The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  When I step out onto the terrace, the sky is streaked peach and pink and gold, like a Monet painting.

  “Ivy, you’re here, next to me,” Dominic says, pulling out my chair.

  To my right, I have Brook and in front of me, Chase. Lincoln and Josephine are on either side of him. I glance at Lincoln, pleased that I foiled her plan. Her face is blank, like a child who’s been reprimanded.

  Dominic starts dinner off with a toast. He closes his eyes and lifts his glass. “To Kevin, who we hope has finally found peace.”

  “Amen,” Josephine and Brook say.

  “And, to the most eventful, and surely the most memorable, competition.” He says this with a soft smile. “And to the last two tests! We’re raising the stakes.”

  “Sh…Dom,” Josephine says, setting her glass of white wine down. “Don’t give it away.”

  “And to Chase’s birthday…a happy one this time,” Dominic adds as servers bring out little glass bowls of chilled tomato soup topped with teeny, golden croutons.

  “I’d also like to propose a toast. Plus de drame. No more drama. Okay, Brook?” Josephine asks, giving him an oblique smile that doesn’t create a single crease on her face. Even her forehead stays perfectly smooth.

  Brook’s smile washes off his lips, and as dinner progresses, he becomes more and more restless, jostling his knees, toying with his fork, drinking more than he should. I count five refills. When Josephine excuses herself, telling us she needs an early night, Dominic pulls Brook aside. They talk quietly and then Dominic leaves and Brook returns. He sits down even though the table has been cleared and the camera crew is packing up.

  “Dom has agreed to let all of you hang out a while longer. To decompress,” Brook says.

  Chase eyes his brother. “Is that what you’re doing?”

  “If you were under the stress I was under, little brother, you’d—”

  “I just think you should quit while you’re ahead.”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business?” Brook answers dryly.

  Chase presses away from the table and walks over to the opposite side of the terrace to lie on one of the lounge chairs.

  “Well, this isn’t awkward,” Lincoln says. “I’m going to go powder my nose.” She rises and heads inside Brook’s bachelor pad.

  “I feel like I’m missing something,” I tell Brook once it’s just the two of us.

  He twirls his glass of wine between his long fingers. “Josephine doesn’t like me.”

  “I don’t think she likes anyone.”

  “Yeah, but she really has it in for me.”

  “Why?”

  He glances at his brother who’s staring up at the starless night sky. “Because she’s afraid Dominic’s going to promote me.”

  “So what if he does?”

  “I’d be taking her place.”

  “Ah. I can see how that would be a problem.”

  “Remember that day at the airport, when you arrived at the same time I did?”

  “Hard to forget when someone treats you like dirt,” I say.

  He doesn’t react to my comment. “Josephine orchestrated that.”

  “If you have proof, there’s not much she can do with it.”

  He leans in closer. “Exactly.”

  Plumes of stale alcohol hit my nose. Before leaning back, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” I say.

  “Do what?”

  “Touch me. I’m a contestant.”

  He drops his hand back to his lap. “Right.”

  In the corner of my eye, I spot Lincoln. She smiles her dark, bright smile.

  “Crap. Now she’s going to tell the press that you and I are hooking up,” I whisper in his ear.

  His dimples appear as a grin spreads across his face. “Watch me take care of that.” He stands, walks over to her, and tells her something. At first, she looks startled, but then she nods. “Anyone else up for a midnight dip?” Brook asks loudly, so that his words reach his brother, the only other person on the terrace.

  “I think I’m over midnight dips,” I say, thinking of Kevin.

  Brook winks at me before tugging Lincoln into the apartment to change into swimsuits.

  I stroll over toward Chase, shake off my shoes, and lay down on the lounge chair next to his. His cologne is faint tonight, yet I can still smell the pine needles and the grass in the dark air. “At some point, you’re going to have to talk to me,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re on the same show. Anyway, I just came over to say thank you,” I tell him.

  “For what?”

  “For stepping up for me earlier with the detectives.”

  The ligaments in his neck stretch and tauten. “I didn’t have a choice. Dominic was going to show them the picture.” His words sting. I’m about to leave, when he adds, “I’ve been meaning to ask how you knew Dean Kane.”

  “Your brother introduced us last night on the beach.”

  “Why?”

  “For my sister. Brook offered to have him defend her.”

  “You should pass up on his offer.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s famous for getting some of the worst people off death row.”

  “That’ll work in my sister’s favor.”

  “I wouldn’t trust him, Ivy.”

  “You don’t trust anyone.”

  He turns to look at me. His eyes are dark, yet I can detect emotion in them, grief, disappointment, anguish. I feel the urge to stroke his cheek and comfort him, and begin lifting my hand when he turns away.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he says.

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m some hurt little kid.”

  I let my arm drop back to my side just as Lincoln and Brook cannonball inside the pool.

  “Are you going to join them?” he asks. “Or are you going to pretend you don’t know how to swim?”

  Tears laminate my eyes and blur his pale profile. “You’re a dick,” I murmur, turning my face upward, toward the blackness, to guide the stupid, wasted emotion back into my eyes. I’m about to ask Brook if I can return to the museum when I see him locking lips with Lincoln. As I walk by, he catches me staring and winks.

  Inside the dark and deserted apartment, I find the house phone on the marble kitchen counter. I swipe it from its base and carry it into the bathroom. I lock the door and dial a number I know by heart.

  When I hear a click, I whisper, “Josh?” but it goes straight to voicemail. I’m tempted to empty my heart, tell him that I think Aster didn’t kill Troy for my quilt, that I think she killed him for what was inside, but I don’t want there to be yet another trace of my suspicion.

  Especially if I’m wrong.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Aster

  I was sick all night. When I spot Sofia scarfing down her bowl of porridge the next morning, I deduce it’s not salmonella poisoning.

  “Hi,” Gill says, a smile stretching from one side of her face to the other. All of her teeth point in different directions like those strings of square, paper lanterns people loop around their porches in the summer.

  She swoops down to plant a kiss on my cheek, but I hold her back. “I’m sick. I don’t want to infect you.”

  Grin still intact, she says, “I’m probably already infected.” She tries to peck my face again when I slap my hand over my mouth and jump off the bench to run toward the bin. I just make it.

  Cool fingers stroke my neck, gather my dreads. God, she’s everywhere. What have I gotten myself into?

  “Sergeant Driscoll, can I go to the infirmary? I’m not feeling too well.”

  “Morning sickness?” he asks. His potbelly shakes with a chuckle while my cheeks flame.

  “I’ll walk her over. To spare you an uncomfortable run-in with Nurse Celia,” Gill says, repaying his snarky comment.

  The laughter dries in his throat. “Yobwoc,” he yells. “Get your ass over here.
”

  “Inmate Redd needs some medical attention,” he says, glaring at Gill. “Walk her to the infirmary.”

  He nods. Gill hooks her arm through mine and begins to follow him, but Driscoll stops her. “Swanson, you’re needed in the laundry room. Got some linens to press.”

  Gill sucks in a breath and releases my arm. “Asshole,” she murmurs. “I’ll try to stop by later, okay?”

  I nod, and the movement angers my throbbing head. I hold on to the walls as I trail Officer Landry. He turns around a few times, and although he seems concerned, he doesn’t offer me support. He’s probably worried that touching an inmate will look bad. Or that I’ll give him what I have.

  The hallway floor shifts like in a funhouse. The ground goes forward and back and side to side. I trip at some point and one of my flip-flops flies off, but I catch myself before I hit the floor. Landry stops, casts another worried glance my way, but still doesn’t help. My fingers tremble as they slip the flip-flop back on. My feet are white and as stiff as when Chacha extracted me from the freezer. The world spins again and suddenly I’m flat on my back and Officer Landry is upside down. Nurse Celia’s face pops into my line of sight. I think I hear her call out my name but I’m not sure.

  She hoists me up with the help of Landry, and together, they carry me to the cot in her office. Drawers slam, metal clangs, wheels spin. A sharp pain explodes in my wrist. I peer down and see she’s stuck a catheter inside my vein and is hooking it up to an IV bag.

  “When was the last time you ate something, Aster?” she asks. It sounds like she’s at the bottom of a well.

  “Last night.”

  “I mean really ate?” she repeats. “Like a proper meal.”

  “The burger,” I croak.

  “That was two days ago! Landry, get me a bottle of Coke.”

  While he’s gone, she takes my blood pressure, inspects my eyes with a small flashlight, and prods my abdomen.

  “I’m going to keep you a few hours. You’re completely dehydrated.”

  “Sure,” I say, as my head lolls to the side and my lids slam shut like magnets. “Nowhere else to go.”

  ***

  When I wake up, the nausea has receded and my vein, the one with the catheter in it, is cold from the drip. Slowly, I drum my fingers and shift my legs. The paper crinkles under me, alerting Nurse Celia of my wakefulness.

  She simultaneously prods my free wrist for a pulse and keeps an eye on her watch. “That’s a better rhythm,” she says, and proceeds to remove the needle taped to my opposite arm. The IV bag hangs limply on a pole, near empty. “Can you sit up?”

  I nod and do as I’m asked.

  “I’ve requested they add two granola bars to your diet every day. Please eat them.” She returns to her desk and grabs a glass filled with brown liquid. “Now, drink this. It’ll get your blood sugar zinging.”

  I take a sip. When I realize it’s Coke—even though it’s room temperature and most of the bubbles have fizzed out—I gulp it down. “What time is it?”

  “It’s ten.”

  “My sister’s show must be starting.”

  The nurse’s eyes light up. “Want to watch it?”

  “Yes,” I say, because I need to see my sister’s face. I need to know if she’s truly angry with me. “But I can go to the dayroom if you’ve got other patients to see.”

  “No other patients. Just you.” Her door is already shut, but she moves toward it to test the handle. “Don’t want to be disturbed.”

  More like caught.

  Keeping her laptop on the desk, she turns it toward the exam table. It’s already broadcasting the show. She wheels over her chair and plops down. Her gaze glued to the monitor, she says, “I called Dean”—a faint linear flush extends from the bridge of her nose to her hairline—“to tell him that you fainted, but that you were okay now.”

  I doubt he’d care much.

  Dominic’s on the screen, microphone in hand. He’s not smiling today. “Ladies and gentlemen, after a strange few days, and after hours of discussions, Josephine, Brook, and I feel we cannot disappoint neither our faithful audience, nor can we rob our remaining contestants of the chance of a lifetime. We offer our deepest condolences to Mrs. Martin and Kevin’s parents and siblings, and hope that the magnificent rope Kevin wove on his last day has reached them. Also, I wish to take a moment to clear up certain assumptions that seem to have sprouted since my contestants’ run-in with the press yesterday on the Brooklyn Bridge. Miss Ivy Redd had nothing to do with Mister Martin’s death. Miss Lincoln Vega would like to say a few words to that effect.”

  The camera perches on Lincoln’s face. She is sitting behind Dominic, legs folded and back rigid. When he approaches her with the microphone, her green gaze turns to Ivy whose face is impassible.

  “Ivy, I regret the terrible confusion my words created. I didn’t mean you any harm,” she says.

  Her apology sounds rehearsed.

  My sister nods and her straightened hair ripples. I wonder if she’s gotten highlights. It’s more golden than I remember. Perhaps it’s because she’s tanned so her eyes and hair look paler. I touch my own hair, coarse with dreads that, according to Gill, are maturing nicely. Ivy will hate them and tell me they’re ugly and I’ll get them raked out.

  “Now, for today’s test. We are going to attach a small camera and recording device to our contestants’ chests and give them a list. That list will be for their eyes only and will contain the instructions of today’s tournament. And that is all I will reveal to you, dear audience.” He shoots the crowd a white smile. “No camera crew will follow them. The only footage you will be privy to will be the one that will be recorded by their personal devices. However, it will only be broadcasted once they’ve safely returned to the museum. We do have to keep you guessing.” His smile stretches all the way to his silver sideburns.

  “What?” Nurse Celia’s voice is so strident that I jump. “They’re horrible! They can’t do that to us!”

  “Lincoln, Ivy, Chase,” Dominic continues, “are you ready?”

  Lincoln’s knee shakes; she’s the only one who seems anxious.

  “Brook, you may hand them their instructions,” Dominic says.

  The camera shifts over to him. He stands, walks to the contenders, and distributes three scrolls, each tied with a shimmery bow. They tug off the binding and unroll the thick, crackling paper.

  My sister’s knuckles turn white as she reads. Without even realizing it, I’ve jumped off the exam table and approached the computer. Ivy’s expression quickly turns cool again, but the surprise and—distress?—are still there, etched deep into the blueness of her irises. To the world, she may seem confident, but I know she’s frightened.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Ivy

  I read over the paper again. And again. The instructions are succinct and easy, but the task…God, the task sucks! I try to take a calming breath, but the air in the Temple room is stale and doesn’t do crap to calm down my riled nerves. And Dominic’s beaming teeth make me want to slap him. If he’s so excited, why doesn’t he do it himself? What he’s asking of us is insane, impossible…illegal!

  I go over the list one more time.

  1. Corinne Bally’s wooden Babylonian Idol at the Guggenheim Museum.

  2. Otto Milo’s Painted Tissues installation at the Museum of Modern Art.

  3. Zara Mach’s Fuzzy Castanets at Christie’s Auction House.

  4. Annabelle Wyatt’s lithograph, Life Dream, at the Whitney Museum of American Art.

  5. Sue Ling’s turquoise and bone, Tusk Goddess, at the Rubin Museum of Art.

  6. Christos Natter’s Miniature Barrel Chair at the Wilde Gallery of Modern Art.

  “Contestants, you must choose a number and say it out loud. Just the number. Obviously, don’t choose the same one.” Dominic guffaws, which elicits chuckles from the audience.

  I swallow as Chase rolls up his paper and says, without hesitation, “Three.”

  I stare a
t the list. Of course…Christie’s. He must know the auction house inside and out, having worked there. He probably still has an employee key card. Just the thought slices the threads of hope I’m clinging to as I dangle over the bottomless precipice Dominic has excavated beneath me.

  “Six,” Lincoln says. Her voice is steady even though she’s bouncing her knee.

  I go over the remaining four objects. They’ve left me with only museums. There’s so much security in a museum I’m going to fail.

  “Ivy? Have you made your choice?”

  My lips have gone dry. I swipe my tongue over them and blink into the camera. Shit, shit, shit.

  “Ivy?”

  “Two,” I say, just like I could have said any other number.

  “Have you memorized your choices?”

  My gaze flits over the words again. Milo, painted tissues, Museum of Modern Art. I’m the last to nod.

  “Okay. You may leave to get outfitted with your recording devices and other equipment.” Dominic winks, as gleeful as a kid on a merry-freaking-go-round. “Good luck.”

  Even though I’ve never believed in luck, today I want to. I also want to bang my head against one of the Met’s wainscoted walls and shout, but I iron out my composure. As I stand up to leave under the audience’s applause, I wave and flash a fake smile. Quietly, we take the elevator back up to our quarters. Neither Lincoln nor Chase speaks to me—or to each other for that matter. Everyone is focused on the task at hand.

  As someone from the film crew hooks the audiovisual recording devices into our clothes, our assistants hand us nondescript black backpacks.

  Milo, tissues, MoMA.

  “How are we getting there?” Lincoln asks her assistant.

  “On motorbikes. We have three waiting for you downstairs.”

  “I’ve never driven one,” I say.

  Cara smiles. “Good thing you won’t have to, then,” she says, finger-combing her peroxide-blonde hair. “Riders have been assigned to each one of you. They know where to take you so don’t speak your locations.” She taps the miniature gadget peeping through the ruffles of my wisteria-colored shirt.