Ainsley burst onto the patio with a butter dish. “Did I hear someone mention Vikings?” She laughed, setting the butter on the table, then noticed Emma in the shade and immediately went pale. “Oh. Emma. I didn’t realize you were here. It’s been a long time.”
“Hello, Ainsley,” Emma said, contained, cool. “I understand you were just in Heron’s Cove.”
“I was looking for Lucas.”
“Why did you want to see him?”
“I heard about what happened at the convent yesterday. I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”
“You brought several of your father’s paintings to the convent for Sister Joan to clean,” Emma said.
“Yes,” Ainsley said. “Yes, I did.”
Gabe stood and walked over to his fiancée. “Ainsley? What’s up?” He rubbed her arm. “You’re not going to pass out on us, are you?”
“No.” Her breathing was rapid, shallow. “I’m okay.”
Colin glanced at Bracken in an attempt to silently warn him to stay out of this exchange, but Bracken obviously didn’t need any warning. He raised his eyebrows at Colin as if to say Emma Sharpe was a hard-ass. He couldn’t disagree, but he’d dealt with pale, scared, reluctant witnesses before. Sometimes it took being a hard-ass to penetrate their fog of self-interest, self-recrimination, fear and dread.
Of course, sometimes it didn’t.
Emma pulled out a chair, sat down and helped herself to a muffin. No butter, Colin noticed. Definitely a hard-ass.
Gabe stayed at Ainsley’s side, focused just on her, paying no attention to Emma.
“Did you get all your father’s paintings back from Sister Joan?” Emma asked, breaking off a piece of muffin.
“I collected two of them last week,” Ainsley replied. “She did a beautiful job cleaning them.”
“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
