“I’m not really sure where to begin,” Nick said.
“Oh, Nicholas, you always think that whatever you have to tell me is going to surprise me in some way. It’s a rather darling quality of yours. Come out with it. There’s not much that can shock this old broad.”
Phoebe laughed, and Patch blushed.
“Okay…” Nick said, glancing at the closed oak pocket doors to the library.
“Just spit it out, Nick,” Genie said.
“Fine. We have just found what might possibly be the world’s greatest undiscovered collection of stolen art. Right here. In the basement. And we think my grandfather may be responsible for it.”
Genie’s face twisted for a moment, as if she were considering the consequences. For a moment, Patch thought she might be truly upset.
Then she started laughing.
Nick and Phoebe looked at each other in confusion.
“What’s so funny?” Nick asked.
“People never change. Oh my goodness, how people never change!”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me tell you a story,” Genie said. “Nick, your grandfather, among his many qualities, had a rather peculiar one. He liked to steal. Not little things or money, but art. The more rare, the more spectacular, the better. It wasn’t economic; he didn’t want to sell the objects. When he was at Yale, he became obsessed with French ormolu, you know, gilt Asian porcelains and so forth? He stole a music box for me, but I told him I couldn’t accept it. It must have been worth ten thousand dollars.”
“How did he do it?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think he did it himself-I think he had some kind of network of thieves. There was something about it all that excited him; he said he got a thrill from having contraband artwork and antiques in his possession.” Genie shook her head sadly. “Really, it was very strange. After the first time, I told him that he had to stop, and he said he had. Only later, after our engagement was broken off, did I learn that he had continued.”
“How did you learn this?”
“One hears these things. It was all chitchat at the time, just a high-level form of kleptomania. The rare eccentricities of a wealthy man.”
Palmer-Patch’s grandfather-was a high-level klepto-maniac?
“It’s bizarre,” Genie continued. “Every time I read about a major art theft, I thought of Palmer. The Gardner Museum in Boston? That one kept me up for several nights.”
“One of the greatest unsolved museum heists of our time,” Phoebe said.
Nick looked dumbfounded. “And you really think my grandfather was behind all this? I just don’t understand it.”
“Your grandfather had an obsession. He had to win, he had to be the best. Unfortunately, he was also a bit of a skinflint.”
“What do you mean?” Nick asked.
“Nick, your family has stayed wealthy for the reason that many people are wealthy: they spend their money wisely. Your grandfather never liked to spend more than he had to. And sometimes that meant that he couldn’t have everything he wanted. Are you familiar with the famous George Stubbs painting of the zebra in the woods?”
“I think I know it,” Phoebe said. “It’s a beautiful painting. It’s like the zebra is totally out of context-you expect it to be in Africa or something and it’s in this very European-looking forest.”
“It is now at the Yale Center for British Art. Palmer was obsessed with it, a few years after your father was born. Said he felt like the zebra-a striped creature in a forest, a creature that didn’t belong.”
“How do you know all this?”
“A girlfriend of mine still traveled in those circles. Palmer was quite indiscreet when it came to his obsessions. Of course, that was always his philosophy, it seems-he kept his petty activities on the surface in order to mask his darker impulses. Talking about an art obsession was fine, but speaking of the Society was not.”
“So what happened?” Nick asked.
“The painting was auctioned at Harrods in London, and a number of buyers were interested. Paul Mellon ultimately got the painting for twenty-two thousand pounds. Somewhere north of two hundred thousand dollars on today’s market.”
“Genie, how do you know all this?” Nick asked.
She looked at him over her glasses. “Nick, if you read all day like I do, you learn a lot.”
The conversation made Patch uncomfortable. It was as if Genie was still obsessed with Palmer. Patch had hoped that his death would have put those feelings to rest.
“Apparently, he tried to reform over the years, but I never believed that he did,” Genie continued. “He would have a relapse every few years; it was as if he couldn’t help himself. I would hear stories from your father, who, as you know, was friends with Patch’s father-”
Patch interrupted her. “Wait a second, Genie-I think we’d better clear something up.”
Nick and Phoebe were silent.
“What’s that?” Genie asked innocently.
“I know about Parker. I know that he’s my real father. Or rather, my biological father.”
Genie paused before speaking slowly. “I’m so sorry, dear, that you had to find out from someone else. I would have preferred to tell you myself. I never knew when the right time was; I thought perhaps when you turned eighteen.” Her voice choked up. “I should have told you earlier. I should have trusted that you could handle the truth. How did they tell you about this?”
Patch looked uncomfortably at Nick and then at Phoebe. It was such a strange thing to speak about aloud.
“I am a beneficiary in Palmer’s will.”
Genie looked genuinely surprised. “What, did he give you a painting or something? I hope not a stolen one!” She laughed awkwardly.
“No, not exactly.”
“Well, Patch, what did he give you?”
Patch took a deep breath, and then offered a strained smile. “He gave me thirty million dollars.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Patch!” Genie said. “You can’t accept that. No, I won’t allow it. It isn’t right.”
Nick felt ashamed about the situation. He took a sip of his hot cocoa to find that it was tepid and a nasty film had formed on the surface.
“Genie, I have to make these decisions for myself,” Patch said. “I understand that you have feelings about Nick’s family, but don’t you think they owe it to you-don’t you think Palmer owes you after everything he put you through?”
“Patch, you don’t know the half of it. But you can’t buy people off for heartache. Not even with that kind of money.” She shook her head and drew her cardigan closer. “No, it’s not right.”
Nick thought maybe they should take a different tack. “Genie, it’s not like Patch is going to get a check tomorrow. I won’t either. The assets will be kept in trusts until we are twenty-five. My father-our father-is the trustee.”
Genie shook her head. “It doesn’t sit well with me. I’m sorry, boys. I’ll support you, you know that, but I can’t stay silent.”
“I understand,” Patch said. “It’s been a bit of a shock to all of us. It’s not every day that you learn both that you have a different biological father and that you’re the beneficiary of a trust.”
“And that your best friend is actually your brother,” Nick said.
There was an awkward silence before Patch finally spoke.
“Right,” he said. “Can we just not talk about that right now?”
Nick wondered if Patch was upset about the outcome. He seemed so stoic about it-it was strange news, of course, but if Patch had to discover that he had a brother, wasn’t it easier for it to be his best friend?
Maybe Nick had to start acting like a brother before Patch could treat him as one.
Genie looked frustrated as she put down her hot cocoa on the coffee table. “All right, let’s get on with this,” she said. “Where’s this hoard of artwork you’ve been telling me about?”
Nick led Genie, Patch, and Phoebe down to the basement, urging them all to watch their step as they walked through the dank, mildew-smelling passageway. When they reached the metal door, Nick used the key again and the door opened. He flicked the light switch, and everything was just as it was. He did notice one new detail, however: at the far end of the room was a large metal sliding door, the kind you would see on a loading dock. Nick imagined that it led to the outside, as these artworks couldn’t be delivered to this room through the main house.