She kept her tone professional, as if she were giving a report to her team. “A postulant is a candidate for admission to an order, not a member of the order. Postulant comes from the Latin postulare—to ask, to request. Requirements can differ from order to order, but generally a novice is a member of the order. She’s made a profession of first, or temporary, vows. A novitiate typically lasts two or three years, but it can be longer, or repeated. It’s a time of initiation and integration into the congregation.”
“Do postulants and novices do the scut work—clean toilets, sweep floors, cook for the sisters?”
“Postulants don’t live at the convent, but everyone at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart participates in daily tasks. I’m sure that hasn’t changed since I was there.”
“What about maintenance?” Colin asked. “Mowing, trimming trees, hauling wood, fixing leaks?”
“The sisters I knew are all very handy, although some more than others. They hire out what they can’t do themselves, just as anyone else would.” Emma stopped abruptly. “Why? Do you think a handyman is responsible for Sister Joan’s death?”
Colin went a few steps ahead of her, then stopped, turning to her. “You never know. Someone comes to fix the roof, sees a couple paintings lying around and decides to come back on a foggy morning. What about money? Sisters are all broke, right?”
Emma rejoined him, pretending she hadn’t noticed his scars and his shoulders and was just having a professional conversation with a colleague. “A vow of poverty means sisters don’t accumulate personal wealth. Everything they have and everything they earn goes into the general fund. They’re allotted money for personal needs. Clothes, food, shelter, spending money.”
“That’s a big commitment.”
“No one is forced to become a sister. Not these days, anyway. In the past, some women were forced into convents by their families or by personal circumstances.”
“Times change. You got up to the water’s edge and decided not to jump?”
“Basically, yes.”
“Yank’s doing? He’s a good-looking guy.”
“That wasn’t it.” Emma kept her tone cool, focused. “He offered me a different opportunity.”
“And he saw through you and your calling.”
“Maybe so.”
Colin was thoughtful a moment. “Sister Cecilia? Any sign her call is inauthentic? Did she run away from personal problems to become a nun?”
“It’s impossible for me to say.”
“Your gut, Emma.”
She turned off the path to an ornate iron gate. “My ‘gut’ isn’t always reliable.”
“Ah,” Colin said behind her. “You trusted it when you entered the convent, and you ended up wasting a few good dancing years.”
She sighed. “You’re welcome to your point of view.”
“You’re struggling not to be a novice again—back in the convent, mentally, emotionally. You have been since Sister Joan called you.”
He unlatched the gate and they entered a terraced hillside garden. At the top was the sprawling five-star Park Hotel. It looked like an old manor house but, Emma knew, had been built as a hotel in 1897 and had been an elegant presence in Kenmare ever since. She and Colin followed a wide path edged with artfully arranged flowers and shrubs, the occasional statue popping up from the lush, almost wild-looking greenery.
“What’s a day in the life of a nun like?” he asked.
“I can only speak about my own experience. The sisters are up early—usually by five-thirty. First comes breakfast, prayer, meditation and mass, then their daily work, whatever that might be. Mornings tend to be quiet and reflective.”
“So you knew that Sister Joan asking you to go up there in the morning was out of the ordinary?”
“Yes,” Emma said, leaving it at that. “Some sisters leave the convent for the day to look after the studio and shop in Heron’s Cove or attend or teach at various schools and colleges. A few sisters are in residence elsewhere. I’m sure CID has a list—”
“I don’t need a list,” Colin said.
“Afternoons are less structured. Sisters will still do their own work but they’ll also work in the gardens and kitchen, clean, study—whatever needs to be done. Vespers are at five. Then dinner, cleanup and recreational time for reading, games, watching television.”
“It’s not a life of solitude, then.”
“There’s time for solitude, but sisters commit to communal life.”
Colin shook his head. “I couldn’t do it. I guess you couldn’t, either, when push came to shove. What about Sister Joan? Was she a pain in the neck?”
Emma slowed her pace as they walked uphill, under a vine-covered arbor and past more lush subtropical greenery. “She was incisive and direct.”
“What would she do if she thought the convent had something to hide?”
“It would eat away at her, but she’d get her ducks in a row before taking any action.”
“Like call you without telling her Mother Superior?”
Emma nodded. She and Colin followed the walk to a stone terrace overlooking the inner waters of Kenmare Bay and the hills behind the old burial ground. Ignoring the cool temperature and the damp air, she sat at a painted cast-iron table.
Colin remained on his feet, his eyes on her, not the view. “You’re wondering if Sister Joan’s death and the missing paintings have something to do with your family. That’s bugging you.”
“Not having Sister Joan’s killer under arrest is bugging me.”
He grinned unexpectedly. “That was just a little self-righteous, don’t you think?”
“Self-righteous? Just because I was a nun?”
“Relax, Sister Brigid. I did that on purpose. I wanted to get your adrenaline flowing. You were getting pale, and I think you were a little winded from the walk up the hill.”
“I wasn’t winded.” She wasn’t ready to return his grin. Not even a little. “Have you considered that your friend Father Bracken isn’t telling the truth, even now? What if he targeted you—sucked you in, manipulated you, befriended you—for reasons of his own?”
“Then I’ll arrest his Irish ass.”
“He’s rich and connected. He could have figured out who you are and that’s why he chose Rock Point.”
“Have a glass of whiskey, Emma. Put your feet up and relax.” Colin slipped his hand into her jacket pocket and withdrew her cell phone. “I’ll put my number in here.” He did so, efficiently, then slipped the phone back in her pocket. “Call me if you need me.”
“Thank you, but I won’t need you,” she said.
“I know. You don’t need anyone. That’s what you’ve been trying to prove all this time, isn’t it?”
“I believed I had a calling to become a member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. I discovered I didn’t. I wasn’t running from anything, and I wasn’t hiding from life.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
He shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”
She stared up at him, then shook her head and looked away. She noticed the sky was a deep lavender-gray now, clearing as the clouds pushed eastward. “Sister Joan always knew I didn’t belong. Asking for my help the other day must have been difficult for her.”
“Maybe she was setting you up, getting information from you—using you—and it backfired.”
Emma kept her gaze on the incredible view. “Maybe.”
“We can run scenarios all night. Here’s another. Maybe your granddad helped Claire Grayson unload the last of her family’s art collection and then split the profits with her. Or maybe she was young, pretty and vulnerable and he let her keep the money.”
“You’re a hard man, aren’t you, Agent Donovan?”
He grinned. “I hope so.” He leaned down to her and spoke in a half whisper. “Emma, it might be different if I’d known from the start you’d been one of the joyful sisters, but I didn’t, and now I can’t help it. I can’t get the idea of sleeping with you out of my mind.�
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Before she could respond, Colin stood straight and headed off the terrace, back to the hillside garden.
26
EMMA STAYED ON THE TERRACE AND ORDERED tea. No whiskey, Bracken or otherwise, for her. The tea came with cookies—“biscuits”—that were fat, soft, chocolaty and the perfect antidote to a grilling by one very sexy, relentless undercover FBI agent.
Finian Bracken came through the hotel bar and joined her outside, settling across from her at the small table. A waiter brought out his glass of whiskey and glass of water. “I’m sorry I’m late. I saw you chatting with Colin and didn’t want to interrupt. I have no intention of coming between you two. Aren’t you cold?”
“I have tea.”
“Yes, so you do.” He cupped his brandy glass, taking in the aroma of the whiskey. “It’s a fantastic Scotch, very peaty.”
“Father—”
“We’re not after some opportunistic SOB,” he said, peering at her over the rim of his glass. “We’re after a brutal, calculating, knowledgeable killer.”
Emma waited a moment before responding. “There’s no ‘we,’ but what have you found out?”
Bracken shrugged. “Nothing yet. In my mind, a profile is emerging of a violent, clever thief with a personal agenda that goes beyond profit and adventure.”
“Father, you can’t get mixed up in this investigation at any level. You identified Saint Sunniva. That’s enough. I don’t want your help. And your friend Colin—”
He held up a hand. “I’m aware of Colin’s feelings on the matter. You know the FBI has no authority over me here in Ireland, right?”
“You’re a free man, Father Bracken. I don’t have authority over you anywhere. However, I can arrest you in the States for certain offenses, and I can call the guards here.”
“Ah, and you would, too, Emma,” he said with a smile.
“Damn right I would.”
Unruffled, he tried his whiskey, savoring that first sip. In his dark sweater, with his midnight-blue eyes and Bono look, Emma couldn’t imagine anyone assuming he was a priest.
“How’s your grandfather?” he asked. “Have you had an update?”
“He’s on the mend. My parents are with him in Dublin.” She broke off more of one of her cookies. “I meant for this to be a fun trip. I’d help him pack up his office and listen to him talk about the old days. Sister Joan’s death, the bomb and now the attack on him…” She ate her piece of cookie, savoring the sweetness. “I can’t stay. I’m going back to Boston tomorrow. What about you?”
“I’ll spend the night at my brother Declan’s house. It’s not far from here.” Bracken drank more of his whiskey. “You have a generous, curious nature, Emma. Your time with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart served you well. I’ll let you know what I discover.”
“Take no risks, Father.”
“Finian, remember?”
“Finian, then. If this killer would hit a nun on the back of the head, why not a priest?”
Bracken leveled his dark blue eyes on her. “I’m not afraid, Emma.” He abandoned his whiskey and sipped some water as he got to his feet. “I’ve arranged a room for you here for the night. It’s a long flight back to Boston. Enjoy a full Irish breakfast before you leave.”
Emma watched him head back through the hotel. He’d have parked his rented BMW out front. She hoped his brother would distract him from wanting to help the FBI.
Then again, Colin Donovan might lock his Irish friend in a closet until their killer was under arrest.
The early-evening air was chilly now. Emma gave up on her tea and went inside and sat up at the curving polished wood bar. She ordered a glass of red wine. She was alone but she didn’t mind. She was in a beautiful place.
She could stay right here, indulge herself and forget she was chasing a killer.
A killer who would strike again. There was no question.
After she finished her wine, she walked out to the terrace again, then wandered in the garden as she called Matt Yankowski. She’d debated calling Lucas and didn’t want to read anything into her decision not to.
“How’s Ireland?” Yank asked.
“Green.”
“How much whiskey have you had?”
“None. I’ve had wine.” She could hear the displeasure in his tone and figured he had the Sharpe family tree and Finian Bracken’s baby pictures up on his computer by now. “You’ve been in touch with the Irish authorities about my grandfather?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’d have called you sooner,” she said, “but—”
“But you didn’t. Talk to me, Sharpe.”
Emma filled him in as darkness descended over her corner of southwest Ireland.
When she finished, Yank said, “Keep me posted, and trust no one.”
“Colin Donovan?”
“That’s between you, him and the leprechauns,” Yank said, and disconnected.
27
COLIN UNLOADED HIS KAYAK GEAR IN HIS GARAGE when he arrived back in Rock Point the next afternoon. He didn’t mind flying. He just hated sitting on planes. He hung his kayak paddle and his life vest on hooks and pretended he’d gone on to his fifth island and Emma Sharpe was still just the name of an agent who’d helped take down an arms trafficker.
He wasn’t good at pretending. Deception, yes. Not pretending.
Emma Sharpe wasn’t just a name anymore. He could see her luminous green eyes as she’d walked next to him in the Irish park. He could have whisked her off for a night of dinner, Irish music, laughter and lovemaking.
Instead, he’d left her to chat with Finian Bracken and had gone off on his own. He’d checked with sources and looked into Wendell Sharpe and the Bracken brothers. He was satisfied the troubles in Heron’s Cove didn’t lead back to Vladimir Bulgov, his Russian arms trafficker with a passion for expensive fine art.
He hung his dry bag on another hook. He wasn’t satisfied about anything else.
As if to drive home that point, Matt Yankowski appeared in the doorway of Colin’s one-car garage, his suit coat hung over one shoulder, his white shirt still looking crisp. He’d loosened his tie. “I see you didn’t decide to stay in Ireland and chase rainbows.”
“I was tempted. I could use a pot of gold.”
“Was Emma tempted?”
“I didn’t ask.” Colin lifted his kayak and propped it against the wall. “Did you just get here?”
“I parked at the docks. Thought I might find you there but I ran into your brother Andy. He said you were up here. I figured I could use the exercise and walked.” Yank nodded to the dark red sea kayak. “Heading out?”
“I probably should be.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you disappeared. Emma just landed at Logan. I half hoped she’d stay in Ireland.” He blew out a breath. The walk up from the harbor didn’t seem to have affected him. “Things changed with the bomb and then the attack on Wendell Sharpe. Whatever’s going on involves the Sharpes. There’s no getting around it.”
“Your ex-nun FBI agent is trouble, Yank.”
He gave a small smile. “She says that about you.”
“I’m not an ex-nun.”
“You’re from Rock Point, which some days I think should be called Rock Head. You’re an ex-lobsterman. That’s not so different from being an ex-nun. I only do lobster in a roll with a little mayo and lettuce. I suppose it’s different when the lobster’s your paycheck.”
“Everything’s different when it’s your paycheck.”
Colin headed out of the garage and stood at the edge of the driveway. He looked back at Yank. “You know what there is to know about me. Can you say the same about Agent Sharpe–slash–Sister Brigid?”
Yank put his suit coat back on. “She’s not Sister Brigid anymore. Focusing on that part of her life is like blaming a kid for playing dress-up.”
“That’s a little patronizing, don’t you think, Yank?”
“She was nineteen when she knocked on that convent door.”
“Who are you trying to convince? Have you heard her talk about her life there? It was a serious commitment. Study, contemplation, rules. Vows.”
“I know,” Yank said heavily.
“Are you digging into the grandfather and brother? They’ve hunted down their share of bad actors over the years. They’ve worked with the FBI, various local law enforcement agencies, Interpol, who knows who else. They have their own sources and methods to protect. If they wanted to hire some creep to do their dirty work, they’d know where to go.”
“So would you.”
“That’s right,” Colin said. “But I have no reason to find someone to break into a convent and steal a painting, or leave a bomb in an attic, or beat up an old man.”
“The Sharpes leave no stone unturned in an investigation but there’s never been even a whiff of scandal around them.”
“They could just be better at hiding the bad stuff than most.”
Yank nodded toward the street. “Walk with me. Tell me about your friend the priest.”
Colin was done in the garage, anyway. He closed the door. His friendship with a meddling Irish priest with a tragic past would be another transgression in Yank’s eyes, that he had ventured to Heron’s Cove at Finian Bracken’s request further proof that he was burned out, in need of a change in direction in his work.
He walked with Yank back down to the harbor. Rock Point had no cute village the way Heron’s Cove did but Yank didn’t seem to care. “You probably know as much about Finian Bracken as I do,” Colin said.
“Do you think he was just shocked by Sister Joan’s murder and got hold of you because you’re friends and he knows you’re a federal agent?”
“He’s also bored and figuring out his purpose in life. He worked hard to become a priest. Now what? He’s looking at thirty years of visiting sick people, burying dead people, baptizing babies. After running a high-end distillery, having a family, that might seem daunting.”
“So insert yourself in a murder investigation,” Yank said. “I was in Ireland once. It’s a hop, skip and jump from Boston. I spent a few days in Dublin checking on Emma when she was working with her grandfather. I was right about her, you know. She’s good.”
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