As Mr. Weathers worked, I jabbered on. “After winning the second pageant, Perry painted landscapes here, at the Collective.” I pointed to a specific spot on the now unrolled painting, hovering over the building in the background. “I think this is a depiction of the Finches’ original house on the back property of The Rose.”
To his credit, the man didn’t slap my hand away even as my fingers inched too close to the work.
Mr. Weathers thought for a moment as he looked from the painting to his shelves. “With the Impressionist elements combined with the subtle use of geometrical patterns and bright colors, it has all the hallmarks of being painted in the early twentieth century—even if I didn’t know the artist. The style of the Impressionists had mostly fizzled out by the 1930s, and after the Great Depression it was Modernism this, Modernism that. Experimentation was valued over muted colors and subtlety.”
I knew none of this, but I was certainly glad that I’d found Mr. Weathers. I pointed out the demarcation of the year—’27—on the back edge.
“Lovely,” Mr. Weathers said, beaming. “Confirmation already. Though it is a rather late Impressionist piece, it appears that this artist was rather young and inexperienced, perhaps just trying to mimic artists she’d seen on display at some museum or another.”
“She must’ve improved over the years because one of her pieces sold at auction for two hundred and fifty grand,” I said, recalling what I’d found online two nights ago.
Mr. Weathers took this in. “It is funny how that works. A piece is worth what someone will pay for it, and one that sells well can boost the rest of the artist’s collection.” He tapped a finger against the table. “It makes sense that she would come here the year after winning the pageant, especially after admiring our town during the summer. Who wouldn’t want to return to see it in all its snow-laden beauty?”
Mr. Weathers smiled down at the piece of art like a father doting on his child. I could tell in that moment that he had a love not only for the art but also for Aubergine.
“Let’s see what else she might’ve painted around these parts,” he said, a gleam in his eye as he got to do what I imagined was one of his favorite things: researching the archives.
He flipped on his computer, navigated to a software program I didn’t recognize, and searched for the name “Perry”within a six-decade date range from the 1920s to the 1980s. As the names of paintings popped onto the screen, he leaned back so Lacy and I could take a look.
I quickly counted thirteen paintings, one of which was namedAmerican Cream & The Original Rose. “This must be the painting we have here. That breed of horse is unmistakable.”
Mr. Weathers smiled as he ran a finger along the screen. “You can see here the details of when and where it went out on loan.”
We read the words for the American Cream painting.
Location: The Salon at the Rose Palace
Requested: Nov 1
Delivered: Dec 1
Duration: Three months
I scanned the list and noticed that four other pieces had red check marks next to them, indicating they were also out on loan.
“May I?” I asked, before clicking on them. One was currently located in Lacy’s bridal suite, and three were at my aunt’s store, The Attic.
“And these other paintings?” Lacy asked, motioning to the artwork without checkmarks. “Are the rest of the paintings stored here?”
“Depends. If we have the means to store them safely, then yes, but there are some we have to send out to more state-of-the-art facilities.” Mr. Weathers pushed his glasses up on his nose and squinted at the screen. “But at least six of the paintings are…” His eyes roamed down the screen. “Oh good, they’re here in our very own archives.”
Mr. Weathers stood up and went back to the mechanical shelves, pressing buttons as the contents moved up and down and around. After a full minute of whirring, he walked into where the shelves had parted for him and began pulling giant folders and boxes aside.
As he searched for the paintings my phone rang, and I steppedto the back of the room. It was Aunt DeeDee. Hopefully she was just checking in. I answered, expecting to hear her ever-chipper voice on the other end, but instead her tone was stoic, as if she was holding back emotion.
I tried to swallow back the fear that she was in danger. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” Aunt DeeDee said. “Everything’s fine. Well, not everything. Something happened, something strange…”
My aunt had a bad habit of beating around the bush, and I wanted to leap across the phone lines and shake her by the shoulders. “Tell me what’s going on,” I said, trying not to overreact.
“It’s just… I came up to the store to pick up a necklace I’d planned to wear today, but…” Aunt DeeDee let out a long breath. “I think I have—or maybe the town has—been robbed.”
Oh Lord.“What’s missing? Your jewelry?”
“No. It’s my paintings, the ones on loan from the Collective. The ones that Anton’s cousin was admiring.”
“Charlotte?” I asked.
