The Mastermind Plot (8 page)

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.

M
ISS
D
OUCETTE 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 recalled 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.

“You could pretend you need to have something framed,” I suggested. Adele propped a hand on her hip.

“And then what?”

It was a good question, and it stumped me. Maybe there wasn't anything we could do about Dashner yet. First, we had to have something more than just his knowledge of the frames. We needed to know what his motive would be.
Motive
… it was another one of my favorite words.

“I think we should check out the illegal underground market,” Adele said. It took me by surprise — I'd been thinking about that as well.

Adele looked down the curb to where her brougham and driver waited. She spoke more softly. “Mr. Dashner knows the value of art, doesn't he? He could sell the stolen paintings illegally and make a fortune.”

She was right on the mark there. I started to feel a certain kind of kinship with Adele and the way her mind and mine clicked. It was a wary kinship, though. She was so serious and apprehensive, and she watched me as if she expected me to say or do something offensive. Perhaps she thought I was like my uncle? She certainly didn't like him.

I supposed the way my last friendship had ended had made me apprehensive as well. Lucy Kent had been a chambermaid at the Rosemount, and my best friend — until she lied to me and helped in the kidnapping of Maddie Cook.

“But I don't know anything about the underground market,” Adele said, her excitement fading. I nodded and admitted I didn't, either.

I wanted there to be an actual, physical underground marketplace, where vendors set up their carts of stolen and illegal goods and shouted out prices. As absurd as the idea was, it would make finding out more information so much easier.

“Will might know,” I said, thinking out loud. “But I don't know when I'll see him again. Do you know where Bellmont's Academy is?”

“You can catch up with him tomorrow evening,” Adele said. “Papa's having a dinner and I asked if I could invite you and Will. He should be there, along with the detectives and their wives and a few other people,” Adele explained, distractedly shuffling her books underneath her arm. “Your grandmother probably received the invitation earlier today.”

“Oh,” I said. Adele certainly seemed on top of things. “Great.”

Adele nodded and then took off down the street without any kind of parting sentiments. Did she want Will and me at her father's dinner in order to discuss the case, or did she want us there as her friends?

I started for Knight Street, finally realizing what it was about Adele that unsettled me. I could pick apart
most people, determine their main characteristics, read their body language and their expressions. I couldn't do those things with Adele. And that was what kept me from trusting her completely.

Adele's house on June Street was exactly what I imagined it would be. Three stories of intricate, patterned brickwork, arched windows, and even a turret and wicked-looking weather vane. Unlike the tightly fitted brownstones lined up along Knight Street, the homes along June each had at least an acre of yard, most of which were fenced in and neatly landscaped with oaks, fountains, and faded summer greenery.

However, the Hornes' lawn was the only one that had statuary. Grandmother's carriage passed through the opened gates, rattled up the short drive, and was greeted by a headless Hercules standing sentry in front of one bay window. A goddess with both arms lost below the elbow had been placed near the bordering hedges, and a cluster of winged and fat-cheeked cherubs with bows and arrows were perched on a center platform in a fountain. Two ancient-looking Egyptian cats with permanent hissing expressions were set on the sides of the front door.

“Not very welcoming,” I mentioned. Grandmother lifted her eyebrow at the cats in silent agreement.

The butler led us inside. He was nearly as ancient as the Egyptian cats. The foyer and stairwell glittered with crystal chandeliers and sconces, gilded frames for portraits and still-life paintings, silk paneled walls and bronze urns potted with lush green shrubbery. I paid close attention to the art as we shed our cloaks and gloves and followed the butler into a room with walls of rich, polished mahogany and green and silver striped wallpaper. A massive crystal chandelier cast a golden glow over everyone and everything inside.

I spotted Adele first, her shiny black hair and snowy complexion turning toward me the moment I stepped in.

“Mother,” a deep, rumbling voice called from across the room.

Uncle Bruce stood before the roaring hearth fire in a black suit and tie, his dark, thick head of hair glossed to perfection. He didn't bother with a greeting for me.

“Mrs. Snow!” Xavier Horne said from Uncle Bruce's side. He was wearing a tweed suit, which was less formal than what he'd worn to Grandmother's dinner. As he walked toward us, my eyes instinctively lowered to his shoes. Unlike the ones he'd worn on Saturday evening, these shoes were at a high polish.

Mr. Horne kissed Grandmother's hand. “Jeremiah asked me to see how you were faring. He mentioned you'd had a spell at the museum the other evening.”

Jeremiah?

“Do you mean Dr. Philbrick?” I asked, surprised.

“That's right,” Mr. Horne answered, reaching for my hand and tickling my skin again with his mustache as he kissed it. “He's a good friend of mine. Jeremiah's collection is just getting under way and we met yesterday at an auction. Tell me, Octavia, are you better since the museum concert?”

Mr. Horne turned back to my grandmother, who seemed embarrassed by all the attention her spell had produced.

Adele came to her father's side. She gave me a tight smile and looked impatient to begin talking about the case with me. Will was perched on a settee by the hearth with a dark-haired, elegantly dressed woman whose diamond earrings and necklace looked like they'd come from straight off the chandelier. The woman was speaking to Will, but he kept flicking his eyes my way, parting his lips to say something, and getting cut off by the woman before he could. I couldn't wait to talk to him about Mr. Dashner and the frames and the underground market. He'd know something, I was sure of it.

“We have to free him from her,” Adele said softly. Grandmother and Mr. Horne had stepped away into their own conversation.

“Who is she?” I whispered back.

Adele snorted. “You don't know?”

I shook my head, wondering why Adele should be so amused.

“She's Katherine Snow. Your
aunt
.” She practically mouthed the words so no one could overhear.

That was Uncle Bruce's wife! My own aunt. I felt ridiculous for not knowing, but of course I'd never so much as seen a photograph of her.

“We've never met,” I explained.

“Clearly,” Adele replied. “She adores Will, as you can tell. She'll jabber on at him all evening if we don't tear him away somehow.”

I thought to introduce myself. But shouldn't Uncle Bruce or Grandmother do that? I felt invisible and forgotten with all of the adults gathered in a circle by the hearth.

“I hear you have a rare Degas sculpture, Xavier,” my grandmother said from within the circle. “Might you treat us with a look?”

Adele gave a small gasp and turned to listen to her father's reply.

“I'm afraid I'm keeping the Degas sculpture under lock and key, Octavia, and its whereabouts secret. I hope you aren't offended.”

Grandmother daintily pressed one of her hands to her collar. “Not in the least. But why all the mystery?”

Uncle Bruce's deep tenor followed. “It sounds as if you fear for the thing's security.”