“I know how you’ve dreamed of your wedding,” I said, as we made our way down the hall.
“But today isn’t our life together,” Lacy said, almost as if reminding herself. “You’ve been trying to take care of me all weekend, and I realized before I fell asleep that I want to return the favor. Yes, I want my wedding to be amazing, but I don’t want the man you love behind bars while I’m walking down the aisle. Charlie doesn’t deserve that and neither do you.”
“But this is your day,” I said. “You’re not supposed to be worrying about me.”
Lacy huffed out a long breath. “We’ve always shown up for each other, and I’m showing up for you now. Whatever you need from me today, you have it.”
I swallowed hard. I knew Lacy meant those words with everything inside her, just as I’d meant to protect her this weekend.
We grabbed a couple of cups of coffee from the lobby of The Rose on our way out the door, thankful no one was yet roaming the halls. Within a half hour, we were sitting outside the front door of the Aubergine Art Collective, an old homestead that had once been the location of a flour mill, complete with a stone base andslatted wooden beams rising up three floors. Nearby was the mill with a giant wooden wheel that was still in the frozen water.
The Art Collective was on about five acres of property west of downtown, and the Finches had appointed various managers of the nonprofit over the past century. The current director was Mr. Weathers, a fifty-something-year-old man, half of the couple who ran this place, though as far as I knew, the Finch money was still actually keeping this place afloat.
Mr. Weathers answered the door after almost a full minute of us knocking. He was bleary-eyed and wearing a robe, and I could see striped pajamas peeking from above his toes. His bare feet must’ve been cold against the wood floors because as soon as he put on his glasses and spotted his slippers nearby, he scurried away from the door and slipped into them.
“My, my, my,” Mr. Weathers said, his Virginia accent thick as the honey that Mr. Finch used to harvest. “How can I help you ladies? Is everything all right?” He had the slightest lisp, which made him that much more charming, and though I knew I’d spoken with him at some point while living in Aubergine, I’d forgotten this detail about him. “We don’t have any guests—and we aren’t exactly open to visitors… at present.” He eyed me. “But wait, aren’t you Dakota Green—or Finch?”
The man’s cheeks flushed and he blinked several times, nervous as if I’d come to ask him to give a personal accounting of the funds provided by my family. I wondered if the worried look in his eye was something that I would need to get used to as I became ever more ingrained in the Finch family.
“I’m so sorry to wake you up on this holiday morning,” I said, in what I hoped was a calming tone. “We just needed to ask you a few questions about the paintings stored here.”
Mr. Weathers nodded slowly and his shoulders relaxed as he looked past me to Lacy— before checking a nonexistent watch on his wrist. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting married today?”
“I hope so,” Lacy replied, in a chipper tone. I wonderedsuddenly if this man had been invited—and if he hadn’t, whether or not he might be offended. One never knew in a small town.
I didn’t want Lacy to think about that right now, so I decided to try to find a way to succinctly explain why we were here before we froze to death on this man’s doorstep.
“Mr. Weathers,” I started, “I know that us showing up like this is”—I searched for the best word—“unorthodox.”
The man raised an inquisitive eyebrow at me but didn’t interrupt.
“But we have very good reason to believe that a painting once stored here was recently stolen from The Rose, where Lacy is supposed to hold her wedding today.”
Mr. Weathers narrowed his gaze as he opened the door a bit wider. He was at least intrigued.
“Normally, something like a theft from the estate could wait until after Lacy’s wedding, but last night…” I paused, trying to keep my thoughts from jumping around. I needed to streamline the situation, not only for Mr. Weathers but also for myself. How exactly to accomplish this goal was suddenly eluding me.
“Last night, a man involved in the theft was killed,” Lacy said, stepping forward and finishing the statement for me. “And now my wedding hangs in the balance. I’d really like to find the thief and the murderer—if they are indeed different people—before my wedding this afternoon.”
Mr. Weathers’ eyes widened and his jaw fell open, and I was grateful for Lacy’s ability to make everything so concise.
“Well, why didn’t you say so? A theft, a murder, and a wedding, all in one? Come out from the cold and get inside.” Mr. Weathers waved us into the foyer, which was toasty. “Anything you need, I’m here to help.”
“Thank you,” I breathed, relieved that we might be about to find some kind of answer. “If you point us in the right direction for finding out more about the paintings you keep here, we’ll be happy to leave you alone.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Weathers said with a wave of hishand, as he led us through the house and down a set of stairs to a locked archive room, complete with temperature control and rows of movable shelves. “I’m happy to help however I’m able. Nothing this exciting ever happens around these parts.”
Except for the murders of Mr. Finch this past summer and a former classmate in October, I thought, although I supposed that both of those happened out at The Rose, which felt like a separate sphere from Aubergine itself—a bit like the Vatican inside Rome, but on a much less political or ecumenical scale.
Mr. Weathers pressed a button and the rows of shelves began to mechanically shift, the hum of the automatic levers and pulleys sounding as he moved the collection to the first shelf.
I was impressed, and I could tell that Mr. Weathers felt proud of his management. I could also tell that he wasn’t planning to leave us down here alone with his goods.
“Which paintings are you interested in?” the man asked, standing at attention to do our bidding.
“We need information on works by an artist named Anna Perry. She won the pageant in its second year.” I hesitated to show him the stolen painting in the cylindric container on my shoulder, but after a quick nod from Lacy, I decided that we had no choice but to trust him with the full picture, pun intended.
I spotted a table empty of everything except a microscope, a pair of white gloves, and a magnifying glass. It took me only a few seconds to stretch out the canvas, but as I reached for a heavy stapler to hold down the edges of the painting, Mr. Weathers hurried forward, tutting. He grabbed a frame that could temporarily stretch the canvas without damaging it, but before he did anything else, he put on the white gloves and gently nudged me aside.
