He came to Saint Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church, a granite-faced building that had once been an American Baptist church. Colin wasn’t a churchgoer. Finian knew little about his friend’s religious life. He wasn’t that kind of priest, or that kind of friend.
Next to the church was a Greek Revival house that served as a rectory. It had a new coat of paint outside but its interior hadn’t been touched since the first roar of the Celtic Tiger across the Atlantic. Finian went in through the front door. This was his home for another nine months. He’d requested an temporary parish in America. He’d return to Ireland after his year in Rock Point, but right now, he needed this solitude, this time away from family, friends, colleagues—from his past.
His isolation was due to personal choice. Colin Donovan’s isolation was due to his role with the FBI. He couldn’t talk about the true nature of his work with his brothers, or even with his hometown priest, and thus he remained apart, at least to a degree, from his family and friends.
Finian walked back to the shabby but perfectly functional rectory kitchen. He did little but boil water there. He felt the familiar melancholy settle over him and fought it by dialing his brother in County Kerry, Ireland. “What do you know about Sharpe Fine Art Recovery in Dublin?”
“I’ll look into it and call you back,” Declan said.
Finian pulled off his black suit coat and hung it on the back of his chair. Unlike at home, the bishop here was a stickler for wearing a collar in public and identifying himself as a member of the clergy. It wasn’t necessary when he was hiking, kayaking, jogging or cleaning the gutters, but certainly when he was having whiskey or blueberry pancakes at Hurley’s.
Ten minutes later, Declan called back. “Sharpe Fine Art Recovery is a family business with an unblemished reputation in its field. Lucas Sharpe has taken over from his grandfather, who still comes into the Dublin office from time to time but whom I gather is in the process of officially retiring.”
“What about the parents?”
“The father was disabled in a fall seven or eight years ago. He gets around all right but isn’t able to work full-time due to chronic pain.”
“What kind of fall?”
“On the ice, I believe—at home in the States. Maine, in fact. Near you. Fin, what’s this about?”
“I wish I knew.”
“You’re not getting involved in art crimes, are you?”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Finian disconnected and reached again for his suit coat. It was a perfect day to enjoy a pleasant wander in pretty Heron’s Cove with its quaint shops, galleries and restaurants. He could treat himself to a sandwich and a pint at a waterfront café. Surely no one would perceive that as unfitting for a priest. Being a priest as well as an Irishman—an outsider—gave him access and insight others might not have, but he knew better than to interfere in police matters.
He headed out the back door and got into his BMW, the expensive car his one visible indulgence. Parishioners didn’t seem to mind. He took a scenic route along the sparkling ocean and the rockbound coast to upscale Heron’s Cove, a contrast to less affluent Rock Point to the north. Tourists jammed the village sidewalks on the beautiful early afternoon, but he wound his way to the docks at the mouth of the Heron River.
He drove past a gray-shingled house. Although there was no sign announcing the fact, according to his research, he knew this was the Maine home of Wendell Sharpe and the offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.
Not terribly imposing, Finian thought as he continued past a classic New England inn, then cut down a short side street to a parking lot above the riverfront docks. He pulled in close to the water, a small powerboat puttering toward the deep channel that led to the ocean. Almost directly below him, a young couple pushed a two-person kayak across polished rocks into the shallow water.
He got out of his car and glanced toward the Sharpe house, tucked between the street and the waterfront just past evergreen shrubs at the far end of the parking lot. He was comfortable here in well-off Heron’s Cove, he realized. More comfortable in some ways than in rougher Rock Point, and yet he was comfortable there, too. He hadn’t been born to wealth.
He frowned, noticing someone on the back porch of the Sharpe house.
A woman.
Emma Sharpe, the FBI agent?
Finian walked casually along the retaining wall. The woman seemed to be peering into a back window. She was tall and slender, with long, fair hair. As he squeezed between the shrubs onto the grass behind the Sharpe house, she yanked on the back door. She looked impatient, as if she were tempted to kick in the door and march inside. He’d never met Emma Sharpe and didn’t know what she looked like, but he expected she’d have a key.
The woman on the porch turned toward the water, hands on her hips, her long, golden hair flowing past her shoulders.
She spotted him and bolted, racing down the steps.
Finian responded immediately, running across the grass and intercepting her as she reached the brick walk. The sunlight glinted on her golden curls and a large silver buckle in the shape, oddly enough, of a dragon on a wide belt that cinched her waist.
“I wasn’t trying to break in.” Her tone was more defiant than worried as she tossed her head back. She was clearly agitated, and quite beautiful. “But if you want to call the police, go ahead.”
“What were you doing?” Finian asked.
Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t even know.”
She wore slim black pants, a hip-length, silky dark purple sweater and suede flat-heeled shoes. She glanced back at
