The state cruiser that had parked at the gate was gone, the detective’s unmarked car there now.
So, she thought. Her lobsterman from last night was another FBI agent.
First things first. She paused in the shade of a large oak, dialed her brother. “What’s Ainsley d’Auberville into these days?”
“Vikings,” Lucas said. “Her father was into Vikings, and now Ainsley’s into them. Why?”
“A hunch. I’ll explain later. Thanks, Lucas.” Emma hesitated, then dialed Yank’s number. “Colin Donovan’s your doing?”
“Donovan’s not anyone’s doing.”
“I didn’t buy his Maine lobsterman act. He ran his boat aground—”
“It’s his brother’s boat. Andy Donovan. There are four of them—Mike, Colin, Andy and Kevin. All rock-headed Mainers.
Andy’s a full-time lobsterman. Colin used to be one.” Yank was silent a moment. “That’s all I’m saying, Emma.”
“I don’t need a protector and I don’t need anyone interfering with what I’m doing. Is Donovan one of the ghosts on your team?”
Yank had already disconnected.
Emma glanced back at the shaded walk. Sister Cecilia would tell the detectives everything she knew. Then she’d have to tell Mother Natalie. Emma suspected it wasn’t confronting the Mother Superior of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart by itself that would give the novice pause. It was knowing that, in confronting Mother Natalie, Sister Cecilia would also have to confront her own fears and her own heart, and come to an understanding of why she’d kept quiet for so long.
In so doing, she could realize she wasn’t meant to be a sister, after all, and that might be more than Sister Cecilia Catherine Rousseau could bear.
CHAPTER 11
FINIAN BRACKEN LINGERED AFTER BREAKFAST AT Hurley’s on the village harbor. The local lobstermen had been and gone, off now to check their traps, long before he’d arrived for wild-blueberry pancakes, sausage and pure New England maple syrup. By Rock Point standards, he was a very late riser. He was also still a stranger, and an Irish priest.
He didn’t mind. He’d come to America in part for solitude. He didn’t need dozens of parishioners and other townspeople trooping through the rectory or disturbing his morning coffee.
Not every morning, at least.
He paid for his breakfast and headed outside. A handful of working boats were still in the harbor, the autumn sky and water as clear and blue as he’d ever seen. He remembered driving into the bedraggled village three months ago and thinking it was perfect, exactly what he wanted. He’d stopped at the docks and happened upon Colin Donovan, a man clearly with more on his mind than lobster prices. They’d chatted a few minutes. Then, after a torturous welcome by a handful of parishioners as curious and uncertain about him as he was them, Finian had ventured to Hurley’s, as close to an Irish pub as he would find in Rock Point, and discovered Colin alone at a back table, sipping a perfectly horrible American whiskey. There were fine whiskeys distilled in the States, but Colin’s choice hadn’t been among them.
He’d sensed Finian’s disapproval. “It’s rotgut, I know. You’re welcome to join me, Father.”
Finian had found an acceptable Tennessee whiskey at the bar and had poured them each a glass as he explained the fundamentals of distilled spirits.
Colin had looked haggard, exhausted and solitary, an action-oriented man home for a brief respite. Not for a second did Finian believe his new American friend had just come from an office at FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., but he’d kept his skepticism to himself. The next day, they’d run into each other on the docks and had another drink—a quality Bracken Distillers blend—and Finian had found himself as both friend and spiritual adviser to a man with a tough, dangerous job.
A few days later, Colin had returned to his world. Now he was back again.
And a nun was dead, Finian thought with regret.
He paused on a narrow side street above the working harbor. He’d walked to Hurley’s on the assumption that he would have pancakes and would need the walk back to the rectory. He noticed the leaves on a maple tree turning red-orange. He looked forward to the spectacular display of multicolored autumn foliage. At home, the roadsides would be filled with fat blackberries and spikes of red-orange montbretia, and the heather would be turning a brownish-purple on the hills. The harsh Maine winter would be a new experience for him. Brushed by the Gulf Stream, the southwest Irish coast tended to remain mild even in winter and didn’t have the sharp, unmistakable change of seasons of New England.
Finian continued past several run-down houses. Yesterday’s murder and break-in at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart had made for a long night. He had first seen the convent up on the ledge on a scenic boat ride with Andy Donovan and his latest girlfriend. It was a beautiful location, and from all he’d heard, the sisters were an interesting, vibrant community.
In his horror at Sister Joan’s death—in his frustration at his impotence to help—he’d sent for Colin. He’d involved his friend in an investigation when what Colin needed was a break, the time he’d planned to kayak among the southern Maine islands, then hike and canoe in the northern Maine wilderness. He’d said as much when he’d arrived back in Rock Point, but one look at him would have told anyone the man was frayed and tired, deserving of a couple of weeks away from his troubles.
Last night, preoccupied, unable to sleep, Finian had almost called Aer Lingus and booked a flight from Boston back to Ireland.
He could yet. His brother, Declan, was running the distillery and would welcome Finian back—indeed, often asked when they could expect his return. Declan questioned his fraternal twin’s call to the priesthood.
“You’re hiding from your past, Fin, and you can only do that for so long.”
Finian understood his brother’s doubts.
He hadn’t called Aer Lingus. Sometime before dawn, he’d reconciled himself to his
