The Mastermind Plot (9 page)

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 pinched 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?”

I
TURNED TOWARD
D
ETECTIVE
G
ROGAN 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 as 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.

“Why is it so special?” I asked instead.

“Because hardly anyone in the world knows it even exists,” Adele answered. “My father once said it would be worth an unbelievable fortune, but that's not why he loves it. It's the secret of it he loves so much, I think.
He never displays it and moves it from safe to safe regularly.
I've
only laid eyes on it once or twice myself.”

If an art thief knew about the existence of this rare Degas, I imagined it could be a prime target. I listed who would know about the Degas: my uncle and his department, Adele, the Horne house servants perhaps. Adele confirmed the list, also saying a close handful of collectors her father associated with had probably seen it. Then a speculation struck me.

“Does Mr. Dashner know about the Degas?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “Papa has the Degas cleaned every year and Mr. Dashner does it.”

A proper theory was taking shape and my head spun with it. We then heard the sound of shoes tapping along the polished hallway floor.

“What about the other paintings? The ones that were removed from the warehouses,” I went on. “Would Mr. Dashner have known they'd been moved?”

The footsteps down the hallway sounded closer. Someone was coming to fetch us.

“Yes,” she answered again. I saw the light of striking gold in her wide eyes. “Since Papa was already moving the pieces, he thought it would be a good time to have the frame for a Cézanne regilded. He had Mr. Dashner meet him at Noone's Wharf to pick it up!”

At that moment, Adele's dour, prune-faced butler found us huddled in the receiving room.

“Dinner, Miss Adele. May I escort you and your friends to your seats?”

It was an order masked by politeness — he was the butler, but he ran the house. My mind galloped in circles as we were led to the dining room. Mr. Dashner knew about the existence of the Degas, and that the paintings had been taken from the safe boxes. He probably knew where they were being held as well. But did he know where Mr. Horne had stashed the Degas?

We entered the dining room just as Detective Grogan was exiting.

“I'll fetch your coat, Detective,” the butler said with a slight bow.

Grogan was still blotchy and sweating profusely.

“You're leaving?” I asked. He didn't need to answer, really. He looked ready to vomit all over the Persian carpet.

Grogan raised his thin, light-colored eyebrows and tried to smile at Adele. “I apologize, Miss Horne.” He then turned to me. “Let me know if you're still curious about the Red Herring Heists, Suzanna. I'll see if I can pull the files for you if they're public.”

I said thank you and then Detective Grogan was gone. Nearly all the others had taken their seats at the
table, including Hannah. A suited footman pulled out the chair beside hers and bowed toward me. She'd managed to switch the seating arrangement after all. I slipped into the chair, dreading having to talk yet again about the Maddie Cook case.

“The Red Herring Heists?” Hannah asked, having overheard her husband. “Why, I don't think I've heard of that case before.”

Uncle Bruce was settling down into his seat across from me. He snatched the cloth napkin away from the footman who was trying to place it in his lap.

“Why are you asking about that case?” he barked. I was quickly learning that the ability to hide his feelings was not one of Uncle Bruce's strengths.

“It just caught my interest,” I replied. He held my gaze another moment but didn't make a reply. He cut his eyes away from me and sent a fast glance down the table. They landed on Grandmother. I followed the look and saw she also had a drawn expression. When she saw me watching her, she painted on a smile.

Hannah began asking questions about the Cook case, and I answered dutifully. Every now and then I heard an irritated sigh or throat clearing from across the table. Uncle Bruce tried to redirect the conversation, asking Mr. Horne about business, imploring his
wife to regale us with stories of Venice, and even going so far as to ask Will how Bellmont's was going for him this year. As if Uncle Bruce actually
cared
.

I didn't pay any attention to it really, because it wasn't the Cook case I wanted to be talking, or even thinking, about. It was the Red Herring Heists that were now firmly nagging at me. Uncle Bruce and Grandmother didn't like my interest in them. And that, naturally, only made me want to know more.

Bertie had a pot of tea ready for us when we arrived home. We unwrapped ourselves in the foyer and went into the parlor, where a fire licked the hearth logs and a plush chair beckoned me. Grandmother sat back in her chair and lifted her small feet onto a low, ruffled footstool.

“Miss Zanna, you've a telegram,” Bertie said, placing the rectangular envelope on the sofa's end table.

“They certainly miss you,” Grandmother said, her lids closing in exhaustion.

My parents did seem to be overdoing the correspondence a little, and I was running out of things to say in my responses that didn't involve the case. Thank goodness telegrams required short sentences. But I had to give my parents some leeway. It was my first time
away from home, and my father hadn't even wanted me to go in the first place. I put the telegram in my skirt pocket and accepted a cup of tea from Bertie.

“Grandmother,” I began. “Why do you think my father dislikes Boston so much?”

I couldn't imagine it had anything to do with her. Grandmother wasn't overbearing or mean or someone to avoid at all costs.

“Dislike?” she echoed. Her eyes fluttered open. “I don't know what you mean. Why would Benjamin dislike his hometown?”

I sipped the peppermint tea. Grandmother also wasn't a very good liar.

“He never visits,” I said.

“He's a very busy man.” Her immediate excuse had the worn, overused quality of something she'd said time and again. Much like my answers to questions about the Maddie Cook case.

Grandmother closed her eyes again, but her relaxed posture in the chair had turned slightly rigid. I sensed she was waiting to see if I'd give up. She really should have known better.

“My father didn't want me to visit. He said it was too dangerous. Why would he think that?”

She flapped away my question with a tired sweep of her hand. “I'm sure I have no idea. My house is far
from dangerous and I am completely capable of seeing to your protection.”