To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Three: Agents and Graves

"The Concert" by Johannes Vermeer (c. 1664), stolen 1990 - value $250 million

Chapter Three

The museum was closed to the public, and I imagined it would be for quite some time. However, the building wasn't empty. It never was, and it was certainly nowhere close to empty now.

It bustled.

Museum employees congregated in tight groups; whispers quickly exchanged as they rushed from place to place. Detectives spoke tersely to each other, just as hasty whenever they crossed the wide foyer. The place was crowded with people scrambling to put out fires ignited last night, or people knee-deep in the search for the arsonist.

That's what it was. The loss of the Widow was a fire that threatened to consume us, threatening the stability of Whitehill and offering to bring the museum to its knees. It kicked the foundation and prepared to test the might of the build, charring what once was pristine and shattering what once was shining. It rose higher and higher when it wasn't put out immediately. It could cause devastation faster than the eye could blink.

News articles already churned, and blogs across the world babbled about the theft. I'd been forced to maneuver around news vans and hungry reporters when I arrived, and I had no desire to go out and expose myself to the wolves again. As far as I was concerned, I'd moved into the museum until they left.

I nodded at Owen, the head of security, as I passed. He nodded back, his expression grim before returning his attention to overseeing the installation of more security. More cameras, more alarms, more sensors. The museum would be both a gilded palace and an impenetrable fortress by the time the dust settled.

I searched for August or Geraldine as I made my way in but didn't see either Whitehill. Conflicting emotions surged and clashed at their absence. It was a tsunami I didn't want to be a part of, but knew the swells of an uneven tide would give me no choice. I eventually made it to my office, kicking to keep my head above water, and sighed as I saw the mess on my desk. I wasn't sure if the new exhibit or fundraiser ball were moot points now, or if they were especially important for the museum's recovery. I supposed Geraldine would meet with the board to decide. Until then, my work on them stalled in irresolution.

I settled in my chair, scanning my emails. Several had been sent out to all museum employees from the board, informing us of the touch-and-go nature of the situation and the uncertainty of how this would play out. The emails promised to keep us informed as they decided how to continue and how to recover, and swore to keep us updated as it unfolded.

They also sent a copy of the statement released to the public. The press release was a vague response, briefly conveying the dismay of the museum and emphasizing the hopes of a quick recovery of our Widow. It was short, but it didn't necessarily have to be long; it was truly only a temporary bandage to address concerns while they picked a strategy to douse the flames. Almost all of the accompanying emails heavily urged employee compliance with sticking to the statement. They informed of the crucial need for sealed lips to the press or anyone with prying questions, and warningly cited the necessity of a united front. I could almost believe the assurances we'd pull through as a team and as a family.

Between the press release and the emails, it was an overwhelming and slightly threatening thread to pull.

I was so intent on absorbing the barrage of information I didn't realize when someone stepped through the open door of my office. I only noticed when the chair in front of my desk scraped on the floor, clunky as it stuttered and pulled back to make room for long legs.

August once again sat before my desk, cloudy eyes set on me and expression unreadable. He looked more put together than the night before, his golden curls neatly combed and his collar crisp around his throat. He looked more like himself, more like August Whitehill, because August usually looked carefully crafted and slightly tired. The man hadn't stopped moving since he was born.