The Mastermind Plot (16 page)

I
DIDN'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS
. I
ALSO DIDN'T
believe the dead could come back to life. So a more practical theory took shape in my mind as I stood behind the curtain: We'd all been fleeced like a bunch of ignorant lambs. Neil Grogan had faked his own death.

“I wondered if I might find you here, Leighton,” Detective Grogan said blithely. I wanted to see him, not just hear his voice. I didn't understand why my grandfather had chosen to hide me this way.

“It seems I wasn't the only one who thought tonight would be an ideal time to see to the Degas,” my grandfather replied.

My theory had been correct. It was inside the safe.

“I thought you'd gone the straight and narrow, old man,” Grogan said. “You weren't much of a rival for the other artwork in Horne's collection.”

Adele started to sputter off a shocked protest, but my grandfather interrupted.

“I suppose I've developed discriminating taste. And arson never was my cup of tea.”

My heart thrummed wildly as my mind struggled to keep up. Grogan hadn't died. He was here, looking for the Degas, seeming to be on familiar terms with Matthew Leighton.

“I'd get off that pedestal if I were you,” Grogan said, turning more somber. “I might have studied your methods, but not out of admiration. No. It was so I would know how to frame you for everything. You'll be taking the fall for all of it, Leighton. Consider it your debt to society. Hannah and I are happy to see you atone for your past sins.”

I didn't want to believe it. Sweet, beautiful, grieving Hannah Grogan was an accomplice. And the bon voyage dinner had been a ploy. A way to entice Xavier Horne and Adele from their home, leaving it free and clear for Grogan. My grandfather had known it, too. He'd set everything up to keep Grogan in place until my uncle could find him.

“But you were sick,” Adele said, still sounding confused. “We all saw you at my father's dinner. You couldn't have —”

“Sacrifices must be made to achieve your goals, Miss Horne. I ate a chili pepper before entering your father's party. Believe me, I
was
sick.”

I recalled how he'd been sweating profusely. A whole chili pepper would set a person's throat and mouth on fire, for sure.

“But your body,” Adele protested again. “They found it in the wreckage. It was buried in the cemetery!”

I heard Grogan chuckle. “They buried a body, yes, but not mine. It was a medical skeleton, actually.”

A medical skeleton? Where on earth would he have gotten one of — I nearly gasped. Dr. Philbrick! He and Mr. Horne had been friends, a fellow art collector. Could he have trusted Dr. Philbrick with the Degas's whereabouts? Had Grogan and Dr. Philbrick been working together? And of course … he'd verified the remains of Neil Grogan. I'd just
known
Dr. Philbrick was a wretched man!

Adele suddenly whimpered, and the sounds of a brief struggle followed. I needed to see what was happening, but with my obstructed vision, the only thing I saw was the very edge of Mr. Horne's open wall safe. I revealed myself, what more could I possibly do? I could do more by making myself invisible, just as my grandfather had advised.

“Get the Degas, Leighton,” Detective Grogan ordered. “I'll take it and be on my way.”

“I know your plans for me,” my grandfather said. “But what of Horne's daughter?”

There was a stretch of silence. I didn't dare even breathe.

“Miss Horne, finding you here has been quite a surprise. My wife told me you'd decided to attend her dinner party tonight,” Grogan finally said. “It's unfortunate you chose not to.”

Now I knew why Grandfather had shoved me behind this curtain. He'd done it to protect me.

“Harming a young girl isn't very sporting, Neil.”

Grandfather sounded so conversational, as if he was suggesting Detective Grogan lessen the amount of salt he was sprinkling on his dinner.

“A young girl. An old man. It makes no difference to me.” Grogan's cold reply sounded as if it had come from another person, not the quiet and intelligent Detective Grogan I'd known.

Coming within my restricted sight, my grandfather bent over and slipped inside the safe box. When he came back out, he had in his hand a small statue of a ballerina. The brown, waxy statue shimmered in the yellow lamplight. It was so basic and rough-looking. I couldn't believe this little statue was worth throw
ing away a career, dignity, and principle. Obviously, Detective Grogan did.

Horse hooves on pavement and the rattle of a carriage reached through the cold glass window at my back. Without moving the rest of my body, I turned my head so I could peer outside. There, pulled up along the curb, sat a dark carriage. I couldn't distinguish more than its box shape, but I knew who it must be. Uncle Bruce had arrived just as my grandfather had predicted.

“Set it on the desk,” Neil Grogan instructed, apparently unaware of his partner's arrival.

For my grandfather to be following his orders, Detective Grogan must have had a weapon trained on Adele. Once he had the statue, what more would he need with my grandfather and Adele? They were liabilities. Let them go, and the police would be setting up a hunt for Neil and Hannah Grogan before dawn.

“Now, Miss Horne, I do hope you're not averse to small spaces,” Grogan said, and then he was within my view, steering Adele straight inside her father's wall safe.

The heavy safe door with its shelves of books muffled her whimpering pleas as Grogan shut it. I stared at the back of his knee-length overcoat, at his head of fine, blond hair. When his profile came into view, I
couldn't stop myself from feeling relief that he wasn't dead. Knowing he was a fraud ate into that relief a little bit. The small pistol in his gloved hand erased it altogether.

“And you, Leighton, are to lead the way downstairs. We have one last red herring to see to.”

My stomach plummeted. The only red herring Grogan knew how to plant was fire. I had to get Adele out of the safe. She was already pounding on the inside of the door, but I had to give her credit: She wasn't yelling for me to help her. In fact, she'd done an admirable job pretending I wasn't in the study at all.

As soon as the room faded to blackness, and footsteps could be heard on the stairwell leading to the second floor, I pushed back the velvet curtain and raced to the deceiving shelves of books.

“Get me out of here!” Adele screamed. Her voice sounded like it was coming from underneath a stack of feather pillows.

I reached inside the cold hearth and ran my hands blindly over the stones. “Where's the handle?”

“I don't know!” Adele replied. “I didn't even know my father had a safe in here.”

I ducked inside the deeply set fireplace, palms sweeping around flat against the rough stone. I needed
to get downstairs and stop Detective Grogan from harming my grandfather.

Sweat beaded up on my back. I pounded my fist against the stone — and felt it sink inward. Dizzy with relief, I pushed it farther in, and
click
, the door to the safe popped open.

Adele rushed out, gasping for air. “I do happen to have an aversion to small spaces,” she huffed. “As if he cared!”

I went to the window and peered out again. Uncle Bruce's carriage was still there, his driver sitting placidly in the box. I threw up the sash and leaned my head out into the cold, spitting rain.

“Up here!” I shouted, waving my hand over my head. The driver perked up and twisted his head up to the third-floor windows. “Send Detective Snow inside! Hurry!”

Adele and I then rushed into the black hallway.

“Where do you think they've gone?” she asked.

“Wherever Grogan can start a fire easily,” I answered. “Where does your father keep his spirits? Or the house's oil stores?”

The mention of fire propelled Adele forward. She beat me down the staircase.

“I think in the cellar,” she answered. She grabbed my elbow as I passed her down the hallway. “No. This way, just in case.”

She opened a door and dragged me into a closet. But then she was pulling me down a flight of steps — a servant stairwell. At the bottom, we jogged down a short corridor and then Adele stopped me. We'd come to another door. This one, I presumed, led to the kitchen. We pressed our ears to the wood and listened.

“We can't do anything until your uncle gets here,” Adele whispered.

“Speak for yourself,” I said, and grabbed for the knob. I was finished with hiding.

Inside the kitchen, a few candles sat flickering on the copper countertops. They seemed to have been lit for Beatrice's benefit. The old woman sat on a kitchen stool with her hands and ankles bound.

“Beatrice!” Adele went to her side and began scrabbling with the rope's knots.

“Miss Adele!” Beatrice gasped, her voice raspy. “I've seen a ghost! Detective Grogan came through here not two minutes ago.”

“Did he do this to you?” Adele asked as the ropes around her ankles fell away. Looking closer, I saw what appeared to be a gag hanging loose around Beatrice's lace collar. Who had taken it out of her mouth?

“No, it was that other one who broke in about fifteen minutes before,” she answered. Grandfather. Ashamed, I started in on the rope around her wrists.

“It wasn't a ghost,” I told her. “Detective Grogan is alive. Where did he go?”

Beatrice nodded toward an open door next to a long wooden hutch filled with crystal and china. I started forward, but a hissing voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Suzanna? Suzanna!”

Adele, Beatrice, and I all swiveled toward the doors that led into the Hornes' dining room. The paneled kitchen door swung aside and Grandmother strolled in across the black-and-white checkered tiles.

“Grandmother?” What on earth was she doing here? She was supposed to be at the Copley!

“There you are!” she exclaimed.

“Shhh!” Adele and I said in unison.

Grandmother balked at us. “I will not
shhh
. You hollered for us to come inside. Bruce took off running and then Will —”

I held up my hand to halt her. “Wait. Uncle Bruce already came inside? Where is he?”

Beatrice tapped my shoulder. “He went down into the cellar right after Detective Grogan.”

A rash of cold gooseflesh prickled my entire body. Uncle Bruce must have been the one to free Beatrice of
the gag. I stared at the open door to the cellar. Uncle Bruce was already down there with Grogan and Grandfather. There should have been shouting. There should have been a scuffle happening. But it was quiet. Too quiet.

I started for the cellar door, taking down a cast-iron frying pan from a pot rack as a makeshift weapon. “We need to help —”

But Detective Grogan appeared in the doorway, within an arm's length of me. He had his pistol in one hand and the Degas statue in the other. He shut the door with a kick of his foot.

“It's too late for help, Suzanna.”

Grandmother screamed. I worried she'd keel over into another one of her fits, but she stood rigid, her look of astonishment fast turning to anger. The iron frying pan weighed heavy in my hand. My arm shook.

“You should have escaped while you had the chance,” Grogan said to me.

Had he already lit the fire? The lamp oil and liquors, the wine and spirits were all down in the cellar with Grandfather and Uncle Bruce.

“Don't threaten my granddaughter, you despicable …” Grandmother sputtered as she searched for a piercing word. “Nincompoop!”

It was about as piercing as a blade of grass. First, Grogan chuckled at her choice of insult. But he then deepened his laughter. His shoulders shook with it. Four words streamed through my mind:
The element of surprise.
I brought the iron pan down as hard as I could on his hand holding the pistol.

The weapon clattered to the tiles and I kicked my foot out to knock it farther away. It spun underneath a butcher block and well out of his reach. Grogan broadsided me with his shoulder, pushing me to the floor. Abandoning the lost weapon, he darted toward the back kitchen door with the Degas clutched to his chest.

“Stop him!” Adele shouted, already running in pursuit.

Grogan threw open the back door, but another figure blocked the exit. Will! Grogan tried to shove past him, but Will put down his head and rammed into Grogan's chest as if he was a bull and Grogan was a red flag.

Grogan hit the floor, the back of his head smacking against the tile. I quickly opened the cellar door. A plume of thick smoke poured out, and with it stumbled Uncle Bruce. He staggered into the kitchen, a handkerchief pressed against his nose and mouth. Even in the dim light and through the cloying smoke, I could see an
ugly red welt on his temple where Grogan must have hit him.

“Stay down, Neil,” Uncle Bruce rasped as he walked unsteadily to Grogan's side.

Detective Grogan was trying to rise up from the floor, but he must have hit his head hard. He groaned as Uncle Bruce shoved him over and slapped on a pair of handcuffs. Once freed, the Degas statue rolled onto the floor and landed on its side. The
Little Dancer
's outstretched leg and pointed toe lay reaching up into the air.

“How could you do this?” Uncle Bruce asked. Grogan didn't answer. I wasn't sure Uncle Bruce really wanted one right then anyway. In the last handful of minutes, he'd learned his partner had deceived him. Had made a fool of him. But at least Grogan had proved Matthew Leighton wasn't guilty. Well, not for this crime, anyway.

I turned back to the cellar door, expecting to see my grandfather hacking for air. He wasn't there.

“Where is Leighton?” I asked, a flutter of panic in my chest.

“Trying to put out the flames,” my uncle answered, still coughing on the smoke. It was filling the kitchen fast and thick.

He heaved Grogan up from the floor. “Will, go to the telephone in the front hall and put a call in to the
police station and then to the firehouse. Suzanna, fetch the Degas — my hands are full at the moment.” He gave Grogan a thrust forward. “The rest of you, follow me.”