“The detectives—”
“They’ll be back later this morning,” Mother Natalie said briskly, shifting her gaze from the garden. “They might have follow-up interviews, and they want to search the coastline again now that the weather’s cleared. It was almost dark when the last of the fog finally moved offshore. Of course, they want to talk to any potential witnesses on the boats that anchored in the cove during the fog.”
“Has anyone come forward?” Emma asked.
“Not that I know of. It’s hard to imagine anyone having seen anything in that soup yesterday. Our security hasn’t changed in the four years since you were here. We take reasonable precautions, but we’re not an armed fortress. We’re reviewing our procedures.”
“That’s a good idea. Mother, do you know why Sister Joan called me?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
If she didn’t know Mother Natalie as well as she did, Emma would have missed the faint note of disapproval under the older woman’s fatigue and sadness. Her face was ashen, the soft wrinkles at her mouth and eyes more pronounced.
A blue jay descended into the thick branches of a spruce tree just outside the tall, paned window. Emma said, “She wanted my opinion on a painting.”
“The detectives told me. I don’t know what painting it would be. We all do occasional favors for family and friends. It’s the only thing I can think of.”
Emma stood next to Mother Natalie at the window. “Had you noticed any change in her behavior recently?”
“She seemed unusually preoccupied the past few days.”
“Afraid?” Emma asked.
“I wouldn’t say afraid, no. Sister Joan would often become preoccupied with her work. I thought that was the case this time, as well. In fact, it might have been. What did she tell you about the painting?”
“Nothing. She was going to show it to me and then explain.”
“I see.”
Emma watched the blue jay dart from a spruce branch to a cheerful folk-art angel that Mother Linden had constructed out of bits of copper. The mission of the order she’d founded couldn’t have motivated the violence yesterday. Who could be against restoring and preserving art? Teaching art to children and educators? Living, working and serving with joy?
“Why are you here?” Mother Natalie asked quietly.
Emma didn’t give a direct answer. “Could Sister Joan have been afraid that something about the painting she wanted to show me could hurt your community?”
“I don’t know what her state of mind was, Emma. I wouldn’t want to speculate.”
“What was she working on?”
Mother Natalie didn’t answer at once. “She was between projects, but she’d just finished cleaning several Jack d’Auberville paintings for his daughter, Ainsley.”
That was unexpected. “I didn’t realize Ainsley d’Auberville was in Maine.”
“Then you know her. Her father was a popular local artist who was commissioned by various people to paint their gardens and summer houses. I’m sure you’re familiar with his work.”
“Somewhat,” Emma said.
“Ainsley’s following in his footsteps, at least artistically. I understand she’s quite talented. She inherited his old studio here in Maine and decided to organize a show of both his work and her work. I think Sister Joan was happy to help her.”
“How many paintings did Ainsley bring here to clean?”
“Two or three. I don’t really know. Ainsley picked them up early this week—on Monday, I believe. I didn’t see her. The detectives have Sister Joan’s work log.”
“She often worked in the tower alone.”
“Yes, often, but Sister Joan was as devoted to our community as any of the rest of us. She was an individual, with her own gifts and struggles. Aren’t we all? I don’t mean to sound defensive.” Mother Natalie paused, her gaze fixed on the lush, restful landscape outside the window. “We all loved Sister Joan. We miss her already.”
Emma felt her throat tighten with emotion, but her attention was drawn to a lobster boat barreling toward shore. The tide was starting to come in on a brisk wind, the ocean almost navy blue in the late-morning sun. She didn’t see any buoys marking lobster traps. Was he placing new ones?
Then why go so fast?
More likely, he was curious about yesterday’s violence at the convent.
Again, Emma thought, why go so fast?
Mother Natalie stepped back from the window. “The police said that burglars often break into churches thinking they’ll find cash and perhaps valuables—gold, silver, computers. I suppose it could be the same for a convent, especially one such as ours that takes in fine art.”
The lobster boat shifted in the swells. Emma saw the name Julianne emblazoned on the stern and stiffened, recognizing it from last night on the docks. She couldn’t make out the man at the wheel but expected it would be the broad-shouldered man she’d seen talking with Matt Yankowski.
“Sister Joan was meticulous in her work,” Mother Natalie continued, sounding reflective as well as tired and drained. “I don’t want to imagine what went on at the tower yesterday, but I can seem to do little else.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Sister Joan must have interrupted a burglar who panicked, pushed her and ran.”
“On the same day she asked me here?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“The blow to the back of her head didn’t look to me as if she hit her head in a fall. It looked as if someone deliberately struck her—”
“There’s to be an autopsy,” Mother Natalie said quickly, her face, if possible, even more ashen.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “The medical examiner will determine cause of death.”
The Mother Superior of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart sank onto the sofa, regaining her steady manner as she stared at an unlit fireplace. Finally she looked up at Emma. “It’s been a very long twenty-four hours. I almost let myself forget that you’re a law enforcement officer now yourself.”
The words and the tone didn’t register at first. Emma glanced back at the lobster boat, which seemed to have slowed as it came closer to the rocks, then turned back
