Emma stood at the edge of an overgrown flower garden, crabgrass and goldenrod vying for space and nutrients along with purple petunias and assorted miniature dahlias that looked as if slugs had been at them.
Colin watched Gabe as he rubbed his rag over the dust-encrusted chest. It looked like an inexpensive unfinished pine chest that been painted—badly, at that—a warm, neutral tan. It was splattered with a few drips of what must have been Jack d’Auberville’s paint.
“I’m a housepainter,” Gabe said, half to himself. “I thought that’s what Ainsley wanted but I’m not sure. There’s nothing dark and mysterious about me. I’m not much of an alpha-male, Viking type.”
Emma frowned. “Are you and Ainsley still engaged?”
His gaze drifted back to the lane where she’d gone with Lucas. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. I have to get cleaned up. This can wait.” Gabe dropped the rag on top of the chest. “Her folks are up here. We’re going over to a cookout at their beach house. The police have talked to them, too. They’re not at all happy about having Ainsley in the middle of whatever’s going on.”
Colin peered into the back of the van. “Has Father Bracken been by?”
Gabe bristled but any irritation quickly dissipated. “Not that I know of. She’s a little obsessed with him right now, because he’s Irish, I think. Maybe that’s why I’m out of sorts.”
“Have you done any painting jobs at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart?” Colin asked, stepping back from the van.
“Yeah, I painted the exterior windows of all the convent buildings this spring. The nuns are mostly self-sufficient but they needed a pro for that. I work all over New England. It’s always nice when I can work close to home.”
Gabe abruptly headed back up the steps and went inside. Emma walked over to the chest and ran her fingertips over the drips of vibrant pink, deep red and white paint. She glanced at Colin but said nothing as Lucas came around a curve on the lane with Ainsley at his side, her golden hair blowing in the breeze. The fair weather wouldn’t hold. Fog and rain were moving in. From her brother’s stiff gait, Emma guessed he was keeping a careful distance between himself and Ainsley.
“Agent Donovan and Agent Sharpe,” Ainsley said brightly, despite the obvious strain in her eyes. “I wondered when you two would show up. Would you like to come inside? I can make coffee.”
“Thank you, but I’d like to enjoy the sun while it lasts,” Emma said.
Ainsley gestured broadly down toward the water. “There’s not even a trace left of the foundation of Claire Grayson’s house. I’d never even heard her name until the police told me about her. I knew the house that went with my father’s studio had burned, but I didn’t know any details and never really gave it any thought. I assumed the fire happened a long time ago. Forty years is a long time, I guess, but I was thinking it was seventy-five or a hundred years ago.”
Lucas smiled but he looked as strained as she did. “Some people wouldn’t consider that very long ago, either.”
“The detectives said the fire and her death were accidental. That’s something, anyway.” Ainsley moved away from Lucas to take a look at the chest Gabe had brought out. “Gabe and I went kayaking first thing this morning. Very relaxing. Perfect conditions. It won’t be long before the weather turns and it’ll be too cold. I’m thinking of sticking around here this winter. A Maine winter instead of a Palm Beach winter—it’ll be different. I love working here.” She picked up the discarded rag and started dusting. “Emma, how’s your painting going?”
“It’s a hobby. I have a good time.”
“Do you take lessons?”
“Not since I was a novice,” Emma said deliberately.
She was clearly shocked. “A novice? As in nun, novice?” Emma nodded.
“Really? You, Emma?”
Colin stood back, gauging Ainsley’s reaction but also Emma’s, and Lucas leaned against his car, his arms crossed on his chest.
“I was a novice with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart for three years,” Emma said.
“No kidding? Lucas, why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged. “Why would I?”
“There’s not a big difference between an FBI agent and a Sharpe art detective, but a nun? That’s huge.”
Gabe came out the front door and walked slowly down the steps. “I never thought about there being artistic nuns until I heard about the sisters just down the road. Now I understand why the sister who was killed called you, Agent Sharpe.”
Ainsley paled. “Emma, were you and Sister Joan friends? You must have known each other when you were at the convent.”
“We did,” Emma said without hesitation. “Yes, we were friends, but I hadn’t seen any of the sisters in several years.”
“Finding her must have been awful for you.” Ainsley opened one of the chest drawers and tossed the rag inside, then shut the drawer again. “I asked my mother about my father’s relationship with the convent and Mother Linden. She didn’t even know he’d painted one of the convent gardens, so she’s not much help.”
“Did you ask her about his relationship with Claire Grayson?”
“I did, and so did the police. She knows nothing. She didn’t meet my father until almost ten years after Claire Grayson died.”
Emma moved back to the garden. “She gave my grandfather the painting of Saint Sunniva that we think is the primary depiction in The Garden Gallery.”
“Then it’s a real painting,” Gabe said. “Old Jack didn’t make it up. He actually painted another artist’s painting. That’s amazing, don’t you think?”
Ainsley clutched her fiancé’s arm as if for support. “It really is amazing,” she said. “If the focal painting is real, maybe all the artwork depicted is real. The police said that Claire was new in the area. She was alone, troubled. Could Mother Linden have introduced her to my father?” Ainsley frowned, not waiting for an answer. “Oh, good heavens. Maybe he painted
