Page 103 of The Maid's Secret

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Chapter 31

It’s been one week since I read Gran’s diary, and these past few days Gran has felt even closer—her voice, her memories, her advice ringing in my mind. I know that will never change.

Once Detective Stark and Angela presented the plan of a sting, I knew they were on to something. I decided on the spot to sell the Fabergé at auction—again. Excitement buzzed through me, as though Gran herself was egging me on (pun intended). Her diary was our secret weapon—the proof that the Bees and the Grays were connected.

As we converged in the early morning, bleary-eyed in my livingroom, I told everyone I was ready to sell. Detective Stark suggested I call Brown and Beagle right away to set up the auction. With her, Juan, Angela, and my gran-dad watching, I practiced the message I would leave on their answering machine. When I felt ready, I dialed their number on speaker phone so everyone could listen in. Though it wasn’t even 7:00a.m., to my surprise, Brown answered.

“Molly? Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Perfectly fine,” I replied.

“Then why are you calling so early?”

“I want to sell the egg.”

“That’s wonderful!” said Brown. “Beagle’s still asleep, but he’ll be thrilled when I tell him. We’ll get all the big bidders back. I’ll ring Steve and set up a specialHidden Treasuresshow for the redux. You’ll go viral again—Molly the Maid returns! Just you wait.”

Beside me, Juan shook his head.

“A private sale—no TV, no cameras, no publicity. We’ll hold the auction at the Regency Grand,” I said, “with proper security this time. Detective Stark can help with that.”

Beside me, the detective gave a thumbs-up.

“We’ll set the date for a month from now,” said Brown.

“In a week,” I countered.

“A week? Okay. Is there anything else?”

“Just a question,” I said. “Your grandfather. What was his name?”

Angela ran a finger across her neck as though I’d just made a grave error.

“Magnus,” said Brown. “Why do you ask?”

“Yesterday, we learned so much about Beagle’s grandfather, so I was curious about yours. And your father, what was his name?”

Juan’s and my gran-dad’s eyes went wide.

“Algernon,” Brown replied.

“Is he alive?”

“Deceased, or ‘very dead,’ as you might say, Molly—a boating accident in Saint-Tropez not long after I was born. He was with my mother, and he fell from the yacht without her even noticing. A real tragedy.”

“Pushed,” I said sotto voce.

“I’m sorry?”

“Ooouuff,” I said, correcting myself. “What a loss.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Beagle should be up soon. I’ll tell him we’re going to auction. Is there anything else?”

“That’s plenty. Goodbye.”

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