Genie walked around the antiseptic space, examining the labels on the sixteen pieces that Nick had counted. She shook her head, clucking as she read each one.
“He certainly got around,” she said, shaking her head. “Imagine that. Sixty-something years of doing this. I’d say he relapsed every five to ten years. Probably did multiple hauls. These two are from the same museum,” she said, pointing at two crates. “I remember reading about it in the newspaper.” She turned toward Nick and the others. “So, here’s the question: What are you going to do about all this?”
Patch rested his hand on a crate that contained a Vermeer. “I feel like it’s really up to Nick.”
There was a sound behind them as the door opened. Horatio stood there.
“I was asked to deliver a message to you,” he said. “Your grandfather gave a simple instruction. He said: ‘You must do whatever you think is right.’”
“Typical cryptic answer,” Nick muttered in frustration.
“Well, maybe it is, Nick, but actually he seems to suggest that it is in your hands,” Genie said.
Horatio excused himself and went back upstairs.
“Can I weigh in here?” Phoebe asked.
“Sure,” Nick said, nodding.
“This is just me, speaking as an artist, and as someone whose works have been stolen before. The emotional trauma that you endure when this happens-it’s beyond belief.”
“Most of these artists were already dead when the works were stolen,” Patch said. “I know that doesn’t change anything, but-”
“It doesn’t matter,” Phoebe said. “Collectors donated the pieces to these museums. People worked hard so that they could buy the pieces and then show them to the public. Or maybe they even still owned them outright, and they were on loan. Maybe they were family heirlooms. The point is, they don’t belong in this basement, where no one can see them except for a select group of wealthy Society members. If Palmer even let anyone see them.” Phoebe took a deep breath. “I feel like the only honest thing to do is to tell the world about what your grandfather has done.”
Nick looked at her. How could she be so nonchalant about this? It wasn’t her family they were talking about. Maybe she couldn’t understand. Her family wasn’t well known. No one had any expectations for them.
“Phoebe, you have no idea what this is like,” Nick said. “I don’t want people knowing this about my grandfather. I know it isn’t right, but it’s just-well, honestly, it’s embarrassing. It was one thing to return that necklace anonymously, but to return all of these major paintings, and for the world to know about it? It would tarnish our entire family name if word got out that Palmer Bell was an art thief. I’m not proud of many of the things my family has done, but that doesn’t mean that I want everyone to know about them. In fact, I’d appreciate it if we kept all this between us until I decide what to do.”
“Nick, aren’t you perpetuating the cycle?” Phoebe said. “Aren’t you just making it okay for other people to do the same thing that your grandfather did? I mean, whoever actually took the artwork for him-I’m sure they’re still alive. Do you really want them doing this for more rich people? More people who get off on owning stolen art?”
“No, of course I don’t,” Nick said. “But my question is, why would Palmer lead us to all this?”
“I think he wanted the art returned after his death. He didn’t have any use for it anymore,” Phoebe said. “There’s no other reason he would have told you about it.”
“Maybe he was looking for redemption of some sort,” Genie mused. “Of course, it’s just like Palmer not to do it himself. Never wanted to get his hands dirty.”
“Okay, but now that my grandfather’s gone, how is it supposed to get us out of the Society? Like Horatio’s going to wave his magic wand and somehow get us out? I feel like we don’t have any hope of getting out, at least not this time around.”
“There’s only one person who can get us out now,” Patch said.
“Who’s that?” Nick asked, turning to him.
“Our father.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Phoebe was grateful when it was finally time to leave Eaton House and return to Nick’s parents’ house in Southampton. The two properties were so different in style; while Eaton House was cold and foreboding, the Bell compound was as warm as a house on twelve acres could get. It was a classic shingle-style house, and unlike Eaton House, which was anonymous in its furnishings, it actually seemed like a family lived there.
Genie sat in the front seat, once again bundled up in a dozen layers, while Nick drove. His old Jeep ground its wheels onto the gravel driveway.
The four of them got out, and Nick pulled out his monogrammed key ring, picking one and using it on the front door.
A persistent beeping started from somewhere in the house.
“What is that?” Phoebe asked. After everything they had been through, she didn’t feel like she could take any more surprises.
“I don’t know,” Nick said. “Is it an alarm system? We never had one before.”
Genie observed the situation with curiosity, and Phoebe gave her an awkward smile. After all these months of avoiding the truth, it was a relief finally to hear Genie be honest with them.
“Patch, is there something you can do?” Phoebe asked.
“Alarms aren’t really my thing,” Patch said. “Thad taught me the basics, but I don’t really know enough-”
At that moment, a loud shrieking began, a whooping alert that resonated over the potato and cornfields and seemed to shake the walls of the house.
Nick was blushing furiously as he tried to figure out what was going on; he had located a panel in a coat closet to the right of the front door. “I can’t believe they wouldn’t mention this to me,” he said. “I don’t even know how to work one of these things!”
Within five minutes there was a patrol car parked in their driveway. Nick and Phoebe stood dumbly near the front door, while Patch sat nearby on an iron bench with his grandmother. Nick had his ID in hand, and he handed it to the officer who approached them.
“This is my parents’ house,” he said nervously. “We were just coming here for the weekend. I didn’t know they had installed an alarm system.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid, we’re not going to shoot you. Let me just turn this thing off.” The two cops laughed as the officer went to a control panel in the foyer and punched in a few numbers. Phoebe imagined that Southampton in the winter was probably pretty slow when it came to crime.
The cop looked at Nick’s ID. “He’s on the list of approved residents. You’re fine, kid. Just get the code from your parents so it doesn’t happen again.”
“Thanks. Sorry for the trouble.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll send your parents the bill!” The officer laughed again, and the patrol car pulled away.
“Let’s go inside,” Nick said. “I’m freezing here.”
Everyone scrambled inside, and Nick went to turn up the thermostat. The four of them sat down in the kitchen, which, being central to the house, heated up more quickly than the rest of the first floor.
“Nick, why do you think they put in an alarm system?” Phoebe asked as she threw her coat over one of the chairs in the kitchen. “Because the Pollock was stolen? Why wouldn’t they have told you?” It didn’t make any sense.
“I don’t know,” Nick said. “Maybe they were trying to catch us off guard or something. Maybe they think we stole it.”
“Okay, and another thing: why the Pollock?” Phoebe asked. “Why would your grandfather steal it from his own son?”
“He always hated it,” Nick said.
“I don’t think that’s the reason,” Patch said.