“I tucked a homing device on your jacket collar last night.”
“Very funny. You could have waved when you passed me.”
He stretched out his legs. “I did.”
“I didn’t see you wave.” She glanced into the first-floor shop; she could see Sister Cecilia rearranging a shelf of pottery vases painted with wild blueberries that they sold on consignment. Emma looked back at Colin. “I want to talk to Sister Cecilia. Wait out here. I don’t need you influencing her.”
“No problem. I’ll be right here unless I get bored and decide to try my hand at painting. Watercolor class is up next.”
Emma ignored him and went inside. A sister she knew from her own days at the convent was minding the cash register, allowing Sister Cecilia to lead Emma to a back room. Its white walls were decorated with cheerful children’s finger paintings, but the novice wasn’t cheerful. “This all just gets worse,” she said. “I think the shock’s worn off, and now I really feel the pain of what’s happened.”
“That’s understandable,” Emma said.
“I’ve been going through old photos that I collected for my work on Mother Linden’s biography.” Sister Cecilia brushed stray hairs out of her face, tucking them back into her white headband. “I have a few minutes before my next class. Watercolor painting for teenagers.” She gave a faltering smile. “I love watercolors.”
“I do, too. Sister, I got your message—”
“Yes. I wanted to show you.” She fumbled with a stack of files on a trestle table. “Ainsley d’Auberville wants to include her father’s painting of Mother Linden’s Saint Francis statue in her show—the one that’s hanging now in the retreat hall. That would be fun for all of us. Apparently he would often take a series of photographs of the houses and gardens he was commissioned to paint and use them to help as he did the actual painting.”
“Did he take photographs of the statue of Saint Francis?”
Sister Cecilia nodded. “Ainsley found two in her father’s studio. I can’t wait to see them. That’s not why I called, though.” She grabbed a folder and opened it on the paint-spattered table. She withdrew a small, faded black-and-white photograph of a cedar-shingled house. “The detectives asked me if I’d run into anything on Claire Grayson in my research on Mother Linden. I hadn’t, but I started looking through my files, and I found this photograph. It’s not labeled, but I’m sure it’s a picture of her and Mrs. Grayson.”
Emma recognized Mother Linden, smiling in her traditional nun’s habit. Next to her was a beautiful woman in slim pants and a white shirt, her platinum hair pushed off her face. She had a gentle smile. Her eyes were half-closed, not focused on the camera.
“It’s by the tower fence,” Sister Cecilia said. “The statue of Saint Francis is still there. I think it must have been taken the summer Mrs. Grayson took painting lessons from Mother Linden.”
And died in a fire, Emma thought. She studied the picture with interest. “Have you called the detectives yet?”
“Not yet. I wanted to show you first.” Sister Cecilia hesitated. “I need to tell Mother Natalie.”
Emma understood. “How did you get here?”
“I rode my bicycle. It’s such a beautiful day.”
“Have you told anyone else about the photograph?”
“No, just you so far. I only just found it. The convent has a huge collection of photographs from when Mother Linden was alive. I’ve been going through them because of my work on her biography.”
“You seem nervous,” Emma said.
“Do I? I guess I am. I’ve never had so much contact with the police before. I know you’re a federal agent, but…” She stopped, clearly embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ll call the detectives and have them meet you here. You need to tell them what you’ve told me and show them the photograph.”
“I understand. Mother Natalie reminds us not to be afraid of the truth. She doesn’t have a heavy hand as Mother Superior. That’s not our tradition.” Sister Cecilia fingered the edge of the old photograph. “I heard you’d been a member of our community. Why did you leave?”
“I discovered I wasn’t called to be a religious sister after all. A novitiate’s an exciting time, but it’s also challenging, for the most part in positive ways.”
“When it comes time to make my final vows, I know I won’t have any doubts.”
“I expect not, Sister. I expect you’ll know what’s right for you.”
They returned to the front room of the shop and studio. Emma called Detective Renkow and, reassured that another sister was present and Sister Cecilia wouldn’t be alone, went outside. Colin rolled up off the bench, sliding his phone back into his pocket, a suggestion he hadn’t been idle while she’d been inside.
Her own phone vibrated in her jacket pocket, and Emma ducked past him to take the call. “Sunniva definitely isn’t here in Ireland.” It was her grandfather’s voice on the other end. He sounded energetic, focused. “I searched just in case I’d forgotten. I didn’t. That painting sat up in my attic for decades, Emma. It’s of no serious monetary value, but someone broke in, grabbed it and left a bomb behind, then flew to Ireland to nail me. Why, I don’t know.”
“We’ll find out, one way or the other.”
“I don’t dwell on the past, but I’ve been thinking about Claire Grayson. I wish I’d realized what a bad state she was in. Your folks do, too.”
“I can understand that,” Emma said. “I’m struck by the surface similarities between Claire and Saint Sunniva. I wonder if it was a bit of a self-portrait. Sunniva ran away from her homeland to escape a forced marriage. Claire ran away from her husband. She burned to death, though. Sunniva died in a cave.”
“The similarities might have been enough to draw Claire into painting
