Sven puffed out his chest like a pigeon as his speech grew more impassioned. “Don’t you think it’s vain for an old lady to call herself a duchess, especially when she has no connection to nobility? Of course I want the citizens of River Heights to see the Strickland collection, but the one-time event is still invitation only. Not exactly democratic! This is why the Duchess must be exposed!”

“And how do you propose to do that, Sven?” I asked. I looked over at Bess to see if she was buying into this melodrama. She was captivated.

Sven placed the last television at the top of the tower. His artwork was, once again, complete. “It would be foolish to pass up a performance. The mansion will be my stage. The guests, my unsuspecting audience. I will begin as the party reaches its height. There will be no announcement beforehand. There will be spectacle, truth, then revolution. I will stream the whole thing online. My message is for the people. But maybe gallery owners and critics will take note too.”

“Well, that sounds … cryptic, and kind of rude. What if the Duchess is just trying to throw a nice party for everyone? Maybe she wants to apologize for going into hiding for so long. Couldn’t you find some other, less obnoxious way to send your message?”

Bess put her hand on my arm. “Wait a second, Nancy. Sven is serious about his art. He’s trying to send a message to society. His body is his instrument. That’s how he tells the truth. And he asked me to help, so I’m going to perform too. It’ll be fun! You have to trust me. Artsy people like bold statements. I don’t think the Duchess will be upset.”

“It’s just not fair to steal the spotlight,” I argued. “It’s the Duchess’s party, after all.”

“Only a lapdog of the rich would defend the Duchess! She must hear the ugly truth!” shouted Sven, pirouetting around his TV tower.

Now Bess turned her placid blue gaze on Sven. “All right, Sven. I love your passion. I’m sure our performance will be a thing to remember. But promise me we won’t start until late in the evening. That way, my friends and I will have plenty of time to enjoy the party.”

Sven waggled his head oddly so I couldn’t tell whether he meant yes or no, then ducked out the door.

“Come, slowpokes, come!” he called. “We wouldn’t want to miss the Goddess Collective. Their ‘performance’ is about to begin.” I could hear the quotation marks around “performance.” It was clear Sven didn’t think much of the Goddess Collective, whoever they were.

Bess and I hustled out of Sven’s creepy studio. On our way out the door, I noticed a bulky tarp-covered object tucked away in a corner.

“What do you think’s under there?” I asked. “A tower of typewriters? A pile of paper shredders? A fortress of fax machines?”

Bess giggled. “Who knows what’s in that boy’s weird mind.”