The artistic eye, Colin figured.
“If I tried that, it’d never work,” he said. “People would think I’d been drinking one night and slapped stuff up at random.”
Bracken, who’d taken off his sunglasses, glared at Colin as if he’d said something offensive, but Ainsley laughed. “Oh, it’s still very much a work in progress.” She peered at one section of the wall, a mishmash of tear-outs from Thor comic books, photographs of Viking artifacts and old maps, all artistically displayed. She pointed to a spot above her. “There, Father Bracken. A map of Dublin’s Viking sites.”
“Ah,” he said. “I see.”
“My father was fascinated by Viking art and history. I can see why.” She squealed and stood on her tiptoes, tapping a small collage with one finger. “Here you go, Father. My collage of Skellig Michael. I’ve wanted to go there forever. Is it as scary as they say?”
Bracken stood next to her and examined the collage. “The boat ride was more frightening than was climbing among the ruins. Provided you don’t wander off on your own, it’s reasonably safe.”
“My father went to Ireland at least once that I know of.” Her eyes grew distant, but she seemed to give herself a mental shake. “He married my mother late in life. He was in his sixties and she was barely thirty. It was quite the scandal with her family. They never believed he’d stay with her, but he was ready to settle down. I think he knew he was sick, to be honest. He died of lung cancer.”
“I’m sorry,” Bracken said simply.
Colin decided Finian Bracken wouldn’t make a bad detective. He was willing to let Ainsley talk and, naturally, came at gathering information from an entirely different point of view than a law enforcement officer would. Bracken wasn’t eliciting answers for a police investigation. He had only pretty, fair-haired Ainsley d’Auberville’s best interests in mind.
“My mother remarried when I was five,” Ainsley said, stepping back from the wall of art. “My stepdad’s a great guy, but I kept the d’Auberville name. My father left this place and the contents to me in a trust. It’d been rented on and off. Basic upkeep was done on the bathroom, kitchen, roof, wiring and heating system, but his studio was more or less off-limits. I expected to clear out the place and put it on the market, but I decided to fix it up and see what’s what.”
“Where did your father do his painting?” Colin asked.
“In back. I work there now, too. I’m organizing a show of our work. It won’t be ready until next summer.” She jumped, almost as if she were startled. “Oh! Drinks! I filled the ice bucket. Then Gabe showed up and I went outside and forgot all about it.”
Once she was focused, she moved quickly, heading to the kitchen area and gathering up a pitcher of tea, ice, fresh lemon slices, glasses and a plate of apple-cinnamon muffins and setting them on a large woven tray. She insisted on carrying it herself out back to a stone patio in modest disrepair, descending the chipped steps with assurance, no hint of anything more serious on her mind than whether there were seeds in the lemons.
“Butter,” she said cheerfully, then about-faced and ran back inside.
Colin sat at a weathered teak table, across from Bracken. He thought he might have the patience for one sip of iced tea. He had ice in his glass but no tea when Gabe Campbell walked around from the front of the old carriage house, with Emma Sharpe on his elbow. She looked no happier to see Colin now than she had that morning when he’d run the Julianne aground.
Gabe pulled out a chair at the table and sat down, but Emma remained standing, her gaze fixed on Colin. “You do get around, Mr. Donovan,” she said. “Did you slam your boat into more rocks?”
He didn’t think her smart-ass question required an answer.
Bracken got to his feet. “You must be Special Agent Sharpe. I’m Finian Bracken.”
Emma greeted him politely, but she pointed at Colin, her green eyes still on Bracken. “You two know each other?”
“I serve a church in Rock Point,” Bracken said.
“How did you end up here, Father?” she asked.
Colin sat back, deciding not to help his friend out of this one. Let him explain himself to Agent Sharpe. Finian Bracken, however, had succeeded in the competitive whiskey business, then had survived Catholic seminary. He could handle a suspicious Emma Sharpe.
“I was in Heron’s Cove earlier,” he said easily. “I met Ainsley there. She’d just knocked on the door to your family’s business offices, in fact, but no one was there. We chatted. Then Colin came by—”
“He was at my place?”
Colin sighed.
Bracken kept his tone matter-of-fact. “He was in the parking lot behind the inn next door.”
Emma flashed Colin an intensely controlled look that nonetheless he translated as What the hell were you doing involving a priest in a homicide investigation? Emma didn’t know Finian Bracken. Colin wasn’t about to defend him, especially since Bracken didn’t seem intimidated by her scrutiny.
“What were you doing in Heron’s Cove?” she asked.
“It’s a lovely day for a wander,” Bracken said, his Irish accent striking Colin as more pronounced.
Emma watched him return to his seat but remained on her feet. “Do you know anything about or have a strong interest in art involving Catholic saints, Father?”
“Please, call me Finian, and no, saints aren’t my particular area of expertise.”
“Sacred art?”
“No.”
“My grandfather, Wendell Sharpe, is an art detective based in Dublin. Do you know him?”
Bracken drank some of his tea, without ice. “We’ve never met.”
Emma fixed her gaze on Colin. “Ever been to Ireland, Mr. Donovan?”
“I have.”
“Did you meet Father Bracken there?”
“We met in Rock Point. I was in Ireland on my own. Hiking. On vacation.”
She didn’t look as if she believed him, but he suspected she wasn’t in the mood to believe anyone. It was a mood he well understood.
“Ainsley and I are thinking about spending our honeymoon in Ireland,” Gabe said,
