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nd got a funny feeling.”
“Have you seen it?” says Colin. “It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t have been able to tell it’s a fake,” says Kiran. “But the art is Vanny’s thing, after all.”
“Don’t you think it’s interesting that Philip left last night?” says Colin. “I was just pressing Phoebe about it and she told me he’ll be moving to a different remote location every day with some rich patient of his who’s on some trip. Doesn’t that sound convenient?”
“Except that I know plenty of rich people who’d think it was completely reasonable to expect their doctor to fly in to treat their tummyache,” says Kiran. “Imagine the retinue Buckley would bring if he went on some complicated trip.”
“Oh, come on. Buckley’s not that bad.”
“God, you suck up to him,” says Kiran.
Jane has reached the second-story landing, where Jasper blocks her like a short, hotdog-shaped linebacker, growling when she tries to sidestep him.
Sighing, Jane pauses to scribble in her sketchbook, turning to face the wall so it’ll look like she’s taking interested notes on the art rather than on the private conversations of people nearby.
Buckley St. George, she writes. Rich and spoiled. Then she draws an asterisk next to Philip’s name, because Phoebe’s explanation sounds ridiculous to her; then she writes, Why is Colin dating Kiran when she’s so awful to him?
Someone coughs behind her.
It’s Colin, standing a few steps below, looking up at her with raised eyebrows. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” says Jane, closing her notebook.
“What are you doing?” asks Colin. “Taking notes on that painting?”
Jane glances at the painting she’s supposedly taking notes on. It’s the tall oil of the room with the drying umbrella. “I was taking notes on the umbrella,” she says reasonably, then remembers that this won’t signify anything to Colin, who doesn’t know she makes umbrellas.
“Sure,” he says. “I’d suspect you of planning a heist, except no one would steal that picture.”
He’s teasing; or at any rate, Jane can tell he’s not seriously accusing her of anything. “Why not?” she says, seeing an opportunity to learn more about heists. “It’s nice.”
“It’s too big to move and it’s not worth anything.”
“Maybe I’m stealing it because I like it.”
“It’s by a painter of unremarkable talent,” Colin says.
“Do you think so?” Jane says, looking closer. “I mean, I guess it’s not amazing—”
“It belongs to no particular school, either,” he says. “Knowing Octavian, I bet it was a flea market purchase.”
“Well, but it has its charms, especially for fans of umbrellas. Why are you so determined to convince me it’s worthless?”
“Because,” says the voice of Lucy, who rounds the corner from somewhere or other, “if Colin sees someone focused on a picture he thinks is worth nothing, he begins to worry that he’s missing something.”
This surprises a grin onto Jane’s face, which makes Lucy laugh. “He’s my cousin,” she says. “I know him.”
“So, Colin,” says Jane, “you’re trying to convince me you’re right because you’re afraid you’re wrong?”
A crash below interrupts whatever indignant thing Colin’s about to say. The crash is followed by a series of yells. Jane, Lucy, and Colin look at one another in astonishment. Then, together, they rush to the railing, Jasper crowding Jane’s feet.
“Octavian!” Ravi screams, standing in the receiving hall and waving something around in his hands. “Octavian!” On the checkerboard floor, beside him, a vase lies shattered. Water and lilacs are strewn about. “Octavian!” he screams again, his voice straining out of his throat, tearing at the ceiling.
“Colin,” says Lucy breathlessly. “Is that the bottom half of the Brancusi sculpture? The pedestal for the fish that always sits in the receiving hall?”
“Yes,” says Colin in wonderment.
“But where’s the top half? Where’s the fish?” says Lucy.
“How should I know?”
“Colin,” Lucy says, in a voice suddenly made of steel. “Where is the fish?”
“I don’t know!” Colin says. “You’re the detective, not me! What do you think, I broke it off?”
Lucy waves a dismissive hand at her cousin and starts down the stairs toward Ravi. Cleaners and decorators are lining up at every level to stare down at Ravi’s fit. Ivy is also down there now, standing next to Kiran and Phoebe, all of them gaping at Ravi.
A strange sense of panicked relief fizzes through Jane. Now the missing Brancusi is coming out into the light too. And Jane remembers seeing the Grace Panzavecchia look-alike girl bringing something into the receiving hall, leaving it on one of the side tables. Had that been the pedestal?
Jane realizes suddenly that the white plush bag with ducks on it that Philip Okada had been carrying was a diaper bag. Baby Leo Panzavecchia is sick; Baby Leo is missing; Philip Okada is a doctor.
What’s going on here? Some sort of complicated conspiracy involving the Panzavecchias, their doctor, the servants, and art theft? Jane studies Ivy, who’s watching Ravi with calm concern but who doesn’t look particularly surprised. Patrick, she notes, isn’t here.
“Let me see that,” Lucy says to Ravi, trying to take the pedestal from his hands, but Ravi won’t give it to her. He yells over her, barely noticing her, “Octavian! Octavian!”
Finally, Mrs. Vanders sweeps into the hall. “Be quiet!” she says. “What in the name of all that’s reasonable is the matter with you?”
“This,” Ravi yells, shaking the pedestal at her. “This is what’s the matter with me!”
When Mrs. Vanders sees the pedestal, she freezes. Jane can’t see her face from the landing, but when Mrs. Vanders reaches a hand out to Ravi, he passes the pedestal to her. With one finger, Mrs. Vanders touches a spot in the middle of its flat, mirrored surface, then exhales as if in relief.
“Let me see it,” Lucy says. Mrs. Vanders passes the pedestal to Lucy. Lucy touches the same spot, then nods at Mrs. Vanders, who’s watching her closely.
“Ravi?” Lucy says. “The sculpture was removed cleanly from the base. Assuming the sculpture itself is unbroken, it should be easy to reattach it, once it’s found.”
“Once it’s found?” Ravi says. “Once it’s found!?” he shouts.
“Calm down,” Mrs. Vanders says to him. “Ravi, take a breath. Tell me where you got this pedestal.”
Ravi points to a row of side tables. “It was sitting there,” he says. “Someone—put—a vase of lilacs on it—as if it were a party decoration!” he screams.
“All right,” Mrs. Vanders says. “Take another breath.”
“It wasn’t there last night,” he says. “Someone took the whole thing away, broke off the fish, then put the pedestal back. What kind of lunatic would do that? And if this is what they’ve done to the Brancusi”—his voice grows almost hysterical—“what have they done to the Vermeer? I want a list of everyone who’s come and gone in this house. Now!”
“Very well,” Mrs. Vanders says sarcastically. “That would be the caterers, the musicians, the extra cleaning staff, the actual residents of the house, and your guests. Shall we start the interrogations now or later?”
“Why do you sound like that?” cries Ravi. “Don’t you appreciate what’s happened here?” He turns suddenly on Phoebe Okada. “Where’s your husband?” he spits at her. “He’s gone off the island, hasn’t he?”
Phoebe stares back at Ravi, her face made of stone. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just imply that Philip stole from you,” she says. Then she strides out of the room, disappearing into the Venetian courtyard, her face closed and intense.
“Truly, listen to yourself, Ravi,” says Mrs. Vanders. “Philip
Okada is a physician who answered an emergency call.”
“Have you contacted the FBI?” says Ravi.
“How?” exclaims Mrs. Vanders. “Telepathically, while we’ve been standing here enjoying your tantrum?”
“Wait, you haven’t contacted the FBI?” cries Ravi. “Do you even remember about the Vermeer?”
“Ravi, of course I’ll call the proper authorities,” says Mrs. Vanders. “But you need to take a breath and realize that this thing with the Brancusi is very different from a fine forgery of a Vermeer. This has the indications of an accident, or a prank.”
“Who would play a prank with an irreplaceable work of pure genius?” Ravi says, his voice rising again. “Call the FBI, the CIA, and Interpol! My art could be in Hong Kong by now! Lucy!”
“I’m right here, Ravi,” says Lucy, standing beside him, still holding the pedestal to her chest. Her face is white and she actually looks a little nauseated.
“Lucy,” Ravi says, grabbing on to her shoulders, practically shaking her. “Lucy. Will you find my art?”
“Ravi, sweetie,” she says, “I’ll do all I can.”
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you.” When he lets Lucy go, she stumbles, which he barely notices, because he’s swung back on Mrs. Vanders.
“We should cancel the gala,” he tells her.
“We’re not canceling the gala,” she responds.
“The gala is the perfect distraction if someone is trying to slip out with stolen art,” Ravi says.
“Ravi Thrash,” Mrs. Vanders says. “There has been a gala in this house every season for over a hundred years. Neither war nor the Great Depression nor Prohibition nor the death of three Octavian Thrashes has stopped the gala from taking place.”
Ravi glares at Mrs. Vanders. Then he takes a step away from her, raises his face to the upper levels, and roars, “Octavian! Wake up and get the hell down here!”
“Go to his room, Ravi,” Ivy says quietly. “You know he won’t get out of bed in the daytime.”
Ravi turns to Ivy then, his shoulders slumping. “Maybe you should come with me, Ivy-bean,” he says. “Will you come with me and keep me calm?”
“I’ll come with you if you keep yourself calm,” says Ivy.
