“Are they here?”
“They’re in the studio, I can show them to you. One’s of a house in Kennebunkport and the other’s of a house in York.”
“The houses are identified?”
“Yes, there’s a note on the back. I’m collecting my father’s work for the show I’m putting together. I have half a dozen owners willing to loan me paintings he did for them.”
“You dropped off a third painting early this week,” Emma said, her tone neutral.
Ainsley nodded, lowering her eyes. “My father was very prolific—I swear he painted in his sleep. My mother said he was miserable when he wasn’t painting. When I decided to fix up this place, I finally started sorting through everything he’d shoved into closets and cupboards in his studio. I found a handful of canvases. Most are castoffs, or in poor condition. You can imagine the exposure to mold, insects, changes in temperature—disastrous for artwork.” She trailed off, looking past the guests on her patio to the overgrown backyard. “I didn’t expect to find anything in decent enough shape to go to the expense of having it professionally cleaned, never mind to show. But I did. I was shocked, I have to say.”
“You’re talking about a painting called The Garden Gallery,” Emma said.
“That’s right. I found it this past Sunday. I was here alone, framing a painting I’d just finished of a garden commissioned by a couple on Monhegan Island. I was bored and took a break and found the painting. Sister Joan had just cleaned the other two paintings. It was natural to go to her with this one.” Ainsley twisted her slender hands together, her uneasiness palpable. “The varnish has yellowed badly, and it’s caked with dust—but there’s very little if any mold or mildew.”
Emma pushed aside her muffin. “You took it to the convent…”
“On Monday. It was after lunch—around one o’clock. Sister Joan met me at the main gate. Her reaction was no different than to the previous two paintings. She was strictly professional.” Ainsley dropped her hands to her sides. “I asked her not to tell anyone.”
“Why?” Emma asked. “You already knew the painting was your father’s work.”
“It’s so unusual. I wanted…I want to find out everything I can about it—where he’d painted it, who, if anyone, commissioned it. It’s very clever, very well done. I think it’s one of my father’s finest works. I don’t know why he just left it here. Thankfully, he took pains to properly store it.” Ainsley tossed her head back, a small attempt at defiance. “I hoped having the painting cleaned would help Sister Joan and me figure out what to do next. I didn’t tell anyone about it. Not even Gabe.”
Gabe didn’t respond. Colin wondered if Ainsley’s silence about the painting had prompted their heated discussion behind the van.
Emma settled back in her chair and eyed Ainsley a moment. “Did your interest in Vikings affect your interest in this painting?”
Ainsley’s chin jerked up in surprise. “It’s at the convent? It’s not missing?”
“I haven’t seen it,” Emma said vaguely, not mentioning her chat with Sister Cecilia. “But I know your father was interested in Vikings, too. The Garden Gallery depicts several other works of art, including a painting that features a Viking warship.”
“That’s right.” Ainsley’s voice was low, a little breathless.
Colin noticed something in Emma’s expression and narrowed his eyes on her. She looked away, and he realized she wasn’t here just out of professional curiosity. This was personal.
And she was hiding something.
He was as sure as he had been that morning with Sister Cecilia.
What, exactly, was Agent Sharpe up to?
“Did any of the other works of art in this gallery have a Viking theme?” he asked.
Emma shifted her gaze to him but said nothing.
Finally Ainsley said, “I don’t know. I couldn’t make out much detail because of the dust and grime. I’m not an art historian. I wouldn’t necessarily recognize any of the artwork in the gallery—whether it was real, or a product of my father’s imagination.”
“This could be a painting he did for his own amusement,” Emma said, “and that’s why it was still here.”
“It’s possible, but I have no reason to believe it’s any different from the countless other commissioned paintings my father did. I haven’t found any information on who might have commissioned it.”
Colin swirled ice in his glass. “What about the house? Any idea if it’s an actual house?”
“No, none. I found the painting and took it to Sister Joan. That’s it.” Ainsley’s cheeks were flushed now, her rich blue eyes shining. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
She bolted from Gabe’s side and picked up a stack of painter’s drop cloths on a bench at the edge of the patio. Gabe stayed by the table. “Ainsley,” he said gently. “It’s okay. No one thinks you caused what happened yesterday.”
“Was there anything else Viking in this painted gallery?” Colin asked.
“I hate this,” Ainsley whispered, shutting her eyes as if she wanted to be alone. She hugged the drop cloths to her chest and looked at Colin. “As I said, I couldn’t make out much detail, but I did see that besides the painting of the woman in the cave, with the Viking ship about to arrive, the gallery included at least two silver pieces on display—a cup and a bracelet with distinctive ancient pagan Scandinavian features. There might have been other pieces, but I couldn’t tell…not until it was cleaned….”
Bracken stirred. “You have no idea when your father did this painting?”
Ainsley shook her head and set the drop cloths back on the bench. “I wanted to make a big splash at my show of my father’s and my work. I thought unveiling a mysterious, intriguing new painting by Jack d’Auberville would go over well.”
“It would be great publicity,” Gabe said.
Colin drank some of his tea and set down the glass. “Did you ask Lucas Sharpe about this newly discovered painting?”
Emma gave him a cool look as Ainsley stepped back from the bench. “I took the painting straight to Sister Joan. I wanted to have it cleaned before I did anything else. That’s not what Lucas does. I never imagined it would disappear and she would get hurt.”
“You were excited about planning your show,” Bracken said. “You’re carrying on in your father’s tradition.”
His words seemed to calm Ainsley. “It doesn’t excite my mother and stepdad that much, but I’m having fun and doing all right—making my own mark. My father made a solid living and his work has gained attention in recent years, but my mother’s family still considers him a hack.”
“They use that word?” Bracken asked, obviously shocked.
“They’re far too polite. They say his work is ‘sentimental.’”
“That’s a euphemism for hack,” Gabe said, moving back to his fiancée’s side.
Emma left most of her muffin on her plate and dusted crumbs off her hands. “Did your father ever paint imagined scenes from imagined houses?”
“Not that I know of,” Ainsley said. “Generally speaking he didn’t have time to experiment, because he had to pay the bills with his painting.”
“Are you sure no one else knew about your discovery of The Garden Gallery?” Emma asked.
“Yes, positive. As I said, I didn’t even tell Gabe.” Ainsley leaned her head against his muscled shoulder. “I’ve been in the zone with my work, and I just didn’t think to tell you. I never thought of this as anything but exciting, interesting and fun.”
“It’s all right,” Gabe said, then looked at Emma. “Ainsley was just about to call the police.”
“I already did,” Emma said, rising. “They’re on the way. They’ll want to see the two paintings Sister Joan already cleaned.”
Ainsley nodded, lifting her head off Gabe’s shoulder. “Of course. I’m still deciding what pieces to include in my show. I’m trying to pace myself with all I have going on. My commissions are rolling in but I don’t want to take on more than
I can handle and end up sacrificing quality.” She sniffled, rallying, and gave everyone gathered on the patio an engaging smile. “I’m not sure how hard I want to work, either.”
“A nice position to be in,” her fiancé said with a laugh.
“My father never felt like a serious artist. He cared about that.” Ainsley shrugged, her natural cheerfulness back. “I don’t. People love what I do. They love when their house and gardens look as good in my paintings as they do in their own minds. Enhanced reality, I call it. I don’t care if it’s emotional and sentimental. My father’s work is a peek into a lost past—even if it’s a romanticized past.”
“Your work is very good,” Bracken said.
She blushed. “I have solid technical skills.”
“And heart.”
The color in her cheeks deepened. Colin suspected Ainsley d’Auberville was quite taken with Finian Bracken.
“My painting’s gone from being a fun hobby to a career,” she said. “I want to keep the fun part. I don’t want it to become a grind. I think that’s why I’m so into my Viking fantasies.” She grinned at her fiancé. “I think of Gabe as my personal Viking.”
“I don’t know, Ainsley,” Gabe said, grinning. “I think of Vikings as a bunch of big hairy guys in stinky animal skins, with bad teeth and dirty hair.”
Colin could see that Gabe regarded her as a fascinating woman of whims and passions. She laughed. “I prefer Thor, the hammer-wielding old Norse pagan god of thunder, lightning and rain. He’s often depicted as a red-bearded, red-haired hulk of a man with eyes of lightning. I would love to learn more about Norse mythology.”
“Ainsley has many interests,” Gabe said.
“Believe it or not, that’s why I didn’t finish my college degree,” she said without offense. “I would flit from one interest to another. I let my interest in Vikings turn to an obsession, as you can see. I just got swept up. Of course, I haven’t started wearing Viking helmets, although I did find this beautiful dragon belt buckle.” She tapped the buckle at her waist.
“Have you scheduled your wedding?” Bracken asked.
“Not yet. We have time.”
Emma glanced at her watch. “The detectives will be here any second. I’ll go out and meet them. Ainsley, why don’t you come with me?”
Ainsley paled at the mention of detectives, as if she’d forgotten that Emma was a federal agent. She glanced down at her hand, touching her ring finger with her thumb. She wasn’t wearing an engagement ring. She smiled feebly at Bracken. “I’ll go meet the detectives with Emma—Agent Sharpe.”
After the two women disappeared around the front of the old carriage house, Gabe Campbell rubbed the back of his neck and sighed deeply. “I know Ainsley likes to call me her personal Viking, but I don’t come with a mountain-smashing hammer like Thor—just a paintbrush. And I paint walls, not museum-quality paintings.” He dropped into a chair across from Bracken and Colin. “Is she in danger?”
“A woman was killed yesterday,” Bracken said, as if that answered the question.
Colin said nothing.
“Ainsley’s so open,” Gabe went on. “I love that about her, but now it worries me.”
Bracken leaned over the table. “Stay close to her. Listen to her.”
“The paintings…the show…” He rubbed his neck again. “Have you seen pictures of her father? He was a good-looking guy—she has his eyes, his blond hair. He wasn’t perfect. She knows that, but he’s still larger than life to her.” He looked in the direction she’d just gone. “I’m glad she didn’t go to Lucas Sharpe.”
Bracken frowned. “Why is that? Do they have a history?”
“A brief one. They saw each other for a few weeks last summer. It didn’t go anywhere.” Gabe laughed suddenly. “I guess he wasn’t up to being her personal Viking. I have to get back to work. Good to meet you. I wish the circumstances had been better.”
He didn’t wait for a response before he jumped up and went inside, easing the door shut behind him.
Colin took a last swallow of iced tea and looked across the table at Bracken. “I’ll bet Ainsley thinks you look like Bono, too. Emma Sharpe might, but she’d never say. Too repressed. Ainsley’s the opposite of repressed.”
“Go to blazes,” Bracken said.
Colin grinned and rose, Bracken following him off the stone patio. They headed onto a sandy trail through the overgrown yard, intersecting the lane just below the d’Auberville place. Colin tasted salt on the breeze.
Bracken put on his sunglasses again. “Ainsley doesn’t know what to do with her life. She’s painting as much for the father she never knew as for herself.”
“She needs a paycheck. Nothing wrong with that.” Colin squinted through the trees, bits of blue ocean peeking out amid the changing leaves. “Go home, Fin.”
“Home as in Ireland?”
“You’re not getting out of Rock Point that easily, although I suppose you could go back to Ireland and show Ainsley d’Auberville some Viking ruins.”
“On her honeymoon,” Bracken said.
“Go on. I’ll deal with Agent Sharpe and the detectives.” He didn’t quite know how he’d explain his Irish priest friend to the local authorities. “Do your thing, Fin. Dust pews, drink whiskey, visit sick people. Stay out of this mess.”
“You’re not an agent who shuffles papers in an office, Colin. You don’t have to pretend with me that you are.”
“I repeat. Go home.”
Bracken walked farther down the quiet lane and looked out toward the Atlantic. “It’s a straight line from here to Spain. Ireland’s farther to the north. Yet it’s so much colder here.”
“Gulf Stream,” Colin said.
“Yes.” Bracken pulled his gaze away and turned back up the lane. “Why did Sister Joan call Agent Sharpe?”
“The Sharpes are internationally recognized art detectives. They must have had dealings with the convent before.”
“Why not call Lucas Sharpe instead?”
Good question, but Colin didn’t answer him.
“Agent Sharpe is based in Boston, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“What will you do now?”
“Go back to my boat and wait for her to come after me.”
“Because you came here with me,” Bracken said.
“And because she realizes I know she’s hiding something.”
“I wondered if you’d noticed that. You don’t have to go back to your boat and wait for her.” Bracken nodded up the lane as Emma walked in their direction. “She’s here right now.”
13
EMMA DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF COLIN Donovan and Father Finian Bracken. “The BMW is yours, Father?”
The priest nodded, his eyes invisible behind his dark sunglasses. “Yes, it is.”
“He’s a priest to the lobstermen of Rock Point,” Colin said, standing in the sunlight as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “My hometown.”
Bracken gave the slightest of smiles.
“Saint Peter is the patron saint of fishermen,” Emma said. “He was a fisherman. Imagine the centuries of fishermen who have prayed to Saint Peter to intercede on their behalf—”
“Like when the ship’s going down, or the fish aren’t biting,” Colin said.
He was, Emma thought, being deliberately irreverent, testing her, perhaps, for her reaction. “Saint Peter is often depicted in art with the accoutrements of a fisherman. Fishing rods, nets, that sort of thing. They help identify him.” She had only a vague idea of where she was going with this. She’d had saints on her mind ever since Sister Cecilia’s description of the painting of the woman in the cave, in The Garden Gallery, Jack d’Auberville’s missing painting. “Finian was an early Irish saint.”
Bracken turned from the partial view of the water. “There are several Irish saints named Finian, in fact. They all lived in the sixth century, when Christianity was still taking root in Ireland. My mother, God rest her soul, didn’t have a particular Finian
in mind, but she grew up near the ruins of Saint Finian’s church and holy well in Kenmare.”
“That’s in the southwest,” Emma said. “I’ve been there.”
“The church and well are probably named for Saint Finian the Leper,” Bracken said. “There was no leprosy in Ireland at the time, but he could have had some sort of eye ailment. He founded the monastery at Innisfallen in County Kerry. It’s on an island in a lake in Killarney National Park. It’s a lovely site—a ruin now, of course. The early monks there wrote down the oral history of Ireland, capturing ancient pre-Christian tales.”
“The Annals of Innisfallen.” Emma kept her tone conversational but professional. “They’re invaluable.”
“Ah, I see you know your Irish history.”
“I learned about the annals studying art and Irish history when I worked with my grandfather in Dublin.” Emma paused, but neither man spoke. She’d noticed Colin eyeing her with suspicion on Ainsley’s patio. His expression was difficult to read now, but she had no intention of letting down her guard. “What are you doing here, Father?”
“As I said, I ran into Ainsley in Heron’s Cove and she invited me to her father’s former studio. Are you two friends? I couldn’t tell.”
“Not exactly, no.”
“Your brother and she—”
“Let’s walk back to your car, Father,” Emma said coolly. She had no intention of explaining her brother and Ainsley d’Auberville to two strangers, one of them likely reporting to Matt Yankowski. She started up the lane.
Colin fell in next to her. He could have been a Maine lobsterman in his jeans and black sweatshirt, with his ocean-gray eyes and broad shoulders, but Emma knew better. “What if the paintings in the gallery d’Auberville painted are valuable?” he asked.
“We don’t even know if the gallery is real, or if it’s still intact—never mind whose it is, or was.”
Father Bracken eased in on her other side.
“I’m still trying to understand why Sister Joan called you specifically.”
Emma felt an unwelcome weakening in her knees but said evenly, “My family and the convent have a long history because of our work.”
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