He tugged himself out of the past. “Not at all.”
She scrutinized him a moment before continuing. “There’s no doubt Vikings could be incredibly brutal—raping, pillaging, enslaving people—but it was a brutal age. We can’t demonize them, but we can’t romanticize them, either, can we?”
“There were people of peace at work at the same time,” Finian said.
“I like to think so.” Ainsley shuddered, then gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I love Thor comic books.”
“Miss D’Auberville—”
“Ainsley. Please. I’m sorry. I don’t want to burden you with my troubles. I guess I’d rather blather on about Vikings than what’s really on my mind. Although Vikings are on my mind, too.” She slowed her pace as the street curved closer to the ocean. “In a way my obsession with Vikings is part of the reason I’m in such a quandary.”
“Does your quandary have to do with Sister Joan’s death?”
She shot him a slightly panicked look. “You do cut to the chase, don’t you, Father?”
“If you have information the police should have—”
“I don’t know if I do or I don’t.”
“But you know something,” Finian said. “That’s why you wanted to see Lucas Sharpe, isn’t it?”
He slipped his sunglasses out of his suit coat pocket and put them on against the glare of the midday sun. He watched waves crash onto the rocks. Nearby, a lone cormorant dived under a swell and disappeared. Two seagulls passed by overhead. Farther out on the open water, pleasure and working craft went about their day, yesterday’s foggy conditions no longer a worry.
“I can accompany you to the police,” he said, returning his glasses case to his pocket. “I’ve nothing pressing on my schedule the rest of the day.”
“Becoming a witness in the murder of a nun wouldn’t go over well with my family, especially my stepfather. He’s great, but he’s very proper. He likes for us all to keep a low profile. It’s just him, my mother, my baby brother and me.” Ainsley stepped onto a boulder, seeming not to notice it was covered with bird droppings. “That kind of publicity wouldn’t go over well. It’s bad enough I’m…well, interested in Vikings and such.”
“Is your family here in Heron’s Cove?”
“Ogunquit, on the beach. Just for the summer. I’m in my father’s old place just south of here. My biological father.” She paused, the wind catching the ends of her sweater, then added, “It’s a long story.” She left it at that and returned to the pavement.
“Ainsley, if what you’re holding back could prevent further violence—”
“What I know probably makes no difference whatsoever.”
“Perhaps it’s best to let the police make that determination.”
She didn’t seem to hear him, or pretended not to, as the brisk wind tangled her hair. She looked out at the water. “I don’t know, Father. Which do you prefer—sandy beaches or the rocky coast? I go back and forth.”
He wasn’t allowing her to distract herself, or him. “Does your quandary have anything to do with your interest in Vikings?”
She about-faced and plunged back down toward the Sharpe house. Finian thought she’d changed her mind about wanting to talk to him, or perhaps had satisfied herself with what she’d said, but she stopped abruptly, turning back to him, her eyes shining with tears. “I brought a painting to Sister Joan a few days ago. I asked her not to tell a soul. She must have called Emma Sharpe about it, though, and that’s why Emma was at the convent yesterday. Emma’s an art detective. All the Sharpes are art detectives. It makes me wonder what Sister Joan saw in the painting.”
“Where is this painting now, Ainsley?”
“I have no idea. I’ve been expecting the police to show up on my doorstep to ask about it, but they haven’t. It’s been over twenty-four hours.” She shoved her hair back with the palm of a hand. “I’m afraid whoever attacked her took it.”
Finian could hear guilt strangling her voice. “Where did you get the painting?”
“I found it. It’s my father’s work.”
“Your biological father?”
She watched a powerboat speed past them, far from the immediate treachery of the rocks. “He died when I was a baby.”
“It’s a complicated situation?”
She glanced back at Finian and gave a half smile. “It’s a mess.”
Before he could respond, she continued walking toward the Sharpe house.
He matched her long stride. “You’ll call the police?”
She kept her eyes focused in front of her. “I’ll answer any question they put to me if they knock on my door, but I don’t think I should just call them out of the blue.”
“Why not?”
“I think the painting’s a big deal because it’s an interesting newfound work of Jack D’Auberville. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe no one else will care.”
“Did Sister Joan care?”
“She only gave it a quick glance when I handed it to her. I’d already given her two of my father’ paintings to clean, but they weren’t new discoveries. This one was.” She amended quickly, “Is.”
“You said you found it. Where?”
“What?” His question seemed to confuse her. “Oh. I inherited his former studio. It was there. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to steal it. It’s not like there are a lot of crazed Jack d’Auberville collectors out there. Are you free? Why don’t you come by and see the studio?” Her preoccupied mood seemed to have vanished and she smiled at him. “You must have burned off your pancakes by now. Or are you in Heron’s Cove for another reason?”
“I’m looking into buying art for the rectory.”
“Really? Then you definitely have to come by. I can advise you. I know most of the local artists. I’m one myself, in fact. At least, an artist of sorts.” Her smile brightened, reaching her eyes. “I’ll make you iced tea and we can talk about art, Vikings and Irish ruins.”
Finian raised his eyebrows. Ainsley d’Auberville had met him only minutes ago, under unusual circumstances, and now she was inviting him back to her place?
She blushed. “Sorry. I have a tendency to make everyone I meet a best friend.” She
