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Dear Molly,

Sell the egg or you die.

Detective Stark holds up the two-ply on which the message is written in block letters, the words formed in black marker, the intent crystal clear.

“Who writes a death threat on toilet paper?” Sunshine asks.

“I can’t decide if it’s ominous or hilarious,” Angela replies.

“First you’re dead if you find the egg; now you’re dead if you don’t sell it?” says Juan. “Detective Stark, is this serious?”

“It’s flushable. How serious can it be?” Angela says.

“My hope is that both threats are bluffs, but until we find the thief, we won’t know for sure,” Detective Stark replies.

“Did anyone see a man in a trench coat last night?” I ask. My mother had warned me to be on the lookout for such a man, one of her fly-by-night associates.

“Nope. We saw a guy like that once, on the day the egg was appraised, but never again,” says Sunshine.

“Describe him to the doorman and see if he entered the hotel last night,” Detective Stark suggests.

“Good idea,” says Mr.Snow. “Sunshine, Juan, let’s talk to Speedy now.”

“Before you go,” says Stark, “be sure not to mention the return of the egg to anyone. The last thing we need is for the media to descend on this hotel again and draw more attention to everything—and everyone,” she says, looking at me.

“Understood,” says Mr.Snow. “Molly, shall I stow the egg in the safe?”

“Please do,” I answer.

“And we’ll all stay quiet about it, right, Cheryl?” Mr.Snow suggests.

Cheryl nods, reluctantly. Mr.Snow picks up the egg and puts it in the wall safe behind his desk. He checks it’s secure before he walks away, the others following after him.

Once they’re gone, Angela collapses in the leather armchair opposite me.

“What now?” I ask her and the detective.

“I looked into Maggie, your mother, and so far, there’s no police record for a Margaret Gray. And we can’t find an address for her either.”

“I don’t get it,” says Angela. “If this was a professional heist, why return the egg?”

“The only thing I can think of is the thieves were worried they’d be caught. We need to consult experts in the art world.”

“The Bees,” I say. “They might understand what makes a thief return a work of art. Should we call them?”

“They’ll want you to put the egg up for sale again,” says Angela. “And they’ll want you on their show.”

“No show,” I say. “My fifteen minutes of fame were more than I ever wanted.”

“I’ll call them, make the boundaries clear. It’s not a bad idea,” says Detective Stark. “Molly, what do you think? It’s up to you.”

“Do it,” I say. “Call in the Bees.”

—

For the second time in the same day, I find myself sitting in the passenger seat of a police cruiser with Detective Stark at the wheel. We’re headed to Brown & Beagle Auction House in one of the highest new skyscrapers in midtown.

Before all of this, I could never have imagined meeting the stars of Hidden Treasures, and even now, I’m shocked that Detective Stark secured a meeting with them so expeditiously.

“They’re really going to see us right away?” I ask the detective as she pulls out of the Regency Grand.

“She’s a detective, Molly. Who’s going to say no?”

This last statement comes from the backseat of the cruiser, where Angela is talking through a small window in the bulletproof glass separating her from us. She begged Mr.Snow to give her the afternoon off, and rather than enter a battle of wits with a notoriously stubborn redhead, he relented when the detective said it was fine for her to tag along. There was no way I was sitting in the backseat like a criminal, but Angela was thrilled by the prospect—“a learning opportunity,” she called it.

Now, she launches a verbal tirade through the small window, peppering the detective with questions about organized crime, unsolved murders, and the various ways serial killers have successfully made bodies disappear.

The detective delights in sharing her expertise, none of which is doing anything to quell my jittery nerves. By the time we arrive at our destination, I have learned that cyber criminals are the new mafia, that cold cases are on the rise in the downtown core, and that hydrochloric acid is a surefire way to dissolve bones.

After a short drive that feels eternal, we arrive at the Bees’ headquarters, entering a gleaming modern building with a concierge who directs us to the elevators. “Top floor,” he says. “The boys are expecting you.”

As we ride up, Angela pontificates on the predilections of infamous cannibals while I lean against the elevator wall, hoping not to faint. When the doors open, the Bees—and fresher air—greet us.

“Molly!” Beagle says the second I step into the glowing white lobby.

“We’re so glad you’ve come. It’s quite the ride up, isn’t it?” Brown says.

“One more second in that elevator and I would have arrived horizontally,” I reply.

“A Fabergé faint, right in our elevator!” Brown says as he towers over me, his blue eyes sparkling.

“Made for TV,” Beagle quips as he waves his small, bejeweled hands.

“No,” I say. “No TV.”

“I made that clear during my call,” says Detective Stark. “The details of this conversation are to remain confidential. Understood?”

“Mum’s the word,” says Beagle.

“It’s Angela, right? The bartender turned events manager?” Brown asks.

“That’s me,” Angela replies.

“And…why are you here?” asks Beagle, his eagle eyes drilling into hers.

It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since the moment Angela hopped into Detective Stark’s cruiser.

“I’ve got the eye of the tiger,” Angela explains. “?‘Criminal radar’ is what they call it in policing. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

“Angela aspires to join the force one day,” Detective Stark says. “I’ve allowed her to come with us to support Molly as a friend. Let’s hope I don’t regret it.”

“We’ll retire to our office,” says Brown.

The Bees lead us out of the sleek reception area into the rooms beyond. The first is high-ceilinged, with massive modern artworks on every wall, many of which remind me of an abstract piece that used to hang on a wall in the Grimthorpe mansion when I was a child. Gran nicknamed it the “bourgeois blobs.”

We file through another room full of life-size marble statues depicting Greco-Roman gods in various states of undress.

“It’s like walking through a museum,” I say. “Are they real?”

“We deal only in originals,” Beagle explains. “Fakes, facsimiles, and copycats need not apply.”

“We both descend from art-dealing families,” says Brown. “To maintain excellence over generations requires preserving not only the art but a sterling reputation.”

“Please,” says Beagle. “Step into our office.”

We enter a massive room with a magnificent crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Paintings in ornate gold-leaf frames grace every wall—portraits of ladies in corsets hiding coy glances behind silk fans, scenes of English hunts in the countryside with foxes and dogs on the run, and still lifes of bowls replete with overripe fruit. Matching desks sit side by side, a small one with an indigo desk mat and a much larger one with a scarlet mat. Brown seats himself at the large desk and Beagle at the smaller one.

“Please,” Brown says, gesturing to the gilded Queen Anne chairs in front of them, which I can’t believe we’re allowed to even go near, never mind grace with our backsides.

“So tell us,” Brown says once we’re settled. “What is so revelatory you couldn’t even say it on the phone? I presume you have a lead in the case of the stolen Fabergé?”

“Much more than that,” I say.

“The egg was found,” Detective Stark reveals.

“Found?” Brown echoes, his eyebrows shooting up to his perfect golden hairline. “Where?”

“In Molly’s trolley, of all places,” Angela volunteers.

“Well, congratulations, Molly! This news is most auspicious,” says Beagle. “This means we can start the sale right away.”

“We can,” says Brown. “And don’t worry about the price. Reappearances do wonders for art values.”

“So reappearances like this do happen,” says Stark. “You’ve seen stolen art re-emerge like this before?”

“It’s not entirely uncommon,” says Brown. “There are famous cases—the Mona Lisa stolen by a workman at the Louvre and returned a couple of years later…”

“…the Goya stolen by a bus driver from a major gallery and returned to a left-luggage office,” adds Beagle.

“There was a note with the egg,” says Stark.

“A ransom note?” Brown asks. “Is this an art-napping?”

“It can’t be,” says Beagle.

“What’s art-napping?” I ask.

“It’s when high-end thieves demand ransom in exchange for returning the art, but no professional pilferer returns the piece before getting paid,” Brown explains.

“I’ll show you the note,” says Stark, taking out her phone and sharing a photo she took at the scene.

Brown and Beagle study the close-up. “Is that…parchment paper?” Brown asks.

“More like two-ply,” Angela offers.

“The egg was found amongst rolls of toilet paper,” the detective explains.

Beagle hands the detective her phone.

Brown is shaking his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Organized thieves steal art as black-market collateral, and individual thieves are motivated by private possession. But this return? It doesn’t fit any pattern I’ve ever seen. Thomas, do you get it?”

“I’m as baffled as you are, Bax,” his husband replies. “But what I can say is any serious blackmailer would have upped the ante by now. And the good news is the egg is back, which means you can actually follow the advice on this note.”

“Meaning?” I ask.

“You can auction the egg,” says Brown.

“If I sell it, will the threats disappear?” I ask.

“It’s hard to say,” Brown replies as he massages his chiseled jawline.

“I can’t see why they wouldn’t,” says Beagle.

“Plus, you’ll be a multimillionaire. You can hire a private security detail to protect you for the rest of your life,” Brown reasons.

The very thought sounds horrific. “All I want is for my life to return to normal, to marry Juan in peace and get back to our simple, happy existence.”

“Do not underestimate the power of money. With money, anything’s possible,” says Beagle as he smooths his dark curls.

“This has been helpful,” Stark says as she stands. “If you think of anything else that might help this investigation, call me right away.”

“Certainly,” says Brown, standing and assuming his full height.

We are about to make our way out of the office when a painting by the exit catches my eye.

“Who is that?” I ask as I stare at the remarkable portrait of a man in uniform awash in a purple backdrop, his face almost glowing, his eyes meeting mine as if he’s about to step off the canvas and proffer a ring for kissing.

“Ah,” says Beagle. “That’s my grandfather, the late Baron Beagle.”

“He looks just like you,” Angela replies.

“The spitting image,” I say. Underneath his portrait, written in oil, is a line in Latin— “Ars longa, vita brevis,” I say, reading it out loud.

“Art is long, life is short,” says Beagle. “My grandfather was a true connoisseur, an aficionado of priceless pieces. He taught me everything I know about art. I miss him terribly,” says Beagle, as he snatches his pocket square from his indigo jacket and wipes his watery eyes.

“He passed about a year ago,” Brown explains as he puts a consoling arm around his grieving husband. “We’re far from over it. We both loved that man dearly.”

“I’m sure you did,” I say. “Have you considered doing an episode in his honor on Hidden Treasures ? Your fans would love to hear your family’s backstory.”

“My grandfather wouldn’t have liked that,” says Beagle. “He suffered several losses over his career, and he worked hard to claw his way back to success. He didn’t like the spotlight.”

“Proving that the progeny doesn’t always match the blood,” Brown quips as he playfully nudges his husband’s arm. “Am I right, Thomas?”

They both laugh.

“We’ll leave you now,” says Stark.

“Thank you for your help,” I say.

“Think about it, Molly. Consider selling the egg,” says Brown. “Life is short, but art is long.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say as Baron Beagle’s eagle eyes follow me out of the room.