The Mastermind Plot by Angie Frazier

to say who’d sent it. If my parents continued to send the thirty-cent telegrams at the same ratefor the next few months, they’d most likely fund the laying of a whole new telegraph cable.
    But it wasn’t the telegram that held my attention. Bertie stepped back and I stared at the dress — at the navy blue material trimmed in white ribbon, the squared shoulders, and the collar complete with a droopy bow tie.
    â€œIt’s …” I hesitated, heart plunging. “It’s a sailor dress.”
    Bertie coughed politely. “The late Mr. Snow was an admiral in the navy.”
    I glanced up from the disappointing dress. “He was?”
    The corner of Bertie’s mouth turned downward. “You didn’t know?”
    I ran my fingers over the stiff shoulder pads of the much-too-childish sailor dress, and then picked up the telegram. My father had sent this one, the shortened, economical sentences asking after my health and schooling.
    â€œNo, I didn’t know.” My father never really talked about Boston or his family. All my parents had ever said was that Boston just hadn’t been for them. They’d wanted a slower life. A quieter life.
    â€œDo you need help dressing, Miss Zanna?” Bertie asked.
    â€œI can manage.” I had no desire to share the moment of humiliation when I put on the dress.
    Bertie gave a pert nod and left the room. Eyeing the sailor dress, I knew I had no choice. I had to wear it. And the moment of humiliation arrived just as I’d predicted.
    I came off the last step of the stairwell, my sweaty hand gripping the carved mahogany wood of the newel post, and met with a full receiving room of men and women. Each and every one of them stopped to turn and welcome me. Grandmother threw up her arms and squealed like she had just seen the world’s most adorable baby.
    â€œOh! Look at that!” She cut a path through all of her guests and gripped me by my mortarboard shoulders. “Oh, this dress! It would have made my dear Roger so very proud.”
    Mortified, I tried to avoid the crush of eyes inspecting my ridiculous dress as murmurs of agreement sounded. I noted instead how the furniture in the receiving room — the grand room parallel to Grandmother’s cluttered parlor — had all been pushed up against the walls. Everyone milled about on the checkered parquet floor, tall glasses of champagne in their hands, while wreathes of cigar and pipe smoke hovered overhead in the soft lighting from suspended candelabras. Itreminded me of a miniature version of the Rosemount’s Great Hall.
    Grandmother finally let go of my shoulders and thrust me into the center of the crowd. “Go on now, Zanna dear, and don’t be shy.” She winked one of her bright, cerulean eyes at me. “I believe a friend of yours is here, too.”
    I finally lifted my face to scan the crowd. A friend? Will? I heard the rumble of Uncle Bruce’s laugh somewhere deeper within the receiving room. I craned my neck and refused to stand still long enough for anyone to catch my attention and witness firsthand my less-than-appealing social skills.
    The tail of the floppy navy blue ribbon holding back my hair swung in front of my eyes and tickled my nose. I swatted it away, and while doing so, I bumped shoulders with someone.
    â€œPardon me,” I said quickly, and started to take off once again.
    â€œSome sailor you’d be. You can’t even navigate your way through a party.”
    The soles of my buckled leather dress shoes skidded to a stop. I turned around, and with mounting despair, saw a head of silky black curls offset by snowy cheeks, pouting lips, and an arched eyebrow.
    â€œAdele?” I hadn’t known she would be coming.
    I took in her lovely pale green silk dress, the single row of creamy white ruffles along the hem, and the soft billows of silk around her shoulders. What on earth was Adele Horne doing at my