The Mastermind Plot (13 page)

It didn't matter how I was coping, not right then at least. “My uncle wants to arrest you for the Horne fires and art thefts.”

“That's hardly a surprise,” Leighton replied. He looked unperturbed as he crouched in our cramped hiding spot, his arms wrapped around his legs. “I take it you do not agree with his verdict?”

I hesitated, but then shook my head. “No. I don't think you've stolen anything.”

His blithe expression shifted to something darker. “Don't exonerate me just yet, Suzanna. I
have
stolen. Just not from Xavier Horne.”

I lifted my chin. “You seem very proud to be a thief.”

“I won't pretend to be something I'm not,” he replied.

The echoes of more shouts drifted under the bridge.

“You have to go,” I said.

Leighton took a few froglike jumps forward until he was right beside me. “Your uncle turned me loose much
the same way once. I hope this doesn't mean you'll grow to be the same kind of detective he is.”

He might have been my grandfather, but he was also infuriating and arrogant.

“I'm not turning you loose completely. You said you know who the real thief is. Is it Mr. Dashner, the framer on Varden Street?”

He removed his domelike black hat and peered at me. “Dashner? Why would you suspect him?”

“Because he knows everything there is to know about Mr. Horne's paintings and frames, including how to craft replicas if he wanted to.”

My grandfather took another crouching leap toward me. I noticed he had a sharp kind of smell to him. Not anything unpleasant. No, he smelled like … soap. A musky, woodland scent.

“It's not Dashner,” he said with conviction. Enough conviction to make me believe it, too.

Just then, another burst of shouting came from close by.

“I hate to cut our conversation short, but my window of opportunity for escape is growing drastically smaller,” Leighton said, and prepared to dart up the bank. He tipped his hat toward me. “I'm indebted to your efforts today, Suzanna. It seems it wasn't my time to go to prison after all.”

And with that, he fled up the bank. I waited for my uncle's officers to spot him and give chase. But after a full minute of silence had passed, I exhaled and relaxed. He'd slipped away unseen.

I emerged from underneath the bridge, the wet, weedy land sucking at my boots as I tried to climb back up the bank. I wanted to slip away unseen, too. Unfortunately, I had to face Uncle Bruce and his police officers, including the one I'd bitten.

“Now or never,” I grumbled, and made my way toward the knoll.

“H
OW WAS
I
SUPPOSED TO KNOW THE BEGGAR
was actually a police officer?” I wailed to Grandmother. She sat beside me on the parlor sofa, her soft, wrinkled hands clasping my own.

Uncle Bruce paced the length of the room. His usually glossed-back hair fell in wild pieces around his forehead.

“I explained that you'd be working covertly,” he said.

“You didn't say I'd be attacked!” I put on the best expression of alarm I could muster. It worked on Grandmother at least.

“Bruce, how could you? Using a young girl for your own ends … it's despicable. And to have your man punch dear Will in the jaw!”

Grandmother settled in closer to me. Her chin quivered with fury. Will's lip had been split, but otherwise
he was fine — other than the rash of foul language that had erupted from his mouth when he'd next seen his uncle.

Uncle Bruce swung out his arm as if orating to a massive audience. “It was an operation of the utmost importance, Mother! If a bruised jaw and a frightened girl were the only casualties of apprehending Matthew Leighton, then it would have been worth it!”

Grandmother's back stiffened. “You have gone too far, Bruce.
Too far
.”

She let go of my hand and stood. “You will apologize to Will's mother for the injury he received today. You should also apologize to Will —
and
Suzanna.”

Despite his age, his mother's scolding made Uncle Bruce look like a petulant young boy.

“I'll leave you to it,” Grandmother said, and then swept out of the parlor. Uncle Bruce pinned me with a dark stare.

“You deliberately let him go, didn't you?” he asked.

I got up from the sofa. “He knows who the real thief is.”

Uncle Bruce snorted, muttering sarcastically, “Of course he does.”

He picked up his pacing once more. The planned sting had gone down horribly — bested by a little girl. Uncle Bruce had looked like a fool in front of his men.
Perhaps if he hadn't been letting anger and revenge drive his operation, it would have succeeded.

“He might be able to help if you'd let him,” I said. Uncle Bruce flushed to the roots of his hair.

“I do not work with criminals. And if you entertain dreams of being a detective someday, then you will follow that same rule.”

He stormed from the parlor.

If only Uncle Bruce would open up his eyes and mind. Who better to catch an art thief than a thief cut from the same cloth?

Monday morning a cold rain drummed the top of Grandmother's carriage as we rode to the academy together. I'd told her I hadn't minded walking the few blocks, but she'd insisted on the carriage and on coming with me. The fires, my uncle's shenanigans, and Detective Grogan's death had rattled her more than she was willing to admit.

I sat with my notebook open on my lap, reading through all the pages I'd filled in since arriving in Boston. Had it really only been two weeks ago? I felt like I'd been there much longer than that.

“Zanna, I think it would be best if I sent a telegram
to your parents,” Grandmother said. We'd been sitting in silence ever since leaving the brownstone.

My pointer finger streaked to a stop underneath a sentence I'd been reading. I glanced up at her. “I just sent them a reply to their last telegram a few days ago.”

Grandmother shook her head. “I mean, I think it would be best if I sent word that you're coming home earlier than planned.”

I slapped the notebook shut. “What? No! I can't go back to Loch Harbor, not yet. Grandmother, please.”

How could I explain how badly I needed to stay in Boston? Adele and Will … they were counting on me. My grandfather was counting on me, even if he didn't quite know it yet.

“I have a feeling your desire to stay has nothing to do with how much you're enjoying Miss Doucette's academy?” Grandmother asked with a sly lift of her brow.

I had the grace to look a little sheepish and shook my head. “It's not the academy. It's this case, Grandmother. It's … it's something I've started and I want to finish it. I
need
to finish it.”

She fiddled with her hands, dressed in black lace gloves. Perhaps she'd imagined I wanted to stay for deeper reasons, like getting to know her better. I
suddenly felt so single-minded. Really, how much time had I spent with my grandmother? Not much. I'd been too wrapped up in the Horne case.

“Maybe … you could help me?” I said in a small, questioning voice.

She stilled her fidgeting hands. “Me? Why, I don't know how I could help.”

“You could tell me what you know about Matthew Leighton.” I knew it was a risk. Uncle Bruce had advised me not to say a word about him, and her spell the evening of the museum concert had given me a fright. But she knew him better than I did. She might have information I could use.

Grandmother's reaction was immediate. She tightened her small shoulders, and her blue eyes hardened over with what seemed like a layer of frost.

“The only thing I know about that man is that he is a disgrace. He's an unlawful, self-serving rogue, and the people who are tied to him — whether they want to be or not — suffer because of it.”

My mother must have suffered most of all. How had she handled it when she'd learned what he did for a living? She was so proper and kind and graceful. How could her father be so different from her?

“I know he's a thief, and I know I've only met him a few times.” My thumb fanned the pages of my notebook
as I thought. “But he didn't strike me as the sort of person who would burn down buildings and put people in harm's way.”

He'd even stayed by Grandmother's side after she'd fainted at the museum — until people started coming toward us. Grandmother despised him, so I was expecting her to reply with a hearty reassurance that he was indeed the sort of person to do those deeds. But instead, she inhaled deeply and held the breath in her lungs a long moment. Thinking.

She exhaled. “No, he doesn't, does he? He is a crafty old crook, but nothing more depraved than that.”

She glanced at the edge of the notebook I was absentmindedly fanning the pages of. “What do you have in there about him?”

I stilled my thumb. “How do you know I have anything at all?” Grandmother hadn't ever asked me what my notebook was for, and I hadn't offered the information.

She smiled. “You forget, Bruce used to keep notebooks filled with his case studies, too.”

Yes, I had forgotten. Detective Grogan had mentioned the notebooks the day I'd arrived at the brownstone, as well as something else.
“I might have discovered some similarities between the Horne fires and an older case, one that Bruce worked on when he was a rookie.”

Had he been referring to the Red Herring Heists? If Detective Grogan had found a connection and had managed to find proof … well, it would be a solid motive for the Red Herring mastermind to want to shut him up for good. With a sinking chill, I flipped through the pages of the notebook until I landed on the entry about the strange man who had first suggested to Adele that her father's precious art was being stolen.

“
Odd smell
,” I read aloud, though mostly to myself. “
Soap. Musky. Like wood
.” My finger stalled underneath that last word. I looked up from the notebook. “Like wood.”

“What's that, dear?” Grandmother asked. “Who has an odd smell?”

The day before, beneath the bridge on Boston Common, my grandfather had had a clean, soapy scent, too, and it had been musky. I remembered thinking it was like a pine tree or balsam. A Christmas smell.

“Matthew Leighton,” I answered my grandmother, though my mind was already charging ahead.

Could Adele's strange man and my grandfather be one and the same? Will had suggested it at Detective Grogan's burial, but I'd shrugged off the suspicion. Now I wasn't so sure. If my grandfather had been the
one to tell Adele about the art thefts, he most definitely couldn't be guilty. Why draw attention to the stolen art if he was the one swiping it? I had to tell my uncle. I closed the book, disheartened. As if he'd ever listen to a word I had to say again. I'd thwarted his attempt at capturing Matthew Leighton. I was sure I'd never be forgiven.

“Well, I'm not sure how he smells is going to help with an investigation,” Grandmother said with a sigh. “But I can understand your wanting to stay and see things through. It's very … responsible of you, Suzanna. If you wish to stay in Boston, I suppose you may. But I warn you: If your investigating in any way turns hazardous” — Grandmother shook a finger toward me — “I want you to promise me you'll ask me for help. Is that understood?”

The carriage arrived outside the academy. I stared at my grandmother, dumbfounded. She hadn't demanded I
stop
investigating should it turn hazardous?

“Well?” she pressed. “Do I have your word?”

“Y-yes,” I stammered. “Yes, of course.”

She nodded. “Very well, then. Off you go.”

I fumbled putting away my notebook and gathering my books, and, still dazed, got out of the carriage.
Grandmother gave me a prim wave through the window after the driver closed it. I waved back, still shocked. My grandmother was to be my new ally? I turned to go inside the academy, wondering if the day could possibly turn any more bizarre.

The morning slugged forward, the clocks stuck in what felt like a timeless abyss. In contrast to stolen masterpieces, fiery blazes, and secret identities, the needlepoint, watercolors, and posture exercises Adele and I were subjected to seemed more like weapons of torture.

It wasn't until our early afternoon constitutional stroll that I had the chance to talk to Adele privately. I wanted to ask her to make a run past Mr. Dashner's frame shop again after dismissal with me. We paired off from the other girls in the academy courtyard. Our shoulders brushed against each other and she gave me a nudge.

“How did you manage it, Zanna?”

“Manage what?” I asked. She nudged me again, knocking me off balance and closer to the rim of the stone fountain.

“Oh, stop! You know exactly what I mean. My father got a message last night from your uncle. How
did you convince him that the art might be getting stolen? And do you know who the prime suspect is? My father said they already have one!”

I choked on a response. I didn't want to lie to Adele, but I also wasn't prepared to tell her about my grandfather. He was a thief. I felt a little like how my mother must have: I didn't want to be associated with something so low.

“I just told him about Mr. Dashner and the frames,” I answered. Adele slowed her rotation of the fountain.

“But that was only speculation,” she replied. “We never found any proof. You yourself said your uncle wouldn't listen to anything
but
proof.”

I suddenly wished for a less astute partner. Because that's what she was, wasn't she? My partner. And I was hiding something from her.

“And what happened on the Common yesterday?” Adele asked. “My father said they nearly nabbed the suspect, and that you were there. You and Will.”

Saying I'd been used as bait would only lead Adele to ask why I might have successfully drawn the suspect out into the open in the first place. But saying my uncle had simply asked me to be there during a sting would have been an outright lie. Adele would never have
believed it anyway. I groped for something to say, but came up blank.

Adele stopped walking. “What aren't you telling me?”

I unbuttoned the top clasp of my cloak, hot with nerves. “I wish I could tell you, Adele, but I … I can't.”

The frigid glare she'd hit me with my first few days at the academy returned full force. “Can't or won't? I thought we were investigating together.”

I took a step after her. “We are, but —”

Adele brushed past me. “I get it, Suzanna. Really, I do. You're just like your uncle and you don't even know it.”