“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.”
I slid my eyes over to Adele and watched her bite her lower lip.
“Of course I fear for its security. That thing is my collection’s crown jewel, Detective. I would never keep my entire collection under one roof, and I most certainly don’t think it’s wise for a collector to advertise the location of a piece as rare as my Degas.” Mr. Horne chuckled, as if any simpleton would know to do the same.
My uncle understood his silent meaning entirely too well. He pi
nched his lips tightly. “Do you mean to say you’re worried about the security of the remainder of your art collection? I can assure you, the location is safe. The burglary at the Philbrick place was an odd sort of coincidence.”
The Philbrick place? I tugged on Adele’s arm, jarring her from her intense eavesdropping. “The paintings were stolen from Dr. Philbrick’s home?”
Looking just as surprised, she answered, “I didn’t know where they were being stored.” Adele lowered her voice, her surprise changing to frustration. “My father isn’t telling me anything. I don’t understand why.”
Adele broke eye contact with me and looked away.
“Have you heard what else was taken in the burglary?” I asked.
But just then, Detective Grogan entered the receiving room, announced by the Hornes’ butler. The woman on Detective Grogan’s arm stole my attention, and Adele’s as well. For good reason, too: She was stunning.
“Neil! Hannah!” Mr. Horne exclaimed in greeting.
Hannah, who must have been Detective Grogan’s wife, was young, pretty, and wore her strawberry blond hair twisted in a loose chignon. She wore a chic, body-hugging black dress that sported a V-shaped neck instead of a high collar.
Grandmother pinched her lips with disapproval over so much exposed skin and shapeliness. I thought she looked lovely, though. And sophisticated. The way Adele smiled — genuinely, at that — and moved forward to welcome Hannah warmly, told me she was impressed by Detective Grogan’s wife as well.
Hannah’s arrival was what ended up tearing my aunt Katherine from Will’s side on the settee. The two women embraced and complimented each other’s dresses, and Will broke for our sides.
“Thank goodness,” he whispered. “I thought I’d have to listen to her talk about her trip to Venice for the entire evening. So what’s happening, Zanna? Adele told me when I first got here you had a lead.”
I checked to be sure the adults were properly ignoring us. Satisfied, I ushered Will and Adele closer to a wall of built-in bookshelves, the shelves shuttered with glass doors. I watched the group of adults in the glass’s reflection as I explained to Will about Mr. Dashner and the theory that he might have sold the art illegally.
“I don’t know a whole lot about the underground market,” Will said quietly. “But Detective Grogan might. That’s been his thing the last few years, though not for stolen art. More like machinery and weapons and nicked warehouse goods.”
I glanced into the bookcase’s glass and saw Neil Grogan adjust the eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose. He nodded at something Uncle Bruce was saying.
“You could ask him about the burglary at Dr. Philbrick’s house,” Adele suggested. “I’m sure he’d know what else was stolen.”
I bet he’d also know about another case, too. One I was much more interested in at the moment.
“The Red Herring Heists,” I said, perhaps a bit too loudly. There was a momentary pause in the flow of adult conversation. But it picked up again quickly.
“The case Grogan was talking about at your grandmother’s,” Will said. “You could pretend to be interested in that old case and then dig some information on the underground market out of him, too. Brilliant, Zanna.”
I would have accepted Will’s praise had I not noticed a fourth addition to our grouping by the bookshelves. I hadn’t caught his approach in the glass’s reflection, but now he stood directly behind us.
Detective Grogan cleared his throat. “Now, what’s all this about the underground market?”
Detective Rule: Always keep an eye on your peripherals.
I TURNED TOWARD DETECTIVE GROGAN RELUCTANTLY, knowing my cheeks and ears would be aflame. Surprisingly enough, Grogan’s own face looked like a newly ripening tomato. A trickle of sweat rolled down his temple and he loosened the tie around his neck. Come to think of it, the receiving room was warm.
“Oh, we were just talking about that case,” I answered. “The one you mentioned the other evening … what was it, the Red Robin Heists?”
Perhaps it had been a bit much — a cool look from Adele confirmed it. But Detective Grogan didn’t seem fazed.
“The Red Herring Heists,” he corrected. “What was it about the case that interested you?”
Unprepared for that one, I opened my mouth to reply. Nothing exited. Blast.
“Was it ever solved?” Adele piped up.
Grogan took a handkerchief from his suit pocket and dabbed his beading forehead.
“No. The heists are a cold case,” he answered.
“That means it’s unsolved,” Adele said. I glanced at her. She certainly knew her detective terminology.
Grogan put down his handkerchief and grinned. “That’s correct, Miss Horne. One day the art heists simply stopped, and the trail went cold. The police had a prime suspect at one point, but he eluded capture. The investigation went on for a short while after that, though nothing ever came of it. And no other museums or homes were ever burgled to provide more clues. Simple as that, really.”
By Grogan’s smooth, nearly wrinkle-free face I estimated him at thirty years of age or younger.
“You weren’t on the force when the heists took place,” I said. He smiled, almost bashfully.
“No, I’m afraid I was only just graduating from Bellmont’s,” he answered with a nod toward Will. “But I heard the stories and read the reports when I joined the force a handful of years later. Your uncle, though —” Grogan swung an arm out to gesture to Uncle Bruce. “Detective Snow was a rising star on the force at the time. He was part of the investigation. You might want to talk to him, rather than me.”
Talk to Uncle Bruce about a case? That was a bit unlikely.
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary. I was more curious about why someone would steal a well-known painting to begin with. The thief couldn’t exactly go and hang it in his study or hallway,” I said with a false giggle. Adele and Will joined me. We sounded pathetic. But once again, Grogan didn’t pick up on it. He grimaced and loosened his tie even further.
“No, art isn’t stolen for its beauty, but for its value. The thief most likely sold the items unlawfully in the underground market.”
“What happens then?” Adele asked.
“The thief seeks a buyer. Usually, it’s all done anonymously. The buyer doesn’t know the seller and vice versa.”
“Oh,” I said, still confused. “But how do they find each other? Is there some kind of underground market directory?”
I instantly wanted to take the inane question back. Of course there wasn’t a directory! Grogan chuckled.
“Something like that,” he said, laughing again. He looked as if he was about to say something more enlightening when his wife, Hannah, took him by the arm. She eyed his sweaty pallor.
“You’re still not feeling well, Neil?”
He shrugged off her concern with a nonchalant grin. “This is Hannah, my wife,” Grogan said to me. “Hannah, this is Bruce’s niece, Suzanna. She’s visiting from Canada.”
Hannah reached out both of her hands and closed them around mine. She gave them a squeeze.
“Of course! Katherine has told me all about you,” she said breathlessly.
“She has?” I asked, stunned. I hadn’t even met my aunt yet.
Hannah laughed. “You simply must sit beside me at dinner tonight. I don’t care if we have to reshuffle the entire seating arrangement. Even if Neil and Bruce end up beside each other and talk shop all night, it will be worth it. I have to hear everything about the Cook case.”
Oh. The Cook case. Of course. But I didn’t want to think about that old case. The stranger who’d tipped off Adele to the art theft theory had mentioned the red herrings had returned. And the Red Herring Heists had involved stolen art. There was a connection there. Why hadn’t my uncle — or Detective Grogan for that matter — picked up on that?
Detective Grogan bowed out of the group, heading for a window. He opened the sash a few inches and breathed in a gust of cold autumn air just a
s Aunt Katherine, her ears and neck and fingers shimmering with gaudy baubles, joined us.
“Don’t be silly, Hannah darling. The boys can’t sit next to each other. They’ll bore the rest of us to death with their police talk.”
Will began to introduce me to her. “Aunt Katherine, this is —”
“Suzanna. It’s wonderful to meet you at last. Bruce has told me so much about you.”
My heart seized. He had? Oh no. What had he said? The way Aunt Katherine’s inflexible gaze took me in from head to toe, I gathered it couldn’t have been anything very flattering. I managed to stammer how nice it was to meet her as well, before the dinner bell, mercifully, cut me off.
She and Hannah turned to join their husbands, leaving Will, Adele, and me alone. Adele didn’t waste a moment.
“I need to protect the rest of my papa’s artworks,” she whispered. We hung back, slowly following the adults. Detective Grogan was the first to disappear through the rolled-open pocket doors, Hannah at his side. I waited until Mr. Horne followed Grandmother and Uncle Bruce out of the room and into the foyer, leaving the three of us by ourselves.
“Uncle Bruce said the rest of your father’s art was safe and sound in its new location,” I replied. “I’m guessing neither of you knows where it was taken?”
Adele shook her head. Will did the same. I was sure there was plenty of valuable art right here in the house on June Street. Mr. Horne didn’t seem worried about it, though, at least not like he had about that Degas sculpture.
“The Degas,” I whispered aloud.
“The one Adele’s father is keeping under lock and key,” Will added. I flashed him a smile. He was supposed to have been chatting with Aunt Katherine, not eavesdropping like Adele and I.
We both looked to Adele. She took an extra-long moment to begin.
“It was my mother’s most cherished piece. My father’s, too. It’s a preliminary statue Edgar Degas sculpted to prepare for his Little Dancer statue. You must have seen his Little Dancer before, haven’t you, Zanna?”
I wished I had, but exposure to fine art was a rarity back home.
The Mastermind Plot Page 7