“Last night’s dinner party was nice,” I said to her as we followed a queue of other concertgoers inside.
Grandmother had been oddly silent all day. Ever since declaring she’d heard the dinner bell chiming, she’d been acting frazzled and out of sorts. All of the guests had streamed into the dining room, and just as I’d suspected, the waiters had not been there to seat us. The water goblets were empty, the champagne bottles still corked. Dinner had not been ready after all, but Grandmother hadn’t cared. She’d directed us to our seats herself until the waiters heard us from the kitchen and rushed in, alarmed and spouting off apologies.
“Yes, darling, I’m happy you enjoyed yourself.”
I waited for her to say more … perhaps something about how “charming” my horrid sailor’s dress had been, or the gleaming china, or the salmon pâté to which Margaret Mary had added too much paprika. Nothing.
“I did. It was nice to meet Adele’s father. She and Mr. Horne are very … different from each other.”
Grandmother flicked her wrist as we sped through a doorway. Her silk fan snapped open and she began fanning herself as our line of coiffed, cologned, and perfumed ladies and men climbed a spiral stone staircase.
“Detective Grogan brought up an interesting topic, too. He mentioned a case from about thirteen years ago called the Red Herring Heists. Do you remember them?” I asked.
We’d reached the top of the stairs, and Grandmother had started to breathe heavily. Now she stumbled to the side, as though her knees had given way. I grasped her arm and tried to hold her steady.
“Grandmother? Are you not feeling well enough for the concert?”
She started her fan back up. “I think we should go inside and find a seat.”
We followed the others to the second-floor hall. The trio had finished warming up and was waiting to begin properly. Seats had been arranged throughout a large room, where the walls were hung with paintings. Lush potted shrubbery had been arranged in every corner, along with randomly scattered sculpture. Grandmother found her way toward the front of the room, close to the players, and chose two seats in the center of a row. I sat beside her and noticed a sheen of perspiration on her forehead and nose.
“We should leave,” I whispered as the chatter started to dim. “You’re not well.”
She shook her head and waved off my concern. Dr. Philbrick had said stress brought on her breathing attacks. I’d only asked about the Red Herring Heists. I considered how that could be stressful. Was there something about the old case that bothered Grandmother?
The trio began, the first sharp notes of the piece so startling and quick that I jumped in my seat. The playing immediately slowed, taking on a more soothing, soft rhythm, and my heartbeat returned to normal. I felt silly and looked to see if anyone had noticed. Everyone seemed to be concentrating solely on the musicians, who were all dressed in crisp black suits, their hair glossed back.
Grandmother laid a hand on my arm. I could feel the dampness of her palm, even through her white silk gloves.
“I’m going to the back windows for some fresh air,” she whispered into my ear. I moved to get up with her, but her grip on my arm tightened. “No, stay and enjoy the music, Zanna. I’ll be fine by myself for a few minutes.”
She rose from her chair and disappeared behind the seated guests without drawing a single curious or annoyed glance. I followed her with my eyes until I was turning in my seat and inviting attention from the row behind me. I faced forward again, uneasy.
The string music slid between fast tempos and heated whines, to velvet sighs, so light and airy they could have easily lulled me to sleep. A minute slipped by, then two, and then I lost count. I only knew that Grandmother had been gone longer than I’d expected.
Another minute ticked by, the empty chair beside me growing louder than the violins echoing through the gallery hall. I finally got to my feet and, as swiftly as possible, headed for the back of the room, toward the windows that overlooked the courtyard. Grandmother wasn’t standing near any of them. To my relief, she wasn’t sprawled out on the floor, either.
But then I saw her. I rested my hand on the casement of an open window in the back of the music hall, and through one of the curved arabesque windows in an adjacent hallway I saw Grandmother’s swept-up gray curls. Her head was turned, showing only her profile. She was speaking, it seemed, though the person she addressed was not visible.
A nearby door led to the hallway in which she stood. I went and peeked around the corner. New moonlight streamed in through the open-roofed courtyard and lit the corridor, along with a few flickering lanterns of candlelight. The violinists were playing their instruments so loudly, nothing Grandmother said to the person, who was cloaked in shadow, was able to reach my ears. Perhaps it was only Uncle Bruce, or Mr. Horne. But the clandestine meeting gave off too strong a mysterious undertone.
I stayed where I was, peering around the corner as the trio lowered the pitch and fever of their music. I finally heard a portion of what Grandmother was saying.
“… doesn’t matter. You cannot be here.”
“I’m sorry if my following you tonight has upset you, Octavia, but I have every right to be here. I thought, if anyone, you might understand.” The person in the shadows was a man, and his voice was raspy but articulate. And firm. It was a familiar voice, but I couldn’t place why, or to whom it belonged.
I crept closer, hiding behind a leafy potted plant.
“You thought I might understand? What involving you could I ever understand? It’s because of you that my son … that he …” Grandmother choked on her words, raising a closed fist to her lips. “It’s all your doing!”
The man started to say something else, but Grandmother wavered and collapsed onto the floor in a heap of taffeta and lace. Her head knocked the stone with an audible crack.
“Grandmother!” I shouted just as the music jumped yet again into a sharp, furious tempo.
I raced out from behind the potted shrubbery and to her side. The man she’d been talking to knelt down as well. I shook Grandmother’s shoulders lightly. Her face was pale and waxen in the blue-gold light.
“What did you do?” I cried, unable to look away from her.
“Not a thing,” the man answered, sounding much calmer than me. “Attacking older women isn’t my modus operandi. She’s simply fainted.”
I leaned in close to Grandmother’s mouth and nose, not understanding what the man had meant about modus operandi. I wanted to feel Grandmother’s breath on my ear. Nothing came. All was still.
“She needs a doctor. Get a doctor!” I cried, finally taking my eyes from her ashen face.
“Please, you have to —!” I sucked in a sharp breath.
The man kneeling beside me was the same man who had been staring at me at the depot, and the one who had been in the back courtyard of Miss Doucette’s academy. It was my stranger with the black hat and coat, the defined cheekbones and heart-shaped face.
I shoved myself away from him and landed on my backside.
“You,” I whispered. How did this strange man know my grandmother? Why had they been hiding out here talking? Who was he?
The stranger stared right back at me. His eyes reminded me of Detective Grogan’s: They were acute and intelligent. And his other features … up close, his nose, his chin … they were so familiar. The memory of something tugged at me from deep inside.
“What now, what’s this?” a voice called from the entrance to the music hall. And then, “A woman’s collapsed! Is there a doctor here?”
The violin music screeched to a halt and excited murmuring took over. I tore my eyes away from the stranger and looked behind me.
“Yes! She needs help, hurry!” I shouted. People started down the hallway toward us, their dress shoes scuffling over the stone in a furor.
I got up to let a man who claimed to be a doctor have access to Grandmother. The stranger had already retreated down the hallway in the opposite direction, hurrying for
the steps that led to the museum’s exit.
I was pushed farther outward, away from Grandmother’s inert form, as another doctor appeared through the crowd of people.
“Dr. Philbrick!” I exclaimed. He’d been at the concert? He didn’t pay me a second’s notice but got right on the floor and opened up his doctor’s case, which I now assumed he carried with him everywhere.
“Move back!” he shouted. “All of you, move! She needs room to take a decent breath of air.”
He waved a small vial beneath Grandmother’s nostrils and rolled her to her side to begin unbuttoning the back of her tight-fitting dress, and then the laces on her corset.
“These blasted contraptions. I told her to quit wearing them,” Dr. Philbrick grumbled.
Women gasped and shooed their husbands back toward the music hall. The chiming of a bell sounded from that direction, and more people started to return to their abandoned seats.
I was torn. I wanted to stay and see that Grandmother was well again, but I also wanted to chase after the strange man. Why did he keep turning up? What had he meant when he said he had a right to be here? And Grandmother … she hadn’t wanted him here. She’d seemed to know him.
Grandmother took a ragged breath of air.
“There now, Mrs. Snow, there now,” Dr. Philbrick said in a surprisingly soothing way.
He calmed her with more words and encouraged her to lie still another moment. I knelt beside Grandmother so she could see me. Her ice blue eyes were bright and watery.
“Oh, dear,” she said softly. “Did I faint again?”
I nodded, trying to keep the tremor from my hand when I sought hers out. I squeezed her small fingers, and suddenly realized what could have happened. That she might not have revived.
Dr. Philbrick packed up his bag and helped Grandmother to her feet.
“Jeremiah, did you unlace me?” she asked indignantly. I tried to lace her back up, but I didn’t have the muscle. Bertie must have needed tools to help her every morning.
“Mrs. Snow, you have to be able to breathe!” he replied. “You can’t do that when you’ve got the equivalent of an anaconda snake wrapped around your ribs.”
I buttoned her dress as well as I could, leaving the corset loose. She still looked winded and pale. Dr. Philbrick threw his jacket over her shoulders before walking us downstairs to the front door, and then called for our carriage. Within minutes, Grandmother and I were seated across from each other, leaving Dr. Philbrick behind on the sidewalk outside the museum as the horses shuttled forward.
I leaned across the divide and grasped her hand. “What happened?”
“Just one of my episodes, dear.” She concentrated on the darkness outside the window.
“No.” I squeezed her hand tighter. “It was more than that. There was a man in the corridor with you. I saw him.”
Grandmother closed her eyes. “He was no one. No one for you to concern yourself with.”
I wondered if I should say something, and decided I had to. “I’ve seen him before.”
The wheels hit something and the whole chassis jerked, compounding Grandmother’s surprise.
“That’s impossible,” she hissed. “That man is a criminal. He’s a scoundrel of the worst sort, Suzanna, and I don’t know how you could have possibly seen him before.”
Grandmother snapped open her fan and began beating the silk ruffles again. Just like she had earlier when I’d brought up the Red Herring Heists. There was something that vexed her about both the old case and the older man who’d been following me around Boston. But I didn’t dare question her further, fearing she might faint yet again.
“Of course you’re right, Grandmother. Never mind.” I watched the color return to her pale cheeks. “He must look like someone I know, that’s all. Please, don’t worry.”
I couldn’t bear to see her have another episode, and then not have Dr. Philbrick right at hand.
Grandmother smiled, but it was a sleepy, exhausted smile. “Oh, Zanna, how could I not worry? You’re my granddaughter. And your father and mother, they’ve asked me to take care of you. Protect you. I hope you can understand …” She didn’t finish her sentence. She leaned her head back against the cushioned panel and closed her fan.
Grandmother needed rest. No stress, Dr. Philbrick had told me. We rode on in silence. She wanted me to understand something, and I did: She was keeping a secret from me. I hoped she could understand something as well: I was going to stop at nothing to find out what the secret was.
Detective Rule: Never overlook the smallest details. They will often lead to the biggest clues.
MISS DOUCETTE STOOD AT THE FRONT OF THE classroom with pointer in hand. One framed portrait was to her right. A second, nearly identical one was to her left. Both were propped on tall easels so the majority of the class could see. I, however, was seated behind the abnormally tall Lucille, so my view was of her carrot-colored braid.
I didn’t mind all that much. Miss Doucette wouldn’t be able to see my eyelids drooping come midday. I hadn’t slept a wink all night. I’d been nervous Grandmother would suffer from another one of her breathing attacks, and I was also too riled up by meeting the curious stranger face-to-face.
“As you can see, girls, both of these paintings are essentially the same. The only difference is the choice of frames.” Miss Doucette whacked her pointer against the plaster molding of the frame I could see.
“This frame, with its ornate carvings and gilded rosettes, is completely unsuitable for the portrait’s subject matter,” she said.
From what I could see, the subject matter was a light-hued coastal marsh scene. It reminded me of the marshes near Loch Harbor. A tug of homesickness pulled my stomach low, but I quickly chased it away.
“This frame, with its fillet edge and thin brocade of plaster, coated with silver leaf, properly brings out the simplicity of the marshes,” Miss Doucette explained. Honestly, I could not tell the difference, but if Miss Doucette said it, it was best to just agree.
Up one row and two seats diagonally from me, Adele sat with crisp posture and her glossy black hair pulled back with ribbons. She was taking notes, and I supposed I should be as well. I did need to learn more about art and framing if I was going to be working on this theory of Adele’s. It seemed as if Miss Doucette’s lesson for the day was insensitive, what with expensive artworks burning to cinders in the warehouse fires. But other than the Hornes, my uncle, Detective Grogan, and the insurance companies having to process a claim of loss, no one knew about the destroyed art.
“I always employ the framer on Kingston Boulevard. He is the finest in Boston,” Miss Doucette said before addressing Adele. “I’m sure Mr. Horne has hired Signor Periggi in the past, yes?”
Adele laid her pencil down. “Yes, but my father wasn’t pleased with Signor Periggi’s work on the Rossetti he purchased last fall. We employ Mr. Dashner.”
Miss Doucette looked as though she’d just been slapped. Two dots of crimson bloomed on her cheekbones.
“Oh, well, of course, of course,” she stammered. “Yes, Mr. Dashner is also quite accomplished. Let’s move on now, girls, and discuss the use of matting.”
I couldn’t think of anything less exciting than matting. Besides, the mention of framers in Boston had given me an idea. I waited patiently through demonstrations on proper wall mountings until at long last we were all dismissed for the afternoon.
“Adele,” I hissed from around the corner of the academy’s front, ivy-clad brick wall. She stepped through the open wrought-iron gates and came toward me.
“Are there any remnants?” I asked, and received a quizzical expression in return. “Of the frames? Was there anything left of the art after the fires were put out?”
Adele frowned. “Bits and pieces. Nothing could be salvaged. Why?”
“Did your father or the police keep the pieces?”
“There was no reason to keep them. They were just splinters of wood and ash.”
Ash. I recall
ed the thin coating of ash on Mr. Horne’s shoes at the dinner party. If he had gone to one of his ruined warehouses that evening before the party, he might have scuffed his shoes through some ash. But what business could he possibly have at a burned-down warehouse?
Adele held her schoolbooks, tied with a leather strap, closer to her chest. “Have you thought of something?”
“If someone planted fakes in the warehouses before the fires were set, then they must have needed to know the exact dimensions and styles of the frames. Whoever it is wouldn’t want to have left behind any remnants of a frame that didn’t match what your father had inside the safe box, right?”
If it was theft and not just arson, the thefts would have needed to be premeditated. I liked that word — premeditated.
“So whoever it is must have knowledge of the frames. He knew which pieces of art were inside the safe boxes,” Adele said, catching on.
A battering wind fanned my excitement. “And he needed to have replica frames made to match the real ones.” Then another theory struck. “Or perhaps he made them himself.”
Adele twisted up her nose. “Do you think it could be Mr. Dashner, my father’s framer?”
It made sense. He knew the frames, had worked with the originals closely. He’d no doubt taken detailed notes on the construction of each frame. Perhaps he’d even advised Mr. Horne on the proper way to store his collection. Mr. Dashner might have even transported them to the warehouses himself.
“I think we should put him down as a possible suspect.” I took my notebook from my cloak pocket. “And I think we should visit him soon. Maybe even today. Where is his shop?”
Adele made a strangled gasping sound. “What are we going to do, just waltz in and ask Mr. Dashner if he’s a criminal? We need to come up with a better plan than that.”
Plans took time. As if she could devise the perfect one within a matter of minutes.
The Mastermind Plot Page 6
