The Mastermind Plot (10 page)

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.”

I'
D BEEN STAKING OUT
M
R
. D
ASHNER'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.

“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.