Mr. Weathers stepped out of his seat on the bride’s side at the end of a row, carrying a canvas stretcher and an empty frame in his arms. He’d happily agreed to get in on the action, if for no other reason than to contribute to restoring his beloved paintings to their rightful place.
I removedAmerican Cream & The Original Rosefrom theBirkin bag and began to unroll it, sensing the hum of nervous energy in the room from those who had no idea what was happening—and particularly from the groom’s side, as they peered forward to see what in the world I was doing, especially with a piece of art their family had stolen.
“The bride’s and groom’s families have asked for a special symbol to commemorate the joining of their two families,” I said into a microphone near the altar.
Anton’s parents stared at me, while Lacy’s parents looked across the aisle and gave a polite nod as if this had all been discussed and agreed upon beforehand.
“In addition to the unity candle which the couple has just lit, Lacy and Anton will be signing their names in the center of this artwork, a late-Impressionist work originally painted in Aubergine, the very community where they plan to live and raise their family.”
Based on the frowns on Michael’s and Patty’s faces, I realized that I might be driving home the point of where they would live a bit too hard.
“But first, the happy couple would like to invite their parents forward to sign their names on each side of the painting. After the ceremony, this piece will be available to be signed by all of you at the reception, testament to the masterpiece that will be the Abbott–Swanson home. Mr. Weathers, our curator at the Aubergine Art Collective, has kindly agreed to frame the painting to hang in their home.”
I was having a hard time keeping my voice from quivering as I said the words, and I only hoped that what we were doing—seemingly defacing an expensive painting—would work. After all, this painting had been the thing that someone—likely Charlotte Swanson—was willing to kill a man over in order to keep him from stealing from her family’s business.
Lacy’s parents stepped forward first. I managed a smile even though my cheeks felt so tense that they might freeze that way forever. I handed Lacy’s father and mother a marker pen, letting them sign on a piece of wax paper that I’d slipped over asection of the painting. Lacy’s mom winked at me conspiratorially before turning toward the groom’s side and extending the marker in the direction of Patty Swanson.
Rigidly, Patty stood first, then Michael. I could see their minds churning with the question of whether or not they were willing to deface a prized piece of art in front of the rest of their family—and, indeed, in front of whoever was really in charge here.
“Wait,” I heard a voice call from the third row, right next to Charlotte Swanson. It was Cousin Myrtis. She shot up and seemed eager to speak, but then was at a complete loss of what to say next.
All eyes turned to her, and the force of them must’ve felt heavy enough to sit her right back down. Myrtis’s outcry was helpful—at least we knew she understood the value of the painting and cared enough to say something to keep us from ruining it—but this simple action was far from enough to convict anyone of anything.
Patty moved forward, marker in hand. Her eyes went from me to the painting and back again before turning to her husband, a plaintive look in her eyes.
“We can’t… can we?” she asked her husband.
Michael glanced over his shoulder, but I couldn’t see who or what he was looking at. He obviously didn’t get any kind of sign because he turned back around, still uncertain.
“Where… where… where do I sign?” Patty Swanson asked, her voice more subdued than I’d ever heard it before.
“Sign anywhere you like, the bigger the better,” I nearly shouted, hoping against hope that someone would stop this. We had no alternative plan to catch the murderer otherwise.
That’s when I remembered a piece of advice I’d gotten during my very first investigation: People kill for love or money. I’d assumed that this time the only love involved was between Anton and Lacy on the day of their wedding, but perhaps I’d missed something.
In a split second, the world froze around me almost like a painting, allowing me to focus on the specificsubjects: those here who loved one another.
I looked at Patty and Michael Swanson, who were staring at each other, bewildered but lovingly so, as they wondered at how to handle the defacement of this valuable painting.
I eyed Bella Rivera, her gaze fixed on Anton even as he stood next to his bride, gazing into Lacy’s bright eyes.
I saw Valerie on the bride’s side, staring into the face of Baby Ollie.
And then I saw Charlotte Swanson, her eyes boring into Will Hurt. The truth hit me all at once: Charlotte Swanson was in love with Will. That’s why she’d whispered to him in the Carriage House. That’s why she’d been asking about Valerie and the baby. That’s why Will had been so eager to get away from Charlotte at the Morning Brew. Charlotte wanted Will: I was sure of it. But my hunches didn’t matter, and there was only one way to prove it.
Before anyone else could move an inch, I reached into the Birkin bag and pulled out the only other object it still contained: the box cutter.
I slid out the blade and held it aloft as I looked directly at Will, who’d been watching all of this, wide-eyed, from his place as a groomsman at the front of the stage.
“Will Hurt,” I called, loud enough to be heard in the back, “I need you to tell me what you know. Otherwise, I’ll destroy this painting.”
A series of gasps came from around the room, likely because I was holding an object that could be perceived as a weapon for all to see.
I waited for Will to answer, but suddenly his face contorted into a grimace. For a millisecond, it seemed as if he might charge at me, but his expression wasn’t one of anger. It was one of pain. Will gripped his arm, moving from forearm to shoulder and then to his chest, just as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor.
Will Hurt appeared to be having a heart attack.
“Will, Will, are you okay?” a woman’s voice screamed. I looked around to see Valerie Hurt, frantic, as she knelt before him with their baby in her arms.
