The Mastermind Plot (6 page)

I took a breath, not sure what to say. Her mother had died. What do you say to someone whose mother is dead?
I'm sorry
wasn't good enough. I decided to skip over the topic altogether.

“So you believe the art was stolen before the warehouses were burned? Will said that some strange man tipped you off.”

Adele exhaled and her tense shoulders dropped in a show of relief.

“It happened at the second warehouse fire. I was standing apart from everyone who was sifting through the wreckage, including Detective Snow.”

The mention of my uncle set off a tremor inside me. It spiked my pulse and made my stomach twist. I was partly frustrated with him, but partly proud, too. It didn't make sense.

“This man — I don't know who he was — stepped up beside me and commented what a shame the fire was, how it must have destroyed so many valuable things inside.” Adele frowned, shaking her head as she remembered. “I think I said something along the lines of ‘You have no idea.' And then the man said the oddest thing: He said that he
did
have an idea. He came right out and said that the art my father had been hid
ing inside his warehouses had been stolen, not destroyed. Then he told me to tell Detective Snow something even more strange: He wanted me to tell him that the red herrings had returned, but that they were a new breed.”

Adele stopped to take a breath and then glanced down at my sketch pad. I realized I had filled in half of the blank page with messy scribbles — everything Adele was telling me.

“A new breed of red herrings?” I asked, intrigued.

“False clues,” she said haughtily, as if I didn't already know what a red herring was. “They're used to lead investigations in the wrong direction.”

“I
know
.”

She glowered. “You would think Detective Snow would have known as well. But when I finally got to him and told him what the stranger had said, he acted as if he had no idea what that meant. He … he
humiliated
me. He practically accused me of lying. I'm certain if my father had heard the way he belittled me …” Adele sputtered over her words. What would her father have been able to do? Get him kicked off the case? I doubted it.

As much as I didn't like her, I didn't think Adele was lying. “Did my uncle see this stranger?”

Adele shook her head. “By the time I'd fetched Detective Snow, he was gone. And I couldn't give a very good description of him because he'd been wear
ing a hat low over his eyes, and I — well, he'd been a stranger and I knew I wasn't supposed to talk to him or look him in the eye.”

No doubt one of Miss Doucette's rules. It certainly wasn't a rule of mine. There was only one way for a detective to treat strangers: with thorough observation. A strange man had presented the idea of the art being stolen. He'd known about the pieces being hidden in the warehouses and had decided to share his theory with Adele. But why? Had the man been the thief himself? And the “new breed of red herrings” comment sounded like a code of some sort. A code meant for my uncle to decipher, though it sounded as if he'd overlooked it.

“Can you remember anything about him?” I asked, unsatisfied. “Anything distinguishable at all?”

She'd recalled his words so perfectly. There must be something more.

“He smelled,” Adele finally said, though she didn't seem very sure of herself.

“Badly? Of what?” I wrote
odd smell
on the paper.

“No, not badly,” she answered, licking her lips as she remembered more. “No, it was more like a soapy smell. But it wasn't flowery or perfumed. It was musky. Like wood.”

She shook her head. “Or maybe it was just the burned wood of the warehouse. I don't know. What does it matter? We can't possibly track someone down by the way they smell.”

My pencil halted.

“We?”

Adele sighed. “Yes, we. I'm sorry I wasn't nice, but I had to test you out. You understand, don't you? If you'd come down out of that attic weeping like a fool and pointing a finger at me, then I would have known not to put any stock in all the things Will and the papers had said about you. But instead, you climbed out of the highest window and down a fire escape.” Adele rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was impressed. I didn't need Adele's approval, but still … it was a
little
satisfying.

“Adele? Suzanna?” Miss Doucette rounded the corner of the path and spotted us under the trellis. “Girls, are you sketching in there?”

I flipped to my previous page with the sad excuse for a sunflower.

“Oh, yes, Miss Doucette,” Adele said sweetly. “The pattern of the trelliswork is such a challenge.”

I stared at her, impressed she'd thought it up off the top of her head. But then she turned her sketch pad outward to show Miss Doucette. She actually
had
sketched the trellis. But when? She hadn't so much as lifted her pencil the whole time we'd been standing there.

“Lovely, Adele. As always.” Our teacher beamed. She then peeked at my sketch pad. Her glowing smile dimmed. “Oh. Well. That trellis does seem to be a challenge, doesn't it? Perhaps you should try one of the ferns?”

She extended her arm and we followed her cue to move along. Adele arched her eyebrow again, this time at me. She'd already drawn the trellis before getting up from her stool earlier. She'd covered her tracks, preparing for Miss Doucette's arrival should we be found apart from the group. Her preparedness impressed me more than I would ever dare admit.

A
N HOUR BEFORE
G
RANDMOTHER'S DINNER
guests were to arrive, Bertie came into my room and laid my dress out over the bed's postage-stamp quilt. On top of that, she laid a rectangular envelope: a Western Union telegram.

“It just arrived,” Bertie said of the telegram. She didn't need to say who'd sent it. If my parents continued to send the thirty-cent telegrams at the same rate
for the next few months, they'd most likely fund the laying of a whole new telegraph cable.

But it wasn't the telegram that held my attention. Bertie stepped back and I stared at the dress — at the navy blue material trimmed in white ribbon, the squared shoulders, and the collar complete with a droopy bow tie.

“It's …” I hesitated, heart plunging. “It's a sailor dress.”

Bertie coughed politely. “The late Mr. Snow was an admiral in the navy.”

I glanced up from the disappointing dress. “He was?”

The corner of Bertie's mouth turned downward. “You didn't know?”

I ran my fingers over the stiff shoulder pads of the much-too-childish sailor dress, and then picked up the telegram. My father had sent this one, the shortened, economical sentences asking after my health and schooling.

“No, I didn't know.” My father never really talked about Boston or his family. All my parents had ever said was that Boston just hadn't been for them. They'd wanted a slower life. A quieter life.

“Do you need help dressing, Miss Zanna?” Bertie asked.

“I can manage.” I had no desire to share the moment of humiliation when I put on the dress.

Bertie gave a pert nod and left the room. Eyeing the sailor dress, I knew I had no choice. I had to wear it. And the moment of humiliation arrived just as I'd predicted.

I came off the last step of the stairwell, my sweaty hand gripping the carved mahogany wood of the newel post, and met with a full receiving room of men and women. Each and every one of them stopped to turn and welcome me. Grandmother threw up her arms and squealed like she had just seen the world's most adorable baby.

“Oh! Look at that!” She cut a path through all of her guests and gripped me by my mortarboard shoulders. “Oh, this dress! It would have made my dear Roger so very proud.”

Mortified, I tried to avoid the crush of eyes inspecting my ridiculous dress as murmurs of agreement sounded. I noted instead how the furniture in the receiving room — the grand room parallel to Grandmother's cluttered parlor — had all been pushed up against the walls. Everyone milled about on the checkered parquet floor, tall glasses of champagne in their hands, while wreathes of cigar and pipe smoke hovered overhead in the soft lighting from suspended candelabras. It
reminded me of a miniature version of the Rosemount's Great Hall.

Grandmother finally let go of my shoulders and thrust me into the center of the crowd. “Go on now, Zanna dear, and don't be shy.” She winked one of her bright, cerulean eyes at me. “I believe a friend of yours is here, too.”

I finally lifted my face to scan the crowd. A friend? Will? I heard the rumble of Uncle Bruce's laugh somewhere deeper within the receiving room. I craned my neck and refused to stand still long enough for anyone to catch my attention and witness firsthand my less-than-appealing social skills.

The tail of the floppy navy blue ribbon holding back my hair swung in front of my eyes and tickled my nose. I swatted it away, and while doing so, I bumped shoulders with someone.

“Pardon me,” I said quickly, and started to take off once again.

“Some sailor you'd be. You can't even navigate your way through a party.”

The soles of my buckled leather dress shoes skidded to a stop. I turned around, and with mounting despair, saw a head of silky black curls offset by snowy cheeks, pouting lips, and an arched eyebrow.

“Adele?” I hadn't known she would be coming.

I took in her lovely pale green silk dress, the single row of creamy white ruffles along the hem, and the soft billows of silk around her shoulders. What on earth was Adele Horne doing at my grandmother's dinner? And why did she have to be wearing the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen?

I forced the thought away and remembered something I'd wanted to ask her. “Listen, I'm glad you're here,” I began.

She looked sideways at me. “You are?”

After the mild case of frostbite I'd suffered from Adele's cold shoulder all week, I supposed my claim did seem suspicious. But this was business.

“I've been trying to form a time line of events, and wanted to know when your father moved the rest of his art from the warehouses to the other locations.”

Adele ran a few fingers through her curls absentmindedly. “After the second fire on September —”

“September second.” I already knew it.
The second on the second
was how I'd memorized it.

She quit playing with her hair and clasped her hands behind her back. “I didn't need reminding, Suzanna. The second fire on the second of September.”

My posture wilted, not pleased at all that someone else had used my method of memorization.

“Did he move the art from the other warehouses that same day?” I asked.

She shook her head, glancing around the crowded room. We were shorter than most of the adults, and hence easily overlooked. Sometimes that came in handy.

“No, the next day,” she answered.

I needed my notebook. Unfortunately, the sailor dress lacked pockets.

“And where were these other locations?” I asked. But Adele wasn't able to answer. Just then, a short, compact man with a handlebar mustache approached us.

“Well, Midge, who do you have here?” the man asked. He wrapped his arm around Adele's shoulders.

“
Papa
,” she groaned. He squeezed her tightly and laughed.

“Oh, that's right.” He leaned in closer to me and, with a conspiratorial whisper, said, “I forgot I'm not supposed to call her that in public.”

Midge? I reveled in Adele's inflamed cheeks and pursed lips. Mr. Horne straightened back up and raised his voice to its normal tenor.

“But certainly there isn't any harm if your friend here knows your pet name.”

Adele's scowl deepened.

“I'm Xavier Horne, and you must be the guest of honor, Suzanna.”

He held out his hand. I took it, preparing to shake. But he kissed the back of my hand instead, his mustache whiskers tickling my skin.

“
Enchanté, mademoiselle
,” he said.

From what little French I knew, I replied, “
Merci
.”

He said something else in French but I didn't understand. He must have noticed my confusion, because he laughed again. His eyes were the same light gray as Adele's, but they were merry. Adele's were flinty and apprehensive, as if she never found anything humorous or likable at all. I observed the rest of his characteristics and planned to add them later to his profile in my notebook.

Xavier Horne was just an inch taller than his daughter, who stood a full head taller than me. He wore an expensive-looking suit with a gold chain drooped over his vest, indicating a pocket watch in his left chest pocket. He sparkled from his balding head to his cuff links. The tips of his black dress shoes were the only things out of place. They were both lightly dusted with a gray sort of substance. It looked like ash. I wondered why he hadn't bothered to wipe them off before tonight's dinner.

“Xavier, there you are.” Uncle Bruce's voice came up behind me. He wore a crisp black suit and tie, and as always, he dwarfed those around him with his height, his voice, and his presence. “I had hoped you would be joining Neil and me at the club tonight before the dinner party.”

Xavier Horne patted my uncle on the shoulder. “Sorry to miss it. I had some business to attend to. Came here straight after.”

I took another covert glance at his shoes. Whatever sort of business he'd been seeing to must have involved getting ash on his dress shoes, and he hadn't had time to polish them up before dinner.

“I'm glad to see you now, at least,” Uncle Bruce continued, a short tumbler filled with crushed ice and a fizzy liquid in his hand. “We've got one of your dock-workers claiming —”

Xavier Horne held his hand up. “No, not another word, Detective.”

Uncle Bruce lowered his drink. “Excuse me?”

He clearly didn't like being interrupted. He flicked his eyes toward me but only for a millisecond.

“I don't want to discuss the case tonight,” Adele's father explained. “I'm here to escape. To relax and welcome your niece to Boston.”

Uncle Bruce wriggled his mustache the way he did when bothered.

Mr. Horne turned back toward me. “I am told, Suzanna, if I want true relaxation that Loch Harbor is the place to seek out, is that correct? Your father owns a hotel there?”

“My father and mother manage the Rosemount, but Mr. Blythe in London owns it —”

Mr. Horne's crunched-up eyebrows startled me into silence. “Blythe? Marcus Blythe?”

I nodded.

“Wonderful man, that Marcus Blythe! He's got an impressive hotel right here in Boston, too — the Sherwood. I saw the most gorgeous Cassatt there last spring, but it wasn't for sale.”

I saw the opening and lunged for it. “You're fond of art?”

Adele lifted her chin, eyes rounded with surprise. She knew my game.

“Quite,” he answered, seemingly delighted by my interest. “I have over two hundred pieces in my personal collection. Cassatt, Monet, Sargent, Manet, Peale, Delacroix … paintings, sculpture, illuminated texts, mosaics, glass. Anything that is beautiful to look at, really.”

I strived to memorize everything but thought I might just have to ask Adele for the artists' names later.

“Your collection must be worth a fortune,” I said, hoping my age and mock wonder (
breathless
wonder, at that) made up for how rude it was to mention money.

Mr. Horne didn't seem offended, though. In fact, he puffed out his chest and proudly agreed. “Quite, quite.”

“Are any of the pieces insured?” Now that
did
attract a curious glower from my uncle's direction. I scrambled to remedy the blunder. “The Rosemount once had a … a sculpture stolen and it wasn't insured. It was devastating.”

It wasn't entirely untrue. Old Forrest Johnston, one of the Rosemount's long-standing summer guests, had sculpted a mermaid statue for the hotel and placed a key to his hidden fortune inside. The sculpture had been stolen and destroyed by Maddie Cook's brother, but really the only person who'd been devastated was Mr. Johnston. The statue had been ugly, and I doubted anyone would miss it.

Mr. Horne grumbled in dismay. “All of my pieces are insured, but for a true collector, mere money could never replace the value of a stolen work of art. I've lost many lovely pieces lately, Suzanna — as I'm sure you've
heard. They were dear to me, though not just because of what they were worth.”

Will and Detective Grogan had stepped into our conversation as Mr. Horne was speaking. I was relieved to see Will. Maybe he could think of some other, less obvious questions to get Mr. Horne to talk more about his art collection.

“Certainly, the insurance money could be used to purchase other works?” Detective Grogan asked. Mr. Horne made a face that resembled mine when my mother insisted I eat every last Brussels sprout on my plate.

“Each piece is one of a kind. Irreplaceable. And every collector has a favorite piece. A crown jewel. If it were to be taken or destroyed … like Suzanna said, it would be devastating.”

Detective Grogan inspected me from behind his wire-framed eyeglasses. While Uncle Bruce's nature was robust and forceful, his partner's was keen and contemplative.

“But I don't want to discuss the fires tonight,” Mr. Horne said again, and with finality. “Suzanna, does the Rosemount have any interesting pieces?”

I frowned. “Not unless you consider taxidermy an art.”

“Or deer-antler coatracks,” Will added with a laugh. They
were
hard to forget.

Uncle Bruce cracked a grin as he sipped his seltzer water. “I doubt even the crooks running the underground market would consider the décor at the Rosemount worthy of being stolen.”

I wasn't a fan of rustic décor, or the stuffed and mounted wildlife hanging around the Great Hall, but Uncle Bruce's insult burned nonetheless.

“Is that where stolen art gets sold, then?” Will asked boldly. “In the underground market?”

Detective Grogan shifted his keen gaze from me to Adele to Will, no doubt connecting our pointed questions to her previously dismissed art theft theory. “Stolen art does, yes. We're watching for any activity regarding the pieces taken in the burglary the day after Xavier had them moved from the warehouse safes.”

Detective Grogan paused and studied Mr. Horne a moment. I thought I saw a flicker of mistrust behind those wire-rimmed eyeglasses before he continued. “However, Boston's underground market for art has been quiet these last thirteen years since the end of the Red Herring Heists.”

I snapped to attention. Uncle Bruce suddenly gurgled and choked on his drink. Mr. Horne whacked him on the back.

“Slow down, friend,” Mr. Horne said. “What you need is a smooth brandy. That blasted seltzer gets me every time.”

Uncle Bruce muttered something about a tickle in his throat as Grandmother appeared at my side. I should have said hello, but I could think only of the Red Herring Heists that Detective Grogan had mentioned. It was the second mention of red herrings in one week.

“Neil Grogan, are you discussing work during one of my dinner parties?” Grandmother asked, holding herself in her regal, peacock-like pose. “For shame, young man. I won't have any of it. Now, Xavier, I take it you've met my granddaughter?”