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?”
As Grandmother and Mr. Horne exchanged overly complimentary words regarding me, I looked to see Adele’s reaction to Grogan’s comment. But the black expression she gave me only pointed to how upset she was that her art theft theory was still being dismissed.
“So Miss Suzanna Snow is here for the autumn,” Mr. Horne said, dragging me back into the conversation. “Tell me, does your middle name also begin with the letter S? My late wife’s name was Harriet Hortensia. Can you imagine? Harriet Hortensia Horne!”
Adele wrapped her arms tightly across her waist at the mention of her mother. Her father spoke of her so easily, and yet it was obvious Adele was made uncomfortable by it. He didn’t seem to even notice Adele’s unease.
“No, my middle name begins with an L,” I answered. “It stands for —”
“Was that the dinner bell?” Grandmother jumped and twisted around, straining to see through the crowds in her receiving room. At the same instant, Uncle Bruce broke into another fit of coughing and throat clearing.
“Blasted tickle again. I think I do need that brandy after all, Xavier. It looks like you’re nearly finished with yours. Why don’t we hunt down that decanter before sitting down to eat.”
“I didn’t hear the bell,” I said, certain I wouldn’t have missed it. I was positively starving. And Mr. Horne’s glass wasn’t anywhere near empty.
“I didn’t hear it either. How could we above all this din?” Mr. Horne said with a laugh. “But I’m sure Midge is famished. You’re always hungry, aren’t you, Midge?”
Adele glared at her father, mortified. Though I’d failed to memorize all of the social etiquette rules my mother had tried to teach me, I was pretty sure it was in bad form to mention a lady’s voracious appetite.
“As I was saying,” I said loudly, trying to distract the awkward silence following Mr. Horne’s blunder. “My middle name starts with an L and it stands for —”
“Lynne?” Uncle Bruce guessed, interrupting me. He sounded so enthusiastic, too.
“No, not, uh, Lynne …” I stammered with my reply, wondering why he’d have ventured a guess. Surely he didn’t care what my middle name was.
“I’m positive I heard that dinner bell,” Grandmother said again. The rouge she wore couldn’t hide the way her cheeks had quickly paled. “And it’s about time!” She clapped her hands together to bring everyone in the room to attention. The chatter dimmed.
“Please, let’s proceed to the dining room, shall we?”
Grandmother ushered me along. I tried to say goodbye to Will, Adele, and her father, but Grandmother only shooed me onward more firmly.
“As guest of honor, you’ll be seated first, of course,” she
said. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Uncle Bruce, his cheeks red and nostrils flared.
I faced forward and wondered what it could possibly have to do with my middle name.
Sun., Sept. 20.: Things to do:
— Research Boston’s underground market
— Research Red Herring Heists
— Learn how to embroider a lace hankie
— Curse Miss Doucette for the rest of eternity
THERE WERE MANY THINGS I WAS BEGINNING to like about my grandmother. For one, she hadn’t yet scolded me for any of the numerous social blunders I’d made at the dinner party the night before (I’d tripped on the leg of a dining room chair; yawned while one of the female guests tediously described the cut, clarity, and carat weight of her diamond necklace; and repeatedly observed the dangerously off-center toupee worn by a guest across the dinner table).
Secondly, Grandmother didn’t make polite talk. After spending every summer surrounded by polite, pleasant people at the overly proper Rosemount, it was refreshing to be with someone who didn’t hesitate to cut another person to the quick.
As I hid behind a statue of Adonis inside the Bentworth Museum courtyard, working in my notebook, Grandmother sneaked up beside me and proved I wasn’t safe from her biting words either.
“Zanna, put that blasted thing away! What are you scribbling about this time? We’re going to be late for the concert.”
Grandmother had left my side five minutes before to speak with an old friend by the topiary, and I’d decided to use the time wisely. There was just too much to do, and as I kept up with Grandmother’s rushed stroll along the museum’s brick path, I wished I hadn’t had to come to this concert. But Music is culture, and culture is what feeds our souls, as Grandmother recited twice on the carriage ride there.
The practicing strings of a violin trio dripped through the twilight as we left the open-roofed courtyard, which was at the center of the museum and surrounded on all sides by four floors of arabesque windows and walkways. Lights flickered throughout the garden area and glowed through the museum’s foreign-looking windows.
The Mastermind Plot Page 5
