The Mastermind Plot by Angie Frazier Page B

sort of business he’d been seeing to must have involved getting ash on his dress shoes, and he hadn’t had time to polish them up before dinner.
    â€œI’m glad to see you now, at least,” Uncle Bruce continued, a short tumbler filled with crushed ice and a fizzy liquid in his hand. “We’ve got one of your dock-workers claiming —”
    Xavier Horne held his hand up. “No, not another word, Detective.”
    Uncle Bruce lowered his drink. “Excuse me?”
    He clearly didn’t like being interrupted. He flicked his eyes toward me but only for a millisecond.
    â€œI don’t want to discuss the case tonight,” Adele’s father explained. “I’m here to escape. To relax and welcome your niece to Boston.”
    Uncle Bruce wriggled his mustache the way he did when bothered.
    Mr. Horne turned back toward me. “I am told, Suzanna, if I want true relaxation that Loch Harbor is the place to seek out, is that correct? Your father owns a hotel there?”
    â€œMy father and mother manage the Rosemount, but Mr. Blythe in London owns it —”
    Mr. Horne’s crunched-up eyebrows startled me into silence. “Blythe? Marcus Blythe?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWonderful man, that Marcus Blythe! He’s got an impressive hotel right here in Boston, too — the Sherwood. I saw the most gorgeous Cassatt there last spring, but it wasn’t for sale.”
    I saw the opening and lunged for it. “You’re fond of art?”
    Adele lifted her chin, eyes rounded with surprise. She knew my game.
    â€œQuite,” he answered, seemingly delighted by my interest. “I have over two hundred pieces in my personal collection. Cassatt, Monet, Sargent, Manet, Peale, Delacroix … paintings, sculpture, illuminated texts, mosaics, glass. Anything that is beautiful to look at, really.”
    I strived to memorize everything but thought I might just have to ask Adele for the artists’ names later.
    â€œYour collection must be worth a fortune,” I said, hoping my age and mock wonder ( breathless wonder, at that) made up for how rude it was to mention money.
    Mr. Horne didn’t seem offended, though. In fact, he puffed out his chest and proudly agreed. “Quite, quite.”
    â€œAre any of the pieces insured?” Now that did attract a curious glower from my uncle’s direction. I scrambled to remedy the blunder. “The Rosemount once had a … a sculpture stolen and it wasn’t insured. It was devastating.”
    It wasn’t entirely untrue. Old Forrest Johnston, one of the Rosemount’s long-standing summer guests, had sculpted a mermaid statue for the hotel and placed a key to his hidden fortune inside. The sculpture had been stolen and destroyed by Maddie Cook’s brother, but really the only person who’d been devastated was Mr. Johnston. The statue had been ugly, and I doubted anyone would miss it.
    Mr. Horne grumbled in dismay. “All of my pieces are insured, but for a true collector, mere money could never replace the value of a stolen work of art. I’ve lost many lovely pieces lately, Suzanna — as I’m sure you’veheard. They were dear to me, though not just because of what they were worth.”
    Will and Detective Grogan had stepped into our conversation as Mr. Horne was speaking. I was relieved to see Will. Maybe he could think of some other, less obvious questions to get Mr. Horne to talk more about his art collection.
    â€œCertainly, the insurance money could be used to purchase other works?” Detective Grogan asked. Mr. Horne made a face that resembled mine when my mother insisted I eat every last Brussels sprout on my plate.
    â€œEach piece is one of a kind. Irreplaceable. And every collector has a favorite piece. A crown jewel. If it were to be taken or destroyed … like Suzanna said, it would be devastating.”
    Detective Grogan inspected me from behind his