Free The Mastermind Plot by Angie Frazier Page B

all. Please, don’t worry.”
    I couldn’t bear to see her have another episode, and then not have Dr. Philbrick right at hand.
    Grandmother smiled, but it was a sleepy, exhausted smile. “Oh, Zanna, how could I not worry? You’re my granddaughter. And your father and mother, they’ve asked me to take care of you. Protect you. I hope you can understand …” She didn’t finish her sentence. Sheleaned her head back against the cushioned panel and closed her fan.
    Grandmother needed rest. No stress, Dr. Philbrick had told me. We rode on in silence. She wanted me to understand something, and I did: She was keeping a secret from me. I hoped she could understand something as well: I was going to stop at nothing to find out what the secret was.

Detective Rule: Never overlook the smallest details. They will often lead to the biggest clues.
    M ISS D OUCETTE STOOD AT THE FRONT OF THE classroom with pointer in hand. One framed portrait was to her right. A second, nearly identical one was to her left. Both were propped on tall easels so the majority of the class could see. I, however, was seated behind the abnormally tall Lucille, so my view was of her carrot-colored braid.
    I didn’t mind all that much. Miss Doucette wouldn’t be able to see my eyelids drooping come midday. I hadn’t slept a wink all night. I’d been nervous Grandmother would suffer from another one of her breathing attacks, and I was also too riled up by meeting the curious stranger face-to-face.
    â€œAs you can see, girls, both of these paintings are essentially the same. The only difference is the choice of frames.” Miss Doucette whacked her pointer against the plaster molding of the frame I could see.
    â€œThis frame, with its ornate carvings and gilded rosettes, is completely unsuitable for the portrait’s subject matter,” she said.
    From what I could see, the subject matter was a light-hued coastal marsh scene. It reminded me of the marshes near Loch Harbor. A tug of homesickness pulled my stomach low, but I quickly chased it away.
    â€œThis frame, with its fillet edge and thin brocade of plaster, coated with silver leaf, properly brings out the simplicity of the marshes,” Miss Doucette explained. Honestly, I could not tell the difference, but if Miss Doucette said it, it was best to just agree.
    Up one row and two seats diagonally from me, Adele sat with crisp posture and her glossy black hair pulled back with ribbons. She was taking notes, and I supposed I should be as well. I did need to learn more about art and framing if I was going to be working on this theory of Adele’s. It seemed as if Miss Doucette’s lesson for the day was insensitive, what with expensive artworks burning to cinders in the warehouse fires. But other than the Hornes, my uncle, Detective Grogan, and the insurance companies having to process a claim of loss, no one knew about the destroyed art.
    â€œ I always employ the framer on Kingston Boulevard. He is the finest in Boston,” Miss Doucette said beforeaddressing Adele. “I’m sure Mr. Horne has hired Signor Periggi in the past, yes?”
    Adele laid her pencil down. “Yes, but my father wasn’t pleased with Signor Periggi’s work on the Rossetti he purchased last fall. We employ Mr. Dashner.”
    Miss Doucette looked as though she’d just been slapped. Two dots of crimson bloomed on her cheekbones.
    â€œOh, well, of course, of course,” she stammered. “Yes, Mr. Dashner is also quite accomplished. Let’s move on now, girls, and discuss the use of matting.”
    I couldn’t think of anything less exciting than matting. Besides, the mention of framers in Boston had given me an idea. I waited patiently through demonstrations on proper wall mountings until at long last we were all dismissed for the afternoon.
    â€œAdele,” I hissed from around the corner of the academy’s front, ivy-clad brick