“Ooh! Intrigue!” she exclaimed.

“Shh, I want to hear what they’re saying.”

Bess nodded. She and I were old pros at eavesdropping. It had come in handy in high school.

“Do you think the Shammas portraits will be safe?” I heard Diana say. She was speaking so softly, I had to strain to make out the words, but even from far off I could tell she was worried. “They haven’t been seen in years.”

“That’s so like the Duchess. Keeping the best for herself,” said the boy.

“Just like someone else we know,” said Diana.

“I don’t blame her for having secrets. It’s in the Strickland DNA.”

“Don’t remind me. But on Saturday … anyone could just walk in and take what they want.”

“Yes, that’s the idea.”

“What gave the Duchess the twisted idea for a party?”

“Madness and old age, I suppose,” said the boy, examining his fingernails. “If you ask me—not that anyone ever does—there are better ways to be remembered. But the Duchess was always stubborn.”

This conversation was setting off alarm bells in my head. It sounded like Diana and the boy in the cape were talking around something big. If I could find out what it was, maybe it would lead me to the missing statue.

“Excuse me. Hi,” I said, stepping out from behind the van and pulling Bess up beside me. “Do you happen to know what time it is? My phone’s dead and I don’t want to be late for dinner.”

“That’s right, better head for home.” The boy grinned. “You wouldn’t want to get lost among the artists after dark.”

“It’s a quarter to six,” said Diana Yip softly. She wouldn’t make eye contact. Instead she stared fixedly at the screen of the tablet nestled in her lap.

“Thanks. I’m sorry about your performance,” I said, thinking if I could get Diana to like me, she might say more about the mysterious Stricklands.

“Humph,” Diana grumbled, scribbling something on her tablet with an index finger.

“Don’t mind her,” said the boy. He jumped down from the hood to stand beside us. “She’d rather draw than talk.”

“How are you liking River Heights? You’re a visitor, right? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. I’m Nancy.”

“Hello, Nancy. I’m Zeke, painter and poet.” He held out a hand for me to shake. I noticed the pads of his fingers were stained with ink, and there was pink paint under his fingernails. “Actually, I come from a long line of painters. They say painting died in the nineteenth century, but here I am, still living my life!”

“Are you going to the Strickland mansion next Saturday?”

“Yes, I am. And so is Diana, whether she likes it or not. She’s nursing a broken heart. I think the Duchess’s auction might be the cure she needs.”

Auction? Maybe he’d misspoken. Or maybe he knew something I didn’t.

“How well do you know the Duchess?” I asked.

“Not as well as I’d like,” he replied, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Nobody knows everything that’s on that woman’s mind. But enough about her. Who is this fine lady you brought with you? I saw you both in the gallery earlier.”