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.
“I’m sorry we lost your fish,” Ravi says, sounding like a little boy.
“It’s not my fish,” Ivy says, gently. “It’s your fish.”
“But you’re the one who’s always loved it most,” he says, then reaches to put an arm around Ivy. They walk together toward the stairs and begin to climb.
Mrs. Vanders stares at them as they go, a wary expression on her face. Then she holds a hand out to Lucy without even glancing at her. Lucy passes the sculptureless pedestal back to Mrs. Vanders. Lucy’s eyes flicker upward once, to Colin, who’s still standing beside Jane, white-faced. Lucy pulls her phone from her pocket.
“Are you okay?” Jane asks Colin, because he doesn’t look well.
“It’s hard to see Ravi so upset,” Colin says.
“He sure knows how to make a scene,” Jane says, wondering if this is why Mrs. Vanders didn’t want to put ideas in Ravi’s head about the Vermeer.
But why is she being so cagey about calling the FBI?
“The truth is, I’m worried about Lucy too,” Colin says. “It’s a humiliation for something like this to happen right under her nose, especially on the tail of losing that Rubens.”
“Right,” Jane says.
“It’s as if the thief is making a public point of not taking Lucy seriously as a private investigator,” says Colin. “It’s very personal.”
“Who do you think did it?”
Colin breathes a laugh, then shrugs. “Someone foolish.”
“Isn’t it scary?” says Jane. “To think there’s a thief in the house?”
“Sure,” he says. “But don’t worry too much. We’ve got Lucy on the case.”
“Do you know who Lucy suspects?”
“She doesn’t share that stuff with me,” says Colin, with a sharp little resentment that makes Jane curious. She badly wants to get back to her rooms, where she can think through all these new developments in peace. But as she turns to go, Colin says, “Kiran mentioned you make umbrellas. Is that what you meant earlier when you said you were artistic?”
Jane is startled. “It’s nothing,” she says, trying to build a dam that will hold back Colin’s interest. “Just a hobby.”
“I appreciate that,” he says. “Still, it’s a pretty cool hobby.”
“Thanks,” Jane says, turning to go again, but finding that he moves with her. Jane doesn’t want Colin to go with her. She stops again.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I swear I’m not stalking you. I’m just interested in the umbrellas.”