“As I said, I ran into Ainsley in Heron’s Cove and she invited me to her father’s former studio. Are you two friends? I couldn’t tell.”
“Not exactly, no.”
“Your brother and she—”
“Let’s walk back to your car, Father,” Emma said coolly. She had no intention of explaining her brother and Ainsley d’Auberville to two strangers, one of them likely reporting to Matt Yankowski. She started up the lane.
Colin fell in next to her. He could have been a Maine lobsterman in his jeans and black sweatshirt, with his ocean-gray eyes and broad shoulders, but Emma knew better. “What if the paintings in the gallery d’Auberville painted are valuable?” he asked.
“We don’t even know if the gallery is real, or if it’s still intact—never mind whose it is, or was.”
Father Bracken eased in on her other side.
“I’m still trying to understand why Sister Joan called you specifically.”
Emma felt an unwelcome weakening in her knees but said evenly, “My family and the convent have a long history because of our work.”
“Any chance you were followed yesterday?” Colin asked, giving no indication he noticed her discomfort.
“By the killer, you mean?”
He shrugged. “Maybe you were the target and Sister Joan got in the way, and none of this has anything to do with the d’Auberville painting.”
“Then where is it?”
“The killer took it. A smoke screen, a diversion, seizing the moment.”
Bracken frowned. “A full-size painting would be awkward to carry, wouldn’t it?”
Colin took a long stride, getting a half step ahead of Emma and his priest friend. “Maybe our killer didn’t want anyone to see it and tossed it in the ocean—”
“Or had a boat waiting close by,” Bracken said.
Sister Cecilia hadn’t mentioned that the figure she saw in the fog was carrying anything, but she’d only had a glimpse before she’d panicked. Emma continued up the lane, imagining, just for a moment, what it might be like to enjoy a beautiful autumn afternoon with two good-looking men, instead of ruminating about a stolen painting and the brutal death of a woman she’d liked and respected, had even considered a friend.
She pulled herself out of any dip into self-pity and looked up at Father Bracken. He really was damn good-looking, she thought. “Did you know Sister Joan, Father?”
“No, I’m sorry to say. I haven’t visited the convent yet. I’ve only gone past it—by boat and by car. I wasn’t familiar with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart until I arrived in Maine.”
“When was that?”
“In June,” he said. “I’m in Rock Point for a year.”
“You’re replacing Father Callaghan,” Emma said.
“Yes.” Bracken was clearly surprised. “He’s American-Irish. He’s spending some time in his ancestral homeland.”
Colin dropped back alongside her. “Fin’ll love our Maine winters.”
“What about you, Special Agent Donovan? You have no involvement in the case. You knew the sisters wouldn’t let you in this morning. Neither would CID. That’s why you pulled that stunt with your boat.”
“Maybe I just wanted to get your attention.”
“I’m going to find out what’s going on,” she said half under her breath. “What do you know about Vikings and saints?”
“I know the Minnesota Vikings and the New Orleans Saints are two football teams.”
“I played Gaelic football as a youth,” Bracken said. “This year’s finals were just the other weekend. Cork versus Down. Cork won, but it was very close.”
“Do you root for a particular team?” Emma asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “Kerry.”
“Which means you never root for Cork.” She smiled, feeling herself relax slightly around the Irish priest.
Bracken laughed. “You truly are familiar with Ireland. You said your grandfather’s in Dublin. Is he Irish?”
“Irish born. He grew up in Heron’s Cove.” She adjusted her leather jacket. “You’re new to the priesthood, aren’t you, Father? I’m guessing you didn’t enter seminary at eighteen.”
Even with his sunglasses hiding his eyes, she could see he seemed surprised by her question. “You’re perceptive, Agent Sharpe. I had another life, and now I have this one.”
“Were you called to your vocation, or did you run to it?”
“I’m in just the right place to spark your suspicion, I see.”
“Did you collect art in your former life?”
“Some.”
“Did you keep it? You’re a diocesan priest. You don’t make a vow of poverty.”
“I sold it,” he said. “I didn’t involve your family business.”
They arrived back at the d’Auberville place and walked around to the front. Gabe’s van was gone. The unmarked state police car was still there. The detectives would be with Ainsley in Jack d’Auberville’s old studio.
“Emma will get out the thumbscrews next, Fin,” Colin said easily, then turned to her. “I keep telling him he looks like Bono.”
She refused to be distracted and kept her focus on the priest. “You know what I’m getting at, Father. I want to know if you have any possible connection to what’s going on here.”
“That would be quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“It’s not what I’m asking.”
“No, no connection,” he said, “at least none known to me.”
“So you just happened to be at my grandfather’s house today?”
“Not exactly. I’d heard about Sister Joan’s death and was curious about you and your family.”
As if that explained everything.
Colin stopped next to the sleek BMW. “Go on, Fin. Head back to Rock Point. Agent Sharpe here can give me a ride back to my boat. See you over whiskey later.”
Emma narrowed her eyes on the priest. “There’s more to you, Father. I’ll find out.”
“By all means,” he said.
Emma found herself liking Finian Bracken. He climbed into his BMW and drove off, leaving her alone with Colin Donovan.
“I might smell like seaweed,” Colin said next to her.
“If Father Bracken’s BMW can take it, so can my car. It’s not a BMW but it gets me where I’m going.”
“Good. While you drive you can tell me what you’re holding back.”
She ignored him and headed to her car, a dark blue
