Pierre’s face gave him away, leaving no doubt that he knew of my mother. George-Harrison summarized everything we had learned since the last time he had seen Pierre, before the trip even started. By the time he had finished recounting the tale, Pierre agreed to fill in the missing pieces.
“On the night of the heist, after the deed was done, your mothers went back to their loft apartment. They stashed away what they had stolen and met up with their buddies on the Baltimore waterfront. Apparently, it was a night to remember. While all others in attendance thought they were celebrating the inaugural issue of the Independent, your mothers were celebrating their heist, which was somewhat ironic considering what would happen the day after that first issue hit the newsstands.” He shivered at the thought. “The police were extremely thorough and diligent with their investigation, but the only fingerprints they found on the safe were Robert’s and Hanna’s. With no proof of forced entry, they could only come up with two hypotheses. One: it was an inside job; the thief was an employee. Two: the whole thing was a sham. The Stanfields were already very wealthy, so the idea of them committing insurance fraud seemed far-fetched. Hanna Stanfield was more afraid of a scandal than losing money, especially since her livelihood was built around her reputation. Highly renowned art collectors entrusted her with rare works of art. Imagine what they would think when they heard that a priceless painting had been stolen right out of her own home! So, of course, she didn’t say a word about it to the police.”
Pierre stopped short at the sight of our stunned faces. “What? What did I say?” he asked, but George-Harrison and I were both in a state of absolute shock. The puzzle pieces all seemed to fit, and the anonymous letter began to make sense. Before Pierre could continue, George-Harrison asked what happened to the painting, but the antiques dealer just shrugged.
“All I know is that your mothers had a terrible falling-out over that painting, not because of the insane value of the thing, but because it was of such importance to Hanna Stanfield. As I understand, it had belonged to her father, and Hanna was more attached to that one painting than the rest of her entire collection combined. That may be the very reason Sally-Anne stole it, or so May suspected.
“She didn’t commit the robbery because she wanted to keep the Independent from going under, but out of revenge, plain and simple. When put on the spot, Sally-Anne swore up and down that she had no idea the painting was there, that she had just stumbled upon it in the safe and grabbed it without thinking. But May didn’t buy that, not for a second. She was infuriated at having been manipulated and used. The problem was, she wasn’t the only one. And that’s where poetic justice comes in. If Sally-Anne hadn’t been so bold as to publish that article blatantly smearing her family’s name in the first—and, as it turned out, last—issue of the Independent, putting her own initial on it like a point of pride, Edward would have never figured out who had written it. But the damage was already done. Her brother instantly pieced things together and thought that he had been played for a fool. Up until that point, he had thought that May had done what she did only out of . . . well . . .”
“Well, what?” George-Harrison pressed him.
“Forget it. It’s none of your business, kid. Let’s just say that the article convinced Edward that May had ulterior motives for coming to the masquerade ball that night, aside from simply spoiling his engagement. Their . . . encounter had been up on the second floor, right next to the scene of the crime. So, when he read that stupid article and saw how far his sister would go to get revenge on her own family, the pieces fell into place. All the time he had been . . . ‘talking’ with May . . . Sally-Anne had been robbing her own mother, snatching the thing Hanna loved most in the world right out from under her nose. You understand? Is that all clear enough for you?”
“Yes, crystal clear,” I cut in. I had spared George-Harrison some of the more sordid details of his mother’s retelling, and was relieved that Pierre had the good grace to do the same. “Tell us what happened to the painting,” I said.
“No one knows. Sally-Anne kept May completely in the dark, and I know May never had the painting in her possession.”