Sister Joan Mary Fabriani stopped at the gate. On the other side was the “tower,” the private work space where the Sisters of the Joyful Heart performed their restoration and conservation work. In violation of convent protocol, Sister Joan had escorted Emma onto the convent grounds without having her first stop at the motherhouse to register as a visitor.

And a visitor she was, in boot-cut jeans, a brown leather jacket, Frye boots and a Smith & Wesson 442 strapped to her left calf.

“The gate’s locked,” Sister Joan said, turning to Emma. “I have to get the key.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No. Wait here, please.” The older woman, who’d spent the past thirty years as a member of her order, frowned slightly at the gate, which crossed the meandering stone walk two hundred yards from the main gate at the convent’s entrance. “I thought I left it unlocked. It doesn’t matter. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“You’re preoccupied, Sister,” Emma said. “I should go with you.”

“The shortest route to the tower is through an area restricted to members of our community here.”

“The meditation garden. I remember.”

“Yes. Of course you do.”

“No one will be there at this hour. The sisters are busy with their daily work.”

“I’m in no danger, Emma.” Sister Joan smiled, her doe-brown eyes and wide, round face helping to soften her sometimes too-frank demeanor. “It’s all right if I call you Emma, isn’t it? Or should I call you Agent Sharpe?”

Emma noted an almost imperceptible bite in Sister Joan’s voice. “Emma’s fine.”

With a broad hand, Sister Joan brushed a mosquito off the wide, stretchy black headband holding back her graying dark hair. Instead of the traditional nun’s habit, the Sisters of the Joyful Heart wore plain clothes; in Sister Joan’s case a dark gray hand-knitted sweater and calf-length skirt, black tights and sturdy black leather walking shoes. The simple silver profession cross hanging from her neck and the gold band on her left ring finger were the only external indications that she was a Roman Catholic nun.

She looked pained. “I’ve already broken enough rules by having you here without telling anyone.”

Sister Joan hadn’t given any details when she’d called Emma in Boston early that morning and asked her to make the two-hour drive north to the convent, located on a small peninsula on a beautiful, quiet stretch of rockbound Maine coast.

“At least give me an idea of what you want to talk to me about,” Emma said.

Sister Joan hesitated. “I’d like to get your opinion on a painting.”

As if there could be any other reason. “Do you suspect it’s stolen?”