“Yesterday was a shock for you,” Emma said quietly.
Sister Cecilia pursed her lips and lifted her chin, as if steeling herself to what she had to do. She pointed at the sparkling water. “Isn’t the difference between yesterday and today amazing? The weather can change so fast. Our lives, too. Yesterday I woke up to fog and a sense of mission and purpose. By evening, it was all gone. The fog, the mission, the purpose.”
“Give yourself some time,” Emma said.
“I’m so keyed up,” Sister Cecilia added, half to herself, “and yet I feel so aimless.”
Colin Donovan looked ready to jump off the rocks, Sister Cecilia’s introspection obviously sorely testing his attention span. Emma, on the other hand, understood the struggles the young novice was facing. “Sister,” she said, keeping her tone firm but neutral, “have you told the police everything you know about what happened yesterday?”
“I answered all of their questions.”
Colin raised his eyebrows at her careful response, but Emma continued before he could barrel in. “That’s good, but you want to be sure you haven’t left anything out. If there’s something on your mind, now’s the time to speak up.”
Sister Cecilia shivered, running her slender fingers over the needles of the gnarled juniper. “Boats were riding out the bad weather in the cove below the meditation garden, but it was so foggy, who would have seen anything? Who would even be looking? I’d be huddled in a cabin staying warm. Anyway, for all we know, the person I saw could have been hiding for hours right here among the rocks.”
“Do you think the attack on Sister Joan was premeditated?” Colin asked.
“I don’t think what happened yesterday was a spontaneous, opportunistic act. I certainly don’t think she fell down the stairs and hit her head.” The young novice frowned suddenly, as if just tuning into Colin’s presence. “Are you a police officer?”
He held up a foot, the ends of his jeans dripping. “Got a towel around here anywhere?”
“In the retreat hall.” She waved a hand vaguely back toward the main convent grounds. “It’s not far.”
“Thanks. Lead the way, ma’am.”
Emma didn’t think Colin Donovan needed a towel or anything else, but Sister Cecilia blushed, obviously taken in by him. “Please, you can just call me Sister Cecilia. I’m a novice here.” She bit her lower lip. “Unless I’m asked to leave.”
Colin started past the spruce tree. “Why would you be asked to leave?”
“Mother Natalie wants me to seek counseling after—after yesterday. I don’t think that’s a very good sign, do you?”
“I think she’d recommend counseling for any sister who witnessed what you did.” Emma stayed focused on the young novice, even as she was aware of Colin watching both of them. “Is there another reason—?”
“No, no, I’m just being silly,” Sister Cecilia blurted. “I profess my final vows in a few weeks. Novices do so much thinking, questioning. It’s all good, but it’s not always easy. Yesterday felt like a sign from God that I don’t belong here. Yet that seems so self-absorbed, doesn’t it? What happened isn’t about me.”
“What do you want to do?” Emma asked her.
Sister Cecilia stiffened visibly. “I want to find whoever killed Sister Joan, and I want to make sure no one else gets hurt.” She fixed her gaze on the horizon. “I want to feel safe again.”
“Let’s get that towel,” Colin said.
She seemed almost to smile at his comment and turned to Emma. “We’ll only be a few minutes. I’ll meet you back here—”
“She’s coming with us,” Colin said easily. “Agent Sharpe’s not about to let me wander around here on my own.”
CHAPTER 9
THE RETREAT HALL WAS NEWER THAN THE REST OF the convent buildings but fit in with the former late-nineteenth-century estate. It had a cheerful, welcoming feel, but Colin had no desire ever to spend a weekend learning how to unlock his creative muse or how to preserve family art treasures—the sort of workshops the Sisters of the Joyful Heart offered on their retreats with laypeople. They also offered professional retreats to educators and conservators. Always—naturally, since it was a convent—there was time for prayer, contemplation and religious study.
“The meeting rooms are all on the first floor,” Sister Cecilia explained as she led her two guests into a large, open room. “Living quarters are upstairs. They’re simple but comfortable. Of course, the views are spectacular.”
“Any retreats coming up?” Colin asked.
“We have a small group of college art majors arriving next weekend, unless they cancel, given what happened yesterday. We’d like to offer more off-season retreats, but that depends on demand and costs. Right now we shut down the retreat hall during winter. Heat, hot water, electricity all would have to be paid for.”
“Who shovels the walks during the winter?” Colin asked.
Sister Cecilia smiled. “We do.”
He smiled back at her. “Good for you.”
Emma Sharpe eased past them to a seating area in front of a brick fireplace. She didn’t believe he’d accidentally slammed into the rocks, but he hadn’t expected her to. His escapade wasn’t about interfering in the homicide investigation or even sneaking into the convent. It was about her.
She pointed to an attractive oil painting above the mantel of a wrought-iron gate, flowers and a stone statue of Saint Francis of Assisi. “When was this moved here?”
Sister Cecilia seemed to go weak at the knees at Emma’s question. “I don’t know exactly. Recently. Sister Joan found it in storage in the tower and cleaned it herself. We all agreed it belonged here.”
“It’s a Jack d’Auberville painting,” Emma said. “Are you familiar with his work?”
“I just know that he was a local artist.”
“He’s been dead for thirty years. The statue is Mother Linden’s work.” Emma glanced back at the young novice. “But you know that, right,
