Page 110 of The Maid's Secret

I rush up the stage stairs and squat down, looking for something. “There,” I say. “That’s it!”

“What’s ‘it’?” Angela asks, struggling to catch up.

“The vacuum outlet. It leads to the greenroom. Now be quiet,” I say as I fish off the cover.

The moment I do, we hear two voices, clear as day—it’s the Bees, conversing in the greenroom next door.

Angela’s eyes go wide. She pulls out her phone to record. Then we both lie on the stage, ears to the boards.

“But why steal an egg we were about to sell?” Brown asks, his voice pure disbelief.

“I did it for you,” says Beagle.

“You’re not making any sense,” says Brown.

“The Fabergé belonged to my grandfather, Baron Beagle.”

“The egg we just auctioned for thirteen million?” Brown asks, incredulous.

“Yes,” says Beagle. “Years ago, he told me about a prototype that was stolen from him. He never said it was a Fabergé. And he never said who stole it. But when he got sick a couple of years ago, he confessed the thief’s name—a man named Braun.”

Angela and I stay stock-still. Someone shifts on the unseen sofa in the other room.

“Wait. My grandfather?” Brown says.

“He was an art thief, Bax,” says Beagle. “Granddad told me he was renowned for it even though he was never caught. He worked in tandem with his son.”

“You mean my father, Algernon Braun? So the rumors are true,” says Brown.

“I’m afraid so. But the baron adored you. He didn’t want the sins of your grandfather to ruin us, so he kept the connection quiet. Plus, there was no egg. It hadn’t been seen in decades.”

“But then it reappeared,” says Brown.

“On our show, no less. And the second I laid eyes on it, I knew we had a problem—our reputation was at stake. If someone came forward and knew your grandfather was an art thief, we’d be ruined, our business up in smoke, our TV careers canceled.”

“So you stole the egg?” Brown asks.

“Let’s just say I know some unsavory fellows with experience in making valuables disappear. I was about to sell the thing on the black market so it would never see the light of day.”

“The note in the vacuum canister,” says Brown. “Did you put it there? Did you threaten the maid?”

“I wasn’t going to hurt her,” says Beagle. “I just wanted everyone to stop looking for it.”

We hear footsteps. One of the men has stood from the couch. We can hear him pacing the room. “But why return the egg, Tom? What were you thinking?” Brown asks in disbelief.

“As I was settling my grandfather’s papers, I came across an old bill of sale. Here. Look.”

The crumple of paper, the groan of the sofa as Brown sits back down. “But this is for a piece of jewelry,” Brown says.

“Look closer,” Beagle replies.

“Gold trellis and a cabriolet base, ten rubies, twenty rose-cut diamonds, emeralds in quatrefoils. My god,” says Brown.

“There’s no finders keepers law that trumps this. My grandfather bought the egg fair and square. Look at the letterhead and the signature,” says Beagle.

“The House of Fabergé,” says Brown. “So you returned the egg when you found this bill of sale?”

“Yes, Bax. I did. And the egg is ours by right. This paper is proof. It doesn’t matter if your grandfather stole the egg becausemygrandfather was its last legal owner. And I’ve got the paper trail to prove it.”