Saint's Gate

by Carla Neggers

  He smiled, leaving his arm around her middle. “That kiss was bound to happen, don’t you think?”

  “No,” she lied. “It was adrenaline. Let’s go.”

  Emma barely noticed her feet hitting the steps as she charged down the stairs, taking the lead this time. Colin stayed with her, following her through the empty rooms and out to the back porch.

  She shivered involuntarily in the chilly air. Colin slipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She smiled at him. “Chivalrous. Thank you.”

  “Chivalrous? I think that’s a first.” His black sweatshirt fit close against his broad shoulders and flat abdomen. He nodded to the painting she’d been working on. “Your work?”

  “Yank thought my boat was a seagull. And don’t tell me you don’t know who he is, because you do.”

  “Is painting a hobby?”

  “A hobby I have less and less time to indulge.”

  Emma realized he was getting her to talk through her nerves while they waited for the police to arrive. There’d be a big response. Two FBI agents had found a bomb at the family home and offices of one of them. If her brother or any of his employees had decided to start clearing out the attic, they could have accidentally triggered the bomb. There could have been serious injuries. Deaths.

  She shut her eyes, picturing herself in the attic as a little girl, sitting in front of a painting as her grandfather fussed with a stack of files.

  “Granddad, she’s so pretty. Is she sleeping?”

  “I think so, darlin’. She’s a saint. A kind, lovely saint.”

  “Why is she in the cave? Is she hiding from the Vikings?”

  The remembered conversation wasn’t the result of stress and adrenaline—regret, she thought, and guilt. The shock of Sister Joan’s murder hadn’t somehow created a false memory. Emma was positive that the painting of the woman in the cave that Sister Cecilia had described had once been in Wendell Sharpe’s attic—in her grandfather’s possession.

  How could it be a focal point in a Jack d’Auberville painting of an unknown private gallery?

  Was that what Sister Joan had wanted to ask her? Had she recognized the painting of the woman in the cave?

  Was it why she had been killed?

  Emma was aware of Colin watching her, aware of wanting him to kiss her again. “I enjoy painting,” she said, although she knew he’d rather hear about her elusive memory of what was now, apparently, a second missing painting—the mysterious painting of a beautiful woman in an island cave, with a Viking longboat about to attack. “I have no airs about being an artist. I love the colors, the textures, the feel of acrylic and oil paint on a clean brush and fresh canvas.”

  “Do time and worries fall away when you paint?”

  “Yes. For you—?”

  “Kayaking, canoeing, hiking. I don’t paint landscapes and still lifes.”

  “I like kayaking and hiking. I haven’t gone canoeing in ages. I paint what’s around me here in Heron’s Cove. I did a still life of apples I picked myself that I like well enough. I hung it in my kitchen in Boston.”

  “Yank’s going to want to know about the bomb,” Colin said.

  She nodded. “Yes, he is.”

  “Why would someone want to break into your grandfather’s house and set a bomb in the attic, Agent Sharpe?”

  “I think after that kiss you should at least call me Emma, don’t you?”

  “You’re avoiding my question. What was in the vault, Emma?”

  She could hear the wail of sirens of the approaching police cars. They seemed to be coming from all directions.

  “I’m not going anywhere until I get an answer,” Colin said. “I know all the guys about to descend here. I’ll tell them to leave you to me for now. They’ll do it.”

  Emma had no doubt they would.

  “Does your grandfather have a big unsolved case—some grand old masterpiece that he’s been on the trail of for decades?”

  “I’m sure he has more than one unsolved case. Art theft cases can go on for decades. One of the most famous is the theft at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston in 1990. Thieves posing as police officers carried off thirteen paintings valued at half a billion dollars—works by Rembrandt, Vermeer, Manet and Degas. There are a lot of theories about who’s responsible.”

  “What’s the relationship between the convent and your family?”

  “We both deal in fine art, if in different ways—”

  “It’s more than that,” Colin said.

  The sirens were louder, blaring. She could see the lights of the police cars shining through the empty house behind her. “My grandfather and Mother Linden, the foundress of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, were friends.”

  “Before she became a nun?”

  Emma nodded and pulled Colin’s jacket more tightly around her, noticing it was still warm from him. “She was an accomplished artist and a dedicated teacher. My grandfather was a security guard at a Portland museum. She encouraged him to pursue a career in art theft and recovery.”

  “So you knew her.”

  “I met her as a small child. She died when I was quite young. She was a lovely, cheerful woman dedicated to her work and her faith. Everyone adored her.” Emma felt the energy drain out of her. “We should go meet the police.”

  She started back into the kitchen.

  “Emma,” Colin said, waiting until she stopped in the doorway and glanced back at him. “The kiss was good.”

  She smiled. “Yes, it was.”

  He gave her one of his dark-eyed winks. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

  She felt somewhat more energized as she went to meet the police, Colin Donovan right behind her.

  15

  COLIN TOOK A HALF GALLON OF LOCAL APPLE CIDER out of the Sharpe refrigerator after explaining himself yet again to his former colleagues in the Maine State Police. The FBI and ATF were on scene now, too. He’d let the Maine guys explain him to them. He’d been at the convent that morning, he’d been at the d’Auberville place that afternoon and now he was at the Sharpe place, just having defused a bomb. He wasn’t sure how long anyone would believe he was an FBI agent who worked at a desk in D.C., and was just on vacation at home in Maine.

  There wasn’t much besides cider in the Sharpe kitchen. Apparently Emma hadn’t done her apple-picking, sauce-making and pie-baking yet.

  He found a glass and poured the cider as his brother Kevin, in his marine patrol uniform, joined him, leaning against the counter and shaking his head at his older brother. “Where did you learn to defuse a bomb? Quantico?”

  “High school,” Colin said. “It was a basic homemade bomb. I could tell it wasn’t going to go off in my face.”

  “You could have run.”

  “Steep stairs.” Colin took a swallow of the cider.

  “How is that?”

  “Sweet.”

  Kevin got a glass down from an open shelf and helped himself to cider, leaving the jug on the counter. He was tall, if not as tall as his three brothers. “You should have gone moose hunting.”

  “It’s not moose season.”

  Kevin sighed and drank some of his cider. “I don’t mean literally.”

  “I planned to go up north with Mike next week. This week was kayaking.”

  “Kayaking. What kind of Donovan are you?”

  “We’re both standing here drinking sweet apple cider, Kevin.”

  “Couple of tough guys. I want to get away before the snow flies, go up and let Mike map out a route for me.” Kevin drank more cider. “What’s going on, Colin?”

  “Nothing good.” Even his attraction to Emma Sharpe probably wasn’t good, or at least not smart, but he didn’t mention that part to his brother. “I want to know who killed that nun.”

  “Do you know why she got Agent Sharpe up there?”

  “No, and I don’t know why someone broke in here and planted a bomb in the attic.”

  “One that didn’t go off,” Kevin said. “Not bad
work for a desk jockey.”

  Colin ignored his brother’s skepticism. “Are you on the case? You’re not going to find answers standing here drinking apple cider.”

  “You were a hard case even when you were nine, Colin. I guess you’re not mellowing in D.C. Do you get to many cocktail parties?”

  “You should come for a visit, brother. I live alone with twelve cats.”

  Kevin downed the rest of his cider. “I suppose if I called the FBI, someone would cover for you, say you were off analyzing data or some such crap.”

  “I don’t have anything to do with this violence. Don’t waste your time on me.”

  “I’d keep a close eye on your Emma.”

  “It wasn’t a random break-in yesterday—kids stuck in fog decide to check out the convent and accidentally kill a nun.”

  “Not a chance, especially now with this d’Auberville painting missing.” Kevin set his glass in the sink and eyed his brother. “What’s your involvement, Colin? Sharpe’s a colleague, I know, and she’s from up here, but why did Father Bracken send Mike after you? Because a nun was killed?”

  “Her death bothers him.”

  “And he’s bored in Rock Point. I can’t say I blame him. This painting…” Kevin looked out the window at the waterfront, lights on in a passing yacht. “The woman in the cave has to be a saint. You know about relics, Colin? You know what they are? Body parts. Holy body parts. I’m glad I’m not a saint. Cremate me and dump my ashes in the ocean, brother.”

  He gave a mock shudder and walked back out to the front room to rejoin his colleagues.

  Colin headed out to the porch, and Emma joined him. She still had his jacket draped over her shoulders. “You weren’t kidding. The Maine contingent knows you,” she said. “Do they realize you’re an undercover agent?”

  He leaned against the balustrade, his back to the docks. “I’m here visiting my family. Now I’m helping you. That’s all that matters.”

  “It’ll be a while before everyone finishes up here but you’re free to go.”

  His eyes settled on her. “Jump in the boat, then.”

  “What? No.”

  “If I’m free to go, you’re free to go. Someone broke into your house and left a bomb. I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  “Because of Yank—”

  “Because of me,” he said.

  “How is jumping into a lobster boat with you going to help me?”

  “Ocean breeze in your hair. Bouncing over the waves.” He stood up from the balustrade. “It’ll help.”

  “Do you work for Yank? Are you one of the ghosts on the team?”

  “I’m not on his team. Yank and I go way back. How do you think he ended up in Heron’s Cove to recruit you?”

  “Then you know about me,” she said, her eyes distant.

  “Sharpe family. Art detectives. Yeah, I know.” Colin stopped short and forced himself to think past his attraction to her. “That’s not what you’re talking about, is it?”

  She seemed relieved and brushed him off. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t see you and Yank as friends. He’s a lawyer—by the book, ambitious. You strike me as—”

  “A problem,” Colin said.

  “Independent,” Emma countered. “A lone ranger.”

  She slipped her arms into his jacket sleeves and rolled up the cuffs. She looked small and vulnerable, but he knew it would be a mistake to underestimate her. He could think she was sexy, though. That couldn’t bite him back.

  But she was all business. “Yank assigned you to protect me?”

  “I told you. I don’t work for him.”

  “From what I just heard from your former colleagues, I’m more likely to protect you. I think that’s just a bluff, though. They know you don’t sit at a desk. You were too handy with that bomb.”

  “The lobsterman in me. I kiss well, too, don’t you think?”

  “You move fast in a number of ways, I’ll say that for you. Okay, lobsterman, let’s go.”

  They headed down to his boat. Colin stood back while Emma, asking for no help from him, climbed in. She had on her boots but they didn’t seem to impede her in throwing one leg over the other. He tried not to notice the shape of her hips, tried not to think about having those slim legs wrapped around him.

  Maybe it was the bomb, he thought. Maybe he was more affected by the danger than he wanted to admit, and that was why he couldn’t get the thought of sleeping with Agent Sharpe out of his mind.

  Because a romantic relationship with her—with any woman—was insanity right now, given his present circumstances.

  She found a spot to sit in the stern of the boat. “At least it doesn’t smell like bait.”

  Colin laughed as he jumped in next to her. He tossed her a life preserver. “Keep my jacket. It’ll be cold on the water.”

  “Don’t you need it?”

  “I’ll be fine.” A little cold air would do him good.

  She unrolled the cuffs to cover her hands, and she looked paler and more upset than she would want to admit. She stared back at her house as if she were picturing it in flames instead of just inundated with law enforcement types.

  “Kevin thinks it was a saint in the painting with the Viking ship,” Colin said.

  “Probably.”

  “You know more than you’re saying. You have since this morning with Sister Cecilia. You can tell me more over a glass of whiskey. Ready to go?”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  He laughed. “Sure you can.”

  He stepped into the pilothouse and got the boat under way. Emma stayed in the stern as he steered the Julianne through the channel out to the ocean. There was a purple cast to the afternoon as daylight leaked out of the sky. She gazed out toward the horizon, her cheeks pink with the wind and the chilly air.

  The waves weren’t bad, and it was a reasonably smooth ride to Rock Point. Colin dropped her off on the dock, then moored the boat and rowed the dingy back, secured it and hopped up next to her. His jacket was crooked on her shoulders and hung to her knees, but Colin reminded himself she had a nine-millimeter pistol on her hip.

  “Have you ever been out here?” he asked her as they headed to the small parking lot.

  “Not in a long time. I haven’t even been to Heron’s Cove that much lately.”

  “Yank keeps you busy. HIT’s new. Have you had a chance to find a place in Boston?”

  She nodded. “I have an apartment on the waterfront. It’s small but I can walk to work.”

  “Are you on the road much?”

  “Some.” She cast him a quick look. “Where’s the whiskey?”

  It wasn’t even a subtle dodge. “This way.”

  She wasn’t sharing information, not even with a fellow FBI agent. Colin walked with her over to Hurley’s. The dinner crowd had gathered, filling up most of the tables. He felt the normalcy of the lives of the people around him. He hadn’t had a normal life in a long time and guessed Emma Sharpe hadn’t, either, especially since she’d started working for Matt Yankowski.

  His two Rock Point brothers, Kevin and Andy, were at a back table with Finian Bracken. Kevin had filled them in on the break-in and bomb. Bracken had produced another bottle of his precious Bracken 15 year old. Kevin and Andy had already finished their allotment and were preparing to leave.

  “Julianne’s solid,” Andy said, leaning over to Emma on his way out. “She can handle getting smashed onto the rocks.”

  Emma’s smile at him seemed genuine. “Then we weren’t in danger of springing a leak and sinking on our way over here from Heron’s Cove?”

  “No danger at all.”

  Kevin looked more skeptical but kept his mouth shut.

  After the two younger Donovan brothers left, Bracken started to his feet. “I’ll be on my way.”

  “No,” Emma said, pointing him back to his chair. “Your perspective as a priest might be of some help right now.”

  He dropped back into his seat. “Of course.” He s
plashed a bit of whiskey into a brandy glass and pushed it across the table to her. “It’ll settle your nerves.”

  She didn’t protest and pulled off Colin’s jacket and hung it on the back of her chair as she sat across from him by the window. She took a small sip of the whiskey. “It’s perfect, Father. You haven’t had too much, have you? I need you with a clear head.”

  “Ah. I never overimbibe.”

  Colin positioned himself so that he could watch both Bracken and Emma.

  Bracken poured water from one of Hurley’s plastic pitchers and pushed that glass across to her, too. “You’ll want to stay hydrated. Even a little whiskey tends to have a dehydrating effect.”

  Emma dutifully drank some of the water, then set down her glass. “Father, can you think of a young female saint who died in an island cave, perhaps while escaping a Viking warship? She’s beautiful—blonde, lying in the cave as if she’s fallen asleep.”

  “But she’s dead?”

  “I think so, yes. There are skeletal remains around her. White light emanates from the top of the cave into the sky and surrounding water.”

  Colin splashed whiskey into a glass. This was new information. Sister Cecilia hadn’t described skeletal remains.

  “Perhaps her body is incorrupt,” Bracken said.

  Emma kept her focus on him. “Incorruptibility suggests we’re talking about a saint.”

  Bracken picked up his glass, just a few sips of the expensive whiskey left. “Saint Sunniva,” he said. “That’s my guess.”

  “I’m not familiar with her, Father.”

  “There are various versions of the Sunniva story,” he said. “According to the most popular, Sunniva was a tenth-century Irish Christian princess who fled Ireland to escape an arranged marriage to a pagan, probably a Viking. She was stranded on Selje, an island off the coast of Norway.”

  “What happened to her?” Emma asked.

  “Farmers grazing livestock on the island believed Sunniva and her companions were stealing cattle and called for help from the mainland. The local Viking ruler got fighters together and sailed for Selje to deal with what they assumed to be Christian invaders. The Irish hid in a cave. As they prayed not to be captured and brutalized, an avalanche sealed them inside.” Bracken paused, staring into his drink. “The Viking warriors found no one on the island and left.”