Saint's Gate

by Carla Neggers

  Colin headed inside. The tide rolled in and out under Hurley’s worn wood floorboards. The bar was constructed of more worn wood. Each table was covered with a marine-blue tablecloth, decorated with a small clear vase of local flowers and a white votive candle. The early crowd had left, and the evening crowd hadn’t yet arrived.

  No Donovans were about. Colin considered that a plus under the circumstances.

  He spotted Finian Bracken at a sturdy table in back, by a window that overlooked the harbor and docks. Bracken wore a black suit and white Roman collar but with his short-cropped hair, penetrating eyes and the sharp angles in his face, he looked more like Bono than Bing Crosby.

  He frowned as Colin pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “You didn’t stay anywhere with a shower, I see,” Bracken said in his heavy Kerry accent.

  “Sponge baths. I didn’t shave, though.”

  “Self-evident.”

  “I could have stayed on my island and had Mike tell you to dust pews and mind your own business.”

  “He didn’t mention dusting but the sentiment was the same.”

  “Leave this poor woman’s death to the police, Finian.”

  Bracken ignored him and pushed a glass across the table. “I took the liberty of pouring you a taoscán of fine Irish whiskey.”

  Colin had already learned that a taoscán, an Irish term, was an imprecise measure that could mean a lot of whiskey or a little whiskey in his glass. Right now, it appeared to be a moderate amount.

  Bracken pointed at an elegant bottle next to him bearing the distinctive gold Bracken Distillers label. “I opened a bottle of Bracken 15 year old, a small-batch single malt aged for, as it says, fifteen years. I oversaw the process myself from distillation to laying down in the cask.”

  Colin knew better than to try to divert Finian Bracken from a whiskey lecture. He nodded to the clear, caramel-colored liquid in the glass. “Smoky?”

  “No. No smoke. The barley was malted over dry heat, the Irish way. It has depth and character that hold up to the best Scotch whisky produced in the same way. Auchentoshan comes to mind. One of my favorites.”

  “Finian.”

  “You haven’t tried Bracken 15 year old yet, Colin. It’s rare, dear and damn near perfect. Truly, it’s magnificent.” The priest waved a hand. “In moderation, of course.”

  He wasn’t bragging, Colin realized as he tasted the whiskey, but simply stating a fact. Hurley’s had agreed to stock Bracken whiskey especially for the new local priest and his occasional guest. Finian and his twin brother had launched their thriving Irish distillery as brazen young men, but Finian had left it behind to become a priest. Then three months ago he’d left his homeland to serve as a replacement for an American priest on sabbatical. He’d never set foot in Maine before arriving in Rock Point in June for a year-long stay.

  He poured a little Bracken 15 year old into his own glass. “The word whiskey comes from uisce beatha, Gaelic for aqua vitae—‘the water of life.’” Bracken tapped a finger to whiskey on the Bracken Distillers label. “Of course, the Scots drop the e in whiskey.”

  “I should have had a bottle of this stuff in my kayak,” Colin said.

  Bracken held up his glass. “Sláinte.”

  “Sláinte.”

  The priest sampled the expensive single malt. “One can see why the early monks shifted from ale to whiskey,” he said with satisfaction as he set his glass back on the table. “Go easy, my friend. You’ll be driving tonight.”

  “I can walk back to my place from here.”

  “You can’t walk to Heron’s Cove. Well, I suppose you could, but it’s much easier and faster to drive.”

  “Why would I go to Heron’s Cove?”

  Colin took another swallow of the whiskey. Not a big one. He had to keep his wits about him when dealing with Father Bracken. They’d run into each other on the docks in June, when Colin, still tangled up in a difficult undercover mission, had slipped into Rock Point for a few days. Bracken had sensed that Colin stood apart from his family and his hometown. A kindred soul, perhaps. They’d become friends over a drink at Hurley’s.

  “Have a sip,” Bracken said, nodding to the glass of water he’d supplied.

  Colin complied, welcoming the cool water after the fiery whiskey. Water for sipping alongside whiskey was Father Bracken–sanctioned. Not ice. Just wasn’t done. In his view, whiskey was meant to warm the body and improve one’s sense of well-being, and ice plunked into a glass of Bracken 15 year old—or any whiskey—was contrary to that purpose.

  “What’s going on, Finian?” Colin asked finally.

  Bracken looked pained as he drank some of his own water. “Sister Joan Mary Fabriani was killed just before noon today, apparently when she interrupted an intruder at her convent. She was a longtime member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. Their convent isn’t far from here.”

  “I know where it is. Have you said mass there?”

  “Not yet, no. As yet I’ve never met any of the good sisters. They’re known for their work with both sacred and secular art. Sister Joan was an expert in conservation and restoration.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “None.”

  “Anything missing?”

  “I have no idea.” Bracken glanced out at the docks. With the clearing weather and the waning daylight, more boats were drifting into the harbor. “Word of Sister Joan’s death has spread fast. People here are in shock, Colin.”

  “Understandably. An attack inside a convent and the murder of a nun are awful things, Fin, but they’re not an FBI matter. The Criminal Investigative Division of the Maine State Police handles homicide investigations in small towns like Heron’s Cove.”

  Bracken shifted back from the view of the harbor and looked at his friend. The hair, the eyes, the shape of his jaw. Bono, Colin thought. Definitely.

  “CID’s good,” Colin added. “They’ll get to the bottom of what happened.”

  Bracken touched the rim of his whiskey glass again. “An FBI agent was there.”

  “At the convent?”

  “She was waiting for Sister Joan to get a key to unlock a gate.”

  Colin sat forward. Now Bracken had his full attention. “She?”

  Bracken lifted his glass and took another sip of his whiskey. “Her name’s Emma Sharpe. Her grandfather founded a world-renowned art theft and recovery company. He’s based in Dublin, but his grandson—Emma’s brother—runs the business out of its main offices in the family’s original home in Heron’s Cove.”

  “Lucas Sharpe,” Colin said.

  “Do you know him?”

  “The name. We’ve never met. I’ve never met Emma, either.”

  He’d heard of her, Colin thought as he tossed back more whiskey than he’d intended. He managed not to choke as he set his glass down. “What was Agent Sharpe doing at the convent?” he asked.

  “I’m hoping you’ll find out.”

  “I don’t need to find out. That would have been one of the first questions the Maine detectives asked her. She wasn’t hurt?”

  “Not that I’ve heard, no. When Sister Joan didn’t come to unlock the gate, Agent Sharpe climbed over the fence to investigate. She got to Sister Joan too late. The poor woman was already dead, may God rest her soul.”

  Colin wanted more whiskey, if only to keep him from trying to figure out what had happened at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart a few hours ago, but no more Bracken 15 year old for him. He was done now that Emma Sharpe’s name had come up. “Agent Sharpe was the first on the scene?”

  “I don’t have all the details. The murder of any innocent is unacceptable, but of a nun…” Bracken paused, staring into his drink as if it could provide answers, then said quietly, “She’s gone to God.”

  Colin could feel the priest sinking into melancholy and sat back, tapping the table with his fingers as he thought. “What do you think, Fin? Was Sister Joan in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was she targeted?”

  “If I could a
nswer all your questions, I’d have left you on your island.”

  The late-afternoon sun was out now, if only for a short time before dusk. It sparkled on the water, creating the kind of scene that kept Colin going on his darkest days working undercover. He knew the Sharpe name growing up in Rock Point, and then as a Maine marine patrol officer, but Emma Sharpe’s name had cropped up just a few weeks ago. She’d provided a critical piece of information that had helped locate one seriously bad operator, a Russian arms trafficker with a trail of dead bodies behind him.

  Colin sighed at Bracken. “I planned to go fishing tomorrow.”

  The priest shrugged. “You can still go fishing. There’s water in Heron’s Cove. I imagine that’s why heron and cove are in its name.” His midnight-blue eyes narrowed with an intensity that had to have helped turn Bracken Distillers into a highly successful company. “Colin, you must investigate.”

  “Why?”

  “What if Sister Joan was killed and Agent Sharpe was at the convent because of an FBI concern? What if this tragedy occurred because of something you’re into?”

  “I’m not into anything. I was about to take a nap when Mike found me.”

  Bracken grunted. “I know you better than you think, Colin. You’ll want to be certain your presence in Rock Point didn’t lead to the death of an innocent woman and put a colleague at risk.”

  Colin didn’t have colleagues, but that wasn’t anything he was about to explain to Bracken. “Maybe it’s the other way around and whatever they’re into will bite me. Did you consider that, Finian?”

  “Not at all. Would Agent Sharpe recognize you?”

  “No.” Colin spoke with more assurance than he felt. Ultimately, what did he know about Emma Sharpe? He resisted more whiskey. “Finian, if I stick my nose in this business and the state guys don’t like it, they’ll figure out you sent me.”

  “How?”

  “Because it’s their job. Are you prepared for a couple of police detectives to knock on your door and ask questions?”

  “Our conversations are confidential, Colin,” Bracken said, unmoved. “Of course, I realize you haven’t told me anything that’s classified. I doubt you’ve even told me the complete truth about your role with the FBI.”

  “I haven’t lied.” Not technically, anyway. “And I wasn’t thinking about me.”

  “Me? I’ve nothing to hide.”

  Colin raised an eyebrow but noticed Andy, his lobsterman younger brother, enter the restaurant. Bracken rose and helped himself to another brandy glass from a sideboard, then sat back down and poured more whiskey as Andy headed for their table.

  He was in jeans and an Irish fisherman’s sweater that had immediately endeared him to Bracken when they first met.

  Andy frowned at his older brother. “I thought you weren’t coming back for a couple more days. The mosquitoes get to you?”

  “The thought of whiskey,” Colin said. “I need to borrow a boat.”

  “FBI business?”

  “A boat’s the quickest way to get where I’m going.”

  Andy didn’t argue. He was tall, muscular and, at thirty, still a heartthrob in Rock Point. “Take the Julianne,” he said. “Bring it back with a full tank of gas.”

  “Am I getting it with a full tank?”

  His younger brother grinned. “Hell, no.”

  “Sorry I can’t stay. I’ll see you around.” Colin got to his feet before Andy could ask more questions or Bracken could think of something else for him to do. “Thanks for the whiskey, Finian. Don’t get my brother drunk.”

  No one stopped him on his way out of the restaurant. He welcomed the brisk air as he walked back across the parking lot to his truck. The sun had already disappeared. He drove the short distance to the small Craftsman-style house he owned on a hill above the harbor. He’d bought it eighteen months ago, in a spurt of optimism between deep-cover assignments. It was his bolt-hole, although not for the reasons he gave his family and friends in Rock Point. He told them he needed an occasional change of pace from his bureaucratic desk job and life in Washington.

  The reality was, he needed Rock Point to remind him that he had a life.

  He unloaded his kayak and gear and dumped them on the back porch. He debated making a few calls about the situation at the convent just to the south but instead took a shower and put on clean clothes. He again skipped shaving.

  Reasonably presentable, he walked back down to the harbor.

  The Julianne, named for the daughter of its original owner, was still tied up at the dock. Colin jumped on board. He could have stayed in Maine and become a lobsterman. He could be one yet, especially if he got fired or the wrong people found out who he was, that he was still alive.

  Had the attack at the convent put him at risk? His family?

  Was it about him?

  Colin cranked up the old boat’s engine. The air was turning cool, crisp, but Heron’s Cove and the offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery weren’t far.

  Emma Sharpe was a member of Matt Yankowski’s new team based in Boston. Yank, Colin knew, would welcome an excuse to put him behind a desk for real.

  Another excuse, anyway. He was keeping a list of Colin’s transgressions. Not that Yank was alone, but he had been Colin’s friend and then his contact agent during two dangerous, grueling years of undercover work.

  A strong breeze blew out of the southwest but it would be an easy boat ride south. Colin had made the trip to Heron’s Cove countless times, for work and pleasure, if never because of the presence of an FBI agent at the death of a nun.

  How the hell had Sister Joan been killed under Emma Sharpe’s nose?

  He glanced back at the houses and streets that made up Rock Point and noticed the steeple of Saint Patrick’s, Bracken’s small church, rising behind the town library. The Irishman was a mystery, but he was also one of the few people Colin trusted without question.

  He just wasn’t sure why.

  “Well, Emma Sharpe,” he said as he maneuvered the boat out toward open water, “let’s see what you were up to today at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart.”

  5

  EMMA COULD HEAR THE SISTERS SINGING IN THE chapel in the motherhouse as she climbed into her car just outside the main convent gate. The Maine CID detectives had finished interviewing the sisters one by one, and the medical examiner had removed Sister Joan’s body for autopsy. The search of the grounds for evidence and any sign of the attacker’s trail continued.

  As focused as she was on her duties as a law enforcement officer, Emma nonetheless felt the pull of her former life—a yearning for the sense of belonging she’d once experienced with the dedicated women, many of whom she still considered friends, gathered now in mourning.

  Two Maine CID detectives had interviewed her, too. Hindsight would do her no good now. What she could have, perhaps should have, done no longer mattered. She had to focus on making sure she hadn’t left out anything that could help find Sister Joan’s killer.

  She took the winding road into Heron’s Cove, crowded with tourists on what was turning into a crisp, beautiful fall weekend, and parked in front of a yellow clapboard Colonial on a narrow, shaded side street two blocks from the village center. The house needed work. Even its roof sagged. But her brother, Lucas, who’d bought it six months ago, enjoyed a challenge.

  It was dusk, the chilly air penetrating her leather jacket as she headed up the crumbling brick walk. Lucas burst out of the front door and trotted down the steps to greet her. He was in khakis and a dark sweater, his sandy hair and lean build reminding Emma of their grandfather in Dublin.

  “Damn, Emma,” Lucas said, shaking his head. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to do since I heard the news. How close was this?”

  “Not close enough. Otherwise I might have been able to save Sister Joan.”

  Lucas winced. “Do you want to come inside and have a drink?”

  “I can’t. My boss is driving up from Boston to see me.”

  “Are you in tr
ouble?”

  She glanced at the yard, a mix of crabgrass and dandelions that Lucas envisioned turning into a garden. He’d already hired a landscape designer. He’d grown weary of living where he worked and had finally bought a place of his own, figuring there was no point in waiting for the right woman to turn up. At thirty-four, he was intensely focused on leading Sharpe Fine Art Recovery into the future and had decided to make changes.

  Emma turned back to him. “I guess I’ll find out.”

  “Matt Yankowski is my idea of a real SOB.”

  “He’d probably consider that a compliment.”

  Her brother’s good humor faded. “How well did you know the sister who was killed?”

  “Very well. She was an early skeptic of my calling to a religious life. She was right, of course. I hadn’t seen her since I left the convent. It’s hard to believe it’s been four years. I should have gone back sooner.”

  “Today wasn’t your fault, Emma,” her brother said.

  She blew out a breath in an effort to push back her emotions. “Had Sister Joan been in touch with you recently?”

  Lucas scooped up a loose chunk of brick and tossed it onto a pile by the steps. “I haven’t had any direct contact with anyone at the convent in months. We refer clients to them from time to time but haven’t lately. Why were you up there today?”

  “Sister Joan called me this morning. She wanted my opinion on a painting. She said it wasn’t FBI business but she didn’t have a chance to go into detail.”

  A breeze caught the ends of her brother’s hair. “What painting?”

  “I don’t know.” Emma zipped up her jacket in the cool air. “There weren’t any paintings in the tower and nothing new had been logged in recently.”

  “Could it have been a painting already at the convent? The sisters have a decent art collection themselves.”

  “Sister Joan was taking me to the tower. I assume the painting she wanted to show me was there, for whatever reason.”

  “Then whoever killed her took it.”

  Emma nodded at Lucas’s stark words. “That’s what I think.”