The Masquerading Magician (23 page)

Forty-Five

Peter stared mutely at
me.

“Well,” Penelope said, “she's certainly much more clever than we gave her credit for.” She stood up and walked down the porch steps, stopping uncomfortably close to me. She was taller than me, so I saw it for the power play that it was. “How did you know?”

“At the time I didn't realize what I'd seen at the cemetery.” I stepped away from Penelope and walked a few paces toward the barren elderberry bushes that lined the side fence. Simply being near the garden protector made me feel more in control. “But the Thorne mausoleum isn't too far from the mudslide area.”

“The police already searched it after he was killed,” Peter said. “The cemetery keeps a key.”

“To the main entrance, sure,” I said. “Not the hidden one.”

Peter had a fit of coughing.

“Little things you both said didn't add up,” I continued. “You didn't approach the police to access the records, but you spent time at the cemetery. The item you were protecting in a locked trunk wasn't part of your research, but a child's backpack containing a puzzle box given to you by your toy-maker father. No, your actions weren't those of people researching historical facts to clear a man's name. They were the actions of the treasure hunters. I didn't put it together until a friend of mine talked to Julian Lake. He said there's no way the guard was involved.”

“Nice try,” Penelope said. “But Julian Lake is a recluse. He doesn't talk to anyone.”

“My friend is good at getting people to open up to him.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes at me.

“It's not illegal to search for the Lake Loot,” Peter said, recovering his voice.

“No, it's not. You're admitting that you knew your father was the thief all along?”

“It's not Peter's fault his father was a criminal,” Penelope said.

“Pen—”

“Oh, do be quiet, Peter. Do you want to resolve this once and for all or not?”

Peter gripped the railing of the porch but remained silent.

“We already told you how Peter spent his whole life running from people's assumptions about him,” Penelope continued. “Is it any wonder he wants to at least get something out of it? Returning the jewels to the Lake family and getting a reward will bring him closure.”

“Why didn't you just say so in the first place?” I asked.

“After hiding his past for so long, I'm sure you can understand the desire to wrap things up out of the spotlight, so to speak.” She gave me an inscrutable smile. “In case he wasn't able to find the hidden loot and return it to the Lake family to redeem
himself
, he didn't want to reveal his identity and open himself up to mockery.”

It did make sense. It was an impulse I often felt in my own life. I needed to conceal so many parts of my life that hiding became second nature. But after they'd lied repeatedly, how could I be sure Peter and Penelope's intentions were pure?

“I'm sure you won't mind if the police accompany you to the crypt to open it.” I returned Penelope's enigmatic smile.

“Of course not,” she said. “But unfortunately, you yourself said there's no way to open it. Without destroying whatever is inside.”

“I didn't exactly say that.”

Peter dug his fingernails into the wooden railing, and the muscles on his neck looked as if they were going to pop out. “Anyone ever tell you that you like to speak in riddles?”

“I'm not the one who wrote a clue on the box itself.”

“It's not a clue,” Peter seethed. “I tried every possible letter substitution. It doesn't tell me how to open the box.”

“To open a box like this,” I said, turning the box over in my hands, “the best way is to know the correct spots to push, in the right order, as you know. The person who built it would know how to do that. But without having a key, the box needs to be destroyed to get at what's inside. Breaking or burning are your options, but if you don't know what's inside, it's difficult to know which would ruin the protected item. If, however, you believe it to be a key, that key won't burn. The box itself tells you that much.”

“Ashes to ashes,” Peter whispered.

“It was a simpler clue than you imagined. If you want to open the box without breaking the key inside, you have to burn it.”

Peter groaned. Before I realized what was happening, the box disappeared from my hand.

On the other side of the porch, Peter applied a putty-like substance to the rose carving on the box. With swiftly moving hands, he peeled it off and handed the putty to Penelope. He jumped over the porch railing, landing gracefully on the stone path, and with a snap of his fingers, a lighter appeared in his hand. He lit the box on fire.

“Wait!” I cried. “It's only a theory.”

Peter gave me a devilish grin. “That's why I made an impression of the box carving. Just in case you're wrong.”

The box smoldered and caught fire. When the flames extinguished, an iron key was left, its dark metal glowing in the ashes.

“I need your help,” I told Max.

I'd pushed aside all thoughts of how I'd shoved Max out the door, and called him. It was the best thing I could think to do.

He sighed audibly at the other end of the line. “You mean you want a recommendation for a psychologist?”

“I'll explain everything later, Max, but I need you to meet me at River View Cemetery. At the Thorne family mausoleum. It's near where the mudslides took place.”

Now it sounded like he was choking.

From my front lawn, I explained that I wasn't going hiking in a dangerous area as he feared, but that the magicians had come to me with help on their puzzle box because I had several of them for sale through Elixir. And I told him about Peter's connection to Franklin Thorne and the Lake Loot. I managed to convince Max that since the information wasn't directly related to the murder investigation that another detective was handling, he had every right to accompany me to River View Cemetery to check out my crazy idea.

“He's coming?” Penelope asked.

“He'll be there as soon as he can.”

“Good,” Peter said. “We'll meet you there.”

“We go together.” There was no way I was letting the magicians out of my sight. “Your SUV is big enough for all of us.”

They exchanged a quick look that confirmed my suspicions that they were up to something. But I'd called someone who knew I was with them, so surely they wouldn't do anything to harm me. At least not here. Not today.

That was the logical conclusion, but people don't always behave in a rational manner. My heart skipped a beat when Peter reached into the backseat before stepping into the driver's seat. It turned out he was grabbing a coat.

Though it was a warm spring day after the rains of the previous night, Peter bundled in the puffy snow coat. That was odd. Perhaps he was getting sick. In spite of the situation, I found myself thinking through the simple herbal remedies from my backyard garden that might help at the onset of a cold, such as one of my mints.

I was more worried about a different danger. A glimpse in the side mirror confirmed that my health was getting worse. I feared that might be the case, but I'd pushed the thought from my mind because I didn't want it to be true. The effects of making Dorian's Tea of Ashes were catching up with me. I had to find a real solution soon.

We parked in the main lot next to the chapel and walked from there.

I was unsurprised to see Earl Rasputin on the steep hillside adjacent to the cemetery, walking methodically with his metal detector in hand. Peter, Penelope, and I continued to the Thorne mausoleum.

Earl must have seen us, too, because as soon as we reached the mausoleum, he wandered over.

“Afternoon,” he said, tipping the rim of the baseball cap shielding his eyes from the sun. Peter and Penelope gave no indication of recognizing him. Was their reaction genuine? Earl had remained in the audience on opening night, while his friend volunteered on stage. So if the magicians were telling the truth that they had nothing to do with Wallace Mason's murder, it made sense they wouldn't recognize Earl.

“Let me give you each a flyer.” Earl pressed a flyer into my hands:
Baby Bigfoot. Have you seen this creature?

It was a more detailed flyer than the one he had the day I met him. In addition to the text, this one included a sketch of a hairless gray creature with horns and wings.

Oh, God. Baby Bigfoot was Dorian. He'd been outed by the conspiracy theorists. I groaned to myself, but forced myself to smile as I took the flyer. It was a rudimentary sketch, lacking incriminating details, but it was clearly Dorian, as if seen from a distance.

A normal life, Zoe. You really thought you could have a normal life?

“Do you want me to help pass out your flyers?” I offered. Perhaps if I was enthusiastic enough about the cause he'd give me all of his flyers, and then I could destroy them.

“That's a great idea,” Penelope said. “I'd love to help too.”

That threw me. Had she seen Dorian moving, too? Was that why she'd been fascinated when I showed her his stone statue?

Earl grabbed a stack of flyers and started to hand them to Penelope. But as he did so, a gust of wind picked up, and the Baby Bigfoot flyers scattered. Penelope and I knelt down to pick them up. The wind didn't make it easy. Moisture from the grass damaged a few of them, but most were no worse off.

The treasure hunter gave his thanks, but lingered even after we retrieved all of them.

“Do I know you?” Peter asked.

“Earl Rasputin. I attended your performance on Friday night. I could tell how you did the ghost trick, you know.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “And I can tell that you're a—”

“Max!” I called out. “We're over here.”

We didn't get to hear the end of Peter's comeback, because as soon as he saw Max, Earl said his farewells.

Max apologized for running late, but said that Ivan was back in the hospital for pneumonia and he'd promised to visit him during visiting hours that day. I hadn't realized Ivan was in the hospital. I knew I should visit him as soon as I could too.

I traced my fingers along the intricate carvings on the white granite that belonged to Peter's family. These rose carvings were far older than Peter's father. But if I was right, the toy maker who knew how to carve clever puzzle boxes would have also been able to add nearly-undetectable segments to an existing structure. It's a trick alchemists have employed for millennia. For our work to remain hidden, we learn how to hide things in plain sight.

I focused my intent on the pattern, ignoring the people around me. Besides the main door, nothing on the front of the raised crypt looked like it might fit a key. I stepped back and circled the structure. That gave me the answer. The back wall had aged differently than the other walls. Most people wouldn't have noticed the difference, but I saw it because different plant spores had settled on this surface.

On that wall, I found a tiny hole disguised in a thorn of the rose carving.

“Do you want to do the honors and make this official?” I asked Max.

The slightly charred key fit perfectly.

The key opened a hidden compartment that wasn't connected to the main family crypt. As Peter had previously said, in 1969 the mausoleum was opened by order of the police, but nothing unexpected had been found inside. This hidden compartment was never found because Franklin Thorne had added a
new wall
along the back of the mausoleum, making it two feet larger than its original construction. It was a large enough space to hide stolen items, but was small enough to avoid detection.

The interior of the narrow space was filled with moist dirt. There was no proper floor. Franklin might have been a clever thief and craftsman, but he wasn't a good architect. Rainwater had drastically damaged the hidden compartment. That was how the sapphire necklace became dislodged.

“The Lake Loot,” Peter whispered.

Lying in the uneven, damp dirt, half a dozen jeweled necklaces sparkled through their bed of mud.

Peter took a step forward.

“Don't touch it,” Max said.

“I was just looking.”

But I wasn't paying attention to either of the men. Next to the half-buried jewels, I noticed something else. The dirt in the far corner had been disturbed. An indentation in the earth told me we weren't the first people who'd been there recently. It wasn't a footprint, but rather an imprint, as if an object had been removed.

I looked from the hiding spot to the Baby Bigfoot flyers clutched in my hand. What was going on?

Forty-Six

I dangled the Baby
Bigfoot flyer in front of Dorian. “You were seen.”

“Mais non!
How can this be?”

The magicians had dropped me off at my house, where thankfully I'd found Dorian in the attic. He hadn't gone off on any new ill-conceived adventures.

“We're not being careful enough,” I said. “Once your foot and leg became a problem, we should have kept you in the house. I'll tell Heather I can't bake pastries for a while—”

“It is not possible,” Dorian insisted. “I have been wearing your silk cape over me whenever I leave the house. Even if someone saw me, they would not see me as myself,
n'est pas
?”

“You're wrong,” I snapped. “You must not have been careful enough. We have enough to worry about without Bigfoot hunters flocking to Portland.”

He stamped his working foot on the creaky attic floor. “You have not told me what has happened! You have been gone for many hours, yet I cannot see or hear anything in this attic. You said you were taking Monsieur Freeman to the airport, yet you did not return. I thought I heard your loud engine earlier, but you did not come inside, so I believed I was mistaken. You expect me to read your mind? Where did this Baby Bigfoot flyer come from?”

My shoulders sagged. “You're right, Dorian. It's been a morning full of surprises. I'm sorry.”

“
Merci
.”

“I'm sorry for not having a chance to tell you what was going on this morning,” I said. “But I'm not sorry for telling you to be more careful.”

Dorian mumbled something under his breath that I chose to ignore, though it sounded suspiciously like the insult
casse couille
, a vulgar way to express irritation.

“What we need,” he said, “is a code ring.”

“A code ring? To decipher the coded illustrations in the book, you mean?”

“
Non
. I speak of the telephone. You do not wish me to answer it, since nobody besides you and Brixton believe me to live here. I am a clandestine companion. A lonely lodger. A secret chimera—”

“Dorian.”

“Yes, yes. As I was saying, you do not check email on your phone, so we have no way to communicate about urgent matters.”

“Normally the house is perfectly safe. We couldn't have foreseen that search warrant from the police.”

“No, but who knows what the future holds? We must institute a coded system of telephone rings.”

I considered the idea that must have come from one of the Penny Dreadful detective novels he'd read that winter. “That's not a bad idea,” I admitted.

“I thought so. We will work out the sequence of rings later. For now, you must tell me what has transpired.”

“Remember those treasure hunters you were worried about because they might sully your woods next to River View Cemetery? They're the ones who saw you.”

“
C'est vrai
? I do not see how—”

“It's true. Earl, the treasure-hunting friend of the dead volunteer, was passing out these flyers at the cemetery.”

“But why did you return to the graveyard in the first place?”

“When I got back from the airport, Peter and Penelope Silverman were waiting for me here at the house.”

Dorian gasped and protectively curled his hands around his ears. “I did not hear you and the magicians downstairs. I am losing my hearing as well!” His wings flew out at his sides in agitation.
“Quelle horreur!”

I put my hand on his shaking shoulder, careful to avoid his flapping wing. “There's nothing wrong with your hearing. I didn't invite them inside. And they wanted my help, so they didn't aggravate me by picking the lock, even though I'm certain Peter has the skills to do so.”

“Excuse my outburst.” He folded his wings and sniffed. “I am oversensitive at present.”

“We're all on edge. Those magicians aren't helping. They lied to us about being in town to clear Peter's father's name. They've known all along that Franklin Thorne was the murderous thief. Peter wanted to find the loot for the reward and to save face himself.”

“The missing Lake Loot.”

“It's not missing any longer, Dorian. We found it.”

Dorian sputtered and rolled his eyes as theatrically as a stage performer. “You found the
tresor
! Yet this was not the first thing you said when you came home!”

“The treasure doesn't matter. Your safety—”

“
Bof
.” He sat down and patted the floor next to him. “Tell me.”

I sat down next to the gargoyle and explained how Peter had a complex puzzle box from his father, like the ones I sold at Elixir, and that I'd figured out it contained a key that opened a secret hiding spot at the Thorne family mausoleum at the cemetery. Franklin Thorne had hidden his stolen loot in his hiding place before the police caught up with him later that day, but not thinking he'd be killed that day, he hadn't had a chance to convey the information about his hiding spot to his wife and son. “But when we went to the cemetery together,” I concluded, “I could tell someone had already gotten into the mausoleum, because the dirt inside the secret room had already been disturbed.”

“Yet you said there was only the single key,” Dorian said. “And you were the one who found it,
non
?”

“Yes. I also took the precaution of going with Peter and Penelope to the cemetery and asking Max to meet us there. That way the magicians couldn't get into the crypt ahead of me. I wonder if I underestimated Earl Rasputin, though. If he saw what we were doing … Could he have found another way in?”

The gargoyle drummed his fingers together.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“Tell me everything. Every detail, no matter how small.” He raised a clawed index finger into the air to make his point.

“To what end?”

“As I said, something strange is afoot with these magicians.”

I was wary of my little detective taking things into his own hands. Again. But I could use his insights. I described our trip to the cemetery, from the carving of roses and thorns on the mausoleum to the rose bushes that surrounded the raised crypt, from the tiny hidden room to the indentation in the dirt. I told Dorian how Peter had bundled up like he was cold or feeling under the weather, how we'd met Earl Rasputin handing out Baby Bigfoot flyers with an illustration that vaguely resembled Dorian, that the wind had blown some of the flyers away, and that Max had arrived late at the cemetery because he had to visit Ivan in the hospital.

“It is as I thought!” Dorian exclaimed, jumping up from his perch-like sitting position.

“You know what happened?”

“To test my theory, I have but one question for you.” His claws made a crisp tapping noise as he drummed his fingertips together. “When the flyers blew away, whose hands were they in?”

“Earl was handing them to me and Penelope.”

“Penelope, eh?”

“We both offered to take some flyers. I wanted to destroy them rather than hand them out, and I was afraid Penelope was intrigued because she recognized you.”

“It is obvious what has happened,” Dorian said. “Obvious!” He drew his hands behind his back and paced the floor. He was enjoying this. “The magician, Peter Silverman, has stolen something from the crypt.”

“That's not possible. I was the one who figured out they had to burn the box. They didn't have the key until then. I was with them the whole time.”

Dorian dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “Have I taught you nothing in these last months, Zoe Faust?”

“What does cooking have to do with this?”

He pinched the bridge of his snout. “The magicians! Peter Silverman got into the crypt while you were distracted by his wife and Earl Rasputin.”

“You think they're working together?”

“Perhaps, but I think not. Any good magician knows how to read their audience. I believe that because there were two of them and only one of you, they seized on the distraction of Monsieur Rasputin to carry out their deception.”

“If Franklin Thorne used the mausoleum as a hiding place for one treasure … ”

Dorian nodded. “He would have used it for
all
his treasures he wished to keep hidden. This is why the magician was bundled in a heavy coat, though it is a warm day. If he was an even better performer, like my father, he would have feigned illness to complete the deception. But he did not see this illusion through, and you noticed it as odd. Therefore you remembered he was wearing a coat—a coat he used to hide the additional valuables he pilfered.”

I groaned. “Peter Silverman didn't want to restore his own good name by returning the Lake Loot to Julian Lake and receiving a reward. He wanted to get his hands on the bigger stash he knew his thieving father had hidden.”