“He also stole pieces that had nothing to do with his mother’s family collection,” Colin said.
“He liked stealing. And hurting people.” Ainsley’s cheeks were flushed with emotion. “Gabe wasn’t always violent. The police say he used a variety of methods in his thefts, which made it harder to realize they were related, done by just one person.”
Colin noticed how she didn’t seem to consider him “the police.” Not a bad thing, maybe. He wasn’t there as a federal agent. He was there as Finian Bracken’s friend.
Bracken shifted on the chair, not sitting too close to Ainsley. “You and Gabe met here in Maine. He wanted to rebuild his family home, and he was looking for clues to his mother’s collection and the Rembrandt.”
“I don’t think he ever expected that I’d find the painting of his mother’s gallery, though.” She bit back tears. “I don’t know if I want to keep this place. The history, having the house he was building right next door—it’s all unsettling.”
“His house will be sold now that he’s gone, certainly,” Bracken said. “It’s a beautiful place. Surely someone will want to turn it into a loving home.”
Ainsley brightened almost immediately. “I can burn incense in here. They say sandalwood in particular is good for restoring positive chi.”
Bracken smiled. “I know nothing of chi, but I’m all for incense.”
Some of Ainsley’s natural spirit sparked. “I can’t wait to show you the Viking cup I found. The police have it right now, but, oh, my. It’s amazing. Now I’m sure it’s the real deal. I thought it was just another piece of junk my father left here. It was holding paintbrushes.” She jumped up with excitement. “I can’t wait to learn more about the Viking hoard we think it was part of.”
She wanted to show them a map of England and pinpoint where the hoard was discovered but, mercifully, Colin thought, Ainsley’s family arrived. They didn’t want her to be alone tonight.
Bracken walked out with Colin, the stars out now, sparkling in the night sky. “It’s been a long day,” Bracken said, opening the door to his BMW. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Fin, let me know if you want to talk over a glass of whiskey.”
“A taoscán of whiskey, yes. Talk, no. Tomorrow, my friend.”
When Colin arrived back at his house in Rock Point, he found a bottle of Bracken 15 year old on his kitchen table. It had a short note with it: “Remember—no ice.”
He smiled as he collected two glasses and carried them and the whiskey upstairs.
Emma wasn’t in the tub this time. She was in his bed.
CHAPTER 42
FINIAN BRACKEN SAT AT HIS TABLE AT HURLEY’S AND poured his first glass of whiskey since the ordeal, his ubiquitous glass of water next to him. It had been three days, and the Donovan brothers were telling stories. Boats, bombs, lobsters and three beautiful women in danger—an innocent young nun, a troubled artist and a smart FBI agent ready for love in her life.
Donovan heaven, Finian thought with a smile.
Ainsley d’Auberville had decided to return to Florida with her family and work on her painting and her issues with intimacy. She’d let things quiet down in Maine before she resumed putting together the show of her and her father’s work. But she would return. She was a strong, engaging, resilient young woman. Whatever Jack d’Auberville’s role in Claire Grayson’s life, he hadn’t been dishonest, and he’d seemed only to be trying to help an unhappy woman. Ainsley, given her outlook on life, had decided they’d never had an affair. “Claire wanted to be a nun,” she’d said, as if that sealed it.
Sister Cecilia would be making her final vows in November. Finian had been invited to participate in the ceremony. He looked forward to it. Emma Sharpe would be there, too.
Finian took a moment to savor the aroma of the whiskey as Colin sat across from him. His three brothers were on their feet, drinking an appallingly awful whiskey—they said they didn’t want to take advantage of Finian’s generosity but he thought they genuinely liked the stuff. Which was fine, really, he told himself. He didn’t want to be a snob. Colin had abstained.
Finian sipped his Bracken whiskey.
“That’s almost too good to drink near my brothers,” Colin said with amusement.
“To each his own,” Finian said.
His friend’s eyes settled on him in such a way that Finian remembered that Colin Donovan was a federal agent and a dangerous man.
“You okay, Fin?”
“Well, I don’t know, Colin. I’m trying to figure out if I should find a way to be out of town for the Saint Patrick’s Church annual baked-bean supper. We have baked beans in Ireland, but this is a bean-hole supper. It sounds frightening.”
“Best baked beans you’ll ever eat.”
“Emma says she’ll bring an apple pie. I think she’s serious.”
“She’s like that.”
“You must visit Ireland when you’re not chasing villains. We’ll hike Kerry Way and find ruins and rainbows, and I’ll give you a tour of the distillery.” Finian looked out at the harbor, glasslike in the gray light. “You live in a beautiful part of the world, my friend.”
“When I’m here, Fin.”
Finian detected a change of tone and turned back to his friend. “You have more villains to catch.”
Colin said nothing.
“Emma Sharpe does, too,” Finian added, watching the man across from him.
“Not the same ones.” Colin’s gaze shifted to the bottle of whiskey, as if he didn’t want to meet Finian’s eye. “A man I arrested a few weeks ago is talking.”
“Leading you to more bad guys?”
“Ones who are planning serious violence. I can stop them. I know how.”
His tone was matter-of-fact, objective and professional. He wasn’t a man who bragged about his skills, or his work. Finian
