“That’s not privileged information, either?” Colin asked.
The priest didn’t even glance at him. “It is not.”
Ainsley’s face was flushed, her golden hair and thin sweater blowing in a steady wind off the water. “I swear, Gabe, I haven’t not told the police what I know. I haven’t lied, or refused to answer their questions. They haven’t asked me anything. Maybe the painting’s not missing, after all. Maybe I’m way off base.”
Gabe shook his head. He had dark, shaggy hair held off his face with a black bandanna. “You have to call them, Ainsley,” he said, not so much with anger as firmness and patience—if limited patience. “You can’t wait for them to figure out you might have relevant information and come find you.”
“Why not? Do you think it’s better to divert them from the investigation and draw attention to myself?”
“That’s your stepdad talking,” Gabe said, “not you.”
Her mouth snapped shut, but not for long. “I don’t want to be accused of exploiting a tragedy for publicity.”
“Sister Joan might not have told anyone about the painting.”
“I’m sure she didn’t. I asked her not to. Well.” Ainsley pushed up the sleeves of her sweater as if she were suddenly hot. “She must have told or meant to tell Emma Sharpe.”
Colin was getting the drift of what Ainsley d’Auberville and Bracken had discussed in confidence.
Ainsley spotted her new friend and smiled, her troubled, intense manner changing to one of cheerful welcome. “Father Bracken!” She clapped her hands together in obvious delight. “I thought for sure you wouldn’t come. I’m so glad you did. Isn’t this place fantastic?”
“It’s brilliant,” Bracken said, then motioned to Colin. “Ainsley, this is Colin Donovan, a friend of mine from Rock Point. Colin, Ainsley d’Auberville.”
She seemed to notice him for the first time and gave a mock bow. “Nice to meet you, Colin. Are you from Ireland, too?”
“No,” Colin said.
“You’re not a priest, I take it.”
“Not a priest. I ran into Father Bracken at the docks in Heron’s Cove.”
“He told you we met there? I invited him here so I could show him a true New England classic. It was originally a carriage house, built in the late-nineteenth century. My father bought it about ten years before I was born and converted it into his studio.” She waved a slender hand, breathless, a little hyper. “He eventually added a kitchen, heat and whatnot and lived here until he married my mother. He died when I was just a baby. I don’t remember him at all. He was a painter.”
“Jack d’Auberville,” Colin said. “I heard he had a studio around here somewhere.”
“This is it.” Ainsley was obviously pleased that he’d recognized her father. “Gabe says it’s structurally sound, except for a few rotted and rattling this and that. It has all the pluses of an antique carriage house with few of the minuses.”
“Horses and flies being among the minuses,” Bracken said with a smile.
“That’s what I said to Gabe!” She laughed, taking in the entire converted structure with a broad sweep of a slim arm. “My father loved it here. He was a prolific artist who lived simply. I like to think I take after him, but I don’t know. I’m not nearly as good a painter as he was.”
“Ainsley,” Gabe said with a smile.
“Oh, dear. I have a tendency to go on once I’m wound up.” She blushed but was clearly not embarrassed. “Father Bracken, Colin, this is Gabe Campbell, my fiancé.”
Colin and Bracken exchanged a brief greeting with Gabe. Bracken said, “If Colin and I are interrupting—”
“Not at all,” Ainsley said as she trotted up the front steps. “Gabe has to run down the lane for a minute. He’s building a house down on the water. That’s how we met, actually. Come on. I’ll give you the grand tour.”
Gabe shut the back of the van. “Go ahead. She loves to show this place off.”
If not for the missing Jack d’Auberville painting and Ainsley’s dilemma about calling the police, Colin would have been out of there. He’d have stolen Bracken’s keys if he had to. Instead, he followed Bracken up the steps to a small porch.
“Gabe’s one of the best housepainters in New England,” Ainsley said, pushing open a solid wood door. “All the high-end architects and contractors recommend him. He pays attention to every detail. He rented this place over the winter. He’s helping fix it up while he works on his own house.”
The dark brown, rough barn-board exterior and white-trimmed windows of the old carriage house looked freshly painted. Colin gritted his teeth. He was thinking about paint. Not good.
He wondered how long before Emma Sharpe turned up at Jack d’Auberville’s old studio. He figured he could always text her to come on out there. He’d been thinking all the wrong ways about Agent Sharpe since meeting her up close and personal that morning.
Bracken frowned at him, as if he knew his new friend had carnal thoughts on his mind.
Ainsley led them into a spacious room with wide-board floors and surprisingly bright white walls. She was still going on about her fiancé. “We actually met last fall when he wandered up the lane to check on a bird he’d heard singing. He’d been working all day and was all dusty and paint-splattered. Isn’t that romantic?”
Colin tried to be sociable and still get pertinent information out of her. “Do you live in Maine year-round?” he asked Ainsley.
“I want to, eventually, but right now I winter in south Florida, near my mother and stepfather. I have a lot of clients there.” She waved a hand as if she were painting. “I paint their gardens.”
Steep, rustic wood stairs led to a loft with an open balustrade. The furnishings were done with a feminine, artistic flare—saturated colors, overstuffed cushions, throws and mirrors. Colin walked over to a wall covered with a mix of paintings, minicollages, sketches, photographs and bits and pieces of what looked like junk Ainsley d’Auberville had picked up at yard sales. It all came together
