“He can’t come along, some phooey business nonsense. Probably better he not get to know Mother and Papsie too well right off, as there will be plenty of time for that when he moves in after the wedding.”
“Moves in. Here?” Lillian couldn’t think of a worse way to begin a marriage than living in the Frick house, under the intense scrutiny of Miss Helen’s father.
“Of course he’ll move in here. This is where all of my research is. And Papsie, of course. Anyway, I asked Mr. Danforth if he’d miss me, and he said he certainly would. Then he kissed my hand.” She paused. “Then I told him I had a surprise for him.”
“What’s that?”
Her cheeks burned with excitement. She went to her nightstand and picked up an envelope with Mr. Danforth’s name written on it. “I’ve put together a scavenger hunt for him to do while I’m gone.”
“A scavenger hunt? Where?”
“Here, of course, all around the house. There are twenty clues hidden about, and in here is the very first one. When he comes, you can give him the envelope and then let him wander about. It will get him acquainted with the items that are most dear to Papsie and me. If he’s going to join the family, we must make sure he’s fluent in the collection. That’s requisite number one.”
Lillian put a smile on her face, not letting on how little she wished to have to babysit Mr. Danforth this week. “How nice of you. Do you know when he’s going to visit?”
“No. But he promised he’d find the time. You’ll be here to receive him, of course. And you have Thanksgiving dinner to plan. I’ve left some notes with my ideas for the menu.” She pointed to a messy pile of papers. “Somewhere in there. You can straighten out my desk while you’re at it.”
So much for her free time. Lillian swallowed a sigh and continued packing.
The day after the family left, the house quieted down, as if it were going into hibernation without its owners around. There was no organ music, no food service, and the staff were allowed to take mornings or afternoons off, as long as the basic needs of the mansion were met. Lillian did manage to get out one afternoon, merrily shirking her duties and spending the hours in a dark picture palace. She adored everything about Daddy-Long-Legs—the costumes, the shining eyes of Mary Pickford, the elaborate sets. She could see herself right there in the middle of it all. Angelica, no longer a frozen creature of stone but a live woman, thinking and feeling and saying lines out loud, even if the audience wouldn’t be able to hear her voice. She could do this; she was certain of it.
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.”
“I agree. It’s enamel, from the mid-sixteenth century.” She was amazed at what she’d retained.
Mr. Danforth drew close and let out a whistle. “They appear to be playing instruments, or flirting.”
“I don’t know what the inscriptions say. How’s your French?”
“Quite good, but this is Old French. Loves give joy. Defeated by love. Do you think the next clue’s inside?”
Carefully, Lillian lifted the lid to reveal a piece of paper, which she handed to Mr. Danforth.