I run to the closet and yank open the deep bottom drawer of the large built-in units. As I rifle through the wigs, I shout, “Grams, mousy-brown? I want to blend in. What do you think?”
Despite her existential feud, she can’t resist an undercover operation. She bursts through the wall of the closet and makes a beeline for the tailored suits.
“Definitely mousy brown. Pull it back in a loose ponytail, and we’ll need to find you some thick glasses. Check in that top drawer over there with the gloves.”
I follow her instructions while she paws through the skirt suits.
“Tortoiseshell rims or black?”
She turns and puts a hand on her ample hip. “Let me see both.”
Silas shuffles into the doorway and tilts his head. “This appears to be a drill you two have rehearsed before. However, I made no mention of an assistant when I accepted this engagement.”
“Well, call and let them know if it’s so important. In my experience assistants are always forgotten. It would be more believable if you just show up with me. They won’t even notice me.”
Silas smooths his mustache and nods thoughtfully. “Perhaps.”
I shoo him out of the closet. “I’ve got to change. Give me five minutes.”
Slipping into the positively drab grey suit and cream blouse that Grams has selected for me, I’m frankly surprised to see something so basic in her closet.
“Basic? Has the meaning of that word changed? Is that an insult?”
“I’ll scold you for thought-dropping later.” Expertly tugging on the wig, I push all my white hair up underneath and secure it with some bobby pins.
“Now show me the glasses.”
“Tortoiseshell?” I pull them off and put on the other pair. “Or black?”
“Definitely the black. Oh, and those exceedingly cheap fake-leather pumps. That definitely completes the ‘fade into the background’ ensemble.” She giggles.
I push the glasses on and slip my feet into the black pumps. Strutting twice around the closet, I ask, “What do you think? Does this scream assistant, or what?”
“The suit screams assistant, but the sassy personality inside is way too confident, dear. You’re going to have to work on being demure and unassuming.”
“Sassy? Rude.” Glaring at my ghostly critic, I’m eager to prove her wrong.
Outside the closet, I hear Silas chuckling openly.
I step out with my hands gripped at my waist, rubbing my thumbs together nervously. Staring at the ground, I mumble in a soft, whispery voice with a hint of a lisp. “Yes, Mr. Willoughby. Right away, Mr. Willoughby.”
This performance brings a fresh set of belly laughs to my alchemist/attorney. His face reddens dangerously and his jowls jiggle like little bags full of jelly.
“Take a deep breath, Silas. It’s not permanent. It’s only for today.”
He leans back with a hand on his round paunch and struggles to take a deep breath. “Then this day shall be the single greatest in my personal history.”
“Oh brother.” I roll my eyes mercilessly behind my stage-prop eyewear. “Do I need a briefcase, or clipboard?”
Silas appraises my outfit. “You do indeed look the part. I tell you what, I shall allow you to carry my briefcase.”
“Glory be.” I raise my hands in false praise.
Silas heads toward the secret door, and I follow without being asked.
He presses the intricate plaster medallion, and as the door slides open—
Ghost-ma cries out, “What’s your name?”
“Grams, are you all right? I’m Mitzy. You know my name.”
Before she can reply, Silas interjects. “Not to overstep, and I realize I did not hear the actual query, but could your grandmother possibly have made a reference to your cover identity?”
“Oh, right. Let’s see, I’ve used Daisy, and Darcy . . . How about Dora? Dora seems like an unmemorable name, right?”
Grams chuckles. “Well, I suppose not to someone actually named Dora. But it’ll work. Last name? I don’t think it’s right for Silas to refer to his assistant by her first name.”
“Donaldson. Dora Donaldson.”
Silas nods. “Follow me, Ms. Donaldson.”
It’s only when we step out the front door of the bookshop that I realize I’ll have to ride in the Model T. Not the pinnacle of comfort or speed.
Begrudgingly, I climb into the mint condition 1908 Model T. The seats show some wear and the steering wheel has two smooth indentations that cradle his hands, but other than that the vehicle looks like it rolled off the assembly line yesterday.
Chapter 7
Smash cut to— the imposing perimeter of the Barnes estate. We reach the black iron gates that loom over our vehicle, and a large shield spanning both halves of the gate bears a Latin phrase that I don’t recognize.
Silas presses the intercom and announces our arrival. As the gates swing open, I ask, “What does that Latin gibberish mean?”
“Latin is not gibberish. Mizith—”
“Dora Donaldson, Silas. Ms. Donaldson.”
“Indeed, Ms. Donaldson. Divide et Impera. Divide and Conquer.”
“What a horrible family motto. No wonder they all hate each other.”
The long drive travels through manicured lawns, trimmed and snipped to within an inch of their lives. When we pull up in front of the grand entrance, a doorman steps out, holds the door with a gloved hand, and stands absolutely still, refusing to make any eye contact, as we mount the stairs.
Before we make it through the doorway, I’m hit with the thick odor of stale tobacco smoke. Thank You for Smoking! The local dive bar, Final Destination, smells better than this.
Inside, the great hall opens onto a vast black-and-grey marble floor, with a seven-tiered crystal chandelier dominating the high ceiling. A grand staircase, carpeted in deep red, opens before us and divides in opposite directions at the first landing. On that landing stands a man I don’t recognize from the viewing or the memorial cruise.
“Good morning, Mr. Willoughby, so good of you to come. Please follow me to the library.”
Silas and I climb the stairs, and I take the opportunity to whisper under my breath, “See, no mention of the assistant.”
Silas harrumphs, but makes no reply.
“I’m Mr. Everett. The executor. We spoke on the phone.”
“How good to meet you, Mr. Everett.”
Upon reaching the second floor, we march down a lengthy hallway adorned with stunning artwork.
My mentor never misses an opportunity. “Ms. Donaldson, allow us to slow our pace. This is a rare treat.” He gestures to the individual masterpieces. “Matisse. Rousseau. An immaculate Cézanne. Those are both by Toulouse-Lautrec. Van Gogh. And an unmistakable Paul Gauguin.” He ceases his recitation and addresses our guide. “Is the entire collection Post-Impressionists?”
“Ah, yes. You have a keen eye.” Mr. Everett nods his admiration.
I stare in wonder at the works. I mean, the frames alone seem as though they would be worth a fortune. In addition to the paintings and sketches, there’s a full suit of armor in the hallway, several marble busts, and even a marble statue of the Madonna and Child.