She mounted the tower steps and noticed a cobweb in a corner of the leaded-glass panel window, as if it were there to remind her she’d been neglecting her basic duties. The gate key would be just inside. She seldom bothered with the gate and most often came and went by way of the meditation garden, but she’d have sworn she’d left it unlocked. Perhaps, she thought, it was just as well she had this time to think after seeing Emma. She was the same Emma Sharpe as ever and yet she’d changed. Of course, she’d come as an FBI agent, not as a friend.
Sister Joan pushed on the heavy, varnished oak door and paused, thinking she’d heard a sound. She couldn’t tell if it was behind her or in front of her in the tower.
Was it just the creak of the door? Had she picked up a rock in the sole of her shoe that was now scraping on the stone step?
She stifled a flash of annoyance. Had Emma ignored her instructions and refused to wait by the gate?
She glanced behind her but saw no one on the lawn or in the trees back toward the fence. She heard only a distant seagull and the wash of the tide.
A window rattling in the strong breeze, maybe.
No matter. She’d grab the gate key and head straight to Special Agent Sharpe.
Involving Emma was an enormous risk if, in fact, the convent turned out to be even an unwitting partner in a scandal or, worse, illegal activity. Emma wouldn’t cover for anyone, nor would Sister Joan ask her to, no matter how sorely tempted she might be. She simply wanted answers.
Had the Sisters of the Joyful Heart—had Mother Linden herself—helped hide an original Rembrandt?
Had they stood back as a troubled woman self-destructed?
Had they kept her secret for the past forty years?
Not actively, Sister Joan thought, ignoring the noise and pushing open the door wider. Passively, naively, accidentally, perhaps—unable to see what was happening in front of them.
Or because they’d been duped by wrongdoers.
She would like nothing better than for Emma to assure her that all was well and any suspicion to the contrary was an overreaction.
Holding the door open with her left elbow and foot, Sister Joan reached for the gate key on a hook to her right.
There it is again.
Definitely a scraping sound coming from inside the tower—wet gravel, possibly, grinding against the stone tile floor. The tower had no alarm system but it was surrounded by the fence and the cliffs, making access by outsiders difficult.
“Emma? Is that you?”
Sister Joan didn’t like the fear she heard in her voice. This was her home. She’d never been afraid here.
She clutched the key, her foot still in the door. “Sister Cecilia?”
It would be just like Sister Cecilia to thrust herself into a situation where her help wasn’t required. She was a novice as impetuous in her own way as Emma had been, but Sister Joan had never questioned Sister Cecilia’s calling, only her ability to integrate into communal life. She had a multiplicity of interests—painting, pottery, music, writing—but she especially loved teaching art to young children. Sister Joan had never been good with children. As much as she loved the idea of them, she lacked the patience required to be a truly dedicated teacher.
She listened, but heard no further sounds.
She felt a twinge of guilt at her unkindness toward Sister Cecilia. Her tension over the mysterious painting and now Emma’s presence wasn’t an excuse. She liked to think that her insight into Sister Cecilia’s frailties as well as her virtues—her cheerful, tolerant nature, her irrepressible curiosity, her deep spirituality—arose from love, but Sister Joan knew she had to guard against being overly critical and judgmental.
The door pressing heavily against her arm and foot, she resisted the urge to leap down the steps and race to the gate. After all these years, she’d never felt uneasy about being alone in the tower. She’d overseen the installation of a state-of-the-art conservation lab on the second floor and had spent countless hours there.
The painting.
She took in a sharp breath and spun around, the door shutting behind her.
The painting was no longer leaning against the wall by the spiral stairs. It was the sole reason she’d asked Emma to come to Maine, and it was gone.
Sister Joan tried to quell a surge of panic. Had one of the other sisters moved the painting? But when? Why? No one ever touched anything in the tower without her permission.
She tightened her grip on the gate key. The tower was cool, unlit, the light gray and dim, but she hadn’t made a mistake. She wasn’t given to dramatics. The painting—The Garden Gallery, it was called—wasn’t where she’d left it thirty minutes ago when she’d gone to meet Emma at the convent’s main gate.
Sister Cecilia must have taken it. What could she have been thinking? She was working on a biography of Mother Linden. Had Sister Cecilia come across information about the mysterious painting? Was she trying to save the day?
If the young novice wanted to successfully embrace convent life, she would have to learn to confront unpleasant situations and conflict head-on.
At the same time, Sister Joan recognized that lately she hadn’t lived according to the standard she’d set for Sister Cecilia. She’d been secretive and uncommunicative, dealing with her questions and fears on her own instead of taking them to her Mother Superior. For thirty years, she’d trusted in her faith and her community. They’d never failed her.
They wouldn’t now, she thought, reaching for the door handle. She would get Emma and tell her everything. Then they could decide what to do next.
She heard the distinct sound of footsteps on
