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
