It struck Colin as a made-up excuse to see Bracken, but he said nothing.
Ainsley raked her fingers through her long curls. “I took off yesterday. Ran away, really. I drove up to Mount Desert Island. Acadia National Park. I have a commission from a television personality who has a house in Northeast Harbor. It’s a gorgeous place. I’m painting her garden.”
“So you managed to escape and still get work done.”
“I like to think I’m following in my father’s footsteps. He got his start with commissions from owners of some of the big summer cottages. I’d love to get my hands on some of these paintings for my show. Most of the cottages—mansions, really—were destroyed in the 1947 fires. Something like a third of the island burned, did you know? I guess there are still signs now, but I couldn’t tell.” Ainsley looked at Colin with sudden focus. “Do you think The Garden Gallery could be from one of the houses that burned then?”
She seemed unaware of any possible connection between her father’s missing painting and Claire Peck Grayson, the woman who’d once owned the building that became Jack d’Auberville’s studio and died when her house burned with her inside.
“You saw it,” Colin said, watching Ainsley for her reaction. “What do you think?”
“I wish I’d studied it more closely. I figured I’d do that after I had it cleaned. Maybe whoever commissioned it didn’t want it anymore. I might not want a painting of my beautiful Mount Desert Island house and garden if I lost them to a fire. The memories might be too painful.” Ainsley rushed on, barely aware of Colin’s presence. “I ran across one of my father’s old ledgers. Of course it’s incomplete. He kept terrible records. I didn’t find any mention of The Garden Gallery, any hint of who might have commissioned it.”
“Maybe he painted it as a favor to a friend.”
“It’s such a mystery, isn’t it? I keep thinking if only we knew more about it, we could figure out who stole it.” She looked up at him, the gold flecks in her eyes the same color as her hair. “You’re not a lobsterman, are you?”
“FBI,” Colin said.
“You’re from here in Rock Point?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you ever consider becoming a lobsterman?”
“I was one for a while. It’s hard, dangerous work.”
She tilted her head back and smiled, less agitated. “Harder and more dangerous than being an FBI agent?”
He grinned. “Most days.”
Her eyes narrowed on him. “I heard you were with Emma Sharpe when she discovered the bomb. Was it scary?”
Colin had no intention of answering her. “If you’re concerned for your safety—”
“I’m not. I have my personal Viking, remember? I’m not worried, really. Gabe isn’t, either. If this killer wanted anything from me, I’d know it by now, I’m sure.” Her engaging, flirtatious mood seemed to drain out of her. “The stress of all this is getting to me. Will you tell Father Bracken I stopped by?”
“Sure. Looks like Bono, doesn’t he?”
“He does!” Ainsley laughed, even as her dark lashes glistened with tears. She sniffled, smiling. “It feels good to laugh. That’s what you intended, I know. I’ve been debating whether to attend Sister Joan’s memorial service. The funeral is private, but the service will be open. It’s to be a celebration of her life.”
“Do you know any of the other sisters?”
“Not really, no. Gabe’s done some painting jobs at the convent. I’d love to paint Mother Linden’s meditation garden, but they say it’s private. Nuns only, and I’m definitely not a nun.”
She glided to her car and drove off as people started arriving at the church next door for choir practice or a meeting. Both of Saint Patrick’s priests were in Ireland now, but Colin figured Bracken would be back soon. He recognized his fourth-grade teacher and imagined all the things she could tell good Father Bracken about her former pupil.
He headed back to his house and found Kevin in his kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator. “This is pathetic.” He grabbed two beers and give Colin one. “Beer and horseradish cheese dip. That’s it.”
“The beer and dip go with the crackers,” Colin said, pointing to a box of Stonewall Kitchen crackers on the counter.
Kevin shook his head. “You’re a train wreck, brother.”
“I showered and changed clothes after my flight.”
“It’s in your eyes.” Kevin drank some of his beer. “Where’s Agent Sharpe?”
“Boston.”
“You’ve been liberated from keeping an eye on her? Don’t deny it’s what you’ve been doing. Are you and Yankowski sure she isn’t covering up past Sharpe crimes?”
Colin uncapped his beer. “I’m not sure of anything.”
“What about the brother? Lucas. He’s got a lot of money tied up in renovating the Sharpe place in Heron’s Cove. He also bought a place of his own that needs a ton of work. If he’s under financial pressure—”
“How does killing a nun and stealing one painting of modest value and another of no value relieve any financial pressure?” Colin held up a hand. “Never mind. Don’t answer. I’m not on this investigation.”
“It won’t be good for you or Yankowski if the Sharpes turn out to be mixed up in Sister Fabriani’s murder in any way, shape or form.”
Kevin was a master of understatement. Colin changed the subject. “Do you have anything new?”
“CID looked into Claire Grayson’s death. It was an electrical fire that burned down her house. It started in the walls. She was overcome with smoke and collapsed. The fire spread….” Kevin grimaced, leaning against the sink. “Firefighters found her body in an upstairs bedroom. They weren’t able to get there in time to save her or the house.”
“Anything in the report about artwork?”
“Not a word. She was bat-shit crazy, Colin. For all we know, any of the artwork depicted in this missing Jack d’Auberville painting was all in her head, and he just indulged her and painted what she wanted him to paint. Sister Cecilia said the focal painting was
