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“ ‘Francis’ as in Mary Francis?” Charlotte said.
“Oh, I see!” Miss Gardenside clapped her hands. “We discovered the clue! But what does it mean?”
Charlotte took the painting off the wall. The back was covered in brown paper, stapled all around, but something shifted inside.
“Tear it open,” Miss Gardenside said.
Charlotte hesitated. Mrs. Wattlesbrook would not be pleased if she tore the backing off a priceless work of art.
“Go ahead,” said Miss Charming. “It’s not real.”
“How can you tell?”
“I’m really good at spotting fakes.” She gave her chest a gentle shake. “It’s a genetic gift. I grew ’em real—and how—and as a bonus, I’m gifted with a radar for detecting frauds of any kind.”
As much as Charlotte wanted to believe that Miss Charming’s abnormally large authentic bosoms granted her a superpowered ability to detect fake paintings, it seemed just a tad far-fetched.
Miss Charming turned the painting over. “See the even texture? This was one of those spray-on jobs, mass-produced duplicates. Not even a good one. Tear it up, darlin’.”
Charlotte ripped open a corner of the brown paper. Out slid a parchment, folded in thirds.
They opened it up breathlessly. The page was blank.
“Is this a joke?” Charlotte asked.
“Naw, it’s just Andrews,” Miss Charming said with a fond smile. “He loves prolonging the climax.”
She examined the paper at arm’s length, squinting, then ran downstairs. “Come on!”
Miss Gardenside and Charlotte followed.
They stood on the front steps, holding the paper up to the sun. Charlotte thought she could detect faint markings.
“Lemon juice!” she said. “My son used lemon juice as ink for a school science project once. We need heat.”
They hurried back inside, giggling and jostling and generally resembling a flock of busy geese. One lit candle later, they held the paper close to the flame and watched as marks painted in lemon juice darkened to brown.
Among dusty tomes stands
The work of the saint
And one girl’s confessions
Penned without constraint
“Another clue. He does play with one,” Miss Gardenside said.
Miss Charming laug
hed. “Oh, you don’t know the half.”
Charlotte led the women to the library. On the shelves of nonfiction was Francis of Assisi: Patron Saint of Animals.
Miss Gardenside and Miss Charming gathered in as she flipped through the pages. The end papers were covered in handwriting, made with the unmistakable strokes of a quill pen.
“I, Mary Francis, write this in my own hand—” Charlotte began to read.
“Aah!” all three screamed.
