The Mastermind Plot (11 page)

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?”

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.”

“Y
OU ARE NOT
,” I
WHISPERED
. “B
OTH 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.

“So that I won't be afraid of you.” It ended up sounding like a question.

He smiled again. “Unless you are a rare work of art hanging neglected on a wall somewhere, you have no reason at all to be afraid of me.”

He took a step closer and shoved up the brim of his hat so I could see his eyes more clearly. They pulled me in. When I let myself stare into them, I saw something I didn't want to see.

My mother.

“Cecilia and Benjamin haven't told you about me, and I'm not surprised. I'm the reason they were forced out of Boston,” he said. “The reason they've stayed away all this time.”

I shook my head because it was all I could manage. This man, this self-proclaimed thief, was my grandfather? My parents had lied to me?

“When I heard you were coming to visit with Benjamin's mother, I …” He sighed and twirled the end of his walking cane into the air. “I couldn't stay away. I had to see the granddaughter I'd never had the chance to meet.”

It was all too much to take in. I didn't want to believe it. And who had told him I was coming?

“So you're the one who's been stealing the art from the Horne warehouses,” Will said when I couldn't open my mouth.

Matthew Leighton grimaced. “I can see how it might appear that way. I am a thief after all, and an art thief at that. But arson is not my modus operandi — it's
simply not the way I work. I am not the one stealing the Horne collection.”

His chin. The pointed, bottom-of-a-heart shape to it … my mother had the same chin. The same genuine smile and dark gray eyes. But I wanted more proof than just a similar geography of the face.

“Why should we believe anything you say?” I asked. He twirled his cane around once again. He looked dashing and intellectual, and the sharp edge to his words, the perfect enunciation, told me he had a quick mind.

“I don't have any proof to hand you at the moment,” he said. “And if I presented you with anything less than solid evidence, you would surely dismiss it. If you want answers you can trust, don't go to your grandmother. She's too stubborn. Bruce is more likely to tell you everything if you push him far enough.”

I found myself nodding obediently and stopped. As if I was going to take advice from him!

“I'll find the answers my own way, thank you,” I said.

Leighton tugged the brim of his hat down and bit back an amused grin.

“Of course you will,” he replied, and turned to walk deeper into the cemetery. He looked over his shoulder
as he walked away. “Take care, Suzanna. And try not to get into too much trouble, will you?”

He slipped behind another grand headstone and promptly disappeared.

We found Adele at her house. Apparently, following Dr. Philbrick hadn't proved dangerous — or valuable. It didn't matter. By the time Will and I reached June Street, my anxiety had found a new topic on which to dwell: Matthew Leighton.

Adele refused to come with us to the funeral reception. Will and I sat in her father's library for a good ten minutes trying to convince her, but she detested the customary reception after a funeral almost as much as the funeral itself, she said. At her mother's, she had endured countless sympathetic hugs and pats on the cheek, and promises of “life going on” and “all that rubbish,” as Adele had called it.

I'd considered telling Adele about my encounter with Matthew Leighton, but every time I almost opened my mouth to do it, I stopped. He was an
art thief
. How could I admit I might have found the person stealing her father's collection, and that he claimed to be my grandfather? So Will and I eventually left for Grandmother's without a word of it. Carriages, buggies,
and even a few motorcars lined each side of the street. Grandmother's brownstone seemed to be sucking in and belching out mourners clad in black and brown.

“Thanks for not telling Adele about what happened in the cemetery,” I said to Will. We'd hardly spoken the whole way back to Knight Street. Will had seemed to know to stay mum about the grandfather/art thief topic, at least while my head was still spinning with the news.

“Are you going to ask your uncle about Matthew Leighton?” Will asked.

I knew I needed to, and as soon as possible. But what was I thinking? Uncle Bruce wasn't going to speak to me unless … well, unless I did as Leighton had said and
pushed him
to.

I needed to use the element of surprise.