“She’ll be in the meditation garden. It’s private but of course you’re welcome.” The Mother Superior gestured at the shaded lawn. “Just follow the fence. It’ll take you there.”
He knew from the various descriptions he’d heard of the events two days ago that it was the same route Sister Joan had taken when she’d left Emma Sharpe—an armed federal agent—at the gate. There was no breeze as he walked onto the cool grass, past a border of colorful flowers along the tall fence. The sisters were doing their work. He’d noticed several picking apples near the main gate. When he’d decided to enter the priesthood six years ago, he’d considered and rejected a monastic life. He still wasn’t sure he understood why he’d been called to parish work.
A question for another day, he thought as he approached a young novice shivering by a weathered brass sundial. He smiled. “You must be Sister Cecilia.”
“Yes, Father. You’re the Irish priest in Rock Point—Father Bracken, right?”
“That would be me.”
She crossed her arms around herself in the cool morning air. “I’ve always wanted to visit Ireland.”
“I hope you will have that opportunity one day.”
“I hope so, too. Right now I can’t seem to think about anything but Sister Joan’s death.” Sister Cecilia hesitated, as if to continue would transport her back to the terror of that morning. “This garden’s beautiful, isn’t it? So few people get to see it. Mother Linden started it almost immediately after the order moved here.”
Finian took in the labyrinth of mulched paths, flowers and trees arranged on a cliff overlooking a small cove. Two days ago, he knew, boats had taken refuge there in the fog.
“Mother Linden believed in meditation,” Sister Cecilia continued. “We rarely even speak in this garden. Mother Natalie has encouraged me to spend time here. She knew Mother Linden, of course.”
“Did Sister Joan know her?”
“Yes. A number of the sisters were here when Mother Linden was alive.”
“Was Sister Joan a difficult person, Sister?”
“I learned so much from her,” Sister Cecilia said, then moved down a mulched path closer to the rock ledge. “She put me through my paces in adjusting to life in our community here. I think she respected my work as a teacher. I’ve always loved children, but they made Sister Joan uncomfortable. She seldom left the convent.”
“Do you leave?”
“Yes, I teach elementary art part-time at an academy not far from here, and I work at our shop and studio in Heron’s Cove. We’re an independent community. We survive based on our own efforts and a few donations. I’m working on a biography of Mother Linden—I’ve found so many interesting facts about her. Jack d’Auberville did a painting of her statue of Saint Francis. It’s hanging in the retreat hall. I assume he presented it to the convent as a gift but I don’t know.”
“It’s a d’Auberville painting that’s missing,” Finian said.
“The Garden Gallery.” Sister Cecilia took in a breath but managed to keep her composure. “I have a feeling Sister Joan saw something in the painting that troubled her.”
“Do you think whatever she saw could have had to do with the convent?”
“I don’t know.”
Finian could hear waves rhythmically washing onto the rocks below the garden. “Living in a religious community requires a certain level of honesty and openness from all its members.”
“A ‘joyful heart’ is also important to us.” Sister Cecilia smiled suddenly. “That’s one of the things that attracted me to the sisters here. We’re experiencing a great deal of tension and fear right now, because of what’s happened, but we’re not angry, frustrated women hiding from life.”
Finian smiled at her. “You don’t have to convince me, Sister.”
She smiled a little sheepishly back at him. “No, of course not.” She stopped at a simple copper folk-art angel that looked as if it had spent decades under a fir tree by the sea. “Mother Linden did at least a dozen different angeles, but each one is unique. They never fail to make me smile.”
“Was she a painter as well as a sculptor?”
“Yes, but she focused mostly on sculpture. She was strictly an amateur but we love her work here. We have a number of her paintings in the convent. She loved to paint the gardens and the ocean views.”
“Are all of her paintings here?”
“No, she gave many to friends.” Sister Cecilia picked a half-rotted apple from the middle of the path and flung it over the cliff, watching it disappear into the rocks and water below. “The missing painting isn’t Mother Linden’s work, and I doubt any of the paintings depicted in it are, either.”
Speaking to him about the details of the past two days seemed to help the young novice, but Finian found himself interested in piecing together events, too. He thought of Ainsley d’Auberville proudly showing him her father’s former studio. “Are Jack d’Auberville’s paintings valuable?”
“He’s more popular now than he was when he was alive. Some of us were talking last night—we’re not appraisers, of course, but we estimate a Jack d’Auberville painting in top-notch condition could fetch fifty to a hundred thousand dollars, depending on the subject. That can change, of course.”
“His daughter is doing a combined show of their work,” Finian said.
Sister Cecilia nodded. “That could add to the value, especially of undiscovered paintings.”
Like the one stolen the other day, Finian thought.
He followed Sister Cecilia down another path. She plucked a cheerful yellow flower from a stalk that had bent over the path and twirled the stem in her hand. She seemed more animated, more confident. “I’ve been so confused and frightened, Father. Faith and prayer help. It was never easy for me to talk to Sister Joan. She could be dismissive—at least, that’s how it felt. Maybe she was being protective, or testing me, as a novice. I didn’t know until last night, but Emma Sharpe was a novice here, too. Apparently Sister Joan had been rough on her, too.”
“Were there ill feelings between them?”
“The sisters who knew Emma—Agent Sharpe—then say it was
