“I’m sorry you feel the need to do that.” He flashed a quick smile.
She laughed in spite of herself. “I’ve been trying to kick the habit. Tell me, what was Joshua Johnson’s artwork like?”
“The portraits are odd, slightly stiff. But with kind eyes. And he had an attention to detail that’s extraordinary. Like a piece of lace that looks like it might flutter off the canvas.”
“I’d love to see his work.”
“You won’t find it in this building, for sure.”
“I suppose not.” She waited a moment, but he didn’t continue. “So, let’s move on to the final clue, shall we?”
Joshua turned over the seat cushion of a wooden chair stationed beneath the painting. “There’s something here,” he said, peeling off a piece of paper. “Number twenty of twenty.” They both leaned in close; she could feel his breath on her neck as she read aloud. “Your prize is in the room where all this began Find the right panel and voilà, thank me You can.”
Joshua shuffled through the clues, back to the very first one. “I’m pretty sure I know where to go. The first clue refers to what’s now the enamels room, where Mr. Frick used to have his study. Right over here.” He pointed to a doorway at the end of the room closest to Fifth Avenue.
Inside, glazed earthenware and brilliantly colored ceramics were on display. Joshua circled the perimeter, ignoring the art objects and instead staring intently at the dark wood walls, which were broken up into square panels. “It would make sense that there might be some storage space behind the panels, back when Mr. Frick worked in here.”
They each took a wall, tapping and closely examining each panel. Veronica ran her fingers over the wood, not trusting her eyes in the faint light. They both ended up near the northeast corner of the room. Just as Veronica’s fingers ran over a tiny imperfection on the side of a panel, Joshua gave a shout.
“There’s a hole in this one, like there might have once been a knob or something in it.” He inserted a pen from his shirt pocket into the hole and, with some effort, gently pulled it open.
Inside was a deep pocket of darkness.
He reached in and very slowly lifted out a short, narrow ribbon of silk, about five inches long, with a delicate chain attached to the top. The bottom was cut into an inverted V, and in the middle hung a gold-plated charm.
“What is it?” Veronica asked. Whatever it was, it was not a pink diamond.
“An old-fashioned watch fob, I believe.” He held it closer to the light. “They made it easier to pull a watch out of a waistcoat pocket. The initials on the charm are RJD.”
“Who could that be?”
He ran his thumb over the engraving. “Not sure. It’s embroidered with a flower. A magnolia.”
“Let me see.” He was right. A delicate pale pink magnolia bloom had been sewn into the silk.
Veronica was overcome by a wave of dismay. All of their poring through books and lifting up chairs and peering behind paintings had come to naught. The magnolia treasure referred to a silk watch fob, not a shiny gem.
“Is it worth a lot?” asked Veronica, still hopeful.
“I sort of doubt it. But it will be a great addition to the family’s archives. My boss is going to be over the moon.”
Veronica leaned in and ran her hand inside the opening, checking just in case. The space was empty. The watch fob was the only treasure inside, and not even a treasure at that.
She stepped back and eyed the panel she’d been examining before Joshua had cried out. It would make sense that there might be more than one storage space, if this had been an office. As she ran her index finger along the grain of wood, she came upon another hole.
“I think we have another secret panel here, Joshua.”
She scooted out of the way while he did his trick with the pen again, carefully guiding it open. This time, though, she was the one who reached inside, unable to wait a moment longer. Her fingers touched something hard and cold.
She pulled out the object. It was an old-fashioned cameo brooch with an ivory profile of a little girl with delicate features and curls. Veronica’s mother had a cameo, similar to this, that had been left to her by her grandmother. Trish had brought it to Uncle Donny after her husband’s death, hoping for a decent return, but it wasn’t worth very much, even after Uncle Donny’s overly generous valuation.
“Is this the same girl as the one in the portrait upstairs in the bedroom?” she asked.
“It could be.” He squinted down at it. “Martha.”