planned to spend the day together. It was already hot when they arrived, but we had a nice onshore breeze here. We had a good visit. They were just curious about us, our lives here, I’d say. That’s not unusual. Adalyn said she was still getting settled into her new job and apartment after three months in London, and took the day to get out of the city heat and see Verity. I gather they know each other from London. Sneaking up here was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
“Any mention of Graham Blackwood?” Emma asked.
“No, and he didn’t visit on his own. Normally we ask guests to register, but I didn’t bother with Adalyn and Verity. It seemed moot. The police checked the registry book. That’s why their names weren’t in it.”
Emma nodded. “Did they say where they were going when they left here?”
Mother Natalie gave a slight smile. “In search of the perfect lobster roll. Fortunately, it’s almost impossible to go wrong with lobster in Heron’s Cove.”
“Mother Natalie...”
“I understand Verity Blackwood overdosed in London. I saw no indication of drug use when I was with her on Friday.”
It wasn’t Emma’s next question but it was on her mental list. “The detectives will want to interview you. Did Adalyn mention her mother?”
“Not to me, but I overheard her telling Verity that her mother would love Maine.”
Emma glanced out at the garden again, the tallest flowers swaying in a stiffer breeze. Adalyn had neglected to mention her trip to Maine. Why? Because she and Verity Blackwood had sneaked onto the convent grounds? She didn’t want Jolie to know? “Mother Natalie, can you remember anything else about Jolie’s dealings with the convent?”
“I don’t think there’s much of anything to remember.”
“Have you had any contact with Fletcher and Ophelia Campbell?”
Mother Natalie frowned. “I know their names, of course, but no, we never worked with them.”
“Might Jolie have consulted with Sister Joan about them?”
“I doubt it, but if she did, there’s no record of it.”
She’d have checked. Emma eased to her feet and walked to the French doors that opened onto the garden. She glanced back at Mother Natalie, still seated. “How did Verity and Adalyn strike you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did they get along well? Did either one seem depressed, angry, upset? Did you get the impression they were being forthcoming about why they were here? They did arrive unannounced, and they sneaked into the tower.”
Mother Natalie exhaled, then nodded slowly. “I see what you’re getting at. It was clear Verity was older and had more life experience. It wasn’t a friendship of equals, but they certainly seemed comfortable with each other and got along well while they were here.”
“Adalyn turned twenty-one this past weekend,” Emma added.
“Now that did come up—on the way out, in a cheerful manner. It was an excuse to have dessert. I recommended our goodies at the shop in Heron’s Cove.” Mother Natalie rose, smoothing her skirt. “Is there anything else?”
“The detectives investigating—”
“I’ve already called them.” She nodded to the garden. “Please, stay as long as you’d like. Take your time.” She joined Emma at the French doors. “Consider all the gardens open to you and Agent Donovan if he’s here with you. Adalyn McDermott and Verity Blackwood wanted to know as much as they could about what we do here. They were very knowledgeable. I suppose that affected my judgment. We’ll keep them in our prayers.”
Emma thanked her and went out the French doors. She welcomed the gusty sea breeze, the scent of summer flowers, the sounds of birds—nearby chickadees and distant seagulls. In winter, the sisters would put out bird feeders. She took a meandering stone path through the garden around to the front of the motherhouse.
Sister Cecilia eased next to her. “Can you tell me anything, Emma?”
“Sorry, no.”
“It’s okay. I think I know.” She waved a hand. “I didn’t do anything underhanded. Mother Natalie warned us the police would be back up here. I assume she saw the intruders on Friday.”
Emma stopped and turned to her friend. “Sister Cecilia, please take care of yourself, and don’t hesitate to call the detectives investigating Graham Blackwood’s death—or me. Call me anytime.”
“I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“You won’t. Again, Sister, please take care of yourself.”
She nodded, pink rising in her pale cheeks. “I was right about intruders.”
“Trespassers, lost hikers, curiosity seekers—not everyone is an intruder.”
“I suppose not. I have to leave for the village. I’m teaching painting and pottery today.”
“Be well, Cecilia. Yesterday was a lot to process.”
“I might talk to Father Bracken. He’s dealt with trauma, and he knows—” She stopped, breaking into a smile. “He understands the life you and Colin lead.” The smile didn’t last. “I’m glad you were with me yesterday. I had a feeling about what we might come upon. That helped. It still does.”
Emma gave her a quick hug. “Call me anytime. And be careful, okay? The other sisters, too.”
“We don’t make ourselves targets.”
There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in her tone. She was being sincere, Emma realized. “Sister, you didn’t
make yourself a target last fall. Neither did Sister Joan.”
“Sometimes it feels that way, but I know what you’re saying. Go on now. You have a job to do. We’ll have to schedule another painting lesson soon, before you forget everything I’ve taught you.”
“I look forward to it. I promise I haven’t been procrastinating.”
“Oh, it’s okay if you have.” She laughed, looking more herself. “Take care, Emma.”
Sister Cecilia turned back to the motherhouse, and Emma continued through tall evergreens to the main gate. Colin was slouched against her car, watching for her. He stood straight when he saw her. She smiled and waved. “Any news?”
“A witness has come forward, claiming he saw a man fitting Graham’s description paddling in a red kayak, alone, around two o’clock Sunday afternoon. He was almost to the gazebo.”
“It must have been just before he was killed,” Emma said. “The cove is fairly easy to navigate, but the conditions are more difficult closer to the gazebo, even for an experienced kayaker.”
“Quick study, maybe.”
“Could the same person who killed Stefan Petrescu have killed Graham Blackwood?”
“English hunting rifle versus Maine rock.” Colin shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“At this point, anything is possible.”
“How was your visit with the sisters?”
“Fruitful.”
“A lot of memories for you up here.”
“I remembered wondering if I’d meet a rugged lobsterman one day.”
“Ex-lobsterman.”
“Still rugged.”
He grinned. “Come on. You can tell me what you’ve learned while we get out of here.”
He drove, and Emma updated him on her conversations with Sister Cecilia and Mother Natalie. He listened without interruption. As impatient as he could be, he was adept at wolfing down facts and information.
He glanced at her when she finished. “What do we have here, Emma?”
“I wish I knew. Did Adalyn conceal her visit up here on Friday, or did she just not think to mention it?”
“We’re looking for her mother, and she didn’t arrive until Saturday.”
Emma checked in with Sam Padgett. He had a witness, too. “BPD talked to a man who saw Tamara McDermott get into a car that fits the description of her rental. No issues. Nothing suspicious. He described her and then confirmed her photo as the woman he saw. It was just after she’d talked to you. She wouldn’t have had time to do anything else between leaving your place and getting to her car—assuming this guy’s time line is accurate.”
“That means she had time to drive up here and walk into the middle of the mess with Graham Blackwood.”
“Or knock him on the head herself?”
To protect her daughter? Emma didn’t ask the question aloud. “Let’s hope she shows up for the ferry,” Emma said.
“She won’t.”
Emma agreed it was unlikely. “No hotel reservations?”
“None. It’s not the time of year to wing it in Maine, but maybe she stayed with a friend.”
But Sam obviously didn’t believe that. Colin downshifted as they came to the end of the convent’s access road. “Ask him if Yank’s up to date.”
“I heard that, and yes, he is,” Sam said. “He’s gone up to the Campbell farm.”
“Why?”
“Jolie Romero and Adalyn McDermott invited him. They’re up there. He’s worried about Adalyn. He’s aware he’s personally involved in this thing. You two are, too. Can’t throw a rock and not hit a Donovan or a Sharpe or someone they went blueberry picking with up there. Sorry. Rock’s a bad analogy.”
“Yank went alone?” Emma asked.
“Yeah. It’s a personal visit, but is anything ever personal with Matt Yankowski?”
No answer necessary to that question. When Emma disconnected with Sam, Colin glanced at her. “Where to?” he asked.
“The sisters’ shop in the village and Lucas’s office. Adalyn must have been with Verity when she stopped at both places on Friday, even if she didn’t go inside. Maybe someone saw her. It might not help but I’d like to know.”
“If Tamara McDermott thought her daughter was in over her head with the Blackwoods and their problems, she could have come up here to talk to Graham—”
“What if he grabbed her? He’s dead. If she’s hidden somewhere, he didn’t leave behind any evidence of where she might be.”
Colin sped up on the main road to Heron’s Cove. “With any luck, she’ll be on that ferry to Nova Scotia this afternoon.”
19
Finian Bracken was at the shop run by the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, tucked on a narrow side street in the village. Colin had been to the shop a few times. It sold student and professional work and offered classes in its upstairs studio in painting, pottery, scrapbooking and a few other arts and crafts. Finian looked out of place even among the gray-habited nuns. He’d come to Rock Point last June as a freshly minted priest. He and Colin had met on the harbor. Finian had left Ireland—his home and family—for an uncertain future in a struggling Maine fishing village. Colin had been taking a break after an intense, long-term undercover investigation. He and Finian had become instant friends. They didn’t have heart-to-heart talks. No confessionals, that sort of thing. Mostly they talked about whiskey and life in Maine and Ireland.
“What is this, do you suppose?” Finian held up a chunk of pottery. “Not something one of the church ladies did in pottery class, I hope.”
“I’ve no idea what it is, Fin.”
“A pen holder, perhaps? Sally wanted the girls to take pottery lessons after we returned from our sailing vacation. She loved handcrafted works. We had pottery vases and flowerpots.”
Colin had stayed at the Brackens’ stone cottage in the Kerry hills. It had stunning views across Kenmare Bay, and lots of flowerpots. Finian hadn’t stayed there himself since entering seminary a year after the deaths of his family.
He moved to another display. “What can I do for you, my friend?”
“I want to talk to Tim Sharpe. Know where he is?”
“I don’t.” Finian stood still. Finally, he looked up. “He’s in pain, Colin. He’s always in pain.”
“Is he addicted to pain meds?”
“No. He was dependent for a time but not addicted. There’s a difference.”
“A distinction,” Colin said. “I’m not sure there’s a difference.”
“Dependence is manageable with medical supervision. An addict has a compulsive need for drugs. Timothy no longer takes prescription pain medicine, but as I mentioned last night, he’s enduring a period of breakthrough pain right now.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“It’s when pain breaks through his management protocols. It goes from chronic but tolerable to acute and intolerable. That’s how he explained it to me, at least. I’m not a medical professional. He’s doing his best to manage with non-prescription NSAIDs and his yoga and walking and such.”
“He didn’t tell you this in confidence or you wouldn’t be telling me,” Colin said.
“That’s right. He doesn’t talk much about his ordeal but only because it’s one of his ways of managing it. He’s not hiding it. You know I don’t judge either addiction or tolerance and dependence, Colin. I battled alcohol abuse at one time. Timothy believes this episode of breakthrough pain will pass.”
“Poor bastard.” Colin sighed, held up a hand. “I know he hates pity.”
A small smile from his Irish friend. “He’s a Sharpe, isn’t he?”
“Does he keep close tabs on any meds he has on hand?”
The question obviously surprised Finian. “I have no idea, but I would assume he does. I’ve run into opioid addiction in my work here, Colin. It’s a terrible thing. I have only
compassion for those suffering. If you’re suggesting Timothy is contributing to the epidemic—”
“I’m not. I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just asking questions.”
“Do you think someone could have stolen some of his medication?”
“I don’t think anything.”
“The man who was killed—”
“I can’t talk about that.”
“Of course not. Sister Cecilia is due here any moment. I planned to stop at the convent to see her, but I’ll look in on her here, informally.”
“The nuns—they’ve been straight with the police? They’ve all told the detectives everything they saw and heard this past weekend?”
“I have no reason to think otherwise. Do you?”
“No.” Colin examined a deep brown pottery bowl. It looked like a salad bowl to him. “I’m just trying to find a missing prosecutor and figure out why a couple who was here last week ended up dead and near-death.”
“Is there a Sharpe connection?”
“There’s always a Sharpe connection, isn’t there?”
“Maybe so.” Finian pointed at Colin’s bowl. “That is your mother’s work.”
“Seriously? Not bad.”
“I should go. I have weeding to do at the rectory. Soul work, Sister Cecilia calls it.”
“My mother says the mallow’s taken over there.”
“Mallow?”
“It’s pink. It spreads. You’ve got too much going on in the rectory garden. Stick to one or two colors. Get rid of everything that’s not those colors.”
“And you decided I wouldn’t choose pink as one of the colors?”
Colin grinned at his friend. “I made it easy for you. You can blame me if any parishioners get on your case.”
“How do you know about mallow?”
“Emma had me get rid of it the last time we were up at the house. That was a good weekend.”
“No murders and missing prosecutors.”
“Mallow-plucking followed by whiskey.”
Finian smiled. “It was a good weekend. We’ll have another one again soon, my friend.”
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