The Mastermind Plot

by Angie Frazier

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Sat., Sept. 12, 1904: Train is about to arrive in Boston. Condition of hands: sweating. Heart: pounding. Legs: cramping.

  EVERYONE WITHIN SIGHT WAS A SUSPECT. THERE was no question about it. With such frowns and long faces, the passengers in my rattling railway car just had to be guilty of something. No one wore a smile. Well, no one but me, of course, and I had a very good reason to smile. In about ten minutes, my lifelong dream would come true.

  I’d be in Boston, the place I’d wanted to be for as long as I could remember. My uncle, the famous detective Bruce Snow, lived and worked here, and it would be here, in Boston, where I would become a true detective. I simply had to. I couldn’t bear to return home, to the boring little seaside town of Loch Harbor, New Brunswick, without some sort of detective training.

  I closed my notebook and set it back inside my cloak’s wide pocket. I kept a notebook with me always, along with a pencil and silver pocket watch to record exact time logs. This was a new notebook, the last one chockful of the notes, observations, theories, time lines, and clues I’d gathered during my very first case over the summer. I’d helped solve the disappearance of a little girl from Boston who’d been staying at the Rosemount, my parents’ hotel. It wasn’t supposed to have been my case, though. Everyone had expected Uncle Bruce to get the job done. And in the end, he had been the one to reunite Maddie Cook and her mother (with overly dramatic flair, I might add) in front of all the guests. But he hadn’t closed the case on his own, and soon enough, all the guests had learned of my role — and then all the Boston newspapers had as well.

  My true detective training would require Uncle Bruce to actually spend time with me. Hope for that was slim, however, considering he hadn’t been the one to invite me to Boston. My father’s mother, the grandmother I’d only met twice and had little memory of, had sent the invitation. I wished it had been from Uncle Bruce, but to him, I, Suzanna Snow, was nothing but the pesky eleven-year-old girl who’d undermined his case at the Rosemount and had made a fool of him.

  Still, I clung to a thread of hope that he’d forgotten all of that. I huffed lightly to myself as the train started to slow. And maybe he’d magically sprouted wings and a tail and had turned into a Pegasus as well. It was just as likely.

  In the seat beside me, Nellie, the Rosemount’s irritable cook, flipped up the collar of her tweed coat and scowled out the foggy window.

  “As if I didn’t have plenty of other things to do this week than bring you all the way down to this dreadful place,” Nellie muttered, tucking her thin frame down into her bulky overcoat.

  My parents had asked Nellie to be my traveling chaperone since neither of them could take the time away from the hotel. The Rosemount had closed for the season but there were still plenty of duties to see to. Endless, tedious tasks my parents took to with an enthusiasm I had never been able to muster.

  “Boston isn’t dreadful. It’s lively and modern, and people love it here,” I replied. I had no solid proof for any of those claims, but I believed what I said. If Boston wasn’t wonderful, why would so many people live here?

  Nellie huffed out a mirthless laugh. “It was dreadful enough for your parents to move away and never go back. Your father was against this trip right from the start, and I’m sure he had reliable reasons.”

  I sat back in my green velour seat. At first, it hadn’t struck me as odd when Father had immediately said no to the trip. For reasons I was now beginning to understand, my father didn’t particularly like his brother. Besides, there was a lot of work to be done at the Rosemount, even during the off-season. Father depended on me, he’d claimed. His rare compliment had nearly caused me to stop being angry over his refusal to let me go to Boston.

  But then he and Mother had continued to argue for days after Grandmother’s letter arrived. Mother had been all for my visit, saying they couldn’t keep me away forever, that my grandmother deserved to get to know me. Father had said it was “too dangerous,” an exact quote I’d heard through the floor grates one night after they believed I’d gone to bed. (Spying was, by far, the best part of detective work.)

  I didn’t understand what could be so dangerous about Boston. It was just a place. And considering he and Mother had both grown up there and turned out just fine, what possible damage could a two-month stay at my grandmother’s do?

  The train blared out its arrival whistle. The screeching of metal and brakes and the hiss of steam blended with the uproar of the passengers rustling about in their seats. Nellie and I had left Loch Harbor’s station early the day before and had run down the coast of New Brunswick, through the dense forests and open farmlands of Maine, along the brief New Hampshire seacoast, and into the northern edge of Massachusetts, where there was a constant panorama of brick mills and smokestacks.

  I itched to fetch my carrying bag from the gold-barred rack above our heads and to get off the train. White blasts of steam clouded the air outside. All I could glimpse through the windows was the pitched roof of the station and a hazy mass of people milling about the platform — which was about ten times the size of Loch Harbor’s.

  At last the train came to a full stop. I flew to my feet and grabbed for my bags. Nellie took her time standing, stretching, and repositioning her burgundy pillbox hat. She then slowly re-pinned a few stray wisps of coarse, grayish-brown hair. I knew Nellie hadn’t wanted to see me down to Boston, but she hadn’t been able to say no to my parents. Nellie had exactly two soft spots, and they were reserved for Cecilia and Benjamin Snow.

  I ran a hand over my own hair — two pale brown braids that reached just barely to my shoulders. I suddenly longed for a better, more mature hairstyle. I made a mental note to get rid of my childish braids before I saw my uncle.

  Nellie and I followed the herd of others down the aisle and out onto the platform. One good thing about Nellie was how efficient she was. Within a minute she’d spotted our cases in the growing pile of luggage being dragged off the train. And then, with her tall, lanky height, she craned her neck above the sea of heads and saw Grandmother’s driver holding up a sign that read Snow, as if he was calling for a change in weather.

  “Don’t dawdle, now,” Nellie said. She cut a path through the crowd, her hand raised to flag the driver.

  I kept close behind for fear I’d become lost in the chaos. As the steam cleared from the air, the noises of the depot took over. People rushed around, their hands and arms gesturing this way and that, their shoulders bumping into backs and legs into luggage, and the noise … it was so loud I wanted to cover my ears.

  The driver retrieved our luggage and swept us away to a covered carriage beside the depot. He loaded our things on the roof while Nellie and I sat inside. The brisk air snapped at my nose as I leaned my head out the open window and stared into the swarm of people.

  I squinted against the sunlight blurring my vision. I was just about to turn away and blink back the tears when something stole my attention. Someone, actually. A tall, lean man with broad shoulders stood by a lamppost two buggy lengths ahead of us. He pulled his crisp, black, brimmed hat lower over his forehead, but his sharp eyes we
re unmistakably fixed on Grandmother’s carriage. He wasn’t just staring at the carriage, though. He was staring at me. His eyes were searing and hard, his cheekbones defined, and his chin pointed.

  I reached out and tugged on Nellie’s coat sleeve without breaking from his harsh gaze.

  “Nellie, why do you think that man’s staring this way?”

  “Good lord, child.” Nellie plucked her sleeve out of my grasp. “Who’s who? I see more people out there than every citizen in the whole of Loch Harbor.”

  The buggy ahead of us pulled out, led by two harnessed gray mares. By the time it drove away, the space by the lamppost was empty.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  The strange man with the inquisitive eyes was gone.

  Our carriage swerved down cluttered streets. Each second, my ears were assaulted by a new sound: the blare of a police whistle, the shouting of children on corners, the clop-clopping of horse hooves, and the screech of metal on metal as trains rattled by on tracks raised all the way up near the peaks of houses. I stared openmouthed as they rumbled overhead, feeling as if I’d been transported to a futuristic world. Even Nellie looked pleasantly astounded, and I wondered if she was rethinking her earlier judgment of Boston.

  The carriage turned, shot through a narrow side street, and then came back out onto another street, this one lined with trees, the leaves all speckled with the first hints of fall. The branches reached out over the street, creating a massive, ongoing bough overhead as we rolled down a slight hill. Here, stately brick-fronted homes were enclosed by wrought-iron fences, one right after the other. A cobbled sidewalk trimmed each side of the street.

  “Knight Street,” the driver hollered back.

  Grandmother’s street! My heart lifted, shaking off the stress of the last handful of streets. Father had said Grandmother lived in a neighborhood called Lawton Square, and that Boston was made up of many different neighborhoods. Lawton Square alone, he’d told me, was about the size of Loch Harbor. So Boston itself was like dozens of Loch Harbors all squished together. I had to admit that the idea of that was a little overwhelming.

  At least Knight Street was slow and elegant. I sighed as the carriage stopped outside a brownstone, the sandstone blocks the color of chocolate. The shutters were painted a deep, earthy red, and the glass windows gleamed in the late afternoon light where thick leaves did not cast their shadows. A polished brass plate had been fixed above the front door and engraved with the numbers 224. 224 Knight Street. The address had a dignified ring to it, much like 221B Baker Street, which was, of course, the London residence of one of my favorite fictional detectives, Sherlock Holmes.

  I climbed out of the carriage behind Nellie. The short heel of one of my boots immediately sank between two cobblestones and became wedged there. I tugged at it until it came free, and stumbled forward. My shins bumped into the large trunk that the driver had fetched down, and to no surprise, I lost my balance. Unfortunately, the moment my hands and knees slammed against the cobble sidewalk, I also heard my name being called.

  “Suzanna?”

  I peered up from my ridiculous position in front of Grandmother’s house, and shoved my braids back from where they swung before my eyes. In front of me stood a tall, robust man in a long coat made of dark broadcloth.

  “Uncle Bruce!”

  I quickly got to my feet. Uncle Bruce’s thick mustache prickled like quills as he regarded me and forced a smile.

  “I am stunned to see you here. I do not understand the meaning of it,” he said, the cadence of his voice strained and overly proper.

  A tall, thin man with a square jaw stood just behind Uncle Bruce. He was clean-shaven, with a pale complexion and a few wisps of light blond hair that hung down across his forehead. He inspected me from behind a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses before turning a vexed look toward Uncle Bruce, as if bothered by my uncle’s rude greeting.

  Uncle Bruce didn’t bother to introduce me.

  “I received an invitation,” I said.

  Uncle Bruce ripped off his hat. His dark, glossy hair fell in front of his brown eyes, which were currently simmering with discontent. “An invitation? From whom?”

  “From me.”

  Uncle Bruce, Nellie, and I spun toward the town house. Standing in the doorway was a short, rotund woman. Gaudy rings and bracelets dwarfed her already small hands, which were clasped in front of her obviously corseted waist. I stood a good ten feet away, but her bright, ice blue eyes struck me at once. They were my father’s eyes.

  “Mother, you — you —” Uncle Bruce sputtered.

  My grandmother’s powdery white face, pinched with just two spots of color on her cheekbones, crinkled up into a smile. “Yes, Bruce. Me.”

  She took the steps down toward the wrought-iron gate with more elegance than even my mother might have managed. Needless to say, I was immediately terrified.

  “Darling Suzanna!” Grandmother held out her petite arms toward me. She looked as if she was going to walk straight into the gate. Uncle Bruce quickly reached down and unlatched it, and I realized Grandmother had expected him to do no less.

  “Welcome to Boston, dear. I can’t tell you what a joy it is to finally see you again.” She grinned warmly and caught both of my arms in her birdlike hands. She gave them a delicate squeeze, then glanced sideways at Uncle Bruce. Her blue eyes glittered with what I detected as mischief.

  “Am I to assume you object to our Suzanna’s visit?” she asked.

  Nellie harrumphed, already aware of his prickly personality from the time he spent at the Rosemount. Uncle Bruce’s mustache seemed to come to life again, twitching and wriggling as he prepared to answer.

  “No, no,” he finally said. He tugged his hat back on. “I am delighted, Suzanna, to have you here with us.”

  His fiery eyes and sour grimace couldn’t hide anything. Uncle Bruce was livid. And he wasn’t delighted to have me here at all.

  Mental Note: Wire-rimmed eyeglasses make one look exceptionally intelligent. Must complain of eyestrain and convince Grandmother to purchase me a pair.

  A YOUNG WOMAN WITH HARDLY ANY CHIN closed the frosted-glass door behind us and helped me out of my traveling cloak. I stood rigid, not used to being the object of a servant’s attention. She turned me out of my cloak and freed me of my gloves in a blur of motion, and then moved on to help Nellie. I was left a bit dazed from such efficiency, but followed my grandmother as she glided into a sitting room.

  I stepped inside and abruptly stopped, stunned. The walls, papered in a busy floral design, were covered from base to ceiling with plates, mirrors, silhouettes, paintings, and sketches. A massive grandfather clock filled a corner; a glassed-in curio cabinet displayed trinkets and more ceramics; tables seemed to be everywhere, forming a maze of sorts; long, heavy drapes brushed the floors, which were covered in Oriental rugs; and sconces, dripping with sparkling crystal beads, were mounted on each wall.

  Never before had I seen a room like it. Not even at the Rosemount, where antlers and snowshoes and bear-skins draped the walls of the Great Hall. Grandmother’s parlor made my head spin with all of its … clutter.

  She seated herself in a lavender-colored chair, the velvet upholstery so plush I feared she might disappear right into it.

  “Do sit, dear,” she said to me. I picked a more solid-looking chair near a writing desk. She frowned at my choice.

  Uncle Bruce came inside the parlor, another false smile fixed on his lips. “Mother, you were quite silent about this invitation to my niece.”

  He’d done that back in Loch Harbor, too — speaking about me as though I wasn’t right there in the room with him.

  Nellie came into the parlor looking a bit flustered from the servant girl’s lightning-quick hands. Uncle Bruce’s silent companion followed.

  “Bruce, dear, it’s been far too long since I’ve seen my granddaughter. Besides, the papers were all raving about Suzanna’s heroics regarding that little missing girl. I found myself quite jealous that th
e reporters seemed to know her better than I did! It was utterly unacceptable.”

  She glanced at me. Her eyes were so like my father’s. I felt a deep tug in my stomach. Homesickness. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be homesick, and shoved it down.

  “Darling, how was your trip? Miss Bridges, was it terribly uncomfortable?”

  It took me a second to understand that she was addressing Nellie. No one back home ever used her last name. She was the only Nellie in Loch Harbor.

  “No more uncomfortable than standing on my feet all day in a hot kitchen,” Nellie replied as she perched herself on the edge of a curvy sofa. She’d never been one to mince words. I drew up my shoulders and looked nervously to my grandmother for her reaction. She had on a sympathetic pout.

  “Of course not. Benjamin writes so highly of your abilities. He and Cecilia must think of you superiorly to trust you with the care of their daughter.”

  Nellie weighed my grandmother’s compliment with plain skepticism. After an awkward moment, she said, “Well, the feelings are mutual. I think the world of Mr. and Mrs. Snow.”

  I waited for Nellie to say something kind about me but knew it was in vain.

  Grandmother then turned toward my uncle. “Now, Bruce, you don’t usually pay me visits on Tuesday afternoons. To what do I owe this pleasure? And good afternoon to you, Detective Grogan.”

  She cleared her throat, clearly wanting Uncle Bruce to introduce Detective Grogan to me. The title detective intrigued me and I immediately set about inspecting him. He was tall, like my uncle, but not as robust. His frame was more streamlined and wiry, like his eyeglasses.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Snow.” His voice did not match him at all. It was a raspy, deep tenor, nearly as burly as Uncle Bruce’s. I must have startled with surprise, because he glanced my way.