“No, it’s not,” Finian said softly.
“Wendell Sharpe and Mother Linden were friends. That was a problem for Sister Joan and I think ultimately for Sister Brigid—that was Agent Sharpe’s chosen name.”
“Perhaps her personal connection to Mother Linden should have made the Sisters of the Joyful Heart off-limits.”
“Perhaps so.”
Sister Cecilia became quiet as they continued among dwarf fruit trees, Finian enjoying the silence, interrupted only by the sounds of far-off birds and the putter of a passing lobster boat at the mouth of the cove.
Finally Sister Cecilia stopped by an outcropping of granite and turned to him. “I think Sister Joan was frightened, Father.” She spoke almost in a whisper. “I don’t think she feared for her own safety. I think she was worried—for us, for the convent. I wanted to talk to her but I was busy with my work, and I…I just didn’t.”
“You’re young, and you’re relatively new to the community here,” Finian said. “It’s understandable if you were uncertain, even intimidated.”
She rubbed a toe of her sturdy shoe against the gray rock. “I felt something was wrong but I didn’t know it for a fact.”
“Do you think whatever was on her mind had to do with the missing painting?”
“I do. Yes, definitely.” Sister Cecilia’s voice was stronger now, her face a bit less pale. “I was trying to decide what to do, whether to tell Mother Natalie, but I acted too late. If I’d acted sooner, maybe Sister Joan would be alive now.” She stared out at the choppy sea. “I wish I knew what I saw that morning. Who I saw. Any connection between our work here and violence won’t be good for us. For anyone.”
“Focus on what you can do. Trust in your faith. Let it guide you to act with strength, courage and compassion.”
“Easier said than done some days.”
“I know,” Finian said.
Sister Cecilia gave him a curious look, then said, “The medical examiner completed the autopsy on Sister Joan. She died from a sharp blow to the back of her head. I pray constantly for the repose of her soul, Father. She’ll be buried here at the convent. The cemetery’s on the other side of the motherhouse. Mother Linden is buried there.” She paused. “I hope one day to be buried there.”
“Not too soon, God willing,” Finian said.
She laughed. “Thank you. It helps to talk to someone who didn’t know Sister Joan and isn’t involved in the investigation.” She let out a long breath. “Mother Natalie says never to fear the truth. We can’t shy away from the facts, whatever they are. I’ve told the police all I know.”
“Have you told them what worries you? What keeps you awake?”
Sister Cecilia tossed her flower over the ledge and didn’t answer.
Finian decided not to press her. “As I said, Sister, you’re young. You’ll incorporate this experience into your life.”
She glanced up at him. “You sound so sure.”
He looked out at the Atlantic, picturing the miles of ocean between him and his homeland. He spoke quietly, his tone level, objective. “Before I became a priest, I had a wife and two daughters. My daughters would be young teenagers now.”
Sister Cecilia gave a small gasp. “They died?”
“Yes,” he said without flinching. “They’ve gone to God.”
“I’m sorry. How long ago?”
“It’s been seven years. I spent the first year after their deaths in a whiskey bottle. Then…”
“God was there for you,” the young novice said quietly.
“Always. I just didn’t see it for a time.”
“Thank you for telling me, Father. I know you did it for me. Your Irish accent…” Sister Cecilia smiled, her obvious gentle and giving nature again shining in her eyes. “It makes everything seem a little better.”
He laughed. “That makes my job easier. I can say anything in an Irish accent, and I’ll be brilliant.”
Mother Natalie joined them. She seemed relieved to see the young woman in her charge smiling. Finian bid them good day and left them in the quiet garden. He found his way back through the maze of paths, satisfied that he’d come to the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. He felt no guilt whatsoever about his motives as he returned along a curving walk to the main gate and his BMW.
He put on his sunglasses and looked back through the gate at the convent, quiet in the shade, the women there committed to their order’s unique spirit and mission. As he got into his car, he heard a bird singing in a nearby tree, and then, as if in echo, a woman singing, unseen, among the stone buildings.
It would be a while, Finian thought, before the sisters came to terms with the violence that had occurred in their midst, but they would.
And there was no doubt in his mind that he could help find out what really had happened here, or at least try to help. He had resources, insights and knowledge. He had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, and he’d had brushes with interesting and even dangerous people in his Bracken Distillers days.
He’d also spoken to his brother, Declan, already and had a plane waiting to take him to Dublin.
CHAPTER 20
EMMA SLIPPED BACK TO HER APARTMENT TO PACK for Ireland. She didn’t bother trying to ditch Colin. He’d walked with her to the HIT offices and had stayed there all morning. He’d met with the ATF and FBI agents investigating the bomb in her grandfather’s attic, still insisting that defusing it hadn’t been a big deal—that anyone who grew up in Rock Point, Maine, could defuse a simple black powder and gunpowder explosive device.
Otherwise, he’d remained on the love seat behind her desk, pretending to be catching up on paperwork on a borrowed laptop.
“Having you in my office is like having the proverbial caged tiger pacing behind me,” Emma
