Page 86 of The Maid's Secret

“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 ofHidden 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.

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