He headed out the back door and got into his BMW, the expensive car his one visible indulgence. Parishioners didn’t seem to mind. He took a scenic route along the sparkling ocean and the rockbound coast to upscale Heron’s Cove, a contrast to less affluent Rock Point to the north. Tourists jammed the village sidewalks on the beautiful early afternoon, but he wound his way to the docks at the mouth of the Heron River.
He drove past a gray-shingled house. Although there was no sign announcing the fact, according to his research, he knew this was the Maine home of Wendell Sharpe and the offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.
Not terribly imposing, Finian thought as he continued past a classic New England inn, then cut down a short side street to a parking lot above the riverfront docks. He pulled in close to the water, a small powerboat puttering toward the deep channel that led to the ocean. Almost directly below him, a young couple pushed a two-person kayak across polished rocks into the shallow water.
He got out of his car and glanced toward the Sharpe house, tucked between the street and the waterfront just past evergreen shrubs at the far end of the parking lot. He was comfortable here in well-off Heron’s Cove, he realized. More comfortable in some ways than in rougher Rock Point, and yet he was comfortable there, too. He hadn’t been born to wealth.
He frowned, noticing someone on the back porch of the Sharpe house.
A woman.
Emma Sharpe, the FBI agent?
Finian walked casually along the retaining wall. The woman seemed to be peering into a back window. She was tall and slender, with long, fair hair. As he squeezed between the shrubs onto the grass behind the Sharpe house, she yanked on the back door. She looked impatient, as if she were tempted to kick in the door and march inside. He’d never met Emma Sharpe and didn’t know what she looked like, but he expected she’d have a key.
The woman on the porch turned toward the water, hands on her hips, her long, golden hair flowing past her shoulders.
She spotted him and bolted, racing down the steps.
Finian responded immediately, running across the grass and intercepting her as she reached the brick walk. The sunlight glinted on her golden curls and a large silver buckle in the shape, oddly enough, of a dragon on a wide belt that cinched her waist.
“I wasn’t trying to break in.” Her tone was more defiant than worried as she tossed her head back. She was clearly agitated, and quite beautiful. “But if you want to call the police, go ahead.”
“What were you doing?” Finian asked.
Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t even know.”
She wore slim black pants, a hip-length, silky dark purple sweater and suede flat-heeled shoes. She glanced back at the house, showing no apparent concern that he might pose a threat. It was the collar, he suspected.
“You look troubled,” he said.
She turned to him again, her rich blue eyes sparkling with sudden pleasure. “You’re Irish!”
Her abrupt change in mood took him by surprise. “I am. My name’s Finian Bracken.”
She pointed to his clerical collar. “You’re a priest?”
“I serve a church not far from here. Won’t you tell me your name?”
“I’m Ainsley d’Auberville. It’s very nice to meet you, Father Bracken. I thought Lucas Sharpe might be here, but no one’s around. They’re getting ready to renovate. I forgot.”
“Does he live in Heron’s Cove?”
She nodded. “In the village. His folks have a house here, too. This is the grandfather’s house, and the offices of their family business—”
“I’m somewhat familiar with them,” Finian said vaguely.
“I’m not even sure anymore why I wanted to see Lucas. It seemed so urgent just a few minutes ago. I found myself here and rang the doorbell. When I didn’t get an answer, I headed around back. I didn’t see anyone, so I peeked in a window and tried the door.” She broke off, as if she just realized she was explaining herself to a stranger. “What about you, Father?”
Finian smiled, noncommittal. “It’s a lovely day for an outing.”
Ainsley returned his smile with a bright one of her own. “It is, isn’t it? I should get home and enjoy the rest of it. On second thought, would you mind if I talked to you about something?” Her rich blue eyes lost their sparkle almost as suddenly as it had appeared. “I’m in a quandary. I don’t know what to do.”
“Of course—”
“Will you walk with me?”
When he agreed, she seemed visibly relieved. With a burst of energy, she led him out to the front of the Sharpe house. Across the street, a small restaurant with outdoor seating was busy with lunch-goers. Ainsley paused and watched a couple with two young children be seated at a round table. An awning and plastic sheeting protected them from the cool temperature and wind.
Finally she said, without looking at Finian, “You must have heard about the nun who was killed yesterday.”
He watched her closely as he spoke. “I have, yes.”
“It’s unsettling, having such violence happen so close by. Did you know her?”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“Then you’re not here because Emma Sharpe was at the convent when the attack occurred? That’s what I’ve heard, at least.”
Finian kept his tone neutral. “I’m here walking off pancakes.” Technically, it was true. It wasn’t as if Colin Donovan had sent him to investigate the Sharpes.
Ainsley d’Auberville attempted another easy smile. “Wild-blueberry pancakes?”
He laughed. “We’re in Maine, aren’t we?”
“They’re deadly but delicious. The blueberries are good for us, though. They’re loaded with antioxidants. I suppose we’d be smarter to sprinkle them on bran cereal and low-fat milk, instead of in pancakes.”
Finian gently steered her back to the subject at hand. “Did you know Sister Joan?”
Ainsley’s bright expression dimmed and her eyes overflowed with tears. “We weren’t friends, but yes, I knew Sister Joan.”
“The Sisters of the Joyful Heart isn’t a cloistered order, but how did you meet her?”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “I don’t know what to do,” she mumbled, twisting her fingers together in front of her silver dragon buckle.
“The facts are perhaps a good place to start,” Finian said.
“You make it sound so simple.”
“Simple, but not necessarily easy.”
“It depends on the facts, doesn’t it?” She crossed her arms over her chest, the wind catching her shining hair as she started up the street, past the inn and the entrance to the parking lot. “Do you know much about Vikings, Father?”
Vikings? Finian tried to keep his surprise to himself as he walked alongside pretty Ainsley d’Auberville. “Some.”
“They wreaked havoc on coastal Ireland for a couple hundred years, but they also founded Dublin, Cork, Limerick. Ireland had no real towns until the arrival of the Vikings.” Ainsley glanced sideways at Finian, a touch of color returning to her cheeks. “They’re also called the Norsemen, the Northmen—Vikings means ‘people of the bay,’ did you know?”
“I did not know,” he said.
“It’s an incredible, fascinating, often bloody history. They were traders, farmers, warriors, skilled craftsmen. The Viking Age is generally considered to have started with the horrific raid on Lindisfarne Abbey in 793 and continued through the eleventh century. Time seems to have moved more slowly then. Imagine how much has changed even here in Heron’s Cove in the past three hundred years.” She paused, obviously enjoying the subject. “Are you from Dublin, Father?”
“The southwest. A Saint Finian’s Church in Kenmare in County Kerry was sacked by Vikings.”
“Ah. Your namesake. Viking raiders knew that the wealth of the population was held in churches and monasteries. There were no banks—loaning money was considered a violation of Christian principles.” She waved a hand dismissively, not slackening her pace. “Of course, most
of what we know about the Vikings was written by non-Vikings.”
“Is your interest an avocation or are you studying Viking history?”
“Oh, an avocation. Totally. I’ve only read books and articles. I’m not a scholar.” She cast him a quick smile. “I love your accent. I can’t mimic an Irish accent at all. I’ve been to Ireland, but just Dublin. I want to see more of the country and visit Viking sites. Have you been to Skellig Michael?”
“Several times, yes.”
“I’d love to go. I’ve seen pictures. It was raided by Vikings at least once early in the ninth century.”
Finian looked out at the Maine coastal waters, but in his mind he pictured Skellig Michael, a knob of rock—a submerged mountaintop, really—at the westernmost edge of Europe, twelve kilometers off the tip of Ireland’s Iveragh Peninsula. During the seventh century, monks carved out a monastery on the forbidding landscape. A small monastic community survived there for the next six hundred years. Finian had first climbed through the remote ruins with his wife, who’d been so proud and delighted at going in spite of her fear of heights.
“Did I say something wrong?” Ainsley d’Auberville asked, frowning.
He tugged himself out of the past. “Not at all.”
She scrutinized him a moment before continuing. “There’s no doubt Vikings could be incredibly brutal—raping, pillaging, enslaving people—but it was a brutal age. We can’t demonize them, but we can’t romanticize them, either, can we?”
“There were people of peace at work at the same time,” Finian said.
“I like to think so.” Ainsley shuddered, then gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I love Thor comic books.”
“Miss D’Auberville—”
“Ainsley. Please. I’m sorry. I don’t want to burden you with my troubles. I guess I’d rather blather on about Vikings than what’s really on my mind. Although Vikings are on my mind, too.” She slowed her pace as the street curved closer to the ocean. “In a way my obsession with Vikings is part of the reason I’m in such a quandary.”
“Does your quandary have to do with Sister Joan’s death?”
She shot him a slightly panicked look. “You do cut to the chase, don’t you, Father?”
“If you have information the police should have—”
“I don’t know if I do or I don’t.”
“But you know something,” Finian said. “That’s why you wanted to see Lucas Sharpe, isn’t it?”
He slipped his sunglasses out of his suit coat pocket and put them on against the glare of the midday sun. He watched waves crash onto the rocks. Nearby, a lone cormorant dived under a swell and disappeared. Two seagulls passed by overhead. Farther out on the open water, pleasure and working craft went about their day, yesterday’s foggy conditions no longer a worry.
“I can accompany you to the police,” he said, returning his glasses case to his pocket. “I’ve nothing pressing on my schedule the rest of the day.”
“Becoming a witness in the murder of a nun wouldn’t go over well with my family, especially my stepfather. He’s great, but he’s very proper. He likes for us all to keep a low profile. It’s just him, my mother, my baby brother and me.” Ainsley stepped onto a boulder, seeming not to notice it was covered with bird droppings. “That kind of publicity wouldn’t go over well. It’s bad enough I’m…well, interested in Vikings and such.”
“Is your family here in Heron’s Cove?”
“Ogunquit, on the beach. Just for the summer. I’m in my father’s old place just south of here. My biological father.” She paused, the wind catching the ends of her sweater, then added, “It’s a long story.” She left it at that and returned to the pavement.
“Ainsley, if what you’re holding back could prevent further violence—”
“What I know probably makes no difference whatsoever.”
“Perhaps it’s best to let the police make that determination.”
She didn’t seem to hear him, or pretended not to, as the brisk wind tangled her hair. She looked out at the water. “I don’t know, Father. Which do you prefer—sandy beaches or the rocky coast? I go back and forth.”
He wasn’t allowing her to distract herself, or him. “Does your quandary have anything to do with your interest in Vikings?”
She about-faced and plunged back down toward the Sharpe house. Finian thought she’d changed her mind about wanting to talk to him, or perhaps had satisfied herself with what she’d said, but she stopped abruptly, turning back to him, her eyes shining with tears. “I brought a painting to Sister Joan a few days ago. I asked her not to tell a soul. She must have called Emma Sharpe about it, though, and that’s why Emma was at the convent yesterday. Emma’s an art detective. All the Sharpes are art detectives. It makes me wonder what Sister Joan saw in the painting.”
“Where is this painting now, Ainsley?”
“I have no idea. I’ve been expecting the police to show up on my doorstep to ask about it, but they haven’t. It’s been over twenty-four hours.” She shoved her hair back with the palm of a hand. “I’m afraid whoever attacked her took it.”
Finian could hear guilt strangling her voice. “Where did you get the painting?”
“I found it. It’s my father’s work.”
“Your biological father?”
She watched a powerboat speed past them, far from the immediate treachery of the rocks. “He died when I was a baby.”
“It’s a complicated situation?”
She glanced back at Finian and gave a half smile. “It’s a mess.”
Before he could respond, she continued walking toward the Sharpe house.
He matched her long stride. “You’ll call the police?”
She kept her eyes focused in front of her. “I’ll answer any question they put to me if they knock on my door, but I don’t think I should just call them out of the blue.”
“Why not?”
“I think the painting’s a big deal because it’s an interesting newfound work of Jack D’Auberville. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe no one else will care.”
“Did Sister Joan care?”
“She only gave it a quick glance when I handed it to her. I’d already given her two of my father’ paintings to clean, but they weren’t new discoveries. This one was.” She amended quickly, “Is.”
“You said you found it. Where?”
“What?” His question seemed to confuse her. “Oh. I inherited his former studio. It was there. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to steal it. It’s not like there are a lot of crazed Jack d’Auberville collectors out there. Are you free? Why don’t you come by and see the studio?” Her preoccupied mood seemed to have vanished and she smiled at him. “You must have burned off your pancakes by now. Or are you in Heron’s Cove for another reason?”
“I’m looking into buying art for the rectory.”
“Really? Then you definitely have to come by. I can advise you. I know most of the local artists. I’m one myself, in fact. At least, an artist of sorts.” Her smile brightened, reaching her eyes. “I’ll make you iced tea and we can talk about art, Vikings and Irish ruins.”
Finian raised his eyebrows. Ainsley d’Auberville had met him only minutes ago, under unusual circumstances, and now she was inviting him back to her place?
She blushed. “Sorry. I have a tendency to make everyone I meet a best friend.” She laughed, a little self-consciously. “I’m a terrible judge of character, don’t you think? Meeting an Irish priest far from home and inviting him back to my place. Of course, it’s not like that. Gabe’s there. Gabe Campbell, my fiancé. You’ll like him. He’s a painter—as in painting the woodwork. I’m the other kind of painter. We only just got engaged.”
“I appreciate the invitation—”
“Then accept. At least come for iced tea on the patio.” She motioned vaguely with one hand. “I’m just five minutes by car on the other side of the village. On the left over the bridge.”
Finian considered a moment, then nod
ded. “Thank you, I gladly accept your invitation.”
“Excellent.” She beamed, looking altogether less troubled. Her pace picked up, as if she were quite pleased with herself, and she rattled off directions and a phone number, which Finian managed to log into his iPhone before she glided down to her car and climbed in.
Finian watched her streak out into the street, then returned to the waterfront parking lot behind the inn.
He was positive he’d seen Colin Donovan head in that direction.
Colin was leaning against Finian’s BMW, clearly in no mood to find him in Heron’s Cove. “What are you doing here, Fin?”
Finian shrugged, unperturbed by Colin’s reaction to seeing him. “I was restless after our conversation last night and decided to go on an outing. I was working up an appetite for a lobster roll later on.” That, of course, was before he’d agreed to meet Ainsley d’Auberville and make sure she spoke to the police. “And you?”
“Just docked Andy’s boat. You’d get a better lobster roll at Hurley’s. Cheaper, too.” Colin stood up from the car. “Who was the woman with you?”
“Ainsley d’Auberville. Attractive, isn’t she?”
The name was obviously familiar to his FBI friend. “And you just happened to meet on the street and start chatting?”
Finian, unruffled, nodded toward the Sharpe house above the docks. “I ran into her there, as a matter of fact. She was knocking on the back door. No one was home. She seemed frustrated. Interesting, isn’t it, how the house is squeezed between water and street?”
“Common here. What did she want?”
“Your secrets are safe with me, Colin, if that’s a concern.”
“You’re dodging my question, and I haven’t told you any secrets.”
Undoubtedly. “I’m merely doing what I would do if we weren’t friends and I’d heard about the violent death of a nun in my community.”
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