“She’s deep into research for her biography of Mother Linden,” Emma said. “Sister Cecilia might have run across something and not realized what it was. Perhaps you’ve overlooked a painting tucked in a closet somewhere.”
“It’s possible.” Mother Natalie continued up the walk to the tower entrance. “We’ve nothing by her cataloged. I’ve looked. Various people have donated paintings to us over the years, all of them legitimate gifts. We’ve sold some of them, but that was expected when the gifts were made. A painting by Claire Grayson—well, there’s no market, of course.”
“No, there isn’t, but it would have been a personal gift.”
Mother Natalie mounted the stone steps to the tower door. She glanced back, the sun piercing gray clouds on the horizon and sparkling on the ocean water. “You’re not on this case officially, are you, Emma?”
“I’m a federal agent, Mother.”
“So you are.”
They went inside. Sister Cecilia wasn’t there, and it didn’t look as if she had been. Emma walked over to Sister Joan’s desk, which looked as if she’d just stepped away for a few minutes. “What else do you remember about Claire Grayson, Mother?”
She hesitated a moment before responding. “Claire wanted to join our congregation here.”
Emma’s eyebrows went up. “She wanted to be a nun?”
“She made her case to Mother Linden herself.”
“But she was married.”
The older woman looked over at the spot where Sister Joan had died, then turned away sharply. The lines at the corners of her eyes seemed more prominent, deeper, in the harsh light. “Claire and her husband were estranged, and I think she pretended even to herself that they weren’t married. Nonetheless, as you know, it just isn’t possible for a married woman to enter a convent.”
“The Graysons had no children, did they?” Emma asked. “A dependent child would have prevented Claire from becoming a nun, too.”
“I never heard there were any children. I certainly didn’t see any.” Mother Natalie grimaced. “I can’t imagine thinking you had a call to this vocation if you had a small child. I’m sure Mother Linden worked with Claire to understand what truly was going on.”
“You do what you can, but you’re not therapists,” Emma said.
She left Mother Natalie by the desk and checked upstairs, but Sister Cecilia wasn’t in the tower.
Obviously worried, Mother Natalie led Emma back across the lawn and through the gate, then to the retreat hall, but the young novice wasn’t there, either. Emma could see Mother Natalie’s concern mounting as they entered the motherhouse. Sister Cecilia wasn’t on the main floor, or in the novices’ living quarters, located in a small, separate wing on the second floor.
She had Emma’s old room. Emma stood at the small dormer window. She’d lived at home and at college as a postulant. As a novice, she’d lived here, in this room.
On the grounds below her, she could see sisters going about their day. The back of the granite tower was visible through the oaks and evergreens, and, beyond it, the glistening Atlantic. She remembered standing in this same spot after Matt Yankowski’s visit and realizing she didn’t belong at the convent. She couldn’t pretend any longer and finally quit on the verge of professing final vows. She’d studied hard, worked hard, learned about herself, made friends and laughed—she’d laughed so much during her time with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart.
There’d been many good times, as well as much work, study, prayer and contemplation.
She’d taken what she’d learned as a novice with her to her work with Sharpe Fine Art Recovery in Dublin, then to Quantico and her three years as an FBI agent.
The truth was, she wouldn’t have made love to Colin last night if not for her time here. She’d have been a different woman, in a different place.
As she started out of the small, simple room, she noticed more old photographs in a stack on the nightstand. On top was one of pretty, demure Claire Grayson standing next to a hydrangea, in front of French doors, with a rakish Jack d’Auberville. Emma was struck by how much his daughter looked like him.
The photograph of Claire and Mother Linden at the statue of Saint Francis could have been snapped by one of the sisters at the convent. Who had snapped this one? Had it been taken at the house—presumably Claire Grayson’s house—depicted in The Garden Gallery?
Sister Cecilia had only had a glimpse of the now-missing painting, but was it enough for her to recognize the house?
Emma rejoined Mother Natalie in the shade garden out front. The Mother Superior was clearly worried. “Sister Cecilia went off on a bicycle a little while ago. I called our shop in Heron’s Cove, but she’s not there. I didn’t realize she was leaving the convent.”
“You’re worried,” Emma said.
“We have explicit routines here. The rhythm of our lives is important to us. Sister Cecilia was close to a terrible act of violence. What might be normal acting out in another situation…” Mother Natalie raised her eyes to Emma. “Right now nothing feels normal. Can you help us find her, Emma?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Mother Natalie blinked back tears. “I’ve been fighting fear and anger, coping with my own grief—I hope I’ve done enough to help Sister Cecilia. I think she’s terrified that the truth will cause problems for the convent, but we’re not afraid of the truth. I’m not afraid.”
“What kind of problems?”
“I don’t know.” Mother Natalie squared her shoulders, tears still glistening in her eyes. “We’re honest. We have nothing to hide, and if mistakes were made in the past—if crimes were committed—we’ll deal with them.”
“But you don’t believe that’s the case.”
“We all make mistakes, but crimes? No. That’s not what I believe is the case.”
Emma headed to her car. When she reached the main gate, she called Tony Renkow and told the detective about the photos,
