Chapter 32 #2
“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 a section 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 specific subjects: 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.
That’s when I heard another voice, one that was authoritative and in control. Charlotte Swanson pointed at Myrtis. “Call 911. Now,” she said, hurrying down the aisle toward Will.
Charlotte knelt beside Will, pushing away Valerie’s hand before she rolled him onto his back and hovered over him.
“Will, listen to me. It’s Charlotte. The ambulance is on its way.” Charlotte studied him and then looked at the Birkin bag at my feet. Her expression told me she hadn’t been expecting to see it again so soon. She turned to Valerie. “There’s aspirin in the pocket inside that bag. Give it to me.”
Valerie, eyes wide in shock, turned to do the woman’s bidding, motioning for me to hand her the bag. Though this hadn’t been part of the plan, I obliged, passing it along.
Charlotte took the Birkin from Valerie and paused for a moment as if she realized something was missing. She glanced at me for a brief second and shook her head before reaching inside and pulling out a bottle of aspirin, opening the bottle, and shoving a pill into Will’s mouth.
Less than a minute later, Will’s eyes were open as he stared up at the two women, both watching him with mirrored longing in their eyes.
“What happened?” he asked, looking to Valerie and gripping his chest as if he feared the pain might return.
“I think you had a heart attack,” Valerie said, holding Ollie close even as he began to fuss. “This… this woman… she gave you aspirin, but the ambulance is on its way.”
Charlotte’s jaw tightened at the mention of herself as “this woman” and then her expression morphed from concern to suspicion, her eyes studying Will’s uncreased brow, his sudden lack of pain, the way his hand caressed his wife’s palm.
Charlotte looked from Will to the bag she was holding, to Michael and Patty Swanson. And, finally, to me. “You did this, didn’t you?”
I stared straight back at her. “Guilty as charged.”