The Mastermind Plot

by Angie Frazier

  “Why is it so special?” I asked instead.

  “Because hardly anyone in the world knows it even exists,” Adele answered. “My father once said it would be worth an unbelievable fortune, but that’s not why he loves it. It’s the secret of it he loves so much, I think. He never displays it and moves it from safe to safe regularly. I’ve only laid eyes on it once or twice myself.”

  If an art thief knew about the existence of this rare Degas, I imagined it could be a prime target. I listed who would know about the Degas: my uncle and his department, Adele, the Horne house servants perhaps. Adele confirmed the list, also saying a close handful of collectors her father associated with had probably seen it. Then a speculation struck me.

  “Does Mr. Dashner know about the Degas?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Papa has the Degas cleaned every year and Mr. Dashner does it.”

  A proper theory was taking shape and my head spun with it. We then heard the sound of shoes tapping along the polished hallway floor.

  “What about the other paintings? The ones that were removed from the warehouses,” I went on. “Would Mr. Dashner have known they’d been moved?”

  The footsteps down the hallway sounded closer. Someone was coming to fetch us.

  “Yes,” she answered again. I saw the light of striking gold in her wide eyes. “Since Papa was already moving the pieces, he thought it would be a good time to have the frame for a Cézanne regilded. He had Mr. Dashner meet him at Noone’s Wharf to pick it up!”

  At that moment, Adele’s dour, prune-faced butler found us huddled in the receiving room.

  “Dinner, Miss Adele. May I escort you and your friends to your seats?”

  It was an order masked by politeness — he was the butler, but he ran the house. My mind galloped in circles as we were led to the dining room. Mr. Dashner knew about the existence of the Degas, and that the paintings had been taken from the safe boxes. He probably knew where they were being held as well. But did he know where Mr. Horne had stashed the Degas?

  We entered the dining room just as Detective Grogan was exiting.

  “I’ll fetch your coat, Detective,” the butler said with a slight bow.

  Grogan was still blotchy and sweating profusely.

  “You’re leaving?” I asked. He didn’t need to answer, really. He looked ready to vomit all over the Persian carpet.

  Grogan raised his thin, light-colored eyebrows and tried to smile at Adele. “I apologize, Miss Horne.” He then turned to me. “Let me know if you’re still curious about the Red Herring Heists, Suzanna. I’ll see if I can pull the files for you if they’re public.”

  I said thank you and then Detective Grogan was gone. Nearly all the others had taken their seats at the table, including Hannah. A suited footman pulled out the chair beside hers and bowed toward me. She’d managed to switch the seating arrangement after all. I slipped into the chair, dreading having to talk yet again about the Maddie Cook case.

  “The Red Herring Heists?” Hannah asked, having overheard her husband. “Why, I don’t think I’ve heard of that case before.”

  Uncle Bruce was settling down into his seat across from me. He snatched the cloth napkin away from the footman who was trying to place it in his lap.

  “Why are you asking about that case?” he barked. I was quickly learning that the ability to hide his feelings was not one of Uncle Bruce’s strengths.

  “It just caught my interest,” I replied. He held my gaze another moment but didn’t make a reply. He cut his eyes away from me and sent a fast glance down the table. They landed on Grandmother. I followed the look and saw she also had a drawn expression. When she saw me watching her, she painted on a smile.

  Hannah began asking questions about the Cook case, and I answered dutifully. Every now and then I heard an irritated sigh or throat clearing from across the table. Uncle Bruce tried to redirect the conversation, asking Mr. Horne about business, imploring his wife to regale us with stories of Venice, and even going so far as to ask Will how Bellmont’s was going for him this year. As if Uncle Bruce actually cared.

  I didn’t pay any attention to it really, because it wasn’t the Cook case I wanted to be talking, or even thinking, about. It was the Red Herring Heists that were now firmly nagging at me. Uncle Bruce and Grandmother didn’t like my interest in them. And that, naturally, only made me want to know more.

  Bertie had a pot of tea ready for us when we arrived home. We unwrapped ourselves in the foyer and went into the parlor, where a fire licked the hearth logs and a plush chair beckoned me. Grandmother sat back in her chair and lifted her small feet onto a low, ruffled footstool.

  “Miss Zanna, you’ve a telegram,” Bertie said, placing the rectangular envelope on the sofa’s end table.

  “They certainly miss you,” Grandmother said, her lids closing in exhaustion.

  My parents did seem to be overdoing the correspondence a little, and I was running out of things to say in my responses that didn’t involve the case. Thank goodness telegrams required short sentences. But I had to give my parents some leeway. It was my first time away from home, and my father hadn’t even wanted me to go in the first place. I put the telegram in my skirt pocket and accepted a cup of tea from Bertie.

  “Grandmother,” I began. “Why do you think my father dislikes Boston so much?”

  I couldn’t imagine it had anything to do with her. Grandmother wasn’t overbearing or mean or someone to avoid at all costs.

  “Dislike?” she echoed. Her eyes fluttered open. “I don’t know what you mean. Why would Benjamin dislike his hometown?”

  I sipped the peppermint tea. Grandmother also wasn’t a very good liar.

  “He never visits,” I said.

  “He’s a very busy man.” Her immediate excuse had the worn, overused quality of something she’d said time and again. Much like my answers to questions about the Maddie Cook case.

  Grandmother closed her eyes again, but her relaxed posture in the chair had turned slightly rigid. I sensed she was waiting to see if I’d give up. She really should have known better.

  “My father didn’t want me to visit. He said it was too dangerous. Why would he think that?”

  She flapped away my question with a tired sweep of her hand. “I’m sure I have no idea. My house is far from dangerous and I am completely capable of seeing to your protection.”

  I set my teacup on its saucer and balanced it on my lap. “Protection from what?”

  Grandmother’s lids sprang open. Her startled, caught-red-handed expression threw me back to that evening around the Horne table.

  “Both you and Uncle Bruce reacted so strangely when I brought up the Red Herring Heists tonight. Won’t you tell me what it is about that case that frightens the two of you?”

  I hadn’t known those were the words I was going to choose. The question of what frightened them about the cold case made Grandmother sit forward and look me in the eye.

  “Frightens us? That’s absurd, Zanna. We aren’t frightened by some dusty old case that no one has thought of for over a dozen years.”

  I didn’t believe her. Uncle Bruce had just about burned me with his scathing stare, and Grandmother had paled drastically. The same way she had at her own dinner party last weekend, when Mr. Horne had asked me about my middle name. I sat straighter, nearly spilling my tea onto my lap.

  “You both reacted strangely then, too,” I said softly to myself. Grandmother frowned.

  “When?”

  I set my cup on a low table and stood up.

  “At your dinner party, when Mr. Horne wanted to know my middle name. You interrupted to say you’d heard the dinner bell chiming —” I took a breath, figuring something out. “But you hadn’t really heard it, had you? You made it up. The servants were all surprised to find us in the dining room. They hadn’t rung the bell, and you knew it.” I pointed my finger at her even though I knew I shouldn’t. “You lied. You jumped in and lied to keep me from saying my middle name.�
��

  Grandmother opened her mouth to reply, but instead shut it and dipped her head. It was as good as an admission of guilt.

  “You don’t want me to ask about the Red Herring Heists, and you don’t want anyone to know Leighton is my middle name. Why?”

  I decided to give her a few moments, even a full minute, to gather her response. I was on the right track, but I didn’t want to push her. She wasn’t fanning herself or looking breathless, but I didn’t want to take the chance of having her collapse and stop breathing. I waited. The only noise was that of the hearth fire and of a fast-moving carriage coming up Knight Street.

  She looked up and met my patient stare. “Suzanna, I understand that you’re full of questions. I know you aspire to be a detective, too, like Bruce. You’re well on your way already.” A fleeting grin lifted her serious expression. “If you weren’t so astute, you never would have noticed anything amiss. I won’t treat you like a simple child, but I also can’t tell you everything. The truth involves many —”

  A few hoarse shouts came from outside the parlor windows. The slam of a carriage door interrupted the confession I’d nearly won from Grandmother. A fist thumped heavily on the brownstone’s front door. Bertie raced to the foyer, her starched cotton skirts swishing loudly at the incessant pounding.

  “Mr. Snow!” Bertie exclaimed, and within a second Uncle Bruce was inside the parlor. He looked from Grandmother to me, his eyes blazing, his hair disheveled. The white shirt he’d worn that night under his suit jacket was streaked with sweat and soot.

  “My goodness, Bruce, what on earth has happened to you?” Grandmother went to him and he grasped her arms tightly.

  “You’re all right?” He swiveled toward Grandmother’s stunned servant. “Bertie, have you or Margaret Mary seen anyone strange lurking about tonight? Anyone at all?”

  Bertie shook her head, her white-gloved hands clasped together at her lace collar.

  “Bruce, what’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Grandmother asked again.

  He let go of his mother’s arms and went to the hearth, pacing in front of the flames. Grandmother and I watched, waiting for an answer. He braced himself against the mantel and hung his head low, his back turned to us.

  “Bertie, some more tea,” Grandmother said quietly, but Uncle Bruce whipped around.

  “No tea, Mother, not now. My God,” he said, his voice hoarse, as if he’d been shouting. “It’s Neil. His home … it’s gone. Burned. Burned to the foundation and —”

  He shook his head, ran his hand through his thick black hair. A new emotion played across his face, one I had not yet seen: anguish.

  “And we fear Neil has burned with it.”

  My knees gave out. I collapsed into the seat of my chair. Grandmother gasped and whimpered.

  “No! Oh no, tell me it’s not true!” she cried.

  Detective Grogan was … was dead? I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. Tears smarted in my eyes and blurred the parlor, which was already dim in the firelight.

  “That’s not all, either,” Uncle Bruce continued. “My home is gone as well.”

  Grandmother all-out screamed this time. She fell onto the sofa, thankfully caught and guided by Uncle Bruce.

  “It’s all right, Mother, no one was injured there. I’d dismissed the servants earlier in the evening since we were attending the dinner at Xavier’s.”

  I sat immobile, my limbs numb. But my mind raced with questions.

  “Both of your homes were set on fire during the dinner party?” I asked.

  Uncle Bruce nodded. “It looks that way. Perhaps retaliation from the Irish mob for all of the investigating we’ve been doing on the Horne fires. We’d just brought in one of their higher-ups for questioning.” Uncle Bruce closed his eyes, no doubt thinking of his partner.

  “So you think they somehow knew you’d be gone from your homes tonight?” I asked.

  “Except Neil had felt ill…. He’d gone home early …” Uncle Bruce couldn’t finish his sentence. He dipped his head and worked the muscles in his jaw.

  Grandmother seemed to lift from her shock. “Great heavens, Neil’s wife. Poor Hannah, where is she? Is she all right?”

  Uncle Bruce, now sitting beside his mother, nodded heavily. “She and Katherine are at Will’s mother’s home. The police and fire crew didn’t want her near the scene…. She was in hysterics, trying to get inside while the house was crumbling.”

  I didn’t want to consider it possible that Neil Grogan was dead. Perhaps he’d gone to call on a doctor before going home, or a pharmacy. Perhaps he’d not been at home like everyone feared.

  “Have they found the — the body yet?” I asked, lowering my voice when I said “body.” It seemed so disrespectful to refer to a man I’d just spoken to earlier in the evening as a “body.”

  Uncle Bruce shook his head and stood.

  “No, but I must get back to the scene. When they do, I should be there. And then I need to pay a visit to Xavier.” He ran a hand through his messed hair. “On top of everything else lost tonight are the paintings we’d moved from his warehouses. We thought Neil’s house would be safer. We thought …” But he couldn’t finish. He made a face, scrunching up his eyes and nose to block tears.

  That was where they’d taken the paintings? And now Detective Grogan’s home had been burned. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “I just needed to be sure you were all right, Mother,” Uncle Bruce said once he’d recovered. “With two homes burning, I worried those criminals might have targeted other people connected to Neil or me.”

  Grandmother blotted her eyes and tear-streaked cheeks with her lace handkerchief.

  “Of course, Bruce, of course. Oh, I just can’t believe —” She gasped sharply. I jumped up.

  “Grandmother, are you feeling all right? Do you need me to call for Dr. Philbrick?”

  She shook her head. “No, no. I’m fine, just devastated. Devastated,” she repeated. “Bruce dear, I won’t keep you. Thank you for coming.”

  Uncle Bruce hesitated, eyeing his mother warily. He then stooped to kiss her cheek.

  “Please rest, Mother, and don’t work yourself into a panic. I’ve got two officers on watch out front just in case. I’ll be back in the morning if I can.”

  He left the sofa, and as he passed me, said beneath his breath, “Make sure she rests, Suzanna. I’m depending on you.”

  He flinched, as if he hadn’t meant to say the last part. But then, knowing he couldn’t take the words back, darted out of the parlor.

  Grandmother sat on the sofa quietly sniffling into her handkerchief. Bertie came in with more tea. Smartly, she’d brought one of Dr. Philbrick’s prescribed tonics as well.

  Grandmother sipped while I sat trying to wrap my mind around every aspect of the tragic news Uncle Bruce had just delivered. Detective Grogan was feared to be dead. His and Uncle Bruce’s homes lay in burned shambles, and there was one more loss to deal with on top of it all.

  The paintings removed from Mr. Horne’s warehouses for safekeeping had ended up being destroyed anyway. Any normal person might have chalked it up to irony, bad luck, or fate. But I wasn’t a normal person. I was a detective-at-large. And I was angry.

  “I’m going to solve this, Detective Grogan,” I whispered into my tea. “I promise.”

  Sat., Sept. 26, 10 a.m., Varden St., Lawton Square:

  Dashner’s shop closed up tight, same as yesterday and the day before. Possibilities: (1) On holiday, (2) In hospital, (3) On the lam with priceless works of art.

  Partial to possibility #3.

  I’D BEEN STAKING OUT MR. DASHNER’S SHOP front for three days. Well, more like sneaking past his shop on my way home from school. His shop on Varden Street was just a block out of my way, and after what had happened Tuesday night, I’d needed to get cracking on this investigation.

  Detective Grogan’s death and the twin fires had been splashed all over the front page of every Boston newspaper for days. His body �
�� or what remained of it — had been discovered at daybreak the morning after the fire. More members of the underground mob had been arrested, questioned, and ultimately released. None of the charges were sticking to anyone, and Uncle Bruce was livid. He and Aunt Katherine were staying at the Copley Square Hotel, one of the nicest hotels in Boston. Still, each time he came to Grandmother’s brownstone, he looked worse and worse. To my great astonishment, I’d started to feel sorry for him.

  He’d lost his partner and his home, and his investigation was a disaster. It couldn’t get any more dreadful than that. I closed my notebook and put it back in my pocket. Actually, I supposed it could. Neil Grogan’s funeral was in just two hours. I had never been to a funeral before, but Grandmother said we must attend to show our support and sorrow. Of course, I agreed, but still … I was a bit nervous. Just like when Adele told me about her mother being dead, what could I possibly say to Hannah to make her feel better? I’m sorry wasn’t enough.

  To work out my nerves, I’d told Grandmother I was going to run to the florist on Kingston Boulevard and purchase some roses for Hannah. Perhaps I could just hand her those and not have to say anything at all. Plus, the florist was just one block shy of Mr. Dashner’s shop. Grandmother had said that Bertie could go, but I’d insisted. Grandmother had been too preoccupied with getting ready for the funeral to argue.

  I checked my pocket watch to see how much time I’d wasted going to Mr. Dashner’s. Not too bad. The rain from last night’s storm had lightened to a mist, but the runoff in the street gutters was still fast. I didn’t mind the rain. It cleared away most of the horse manure at least. And the dreary weather seemed fitting for a funeral.

  I snapped my pocket watch closed, but the rain had made the silver wet and the whole thing slipped from my hand. The watch tinked off the pavement. With a gasp, I crouched to retrieve it, hoping the glass face hadn’t cracked or the slim hands been damaged. No sooner had I picked up the watch and started to stand than I saw a glimpse of the sidewalk behind me. My eyes landed on Adele Horne, who stood, stock-still, just ten paces away.