Evil Genius

by Rice, Patricia

  Johnson harrumphed and fiddled with his pen. Nicholas and I waited. Silence has its own power.

  “We don’t know,” he finally admitted. “The transaction was never recorded in the company’s books. We are looking into it.”

  Oh, I could have a good time with that one. I love documents that begin with “Anastasia Devlin, party of the first part, hereby testifies...” and so forth.

  Let Amadeus Graham try to throw us out. I’d slap him with a lawsuit so fast, his head would spin. Should he actually have a head to spin.

  “But the deed and all transfers have been properly recorded,” Johnson finished.

  “How can that be?” I all but yelled as my little daydream exploded. “What about title searches and all the paperwork involved in real estate transfers? How can a crook claim our home?” I almost let my anguish show, and I hastily bit my tongue.

  “Mr. Graham paid cash.” Johnson’s Botoxed eye twitched. “With no mortgage company involved, there was no need for more than a quitclaim deed signed by the executor. There is no question that Mr. Graham believed he was party to a fair market transaction which makes him the rightful owner under the law. The burden is on the victim of the theft, not an innocent party.”

  Yeah that advice and three bucks would buy a cup of Starbucks. I wasn’t buying it. Nobody intending a legal transaction carries a few million in cash in his back pocket and settles for a quitclaim deed.

  Show me the money, as they say in the movies.

  Chapter Five

  EG spies and Ana finds a butler and a mystery man or two.

  Ill from reading the online news stories about her father, EG poked around for a while on Ana’s laptop, attempting to find the senator’s address. She didn’t often have access to a computer. Unlike her older half brother, Tudor, she didn’t have an aptitude for breaking into the government-issued PCs that made up Magda’s world, so she didn’t have a lot of luck locating anything more than Tex’s senate office.

  She glared at a picture on the website of his ten-year-old legitimate daughter—Elsie—and slammed the laptop’s lid. She needed a direction for her investigation.

  She thought this whole set-up with the spook in the attic creepy. But Mallard wasn’t what he seemed either, and her specialty was spying. Everyone thought she was weird because she knew things she shouldn’t, but mostly, she knew them because she was very good at observation. And a cynic. Things almost always turned out for the worst, so it wasn’t difficult to predict them.

  Spying was an art form, and she’d learned from the experts. She wouldn’t do anything so childish as to peer around corners. Ana used to hide in closets upon occasion, but then, Ana preferred living in the dark.

  EG sauntered downstairs, located Mallard in the basement kitchen, and boldly walked in to inspect the refrigerator contents.

  “Dinner will be at seven,” he warned. “There are apples on the counter if you’re hungry.”

  He wasn’t doing anything more interesting than chopping onions. Closing the refrigerator door, EG started opening cabinets. The first one she opened hid a kitchen desk stuffed with bills. The electric bill still had her grandfather’s name on it, she noticed, before Mallard nearly slammed her fingers closing the lid. The utilities had never been turned off, she’d wager. Magda had used that ploy before, to disguise their location.

  As far as she could tell, Mallard wasn’t hiding drugs or guns, but he shut the cabinets as fast as she opened them, so she couldn’t study them for hiding places. She darted under his arm and grabbed crackers out of one he’d just closed before he could swing around and stop her.

  Skipping out of reach, crackers in hand, she headed for the stairs to the front parlor. Mallard followed her up the stairs, grabbing the box from her grip. “We do not eat anywhere except the dining room.”

  “How about the kitchen?” she asked innocently while opening a closet door in the first floor foyer. Musty old winter coats greeted her with a stench of mothballs. She calculated the depth as the same as the stairs to the second floor. No hidden rooms here.

  Just to make certain she wasn’t missing anything, she shoved old wool out of her way and looked for a light switch. Mallard caught her shirt and tugged her out, slamming the door.

  “Go to your room and play,” he ordered stiffly.

  EG flashed a wide grin of triumph. “Chess?”

  “Certainly not. I have work to do.”

  Tough nut to crack, but she didn’t give up easily. “Outside, then.” She darted under his arm once more and ran for the back door. The CIA wouldn’t approve her tactics, but there was more than one way to test a butler’s mettle.

  ~

  The house was ominously silent when Nick and I returned from the attorney’s office. I was fond of silence, but silence in a house containing three people, one of them a capricious child who had earned the sobriquet of Evil Genius for good reason, incited my paranoia.

  “Look to see if our bags are in the garbage,” I muttered as Nicholas checked the front rooms and I aimed for the stairs.

  “No signs of destruction on this floor,” he called.

  I knew he’d head down to the kitchen next. Men are bottomless pits. Although in Nick’s case, he prefers tomato-basil ratatouille or some such concoction to burgers and fries.

  EG’s bedroom was open and empty. She’d dumped her clothes and books in the middle of the braided rug, apparently figuring it was easier to find them there—or that she’d have to pack them again shortly, which was a sad commentary on our lives. But she would never leave without her books, so she hadn’t run to her father. Yet.

  I found her in my bedroom-office, burning up my laptop keyboard.

  She was being entirely too obedient if she was actually doing as I’d told her. “Did you find your school records?” I asked.

  EG cleared the screen before I reached the desk. Not a good sign. She pointed at the stack of paper on the printer. “There they are. All you have to do is notarize them and they’ll pass. The medical ones don’t need that much.”

  That EG had actually looked for her school records—or asked our geek brother Tudor to look for them—surprised hell out of me. I was about to question when the intercom intervened. “Miss Devlin, I trust you’ve located your missing funds and are prepared to move out.”

  Even deeply irritated, that voice had the mysterious ability to shiver my hormones into a mating dance. I was a sick, sick puppy if old men could turn me on like that.

  I should have been collapsing in a puddle of weeping dismay at his admonition, except I knew my family well. I lifted an eyebrow in EG’s direction. She looked guilty and called up one of my computer games. I didn’t answer the intercom but waited expectantly.

  “I might have made Mallard quit,” she whispered when our landlord’s sonorous silence spoke volumes. “I didn’t mean to. He kept following me around, picking up everything I put down, and when he wouldn’t let me get a snack from the kitchen—”

  “She locked him out of the house so she could snoop through the kitchen,” Graham’s voice finished succinctly. “I like my dinner at regular hours. I cannot work my schedule around a change in routine.”

  I fixed EG with the evil eye I learned from my old ayah. She froze and awaited her fate.

  “We will prepare your dinner and bring it up at seven as scheduled,” I reassured the intercom. I glared at EG, who scooted from the chair and ran for Nicholas, our resident chef. “My sincere apologies for my sister’s behavior. I assure you, she knows better. Once I find Mallard, I’ll persuade him to return.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Graham’s voice was dry enough to reduce the Nile to sand. “You have a number of replies from your Asian friends. I congratulate you on the extensiveness of your network.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic, but I could tell that he had been prying into the Cobalt Whiz. I had expected no less. Now that EG was gone, he spoke more freely. How did he know EG had left? Or was I imagining approval in his to
ne?

  “Did you find anything useful in the translations?” The puzzle of Pao intrigued me. Of course, the more immediate puzzle of Amadeus Graham intrigued me more, but if he was prying in my computer, I couldn’t very well snoop around looking him up.

  “Sufficient to allow you to stay if you find Mallard.” The intercom snapped into silence.

  I needed to figure out how to work that intercom so I could disturb his complacency as he did mine. I had a mounting list of questions I’d like answered by Mr. Amadeus Graham—beginning with how he’d known this house was for sale and where he got the cash. If my calculations were correct, my grandfather died in mid-June. Graham had to have pulled together an enormous sum by early July for Reggie to have signed the deal and absconded.

  But I wasn’t ready to be thrown out for asking questions. I hate that homeless feeling.

  I’d send Nick to look for the missing butler, except I couldn’t cook and his Royal Heinousness expected dinner. I dashed down to the basement to find EG and Nick laughing in the kitchen. “Fix something for us as well as our lord and master while you’re at it,” I commanded as I entered.

  Mallard’s basement inner sanctum was quite impressive. The ceiling was low, but the cabinets were cherry at the top, with granite countertops below, over a pleasing blend of cherry and bleached maple—the kitchen probably cost more than the normal suburban ranch house.

  And that wasn’t including the stainless steel restaurant equipment. The stovetop alone could serve the entire New York City police department. Serious entertaining could be accomplished here. A pity Magda wasn’t around.

  “Salmon Florentine,” Nick called, slicing a huge hunk of fish. “The freezer is enormous and packed to last out a war. Shall I send up some bruschetta to appease the hungry tiger?”

  “Send the kid up with it. Maybe the tiger will bite off her head. I have to find Mallard or we’ll all be out on our derrieres shortly.”

  “I’m not a servant...” EG started to protest. When we both glared at her, she got the message. “Check the Irish bar down the street. And I found my school records, didn’t I? ” She flounced out, her long black hair swinging down her back.

  “Have you thought about sending her to charm school?” Nick called as I headed for the outside steps up to the yard.

  I exited laughing. EG in charm school! I’d roll on the floor and kick my heels if I had time.

  Not doubting EG’s prediction, I took the kitchen door to explore the exterior possibilities of the house. The stairs from the basement emerged on a walled garden and small patio adorned with wrought iron furniture and a scattering of potted herbs. A suspicious pile of gray ash had grown cold in the center of the patio tiles.

  The towering mansions on either side of the house shared a huge garden wall between yards. An ornamental cherry tree and a wisteria-covered pergola disguised the blank three-story brick wall across the back of the lot. I needed to check the next street to see what was behind it when I had a chance.

  For now, I trailed down a pretty flagstone walk between our house and the one beside it, admiring the lattice of clematis and honeysuckle vine. Living in basements as I had, I’d never had a garden of my own, but I’d seen plenty over the years, and I always enjoyed them.

  The various sections of historical D.C. are plotted on a hub-and-spoke design, if one ignores the major thoroughfares spiking the spokes. I simply followed the neighborhood street into the circle of businesses that congregated at the hub. It wasn’t difficult to locate the bar. Or pub, as the sign called it. Even at this early hour the singing was raucous.

  The painful rendition of “O Danny Boy” didn’t halt at my entrance. Wednesday night, and they had the karaoke cranked up. If EG was right and Mallard was in here, I’d have to pour him out while he could still walk.

  As I stood in the entrance, letting my eyes adjust to the dark paneled interior, silence fell like dominoes from table to table. Mallard’s voice was quite clear over the last fading wail of folk song.

  “I will not return until that evil child is gone,” he declared loudly.

  “Not evil child, evil genius,” I said, approaching the table where Mallard held court. “Dealing with the precocious is difficult, I’ll admit, but I thought you were man enough to handle her. She’s only nine.”

  Ignoring my insult to his manhood, Mallard held his head of metal-gray hair high. “She set fire to my aprons and threatened to make a bonfire of the table linen,” he protested with the proud indignation of two mugs of Guinness. “When I went out to extinguish the flames, she locked the door. I have never needed to carry keys in my own house.”

  “Our house,” I corrected politely. “Grandfather left it to us. I daresay he expected you to continue looking after it for us after he was gone. Leaving would be a dereliction of duty.”

  Magda and my siblings had insulted enough servants over the years to start a colony on another planet. Once upon a time it had been my duty to deal with them. Some responded to monetary bribes. The better ones had pride and could be bought cheaply. I pegged Mallard as the proud type.

  “I do not believe you are Mr. Maximillian’s heirs,” he replied. “He would not leave his precious possessions to heathens.”

  I crossed my hands in my skirt like a good penitent Catholic girl and dealt the fatal blow to his fantasy. “My name is Anastasia Devlin. Magda was eighteen years old and still living at home when she married my father and had me. Do you remember Brody Devlin? The diplomat?”

  All eyes turned to Mallard, who seemed to wilt inside his starched collar. My father was once called the Mad Irishman. I won’t go into his sanity, his politics, or the IRA—they’re much too complex. Suffice it to say that any loyal Irish Catholic would lay down his life for Brody, if he wasn’t already dead. Mad Irishmen don’t lead long lives.

  Maybe my father was the love of Magda’s life, and she’d been searching for another like him ever since. If I were a romantic, I could believe this. Unfortunately, I wasn’t.

  “That evil child is no kin of his,” Mallard complained, but he was standing up as he said it. If he was Irish, he was a Brody worshipper.

  “True, but I’m here to testify that EG is Magda’s daughter. And her son is currently preparing bruschetta and salmon in your kitchen.”

  “He’s what?”

  I’d never seen an old man move so fast. He held his alcohol well—like any good Irishman.

  “Stay and have a brew, won’t you?” one of Mallard’s table companions called as the butler hastened away.

  The day I lingered in a bar with a bunch of old—I squinted into the candlelight. The man lifting his mug in invitation wasn’t old but a picture-perfect facsimile of Pierce Brosnan in his youth, except this man’s black hair was curly, and he appeared a shade shorter. He still had the lovely bone structure and the crinkled-eye Irish smile that made women swoon.

  I wasn’t a virgin. And just because I was cynical and could defend myself didn’t mean I had any masculine tendencies. I like a pretty man as much as any red-blooded woman. And this one was exceptionally pretty, with long lashes over cobalt blue eyes that would have been almost effeminate if it weren’t for the broad shoulders and bulging biceps displayed beneath his silky knit pullover. I take it back, he was even better than the movie actor.

  On my own, I might have considered his offer. But there wasn’t any way I could afford to waste time on sex. And frankly, most men think I’m weird, so I figured this one had to be attracted to my father’s name. Or Maximillian’s millions.

  “No, thank you,” I answered politely. “Another time perhaps.”

  A rousing rendition of “Rose of Tralee” rang out as I fought the hindrance of my long denim skirt to catch up with Mallard. The pleasant baritone leading sounded very much like the movie star look-alike.

  “I cannot promise to keep my sister in line.” As an apology, that sucked, but I preferred the truth when available—made it easier to remember the lies. “She is exceedingly gifted, but I
’m trying to help Mr. Graham. It’s difficult to take care of both.”

  “Mr. Graham is not difficult,” Mallard said stiffly. “He is a gentleman.”

  “Did Grandfather know him well?” Sucking up to servants often satisfies my curiosity.

  “Mr. Maximillian seldom received visitors.”

  Which evaded the question. “What does Graham look like? Is he my grandfather’s age?” If Graham looked anywhere near as good as his voice, I could be in serious trouble. I needed to find a gym and work off a few of these waltzing hormones before I did something foolish.

  Mallard stalked along in silence. A couple of pints wouldn’t faze anyone of his sturdy size. He should have gone into the bodyguard business.

  “I was hired sight unseen,” he eventually admitted.

  I hooted with laughter. Graham had bought Mallard with the estate! He didn’t know any more about our employer than I did. Or he was evading the question again. He scowled at me and walked faster.

  “Whose idea was the intercom?” I asked as we approached the house.

  “Your grandfather had a security system installed some years ago. Mr. Graham improved upon it. I believe much of it is wireless these days.” He took the sidewalk path to the servant’s entrance. He didn’t seem surprised when I followed him down the stairs to the kitchen.

  “You never saw him move in?” I persisted. “He just started giving orders?”

  “I was interviewed by telephone. This is none of your business.” He held the kitchen door open for me.

  “He’s usurping my family’s home. It most certainly is my business.” As I entered, I realized that swaying Mallard to our side could be a beneficial ploy in ousting the trespasser. How could a butler not resent an employer who had lived in the house for a month and never showed his face?