“That’s the one.”
I could almost see my aunt biting her lip as she tried to reconcile the information in front of her with the people she’d met during the bachelorette party. She always wanted to believe the best in others, but this time, she couldn’t.
“Anyway, the art she liked—it’s gone. Cut right out of the frames.”
Unfortunately, this made total sense with how Bella had stolen the American Cream painting—cutting it out of the frame.
“Do you see any kind of evidence the thief may have left behind?”
“Only one thing,” Aunt DeeDee said slowly. “A silk button.”
“Like the ones from Lacy’s dress?”
“I think so. It was sitting here on my desk, so I couldn’t miss it.”
My heart beat rapidly and I clenched my jaw. Bella Rivera was a terrible person, leaving behind a token of her own jealousy and animosity toward my bestfriend.
“It’s got to be Anton’s ex,” I managed, nearly shivering with anger. “She wanted us to know it was her without being able to prove it. That takes some nerve.”
“Sure does.”
My eyes flitted to Mr. Weathers, whom I barely knew. That said, I knew enough to realize that the loss of the paintings would be devastating to him.
“I’ll let the police know,” I told Aunt DeeDee, unable to explain in this moment how closely this was fitting into recent events. “In the meantime?—”
But before I could finish my statement, I heard a sharp cry from Mr. Weathers, and when I spun around to find out what had happened to him, he was back in the room, holding empty boxes and looking devastated.
“Every Perry piece is”—Mr. Weathers hiccupped another small cry—“is gone.”
TWENTY-NINE
I had neither the time nor the energy to comfort Mr. Weathers, keeper of Aubergine’s art, but Lacy made an attempt, settling him into his desk chair and running upstairs to get him a glass of water that he wouldn’t allow her to actually bring into the storage space.
“That’s okay. I need to come up and drink my coffee anyway,” Mr. Weathers muttered as he stared at the empty containers around him, but his heart wasn’t in it. He’d gone from happily content to absolutely miserable in the past hour, as he’d realized he’d failed to do his job of protecting the art under his care.
“How could this happen?” Mr. Weathers’ face fell as he turned to me with wide eyes. “Will I lose my post here?” He asked the question as if I was in charge. Which, in a way, maybe I was.
“You’ve done an excellent job,” I tried to reassure him. “These are just… extraordinary circumstances.” I leaned against the edge of a shelf as I thought out aloud. “We’ve lost one painting from The Rose, three from Aunt DeeDee’s store, and six from storage. Anna Perry’s work is in high demand.”
“That means ten pieces have disappeared since…”
“We don’t know when the ones in storage went missing, but at least four since Friday night. Whoever is taking them has been making quick work of it.”
Mr. Weathers shook his head in disbelief. “I take inventory twice a year. We were about to do our second one on December 30, but it’s been nearly six months since I would’ve inspected Ms. Perry’s paintings at this facility.”
“But you saw the three that went to my aunt’s store when they were loaned out, didn’t you? And two to the Rose?” I asked, trying to think about what this might mean.
Mr. Weathers nodded slowly, catching my drift as he went back to his computer and checked the dates for the loans to my aunt’s shop. He seemed relieved to have something to do with his hands.
“We allow any business establishment in Aubergine to showcase the work. It’s part of our cultural duty.” Mr. Weathers ran a finger across the computer screen. “DeeDee Green had them delivered back in early October. I’m sure I would’ve checked on each of the Perry pieces at that time unless…” His voice trailed off as he considered. Then, his face appeared stricken. “…unless I had been too distracted by the other loans. Oh dear, that must’ve been it.”
I gave him a compassionate nod. I didn’t need Mr. Weathers feeling guilty for a theft that ultimately wasn’t his fault. “Has anyone else had access to the paintings in the archives?”
Mr. Weathers bit his lip and then lifted a finger. “The volunteers. Let me check the sign-in sheet.” He grabbed a clipboard hanging on the wall next to the door and handed it to me. “It’s not very formal, but don’t let that fool you. We do train everyone on proper techniques for preservation before we clear them to work closely with the art. I train them myself.”
My eyes scanned the sheet, row by row of names I either recognized vaguely or not at all, but then I got halfway down the page and knew that I’d found what I was looking for.
There, signed and dated, was the name “Valerie Hurt”.
