“This woman, this one right here,” I said, pointing at the same signature that I’d read on the lockbox early this morning. “Is she here often?”
“Valerie? Ah yes, one of our best volunteers.”
I closed my eyes and let the information sink in. I’d never been a particular fan of the woman, but she did have a baby, which meant she had a big responsibility that she wouldn’t be able to meet if she had to do jail time. I took a deep breath, trying not to jump to conclusions as I checked the date she’d last been here.
“She was last here on November 2.”
“Shortly before the birth of Ollie,” the man said, smiling.
I didn’t dare say what I was thinking, primarily because I hated to be the one to burst his image of this woman—or his false belief in the security of this storage facility.
“Do you have other sign-in sheets like this?”
Mr. Weathers shook his head. “I throw them away.”
This man was meticulous about his storage and the information about where his paintings were going. Why wouldn’t he be as particular about who was milling about the archives and when?
Seeming to catch on to my train of thought, Mr. Weathers answered before I asked the question. “I’m a tidy person, as you can see. Sheet after sheet of volunteers would be unnecessary clutter. I know my volunteers, train them myself, and trust them implicitly.” He crossed his arms as if that was all he needed to say about such things. “Valerie Hurt is not an art thief, as you seem to be suggesting. She’s volunteered with me for five years now, and I’ve never known her to be anything but kind and upstanding.”
Upstanding, I could see. Kind, however, surprised me a bit. Valerie had always struck me as a bit high and mighty, but maybe I was inserting my childhood view of her onto a grown woman, which wasn’t really fair.
“Is it possible that Valerie’s husband, Will, might have had access to the storage at any point?” I asked, stretching for another possibility that might clear Valerie’s name.
Mr. Weathers’ face screwed up and he snapped his fingers. “Funny you should ask, actually. Mr. Hurt applied to be a volunteer in the archives, but I rejected—or, shall I say, redirected—his application, which Valerie seemed to completely understand.”
Both of those details feltrelevant
“What do you mean by ‘redirected’?” Lacy asked. “And when was that?”
“Oh, just a few months ago. I told him I could use him elsewhere in our work.”
“And on what grounds did you reject his offer to help out in the archives?” I asked.
Mr. Weathers blinked at me several times as if he shouldn’t have to explain such things. “Well, dear, he’s not from around here.”
I almost laughed at the statement, one I hadn’t heard recently—and certainly one I didn’t expect to hear from Mr. Weathers. I was certain he’d experienced enough judgment over the years to keep from participating in it himself.
Mr. Weathers waved a hand. “I don’t mean my decision as any kind of disparagement of Mr. Hurt’s character. He told me he’d lived in and around Boston growing up, but I’m not prejudiced against outsiders. No, it was also a matter of nepotism. I don’t allow spouses or partners to work together—I had a couple in the past that couldn’t seem to keep their hands off of one another in the archives, and I’ve always thought that it might be too tempting to lift a piece together.” Mr. Weathers lifted his chin as if his thinking were completely logical. “So, instead, I eliminate any temptation. I told Will Hurt that he could help move pieces to locations around town if he didn’t mind the heavy lifting. He seemed more than willing.”
My eyes widened. Of course, Will had been willing, particularly if he’d somehow gotten involved with Todd Anderson and black market art dealers. Between Will’s wife’s work in the archives and his work moving paintings, he would have a pulse on the location of almost every piece in the archives. Useful information if he happened to need to make a bit of extra money.
My thoughts reminded me that Deputy Wright was supposed to be looking up any background information she could find on Todd or Valerie. I could onlyhope that the strings in our tapestry might finally be pulled together to create a complete image. We might even find our murderer.
THIRTY
As soon as Lacy and I were back in the car, I called the station, but the deputy wasn’t there. Jill lived a couple of towns over, but I didn’t know her address. Anyway, she wasn’t the person I really wanted to see. I put the car in drive and headed toward the station, ordering victims and suspects in my mind as I went.
Todd had been a smart go-between, but now he was unfortunately a very dead one.
Bella Rivera had obviously been involved in stealing at least one Anna Perry painting from The Rose—and possibly others from Aunt DeeDee’s shop—but I still believed she was working with the Swansons and had assumed Todd was doing the same.
Will must’ve stolen the other six paintings from the Aubergine Art Collective archives.
If I was reading the clues correctly, then Todd had been the handler, betraying the Swansons right under their noses. He’d kept the most valuable Perry painting for himself in a lockbox downtown, with the help of his old buddy Will Hurt, and possibly Valerie.
Finally, some kind of handoff was supposed to happen with Big Mike during the wedding ceremony this afternoon, but we couldn’t let it.
And in not letting it, would this flush out the murderer?
