He frowned as Colin pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “You didn’t stay anywhere with a shower, I see,” Bracken said in his heavy Kerry accent.
“Sponge baths. I didn’t shave, though.”
“Self-evident.”
“I could have stayed on my island and had Mike tell you to dust pews and mind your own business.”
“He didn’t mention dusting but the sentiment was the same.”
“Leave this poor woman’s death to the police, Finian.”
Bracken ignored him and pushed a glass across the table. “I took the liberty of pouring you a taoscán of fine Irish whiskey.”
Colin had already learned that a taoscán, an Irish term, was an imprecise measure that could mean a lot of whiskey or a little whiskey in his glass. Right now, it appeared to be a moderate amount.
Bracken pointed at an elegant bottle next to him bearing the distinctive gold Bracken Distillers label. “I opened a bottle of Bracken 15 year old, a small-batch single malt aged for, as it says, fifteen years. I oversaw the process myself from distillation to laying down in the cask.”
Colin knew better than to try to divert Finian Bracken from a whiskey lecture. He nodded to the clear, caramel-colored liquid in the glass. “Smoky?”
“No. No smoke. The barley was malted over dry heat, the Irish way. It has depth and character that hold up to the best Scotch whisky produced in the same way. Auchentoshan comes to mind. One of my favorites.”
“Finian.”
“You haven’t tried Bracken 15 year old yet, Colin. It’s rare, dear and damn near perfect. Truly, it’s magnificent.” The priest waved a hand. “In moderation, of course.”
He wasn’t bragging, Colin realized as he tasted the whiskey, but simply stating a fact. Hurley’s had agreed to stock Bracken whiskey especially for the new local priest and his occasional guest. Finian and his twin brother had launched their thriving Irish distillery as brazen young men, but Finian had left it behind to become a priest. Then three months ago he’d left his homeland to serve as a replacement for an American priest on sabbatical. He’d never set foot in Maine before arriving in Rock Point in June for a year-long stay.
He poured a little Bracken 15 year old into his own glass. “The word whiskey comes from uisce beatha, Gaelic for aqua vitae—‘the water of life.’” Bracken tapped a finger to whiskey on the Bracken Distillers label. “Of course, the Scots drop the e in whiskey.”
“I should have had a bottle of this stuff in my kayak,” Colin said.
Bracken held up his glass. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte.”
The priest sampled the expensive single malt. “One can see why the early monks shifted from ale to whiskey,” he said with satisfaction as he set his glass back on the table. “Go easy, my friend. You’ll be driving tonight.”
“I can walk back to my place from here.”
“You can’t walk to Heron’s Cove. Well, I suppose you could, but it’s much easier and faster to drive.”
“Why would I go to Heron’s Cove?”
Colin took another swallow of the whiskey. Not a big one. He had to keep his wits about him when dealing with Father Bracken. They’d run into each other on the docks in June, when Colin, still tangled up in a difficult undercover mission, had slipped into Rock Point for a few days. Bracken had sensed that Colin stood apart from his family and his hometown. A kindred soul, perhaps. They’d become friends over a drink at Hurley’s.
“Have a sip,” Bracken said, nodding to the glass of water he’d supplied.
Colin complied, welcoming the cool water after the fiery whiskey. Water for sipping alongside whiskey was Father Bracken–sanctioned. Not ice. Just wasn’t done. In his view, whiskey was meant to warm the body and improve one’s sense of well-being, and ice plunked into a glass of Bracken 15 year old—or any whiskey—was contrary to that purpose.
“What’s going on, Finian?” Colin asked finally.
Bracken looked pained as he drank some of his own water. “Sister Joan Mary Fabriani was killed just before noon today, apparently when she interrupted an intruder at her convent. She was a longtime member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart. Their convent isn’t far from here.”
“I know where it is. Have you said mass there?”
“Not yet, no. As yet I’ve never met any of the good sisters. They’re known for their work with both sacred and secular art. Sister Joan was an expert in conservation and restoration.”
“Witnesses?”
“None.”
“Anything missing?”
“I have no idea.” Bracken glanced out at the docks. With the clearing weather and the waning daylight, more boats were drifting into the harbor. “Word of Sister Joan’s death has spread fast. People here are in shock, Colin.”
“Understandably. An attack inside a convent and the murder of a nun are awful things, Fin, but they’re not an FBI matter. The Criminal Investigative Division of the Maine State Police handles homicide investigations in small towns like Heron’s Cove.”
Bracken shifted back from the view of the harbor and looked at his friend. The hair, the eyes, the shape of his jaw. Bono, Colin thought. Definitely.
“CID’s good,” Colin added. “They’ll get to the bottom of what happened.”
Bracken touched the rim of his whiskey glass again. “An FBI agent was there.”
“At the convent?”
“She was waiting for Sister Joan to get a key to unlock a gate.”
Colin sat forward. Now Bracken had his full attention. “She?”
Bracken lifted his glass and took another sip of his whiskey. “Her name’s Emma Sharpe. Her grandfather founded a world-renowned art theft and recovery company. He’s based in Dublin, but his grandson—Emma’s brother—runs the business out of its main offices in the family’s original home in Heron’s Cove.”
“Lucas Sharpe,” Colin said.
“Do you know him?”
“The name. We’ve never met. I’ve never met Emma, either.”
He’d heard of her, Colin thought as he tossed back more whiskey than he’d intended. He managed not to choke as he
