Breathing deeply to steel myself, I stepped forward, inserted the small key, and turned it to the right. The lock clicked, and the door opened.
The drawer only contained one item: a wide cylinder container.
“I know this container,” I said softly. “Bella had it tucked under her arm last night after she slashed your wedding dress.”
“Open it,” Lacy replied, her voice resolute and tinged with anger. Thinking about Anton’s ex cutting up her dress was a sore topic, which was totally fair.
I glanced around, looking for a paper towel, a handkerchief, gloves. I’d already made the mistake of putting my fingerprints on the drawer, but I didn’t want to make things worse by rubbing them all over this container.
A few feet away I spotted a pair of white gloves, which must’ve been used for handling delicate items. I silently thanked whoever had left them there as I slipped them on and opened the lid at one end of the container, sliding out a rolled-up canvas.
Lacy cleared off a space on top of the counter and I pulled her sleeves over her hands. She held one end of the canvas while I stretched it out, to reveal a painting in the Impressionist style.
The primary subject was of two horses pulling a sleigh through a snowy landscape, and it appeared as if the subjects were heading toward a sprawling house in the distance. In the corner was a faded signature, but I could only make out the last name:Perry.
“This must be the one that Bella cut out of the frame at The Rose.”
Lacy peered over my shoulder and shone a flashlight on the canvas, making the colors pop. “It’s surprisingly good.”
“And detailed,” I said, inching closer to the depictionof the animals pulling the sleigh. “Those are American Cream Draft horses.”
Lacy bent forward to examine it more closely. “They’re pretty. Kind of the color of champagne.”
“It’s a rare breed,” I said, as my finger hovered above them. “They’re descended from a mare in Iowa about a hundred years ago. She was called Old Granny.”
Lacy laughed at the name.
“When we were kids, there was a woman who boarded two of them at the stables here,” I recalled. I’d been impressed by the horses and had asked the owner if I could muck out the stalls just so I could more closely examine them. They’d been strong and beautiful, not to mention as sweet as golden retrievers.
Lacy seemed to vaguely recall the detail. “And the stables are right next to a retreat center for artists, right? I remember visitors coming and going. Some of them were dressed like hippies.”
“The Aubergine Art Collective,” I confirmed. “When we were growing up, Aunt DeeDee volunteered there, making meals and entertaining visitors in the evening. She said they brought much-needed culture to Aubergine with them.”
“You think this piece of art was painted there?” Lacy said, but her perplexed look told me she had no idea where I was going with this.
“I think there’s a good chance.” I pointed to the painting again, this time motioning toward the building in the distance. “What does that look like to you?”
“Not sure.” Lacy squinted. “The house is so tiny, and cuts off at the edges.”
“But it looks like the backside of the property out at The Rose, right?” I’d really only spent substantial time out there during the beauty pageant when I was trying to figure out who might be involved in Mr. Finch’s murder, but I’d also seen it on my ride earlier that afternoon, so the look of the place was fresh in my mind. The house was readily recognizable, particularly since it was the spot where the original Finch homestead had been, while TheRose was being built, more than a hundred years ago. “This piece could’ve been painted right here in Aubergine—a kind of snapshot of our little town.”
I examined the image for any kind of dating, lifting the edges to peer at the back. “Look, here it says ’27. Perry painted it the year after she won the pageant.”
Lacy studied the canvas a moment longer while I tried to piece together why Bella Rivera would have this painting, and what it might mean for Todd Anderson’s death.
“The painting must be expensive,” Lacy mused. “Otherwise, why keep it in a lockbox?”
“And why would Charlie have risked his standing in the police department by slipping me the key, rather than just handing it over to the station?” I pondered. “That man would not hide something from his own department unless he thought it was absolutely necessary.”
“He gave you the key because he trusts you,” Lacy suggested.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t want the entire department stumbling into the bank publicly before the wedding. That would basically announce to the murderer that we’re onto them.”
I told Lacy about the two halves of the torn note that I’d found:Meet Big Mike with product, after ceremony on Sunday—if it goes wrong, blame Charlie.
“So, someone was planning to blame Charlie if an exchange went wrong during my wedding?” Lacy asked, trying to make sense of it.
“Sounds like it, and if Todd was the ‘someone,’ then the ‘someone’ is now very dead.” I clenched my jaw, still frustrated that my boyfriend was inadvertently involved in all of this. “I have no idea what Todd’s death means for the planned exchange, but I imagine that other people were working closely with him.”
