“You got it jumping the fence?”
“Climbing the fence. It’s six feet tall. I’d have to be Wonder Woman to jump it.”
“Why was the gate locked?”
“I don’t know.” Emma, too, remained on her feet. “Sister Joan thought it would be unlocked. It’s standard to lock the gate when there’s a retreat at the convent. It deters visitors from wandering into the tower. That’s a work area. No one’s admitted without permission.”
“There wasn’t a retreat at the convent,” Yank said.
“And none coming in for the weekend. Technically, I had permission to be there because Sister Joan escorted me, but she didn’t tell her Mother Superior. That’s a violation of the rules.”
“Her violation. Not yours.”
Emma didn’t argue. Another sailboat maneuvered past them toward the marina. It was sleek, expensive. She couldn’t see a soul on board. Nightfall was coming earlier, the arrival of autumn already reducing the number of pleasure boats.
Her lobsterman had tied off his boat and seemed in no hurry as he rearranged traps stacked in the stern.
Yank stood next to her at the balustrade. “Why didn’t you go with Sister Joan to get the key?”
“She asked me not to. I respected her wishes. She had to go through a secluded meditation garden to get to the tower.”
“Ex-nuns aren’t allowed in this meditation garden?”
“No,” Emma said.
“It’s an either-or thing? Either you’re a nun or you’re not a nun? Ex doesn’t count?”
She kept her focus on the water, mirrorlike under the darkening sky, with the wind dying down. “It doesn’t matter. I waited by the gate.” Her voice was steady but she heard the anguish in it and expected Yank did, too. “I wasn’t in the tower when Sister Joan was attacked. I couldn’t help her. I didn’t get there in time even to get a description of her killer.”
“Damn.” Yank shook his head at her. “You were useless, huh?”
“Pretty much.”
“There’s a good chance this killer locked the gate, either hoping to buy time to steal any valuables before one of the sisters came by or already calculating that Sister Joan would have to go through the meditation garden to get the key.”
Emma could hear the gentle lapping of the rising tide on the rocky beach and the dock posts. “If the killer knew about the garden, then the attack wasn’t just a random act. He or she could have had the convent under surveillance for some time.”
“Or could live there,” Yank said.
“We can speculate until sunrise and not get anywhere.”
“Maybe you and Sister Joan would both be dead if you’d gone with her.” Yank paused, eyeing Emma. “Maybe more nuns would have been killed or injured if you hadn’t done exactly what you did.”
Emma banked down a rush of emotion that she didn’t want Yank to see, or perhaps even to acknowledge herself. She hadn’t just lived at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart’s convent for three years. She’d dedicated herself to their community, their mission, their charism. She’d believed she would live out her life at their isolated convent and be buried in its simple cemetery.
All in the past, but the past had roared back to her the moment she’d heard Sister Joan’s voice on her cell phone that morning. “Emma. I need your help.”
“The investigation’s in Maine CID’s hands now,” she said.
Yank shook his head. “Not totally. Not when one of my people is involved.” He sat on a wicker chair and put his feet up on the table, next to a white mum in a clay pot. “I thought you were gutting this place.”
“We are—Lucas is. I’m only peripherally involved.”
“How come there are wicker chairs and mums on the porch?”
“We haven’t finished clearing out the living quarters yet. Might as well keep a place to sit out here as long as we can.” Emma wasn’t fooled by the casual conversation. Yank always had a purpose. “We can have nice days for weeks yet.”
“I’m driving back to Boston tonight. Took me over two hours to get up here with traffic. It should be easier going back.” He settled into the chair. “Tell me about Sister Joan.”
Emma sat on the balustrade, her back to the water. “In some ways I knew her the least of any of the sisters I served with. I consider them all friends, but I’ve moved on to another life.”
“The FBI,” Yank said, as if she needed reminding.
“Her given name was the same. She never changed it. She was born Joan Mary Fabriani. She was fifty-three. She grew up in Rhode Island but went to college in Maine and was drawn to the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. She became an expert in art conservation.”
“Religious art?”
“Any kind but most of her work came from religious institutions.”
“What about you two?”
“Sister Joan was never convinced I had a true calling to a religious life. She didn’t question my sincerity, but during my period of discernment—” Emma stopped herself, realizing her words sounded foreign to her. She couldn’t imagine how they sounded to Yank. “I learned a lot from her. She was open and honest in her dealings with me.”
“Joyful?”
Emma sighed. “Yank.”
He grinned at her, dropping his feet to the floor. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. I could see you drifting back to those days.” He rose and pointed again at the tear in her jeans. “Clean up. You don’t want that to get infected.”
“It’s not going to get infected. It’s nothing. I didn’t even realize it happened until one of the detectives pointed it out.” She jumped down from the balustrade. “Anything else?”
“Trying to get rid of me, Agent Sharpe?”
“I just need some time to myself.”
Yank didn’t respond. Emma didn’t have a clue what he was thinking. He was a hard man. A total pro. He hadn’t changed since she’d first met him almost four years ago, at the same Saint Francis of Assisi statue where she’d waited for Sister Joan to return with the gate key. Yank had been on an art theft case, tracing a connection to drug trafficking. Emma had helped. Two days
