The Mastermind Plot

by Angie Frazier

  Uncle Bruce opened the front door, letting in a brisk morning breeze. “To Boston Common.”

  I followed him out to the waiting carriage and climbed in. There, seated on a bench, was Will.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, sitting beside him. He wore a dark expression.

  “You’re not going to like this, Zanna, but —” He bit off the rest of his explanation as Uncle Bruce climbed in and pounded on the roof to signal the driver.

  I turned to Uncle Bruce, thoroughly confused now. “Why do you need me on Boston Common?”

  I reached for my notebook, but realized it was still on Margaret Mary’s kitchen table. Blast.

  Uncle Bruce smoothed down his black mustache. “You’re going to help the police obtain a criminal today, Suzanna.”

  I straightened my spine, startled. “How do you mean?”

  He smoothed down his mustache again. I wondered if that was one of Uncle Bruce’s nervous tics. Will would know. I glanced out the corner of my eye at him. He still looked cross. Uncle Bruce spoke, and when he did, I pieced together that Will must already know about the Snow family secret.

  “I gave him a chance once. A chance to go straight. I thought he’d made use of it. But it seems once a thief, always a thief.” Uncle Bruce’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “Now I realize he is more dangerous than I thought. There are some things that are more important than my reputation. My partner deserves justice.”

  I shook my head, still not understanding what it was he wanted me to do on Boston Common.

  “It’s not justice to arrest the wrong man,” I said. “I don’t think he’s the one behind the fires or thefts. There’s a framer on Varden Street called Mr. Dashner —”

  Uncle Bruce set his jaw. “I know Dashner. What of him?”

  The carriage turned a corner sharply and I bumped into Will.

  “Dashner would know the exact dimensions of the frames for each artwork,” Will said, his glower still in place.

  “If he wanted to, he could have crafted replica frames of the artwork stored in Mr. Horne’s warehouses,” I added.

  “He had close contact with Mr. Horne,” Will threw in. “He could have memorized the safe-box combinations when he exchanged the stored art for the display art inside Mr. Horne’s home.”

  We spewed out our facts to match the speed of the rattling carriage, including how Mr. Dashner was on a curious holiday at the moment. Neither of us made mention of the rare Degas statue, but I couldn’t help but think it was in danger as well. Uncle Bruce listened to it all without interrupting. And after we finished, he continued to remain quiet as he stared out the window.

  “We have no evidence at all against Jonathan Dashner,” he finally said.

  “There is no evidence against Matthew Leighton, either,” I shot back.

  The carriage slowed, but looking outside I didn’t see the trees of Boston Common, just rows of buildings on each side of the street.

  “He was fingered for the Red Herring Heists thirteen years ago,” Uncle Bruce said, his temper rising. “With the similarities between the two cases, it is all we need to make an arrest.”

  The driver came down from the box and opened the door. Uncle Bruce didn’t move to get out.

  “Are you ready to work for the Boston police?” he asked me, then looked to Will as well. My palms began to sweat inside my gloves.

  “Yes,” I answered. “But —”

  “Good. You two will leave from here to take a stroll through Boston Common.”

  Uncle Bruce made room for me to exit. That was it?

  “We’re just … taking a walk?” I asked. There had to be more to the plan than that.

  “The rest will be handled by more experienced members of my department,” he replied. “You will simply walk until you are signaled to return to the carriage.”

  I exhaled, the wind having been sucked from my wings. What kind of police work was that? I met Will’s dark eyes and saw impatience there. He wasn’t very good at hiding his anxiety. He had something more to tell me.

  I hopped down to the curb. Will followed. With a tip of his brimmed hat, Uncle Bruce drew back inside the carriage and shut the door. Will took my elbow and started off down the sidewalk.

  “What’s really going on?” I asked.

  Practically glued to my side, his hand still tight around my elbow, Will answered, “Nothing you’re going to like, that’s for sure.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, back at my uncle’s carriage. “I know he wants to arrest my grandfather.”

  Will and I turned the corner onto the next block of buildings. We’d parked far from the Common.

  “But why are we strolling through a park?” I asked.

  Will let go of my arm at last. He swiped off his cap and took a nervous look up and down the street.

  “Because you’re the bait,” he answered.

  Bait! So I wasn’t doing police work after all. Uncle Bruce had been patronizing me the whole time. I clenched my hands into fists. I should have known.

  “What makes him think my grandfather will approach me on Boston Common?” The trees and lawns of the Common came into view beyond a neat row of brownstones.

  “I don’t know that part,” Will admitted. “Uncle Bruce didn’t think I needed to know. Big surprise there.”

  We waited for a trolley car to rattle by on a set of steel tracks, and then crossed toward the park entrance.

  A man seated on a nearby bench lifted his gaze from his newspaper and made eye contact with me. It lasted a few seconds too long. Will guided me past him and onto a set of stone steps that led down to the grassy lawns.

  “That man back there,” Will whispered, still stuck to my side. “I’ve seen him before. He works with Uncle Bruce. Another detective on the force.”

  As soon as Will confirmed my suspicion, I spotted three more men within sight. One feeding ducks, another pretending to sketch something while leaning against a tree, and the third smoking a pipe on a park bench.

  “The fools. They might as well pin their badges to their foreheads,” I hissed. “As if Matthew Leighton would come within a hundred yards of me when the police are lurking about.”

  And who was to say he was even here watching? We’d finally met face-to-face the day before. He might not feel the need to follow me again.

  “Well, Uncle Bruce is counting on him being here, watching you,” Will replied. “And I’m just supposed to stroll you through the park until he shows himself. He’s already met me…. I think Uncle Bruce is hoping your grandfather doesn’t see me as a threat.”

  There were scores of people strolling through the Common this morning. Men and women, arm in arm, children dressed in their Sunday finest, nannies pushing prams along the brick walk that wound throughout the park, a grouping of older ladies settled on a bench underneath the limbs of a maple tree. And, of course, plainclothes policemen. But I didn’t see my grandfather anywhere.

  “He won’t come near me,” I said again as Will and I curved around a small fountain. I hated that I was being used as “bait,” as Will had called it. Nothing more than a worm pinned to a hook, cast out to lure in my uncle’s prime suspect.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “About what?”

  “My grandfather. Do you think he’s guilty?”

  Will tucked his chin toward his chest and exhaled loudly. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and came to a standstill beside the bubbling stone fountain.

  “Zanna, he’s guilty of something one way or another.” His honesty stung. “But I think our uncle has a target and he can’t see beyond it.”

  I defied my orders to keep walking and sat on the edge of the fountain. The stone was cold, not yet warmed by the morning sun.

  “That’s what I think, too,” I said.

  Just then, a man in a rumpled coat and crushed hat stepped up behind Will and shoved him forward.

  “What do you think you’re —” Will started to say. But the man took
a swift jab to Will’s jaw. I leaped from the fountain just as Will went stumbling, stunned by the unexpected blow.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled at the man as I reached for Will, who lay on his side at the base of the fountain. The man grabbed hold of my wrist and jerked me away.

  Alarmed, I finally stopped to take a good look at his face. He wore beggar’s clothing, but his face was shaved smooth and he smelled of talc and cologne. Beggars didn’t wear cologne.

  “Who are you?” I asked. The man started away from the fountain, dragging me with him.

  “Hey!” I heard Will shout from behind me. When I craned my neck back, I saw two other men crouched over him. They were blocking Will from getting up and pursuing the beggar and me. And they were both my uncle’s policemen.

  You’re the bait, Will had said. What would draw my grandfather out from his hiding spot amongst the Common’s trees or monuments? A rogue man threatening to harm me, that’s what. This man wasn’t a beggar — he was a policeman! And if he was indeed here, my grandfather might reveal himself any second now to come to my rescue.

  I hadn’t wanted my uncle to arrest my grandfather in the first place, and I certainly didn’t want to aid him by playing the damsel in distress. I had to do something.

  I brought the plainclothes policeman’s hand to my mouth and sunk my teeth into his skin. He released me with a yowl, and I kicked him in the shin. I then darted in the opposite direction, up a knoll toward a small bridge that ran across a pond.

  If I could prove to my grandfather that I could escape on my own, perhaps he wouldn’t come out of hiding. I remembered the time he’d come running across the back courtyard of the academy when I’d been dangling from the fire ladder, and I ran faster toward the bridge. But at the top of the knoll, I heard the huffing of the injured policeman climbing up after me.

  There was a slight dip of the land after the crest of the knoll and I hurried down it. But I couldn’t go across the bridge — I needed to get out of sight, fast. Oh, how furious Uncle Bruce was going to be!

  I spotted my perfect hideaway: underneath the bridge along the banking of the pond. I slipped down and scooted under, heart hammering inside my chest.

  “It seems great minds do think alike.”

  I clamped down on my scream and wheeled around. Matthew Leighton was behind me, crouched in the narrow space between the muddy banking and the cross-beams of the bridge.

  “Or perhaps the adage should be desperate minds think alike,” he said.

  “You can’t be here!” I hissed. He only grinned.

  “I realized that, once I’d entered the park and saw Bruce’s minions scattered about. So much for my hoping you and your friend were taking an innocent stroll,” he whispered. “I’d wanted to see how you were dealing with —” He stopped and pressed a finger to his lips. The pounding of feet on the knoll behind us sent my stomach up into my throat. I crouched even lower, but my boots and the hem of my dress and cloak were already submerged in the soft, wet banking.

  “This way, come on!” someone yelled, and then the pounding feet carried off into the opposite direction. They weren’t going to cross the bridge, thank heavens.

  “— how you were coping with everything I told you yesterday,” he finished.

  It didn’t matter how I was coping, not right then at least. “My uncle wants to arrest you for the Horne fires and art thefts.”

  “That’s hardly a surprise,” Leighton replied. He looked unperturbed as he crouched in our cramped hiding spot, his arms wrapped around his legs. “I take it you do not agree with his verdict?”

  I hesitated, but then shook my head. “No. I don’t think you’ve stolen anything.”

  His blithe expression shifted to something darker. “Don’t exonerate me just yet, Suzanna. I have stolen. Just not from Xavier Horne.”

  I lifted my chin. “You seem very proud to be a thief.”

  “I won’t pretend to be something I’m not,” he replied.

  The echoes of more shouts drifted under the bridge.

  “You have to go,” I said.

  Leighton took a few froglike jumps forward until he was right beside me. “Your uncle turned me loose much the same way once. I hope this doesn’t mean you’ll grow to be the same kind of detective he is.”

  He might have been my grandfather, but he was also infuriating and arrogant.

  “I’m not turning you loose completely. You said you know who the real thief is. Is it Mr. Dashner, the framer on Varden Street?”

  He removed his domelike black hat and peered at me. “Dashner? Why would you suspect him?”

  “Because he knows everything there is to know about Mr. Horne’s paintings and frames, including how to craft replicas if he wanted to.”

  My grandfather took another crouching leap toward me. I noticed he had a sharp kind of smell to him. Not anything unpleasant. No, he smelled like … soap. A musky, woodland scent.

  “It’s not Dashner,” he said with conviction. Enough conviction to make me believe it, too.

  Just then, another burst of shouting came from close by.

  “I hate to cut our conversation short, but my window of opportunity for escape is growing drastically smaller,” Leighton said, and prepared to dart up the bank. He tipped his hat toward me. “I’m indebted to your efforts today, Suzanna. It seems it wasn’t my time to go to prison after all.”

  And with that, he fled up the bank. I waited for my uncle’s officers to spot him and give chase. But after a full minute of silence had passed, I exhaled and relaxed. He’d slipped away unseen.

  I emerged from underneath the bridge, the wet, weedy land sucking at my boots as I tried to climb back up the bank. I wanted to slip away unseen, too. Unfortunately, I had to face Uncle Bruce and his police officers, including the one I’d bitten.

  “Now or never,” I grumbled, and made my way toward the knoll.

  Detective Rule: Lying is wrong. However, weaving an intricate excuse in a time of need is oftentimes acceptable.

  “HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THE BEGGAR was actually a police officer?” I wailed to Grandmother. She sat beside me on the parlor sofa, her soft, wrinkled hands clasping my own.

  Uncle Bruce paced the length of the room. His usually glossed-back hair fell in wild pieces around his forehead.

  “I explained that you’d be working covertly,” he said.

  “You didn’t say I’d be attacked!” I put on the best expression of alarm I could muster. It worked on Grandmother at least.

  “Bruce, how could you? Using a young girl for your own ends … it’s despicable. And to have your man punch dear Will in the jaw!”

  Grandmother settled in closer to me. Her chin quivered with fury. Will’s lip had been split, but otherwise he was fine — other than the rash of foul language that had erupted from his mouth when he’d next seen his uncle.

  Uncle Bruce swung out his arm as if orating to a massive audience. “It was an operation of the utmost importance, Mother! If a bruised jaw and a frightened girl were the only casualties of apprehending Matthew Leighton, then it would have been worth it!”

  Grandmother’s back stiffened. “You have gone too far, Bruce. Too far.”

  She let go of my hand and stood. “You will apologize to Will’s mother for the injury he received today. You should also apologize to Will — and Suzanna.”

  Despite his age, his mother’s scolding made Uncle Bruce look like a petulant young boy.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Grandmother said, and then swept out of the parlor. Uncle Bruce pinned me with a dark stare.

  “You deliberately let him go, didn’t you?” he asked.

  I got up from the sofa. “He knows who the real thief is.”

  Uncle Bruce snorted, muttering sarcastically, “Of course he does.”

  He picked up his pacing once more. The planned sting had gone down horribly — bested by a little girl. Uncle Bruce had looked like a fool in front of his men. Perhaps if he hadn’t been letting anger a
nd revenge drive his operation, it would have succeeded.

  “He might be able to help if you’d let him,” I said. Uncle Bruce flushed to the roots of his hair.

  “I do not work with criminals. And if you entertain dreams of being a detective someday, then you will follow that same rule.”

  He stormed from the parlor.

  If only Uncle Bruce would open up his eyes and mind. Who better to catch an art thief than a thief cut from the same cloth?

  Monday morning a cold rain drummed the top of Grandmother’s carriage as we rode to the academy together. I’d told her I hadn’t minded walking the few blocks, but she’d insisted on the carriage and on coming with me. The fires, my uncle’s shenanigans, and Detective Grogan’s death had rattled her more than she was willing to admit.

  I sat with my notebook open on my lap, reading through all the pages I’d filled in since arriving in Boston. Had it really only been two weeks ago? I felt like I’d been there much longer than that.

  “Zanna, I think it would be best if I sent a telegram to your parents,” Grandmother said. We’d been sitting in silence ever since leaving the brownstone.

  My pointer finger streaked to a stop underneath a sentence I’d been reading. I glanced up at her. “I just sent them a reply to their last telegram a few days ago.”

  Grandmother shook her head. “I mean, I think it would be best if I sent word that you’re coming home earlier than planned.”

  I slapped the notebook shut. “What? No! I can’t go back to Loch Harbor, not yet. Grandmother, please.”

  How could I explain how badly I needed to stay in Boston? Adele and Will … they were counting on me. My grandfather was counting on me, even if he didn’t quite know it yet.

  “I have a feeling your desire to stay has nothing to do with how much you’re enjoying Miss Doucette’s academy?” Grandmother asked with a sly lift of her brow.

  I had the grace to look a little sheepish and shook my head. “It’s not the academy. It’s this case, Grandmother. It’s … it’s something I’ve started and I want to finish it. I need to finish it.”

  She fiddled with her hands, dressed in black lace gloves. Perhaps she’d imagined I wanted to stay for deeper reasons, like getting to know her better. I suddenly felt so single-minded. Really, how much time had I spent with my grandmother? Not much. I’d been too wrapped up in the Horne case.