Sister Cecilia nodded, but she looked on the verge of hyperventilating. “The statue’s one of her few works in stone.”
“The tail feathers of the bird Saint Francis is holding are missing now. They’re still there in the painting.”
“Mother Linden wanted her work to age naturally. Expert conservators know that art changes over time and some signs of aging should be left alone.” Sister Cecilia waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m not an expert, though.”
“D’Auberville must have done this painting early in his career,” Emma said.
“Sister Joan estimated it was about ten years after the order moved here. He donated the painting to the convent.” Sister Cecilia bolted for a project table on a side wall and retrieved a small towel from a basket, handing it to Colin.
He smiled. “Thanks.”
“Help yourself to as many towels as you need, Mr. Donovan.”
“Call me Colin,” he said with a wink.
She took in a breath. “Of course.”
He thought Emma might have rolled her eyes. She moved back from the fireplace. He noticed the curve of her hips under her leather jacket. She wore a close-fitting sweater in a green a couple of tones darker than her eyes. She was in good shape, but she’d have to be to work for Matt Yankowski, even at a desk.
Colin made a stab at drying off the ends of his jeans, but he wasn’t worried about being wet. He glanced around the bright room, sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a courtyard. “You all specialize in art, right? What’s your area of expertise, Sister?”
“Art education and creative rejuvenation,” she said.
“Religious art?”
She shook her head. “Not exclusively, no.”
“Was Sister Joan involved in retreats?”
“She was our expert in conservation and restoration. We have a long history and excellent reputation in that area. We take in artwork from abbeys, churches, schools and other institutions and advise owners on how to protect and safely transport their works. Sister Joan did most of the hands-on work. She seldom left the convent grounds.”
Colin tossed the towel into a basket by the table. According to what he’d learned last night from his brother in the Maine marine patrol, Sister Cecilia had witnessed a figure running near the tower yesterday and had been with Emma Sharpe when she discovered Sister Joan’s body. That’d rattle anyone, but Sister Cecilia was more than rattled. She was hiding something, and he suspected Agent Sharpe knew it.
“Have a seat, Sister,” Emma said, still by the fireplace.
Sister Cecilia faked a smile. “I’d prefer to stand, thanks.” She walked over to the windows and looked out at the courtyard, shaded by an apple tree. “Sister Joan loved her work. She spent many hours alone. She appreciated solitude, but she wasn’t antisocial. She couldn’t be and live here, according to the teachings and example of Mother Linden.”
Emma approached the windows. “But you two didn’t always get along.”
“I don’t know any two people who always get along. That’s not how life works.” Sister Cecilia spoke quietly, wrapping her arms around herself as if she were cold. “It feels so lonely here right now. The police were at the tower late into the night. I could see the lights through the trees from my bedroom window. I couldn’t sleep. I kept picturing Sister Joan lying in the entry. I kept trying to put a face to the figure I saw running….” She blushed again at Colin and quickly looked out the window.
Colin was aware of the effect he was having on Sister Cecilia. He could see that Emma Sharpe was, too. She glanced at him, her dark green eyes unreadable, then turned to the novice. “Mother Natalie mentioned that Sister Joan recently cleaned several Jack d’Auberville paintings.”
Sister Cecilia paled visibly. “Mother Natalie told you that?”
Emma nodded. “Do you know Ainsley d’Auberville, his daughter?”
“No—no, we’ve never met.”
Colin slouched against the edge of the project table, his arms crossed in front of him as the FBI agent and the nun talked. He had time before the tide would be high enough for his boat to be in danger of drifting off into the Atlantic. He doubted Yank had expected him to slam a boat onto the rocks. It’d probably go on the transgressions list.
“Did you know she’d dropped off the paintings to be cleaned?” Emma asked.
“I’d heard. It wasn’t a secret.”
But from Sister Cecilia’s tone—defensive and frightened more than combative—Colin guessed that something was a secret.
Emma persisted. “Did you see the paintings?”
Sister Cecilia shook her head. “No.”
“Would you recognize Jack d’Auberville’s work?”
“I don’t know. I teach children. I know a little about local artists but I’m not an expert.”
“Sister Cecilia,” Emma said, “is there another Jack d’Auberville painting—besides this one here and the ones Sister Joan already cleaned?”
“I don’t know for certain. I think so.” Sister Cecilia’s voice was almost inaudible. She tucked stray strands of hair into her headband, her fingers shaking. “I don’t know where it came from. I don’t think I was meant to see it. I’d stopped by the tower to say hello to Sister Joan.”
“When?”
“Yesterday morning, around ten o’clock. I was taking a break from studying and was on my way down on the rocks—to look at the tide pools. Sister Joan was committed to her routines, and I tend not to make a lot of noise when I move. I surprised her.”
“And you saw a painting?” Emma was very still, her voice quiet, nonthreatening.
“Yes. Just one. It was leaning against the wall by the stairs in the tower. Sister Joan didn’t want to talk about it. I think she was annoyed that I saw it.”
“Where is it now?”
“I don’t know.” Sister Cecilia squeezed her eyes shut, as if she wanted to block out everything around her, then opened them again. “I’ve looked everywhere. Last night, after the police left, I slipped out of my room and checked the motherhouse and here and I didn’t find it. I haven’t said anything. I don’t want to mislead anyone. The police have enough to do without me sending them off
