When she’d posed as Angelica, the artists would often ask her to step down from the raised platform during a session and ask her opinion of their work, listening carefully to what she said. She’d relished being part of the artistic process. In fact, the more she considered it, the more she realized that her command of the art world had given her a leg up not only as an aspiring starlet, but also as an employee of the Frick household. She instinctively knew what role she should play at any given time: confidante when speaking with Mr. Frick, older sister when talking about courtship with Miss Helen, trusted secretary when handling Miss Helen’s affairs. She was already an actress, in many ways.
After the film, she walked to Grand Central and asked one of the clerks in the information booth the best way to get from New York to Los Angeles. He handed over the schedule for the 20th Century Limited, which headed to Chicago, where she would transfer to the Los Angeles Limited. She imagined the landscape of America rolling by from the train window, leaving the entire Frick family farther behind with every passing mile.
She bought a newspaper on her way home, and leafed through it before chucking it in the trash can. There was only one mention of Angelica in connection with the Watkins murder, and at the very bottom of the article. The trial was scheduled for January, but she’d be long gone by then.
The next day, Mr. Danforth arrived promptly at four o’clock, looking wary. Lillian met him in the library, where she handed over the sealed envelope and gave him Miss Helen’s instructions, including the fact that Lillian was not to assist Mr. Danforth in any way.
“I’m sorry, I-I’m supposed to do what?” he stammered.
“It’s a scavenger hunt. I’m not sure, exactly, what she had in mind. She didn’t let me in on the planning. You’re to read whatever’s in this and follow it, and then you’ll be directed to the next clue. And so on.”
“How many clues are there?”
“Twenty.”
He laughed. “Leave it to Miss Helen to keep me occupied while she’s away. I assured her that a week was not an imposition in the least, that she should go and take care of her father and enjoy herself at the sea.”
“I don’t think she means to keep you occupied. She wants to share the treasures of the house with you, so you understand the passion that she and her father have for their art collection.”
“Right. Hand it over. I shall begin.”
She did so and watched as he opened it. “Best of luck to you.”
Within a half hour, one of the parlor maids knocked on the door to Miss Helen’s sitting room, where Lillian was working. “Mr. Danforth is asking for you,” she said. “He’s in the art gallery.”
“That didn’t take long,” she joked as she entered.
“This is some kind of a test and I am sure to fail it,” Mr. Danforth said, a note of panic behind his words. “I don’t know much about art, and I haven’t even found the first clue. I worry about disappointing Miss Helen. I know you’ve been given strict rules, but will you help?”
The note was dated November 1919 at the top, with 1/20 written in the top right corner.
You’re about to set out on a quest for the magnificent magnolia treasure
To offer you this puzzle gives me great pleasure
A tiny box holds the first clue
To find it, search for the putti
Where my father used to fulfill his duty.
Lillian didn’t know much about poetry, but she knew it was a terrible rhyme.
“A tiny box? This house is enormous,” said Mr. Danforth. “If all the clues are like this, I’ll still be looking when they return.”
“Let me think.” Lillian looked around. “Mr. Frick’s office is there at the far end of the gallery, where I assume he fulfills his duty. I remember Miss Helen telling me that it used to be on the opposite side, before they acquired J. P. Morgan’s collection of Limoges enamels.”
They walked over to the enamels room, which Lillian had never liked. It was heavily paneled and cave-like, the opposite of the simplicity and clean lines of the other rooms on the first floor, as if the architect had focused all of his fussiest inclinations on one of the smallest spaces.
“Could that be it?” He pointed to a tiny jewel-colored box. Lillian recognized it immediately from Miss Helen’s cataloguing.
“I think you’re right. As far as I know, it’s a marriage casket, decorated with putti, or cherubs.”
“Marriage casket—what an odd combination of words.”