I’d seen a few weird things in the Strickland mansion that evening, but the strangest of all had to be the transformation of my clumsy, messy, tomboyish friend. Usually George couldn’t be bothered to brush her hair, but now, with her head held high and her shoulders squared, helping the Duchess climb the stairs to her throne like a gallant knight, she actually looked the part.

Where was Bess when I needed her? I held up my phone, snapped a photo, and sent it to Bess with a row of confused emojis.

Mr. Gatewood scurried to the throne, dismissing George with a wave as he fussed over the seated Duchess and handed her a microphone. George left the platform and rejoined the crowd.

A deep, powerful voice came from the old woman’s throat. “Welcome, one and all, to the Strickland mansion. It has been far too long since I opened my home to guests. After my husband died, I hid myself away. I didn’t want pity. I couldn’t bear to be around people. These paintings and sculptures were the only companions I desired. I spent ten long years with my collection, at the expense of many things—friendship, community, watching my grandchildren grow up.”

So Mona Pearl wasn’t the Duchess’s only grandchild. … I remembered the two small portraits in the off-limits area. The little girl must be Mona Pearl. So who was the boy in the sailor suit? If Mona Pearl was at the Duchess’s party, so was he. And maybe we’d already met. …

I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders spin me around and bit back a shriek.

George was grinning so hard, I thought her face might split. “What’d I miss?” she asked.

“You’re in high demand this evening.”

“You wandered off first.”

“Good point. How exactly did you meet the Duchess? I’m dying to know. Or are you too fancy to share secrets, now that you’re a VIP?”

“No way. Just listen.” She smiled and held a finger to her lips.

Duchess Strickland continued, “Only recently have I been made aware of just how much I missed. My grandchildren came to see me, though I did not wish to be seen. They convinced me it was time to let go of my silent beauties, my precious artifacts. They said I should donate the collection to a museum, or sell it off at auction. But I’m afraid I can be a stubborn old lady. It didn’t feel right to sell my collection, which has been so much more than simple pictures and sculptures to me.

“Many have told me my plan is a poor one. Even my closest companions advised against it. And yet, here I stand. Here it is. I am giving away my entire collection. Tonight. One night only. Each piece will find its match. Mr. Gatewood, you will take it from here and explain how the distribution will work. …”

The Duchess handed the microphone back to her secretary. Gatewood accepted it with two reluctant fingers, as though he were touching something distasteful. The crowd rumbled, some disturbed, others gleeful. The River Heights citizens gathered around the platform, pleading with Mr. Gatewood to explain. Gatewood ignored them. He had tucked the microphone under one arm and was consumed with the task of polishing his glasses with his snotty handkerchief. We could hear the squeaking feedback from the trapped mic. Gatewood was stalling for time. I could see that now. He didn’t seem to want the Duchess to go through with her plan. He must have been one of the close companions who had tried to talk her out of it.