Yank put his suit coat back on. “She’s not Sister Brigid anymore. Focusing on that part of her life is like blaming a kid for playing dress-up.”
“That’s a little patronizing, don’t you think, Yank?”
“She was nineteen when she knocked on that convent door.”
“Who are you trying to convince? Have you heard her talk about her life there? It was a serious commitment. Study, contemplation, rules. Vows.”
“I know,” Yank said heavily.
“Are you digging into the grandfather and brother? They’ve hunted down their share of bad actors over the years. They’ve worked with the FBI, various local law enforcement agencies, Interpol, who knows who else. They have their own sources and methods to protect. If they wanted to hire some creep to do their dirty work, they’d know where to go.”
“So would you.”
“That’s right,” Colin said. “But I have no reason to find someone to break into a convent and steal a painting, or leave a bomb in an attic, or beat up an old man.”
“The Sharpes leave no stone unturned in an investigation but there’s never been even a whiff of scandal around them.”
“They could just be better at hiding the bad stuff than most.”
Yank nodded toward the street. “Walk with me. Tell me about your friend the priest.”
Colin was done in the garage, anyway. He closed the door. His friendship with a meddling Irish priest with a tragic past would be another transgression in Yank’s eyes, that he had ventured to Heron’s Cove at Finian Bracken’s request further proof that he was burned out, in need of a change in direction in his work.
He walked with Yank back down to the harbor. Rock Point had no cute village the way Heron’s Cove did but Yank didn’t seem to care. “You probably know as much about Finian Bracken as I do,” Colin said.
“Do you think he was just shocked by Sister Joan’s murder and got hold of you because you’re friends and he knows you’re a federal agent?”
“He’s also bored and figuring out his purpose in life. He worked hard to become a priest. Now what? He’s looking at thirty years of visiting sick people, burying dead people, baptizing babies. After running a high-end distillery, having a family, that might seem daunting.”
“So insert yourself in a murder investigation,” Yank said. “I was in Ireland once. It’s a hop, skip and jump from Boston. I spent a few days in Dublin checking on Emma when she was working with her grandfather. I was right about her, you know. She’s good.”
That didn’t mean she wasn’t trouble. “Is she in danger, Yank?”
“A bomb in my attic would have me thinking I’m in a little danger. You, maybe not.” Yank stopped at a corner as the water came into view. “Maybe this is a test. For Emma. Me. The team.”
A pickup truck rattled past them. Colin realized he’d let himself get drawn into Emma’s problems, first by Bracken, then by Yank.
He followed Yank across the street to Hurley’s, the tide washing in under its floorboards. The restaurant was filling up with early diners. Father Bracken, still in Ireland, wouldn’t be at his table in the back.
The water was a grayish-blue in the fading afternoon light. “I never should have asked you to keep an eye on Emma,” Yank said. “We’re in a major shit-storm if your cover unravels.”
“It won’t, and let me worry about that.”
“Sometimes you know exactly what you’re getting into and who you’re after, how they think, what they want. Not this time. Who the hell would sneak into a convent on a foggy morning and kill a nun?” Yank stared out at the docks, most of the working boats in for the night. “How is this d’Auberville painting—The Garden Gallery—worth stealing, never mind killing anyone over?”
“Maybe the artwork it depicts is worth stealing,” Colin said.
“Claire Grayson’s painting of this saint in the cave isn’t worth anything. Why would any of the other artwork be valuable? What are the odds?”
“I don’t know, Yank.”
They continued down to the water’s edge, a mix of polished stones, sand and seaweed. “This might not be about money. It could be about secrets. Revenge, jealousy, reputation. Who’s got something to hide?” Yank squatted down in his neat suit and scooped a thread of floating seaweed. “Slimy, isn’t it?” He stood, casting the seaweed back into the water. “Who knows where I’d be now if I’d gone to Colorado that weekend instead of coming up here. I like the Rockies. You’d still be working undercover, but you’d be driving someone else crazy.”
Colin let him talk. He wondered if that was why Yank had come to Rock Point.
“Instead, I had to come up here myself to check out a hotshot agent who’d volunteered for a deep-cover assignment. I nearly drowned on that damn boat ride with you, and I end up meeting Emma Sharpe.”
“You weren’t even close to drowning.”
“I almost barfed.”
“See? You did fine.” Colin watched the Julianne roll in a swell in the harbor. “You and Emma—”
“Nothing between us. Ever.”
“Because you met her as Sister Brigid?”
“Because I had a woman in my life. She’s now my wife.” Yank winced as if in pain, then turned from the water. “I’m on my way to a meeting with Maine CID. We have to find this killer, Colin. Soon.”
* * *
After seeing Yank off, Colin walked to the quiet side street where Saint Patrick’s Church and rectory were located and saw that he hadn’t, in fact, made a mistake. The car that had blown past him as he’d started back up from the harbor belonged to Ainsley d’Auberville. It was now parked crookedly in front of the rectory.
Ainsley was on the walk, pacing, her hair as golden as the autumn sunset. She whirled around at Colin. “Where’s Father Bracken?”
“I don’t know,” Colin said truthfully.
“He’s not at the church.” She sounded impatient, faintly annoyed.
“What do you want with him?”
She gave a small,
