“Adele?” I said, rising up from my crouch. She had the distinct look of someone who’d been caught in the act. But what act? Had she been following me?
“Oh. Suzanna. H-hello.”
I searched the street for her father, or the stylish brougham that dropped her off and picked her up every day at the academy. I didn’t see either.
“What are you doing on Varden Street?” I asked, walking back toward her.
Adele repositioned her gray, felted muffin-shaped hat. I’d never seen her wear it nor the plain gray wool jacket that looked to be a size too big for her. If she hadn’t wanted me to spot her, and perhaps even wanted to blend in with the crowds on this gray morning, she’d chosen the right ensemble to wear.
“What are you doing on Varden Street?” she shot back defensively.
I put my pocket watch away, this time successfully. “You were following me.”
Adele’s usually icy expression flushed.
“Well, I thought we were going to be solving this case together,” she replied, still bristling. “You’ve been staking out Mr. Dashner’s shop for days and not once did you think to —”
Adele stopped and bottled up the rest of her sentence. She didn’t need to finish. I hadn’t thought to invite her.
“I didn’t think …” I shrugged. What could I say? Adele was right: I hadn’t thought to invite her. “Look, I’m sorry. It didn’t cross my mind, but it should have. I suppose I’m just used to doing things by myself.”
The pinch of Adele’s lips loosened. “Well … I see Mr. Dashner’s shop is still closed. Where are you going now?”
I still had my excuse to Grandmother to hold up. “The florist’s. I’m getting flowers for the funeral.” Adele began walking with me toward the corner of Kingston Boulevard. “Are you going?”
She was quiet as we rounded the corner. I took a covert glance her way.
“I don’t like funerals,” she finally said. I imagined it had something to do with her mother’s death. I didn’t want to ask, though.
“I wouldn’t think many people do,” I replied as the florist’s colorful striped awnings came into view. Another sign then grabbed my attention.
I halted and stared at the rectangular sign hanging from a bar just above the shop’s door. The wooden sign had been engraved with one name: PERIGGI. The single display window showed off frames of all sizes and shapes and colors.
“Signor Periggi,” I whispered, my lips cocking into a smile.
“One of the finest framers in Boston,” Adele said in a startlingly pitch-perfect imitation of Miss Doucette. I stared at her, shocked. Not only had she actually just said something funny, but she’d also recalled our teacher’s exact wording from earlier that week. Adele muffled a laugh.
“I think I have an idea,” I said, and began to cross the rain-washed street. Adele chased after me, careful to avoid buggies and carriages and delivery bicycles.
“Care to share it with me this time?” she asked.
I peered inside Signor Periggi’s shopwindow. “There can’t be too many custom framers in Boston. Maybe Signor Periggi knows Mr. Dashner. Maybe he even knows where Mr. Dashner has disappeared to.”
I opened the front door. A rigged bell chimed above our heads as we walked in. The shop smelled of oil and sanded wood, paint, and a certain musty scent that could only be described as “age.”
A small man glanced up from a crowded worktable in the far corner of the one-room shop. “May I help you?”
He wore goggles that magnified both of his eyes, and his long black hair had been messily pulled back with a ribbon. He squinted at me, his enlarged eyes comical until he took off his goggles.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound innocent. “Are you Signor Periggi?”
The man put his goggles down and came out from behind the workbench. He wore a long leather apron streaked with grease and a glittery substance — gilt perhaps.
“Sì, my name is Periggi. Francesco Periggi. May I ask how I can assist such charming young ladies?”
Signor Periggi’s English was good, but he still spoke with an Italian accent. I needed to listen carefully.
“We’re … we’re looking to have something framed for our grandmother,” I lied, quickly trying to think of more. “For her birthday. A painting. We thought we’d use Dashner’s Framery, but it’s been closed up for days.”
I wanted to lead Signor Periggi to tell us something — anything — about Mr. Dashner. That he wasn’t an honest dealer, or that we should stay away from him for some reason or another. Something to fuel my theory. But Periggi didn’t oblige me.
“Dashner is away on holiday, I believe. If your grandmother’s present can wait until Monday, I suggest trying his shop then. He does very nice work, and —” Periggi waved at the packed back portion of the shop. “As you can see, I am quite occupied at the moment. I’ve just finished a large commissione for a client and now I must return to my others.”
“Commissione?” I wasn’t proficient in French and definitely not in Italian.
“A commission. A job,” he explained. “Many frames built over the last few weeks. All for one difficile — ah, picky? — client. But now, Signor Periggi is finished!” He brushed his hands together and waved them away. “You will try Mr. Dashner Monday?”
Adele and I nodded glumly, both of us disappointed not to have uncovered anything gritty. But I did need to get those flowers.
“Thank you, Signor Periggi,” Adele said, opening the door. “I’m glad you’re finished with your difficile client, too.”
Her accent was spot on. Periggi bellowed a laugh as we stepped outside. “Sì! Eleven frames from scratch in less than two months … pazzo! Crazy!”
I popped my head in. “Did you say you had an order for eleven frames?”
“No, sedici — sixteen. But I ended up only needing to finish eleven.”
I stepped back into the shop and sent the bell chiming again. My mind raced to tally up the number of paintings lost in both the warehouse fires and in Grogan’s house fire. Three had been “lost” in the first fire, two in the second blaze, then four stolen from Dr. Philbrick’s house, and six more supposedly burned just last Tuesday. That came to fifteen. I checked my notebook to be sure. Yes. Fifteen paintings in all, not eleven.
I shoved the notebook back into my cloak pocket, disappointed yet again. I’d been eager to find a clue, but I already knew most suspicions didn’t pan out. Signor Periggi observed me quizzically.
“Your client must own a museum,” Adele said, and right away I knew it wasn’t to fill the awkward moment of silence. Was she trying to question him as well?
The framer shook his head. “Perhaps. I do not know him very well.”
I could almost see the cogs and wheels inside Adele’s head turning to think of a tricky way to ask who the client was. But the number of frames was too high anyway. The small clock mounted on the wall of Periggi’s shop alerted us to the time.
“Thank you, Signor Periggi,” I said with a tug on Adele’s arm. “Good day.”
I closed the door behind us, turned around, and nearly collided with Jeremiah Philbrick.
“Miss Snow?” he said, his bushy eyebrows furrowing downward. “Miss Horne?”
“Dr. Philbrick,” we replied in unison. He looked around, apparently searching for Grandmother or Mr. Horne. “My grandmother is at home. Getting ready for the funeral.”
“Father, too,” Adele added.
He coughed. “Yes, of course. But what were you two doing inside the framer’s shop?”
I wasn’t about to tell him the truth. “Just checking on prices. A gift for Grandmother, maybe.”
He wrinkled up his lips, pressing them hard together in doubt.
“Did you know Detective Grogan?” I asked to distract him.
He sighed and reached for the knob to Periggi’s shop, but then drew back his hand as if he’d realized he wasn’t going inside that shop anyway. “I did not. I simply looked over the …
ah … remains.”
He said the word remains with a small, respectful bow of his head.
Adele took both Dr. Philbrick and me by surprise with a question: “But didn’t Detective Grogan investigate the burglary at your house?”
Of course! He must have met Detective Grogan before. A hoarse grumble worked its way up Dr. Philbrick’s throat.
“That doesn’t mean I knew the man.” Again, he reached for the door to Periggi’s shop. Again, he drew it away, flustered. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. Good day, ladies.”
He tipped his hat and continued on down the sidewalk. Adele stared after him, a triumphant gleam in her otherwise steely eyes.
“Well, something ruffled his feathers. Do you think it was the way we caught him in a lie?”
Dr. Philbrick had definitely seemed disconcerted. But I knew better than to jump to conclusions. He’d had a sound point about his relationship with Detective Grogan…. He hadn’t truly known him. He’d barely been acquainted with him.
“We don’t have any proof he lied,” I answered. “But that was a clever catch you made, remembering the burglary.”
Adele didn’t seem to know whether to thank me for the compliment or to ignore it altogether. We walked a few paces toward the florist’s, Adele taking distracted glances behind us.
“Trying to work Signor Periggi for information about Mr. Dashner wasn’t so bad an idea, either,” she returned.
The exchange of terse compliments left me feeling fidgety. I couldn’t help but feel awkward around Adele. She had such a stony, grave manner. But at the same time, I sensed that she wanted to be around me. She’d followed me to Varden Street, after all.
“So the trolley is back there. I should go,” she said, quickly reversing her direction. “And you need to get those flowers still.”
She took another searching glance behind her, and I figured out what she was up to. “You’re going to follow Dr. Philbrick, aren’t you?”
Adele’s eyes popped wide, but then cleared back over to a calm gray. “Who says you get to be the only detective around here?”
If not for the slight lift of her lips, I might have taken that as an accusation. But Adele all but hopped away and down the sidewalk in the opposite direction in pursuit of Grandmother’s physician. So Adele wanted to be a detective, too, did she? I hurried to the florist’s shop, trying to think of all the reasons the idea was absurd. I couldn’t settle on a single one. The truth was, with her cool composure, quick thinking, and aloof personality, Adele Horne would make a fine sleuth. Whether or not that also made her a fine friend was still undecided. I supposed, in the end, it didn’t matter. We had a case to solve.
But first, I had a funeral to attend.
The service was strangely calming. Mourners spoke in hushed tones and shed tears silently, and scores of uniformed officers who had turned out to pay their respects to Detective Grogan wore somber, unshakable expressions. I spent the majority of the service, held inside St. Sebastian’s Church of the Holy Christ, worrying what I would say should I come face-to-face with Hannah Grogan. I’d pricked my restless fingers on the thorns of the roses I’d purchased at least a half-dozen times.
I needn’t have worried. She was surrounded by people she’d known far longer than me, and didn’t so much as notice I was there. Uncle Bruce sat beside her in the front pew, his broad shoulders mammoth compared to her small, quivering ones. He held her close to his side, whispering supportive words no doubt, while Aunt Katherine sat stone-faced on Uncle Bruce’s other side. Will was there, too, sitting with his parents near Aunt Katherine. I didn’t have a chance to speak to him until after the service.
We followed far behind the pallbearers who carried Detective Grogan’s casket into the cemetery behind the church.
“Have you seen Adele?” I asked, searching the rest of the line of mourners. Mr. Horne was just ahead of us, but Adele’s shiny black curls were not beside him.
The calm voice of logic kept insisting she hadn’t come because she “didn’t like funerals.” But the anxious voice of worry kept inventing all sorts of dangerous scenarios in which she’d tangled herself up while following Dr. Philbrick.
“No. Why?” Will asked.
“She went a bit Sherlock on me this morning.” Then in hushed tones, I relayed everything that had happened.
“Dr. Philbrick is a friend of Mr. Horne’s, isn’t he?” Will asked. I nodded. “Maybe Adele’s had run-ins with him before. It could have given her an upper hand with her suspicions of him.”
That didn’t help the anxious voice slowly growing louder and louder in my ear. Will saw my worry.
“We’ll try and find her after the burial, okay?”
I nodded, grateful to have Will there to talk me out of a panic. Detectives didn’t panic. That had to be one of my top Detective Rules.
The procession came to a stop around the burial site. And that was when I saw him: the strange man who’d been following me.
He was standing behind one of the many tall gray stone pillars that marked the graves. I took a fast scan of the mourners, all clad in black and gray and brown, and it looked as if he was succeeding in going unnoticed. That is, by everyone but me.
I paid extra attention to Grandmother, peering at her through my side vision, worrying she would see him and collapse into a fit. So far, though, she seemed to be oblivious to his presence.
The casket had been placed on the lowering device and the crowd had gathered around closely to hear the priest speak. I wanted to go to the stranger and demand to know who he was, but I also knew I should stay and listen to the final words being said in Detective Grogan’s honor. Grandmother flanked me to the right, and Will to the left, and I knew there would be no escaping.
Prayers and words about acceptance and grieving and keeping the fond memories of the dearly departed slipped into one ear and out the other. I could only focus on the stranger hiding in the cemetery, watching. Why was he here?
I’d read in plenty of detective novels that the perpetrators of crimes sometimes enjoyed watching the effects of their misdeeds. Could that be what he was doing? Had he been the one to set the fires? I tossed the idea around as the priest’s eulogy wrapped up, and the hush of whispering and sniffling took over once again.
The funeral was over. That was it. No wonder Adele hadn’t come. Now the world should just move on, minus one good man? The idea made my heart sink even lower, and it also fanned my anger.
“Zanna, darling, we should hurry home. The funeral reception will be beginning, and I need to be sure Margaret Mary has things under control.” Grandmother took my arm and started to guide me back along the grassy footpath to the tall cemetery gates.
“Grandmother, I’m worried about Adele,” I said, and sent a fast, hard glance toward Will, urging him to follow along. “I think Will and I should walk over to June Street to see if she doesn’t want to come to the reception after all. It isn’t very far from here.”
Grandmother cupped my cheek in her palm, her gaze watery. Guilt knifed me in the ribs, just below my heart.
“Sweet Zanna,” she sighed. “Of course. Try and convince her to come. I’ll see you at home.”
Will waited until Grandmother had walked far enough away before coolly asking, “We’re not going to June Street, are we?”
I stepped out of the flow of mourners and back toward another, older headstone.
“No. The man who’s been following me is here. He’s been watching the whole burial like it’s some kind of show,” I whispered. “I want to talk to him.”
Will sucked in air. “What man? Someone’s been following you?”
I filled him in as I wove my way through the headstones, taking a meandering path toward the tree where I’d seen the man.
“Zanna, stop.” Will grabbed my arm and pulled me to a halt. “Adele had a strange man come up to her after the second warehouse fire, and you have a strange man following you now. Do you think this man could be one and the same?”
&n
bsp; I hadn’t thought that at all, actually. Adele hadn’t had anyone following her, and Grandmother knew my stranger.
“I don’t think so, Will,” I said after a moment’s contemplation.
“But you still want to talk to him? Zanna, that’s not —” Will stopped his protest mid-sentence as the stranger stepped out from behind a massive headstone. He stood before us, calm and collected.
“You are correct, young man,” the stranger said. “It’s not the best idea for Miss Snow to be speaking with me right here, right now, what with all of these police officers swarming about.”
But a fast glance behind us showed that most of the mourners, officers and all, were filing out through the gates, far away from this older section of the cemetery. The three of us were very much alone.
“And why don’t you want the police to see you?” Will asked. But I already knew.
“Because he’s a criminal,” I answered. “My grandmother told me that he’s a scoundrel of the worst sort.”
And here I was insisting on speaking to him. It was madness, I knew, but it couldn’t be helped.
My accusation brought a shine to the man’s eyes and a grin to his lips. That smile … it wasn’t a sarcastic smile. It was real. Genuine. I knew I’d seen it somewhere before.
“You are also correct,” he said, pulling on the brim of his hat. He kept his gaze locked with mine, his expression all humor. Mine was all mock bravery.
“My name is Matthew Leighton. To be specific, I am a thief. And even more specifically” — he arched an eyebrow — “I am your grandfather.”
Detective Rule: Always keep the element of surprise within your control.
“YOU ARE NOT,” I WHISPERED. “BOTH OF MY grandfathers are dead.”
Will had gone stone-still beside me. This man was lying. He had to be. But he’d said his name was Leighton. My middle name was Leighton.
“You … you somehow found out what my middle name is and you’re tricking me,” I said.
“Why would I wish to do that?” he asked earnestly.
I searched for an answer, the sound of carriages pulling away from the cemetery and the chirps of birds in the branches above the only noises to be heard.
The Mastermind Plot Page 9
