The Mastermind Plot by Angie Frazier Page A

grandmother’s dinner? And why did she have to be wearing the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen?
    I forced the thought away and remembered something I’d wanted to ask her. “Listen, I’m glad you’re here,” I began.
    She looked sideways at me. “You are?”
    After the mild case of frostbite I’d suffered from Adele’s cold shoulder all week, I supposed my claim did seem suspicious. But this was business.
    â€œI’ve been trying to form a time line of events, and wanted to know when your father moved the rest of his art from the warehouses to the other locations.”
    Adele ran a few fingers through her curls absentmindedly. “After the second fire on September —”
    â€œSeptember second.” I already knew it. The second on the second was how I’d memorized it.
    She quit playing with her hair and clasped her hands behind her back. “I didn’t need reminding, Suzanna. The second fire on the second of September.”
    My posture wilted, not pleased at all that someone else had used my method of memorization.
    â€œDid he move the art from the other warehouses that same day?” I asked.
    She shook her head, glancing around the crowded room. We were shorter than most of the adults, and hence easily overlooked. Sometimes that came in handy.
    â€œNo, the next day,” she answered.
    I needed my notebook. Unfortunately, the sailor dress lacked pockets.
    â€œAnd where were these other locations?” I asked. But Adele wasn’t able to answer. Just then, a short, compact man with a handlebar mustache approached us.
    â€œWell, Midge, who do you have here?” the man asked. He wrapped his arm around Adele’s shoulders.
    â€œ Papa ,” she groaned. He squeezed her tightly and laughed.
    â€œOh, that’s right.” He leaned in closer to me and, with a conspiratorial whisper, said, “I forgot I’m not supposed to call her that in public.”
    Midge? I reveled in Adele’s inflamed cheeks and pursed lips. Mr. Horne straightened back up and raised his voice to its normal tenor.
    â€œBut certainly there isn’t any harm if your friend here knows your pet name.”
    Adele’s scowl deepened.
    â€œI’m Xavier Horne, and you must be the guest of honor, Suzanna.”
    He held out his hand. I took it, preparing to shake. But he kissed the back of my hand instead, his mustache whiskers tickling my skin.
    â€œ Enchanté, mademoiselle ,” he said.
    From what little French I knew, I replied, “ Merci .”
    He said something else in French but I didn’t understand. He must have noticed my confusion, because he laughed again. His eyes were the same light gray as Adele’s, but they were merry. Adele’s were flinty and apprehensive, as if she never found anything humorous or likable at all. I observed the rest of his characteristics and planned to add them later to his profile in my notebook.
    Xavier Horne was just an inch taller than his daughter, who stood a full head taller than me. He wore an expensive-looking suit with a gold chain drooped over his vest, indicating a pocket watch in his left chest pocket. He sparkled from his balding head to his cuff links. The tips of his black dress shoes were the only things out of place. They were both lightly dusted with a gray sort of substance. It looked like ash. I wondered why he hadn’t bothered to wipe them off before tonight’s dinner.
    â€œXavier, there you are.” Uncle Bruce’s voice came up behind me. He wore a crisp black suit and tie, and as always, he dwarfed those around him with his height, his voice, and his presence. “I had hoped you would be joining Neil and me at the club tonight before the dinner party.”
    Xavier Horne patted my uncle on the shoulder. “Sorry to miss it. I had some business to attend to. Came here straight after.”
    I took another covert glance at his shoes. Whatever