Caroline was waiting inside, tapping her foot impatiently.
“Don’t skulk,” she said to me. “You have just as much a right to be here as any of them.”
She waved her arm as if the lobby were filled with haughty plutocrats sneering at us. Actually, it was empty, except for two bored-looking businessmen seated by the fireplace reading copies of The Wall Street Journal and looking at their watches every few seconds.
“They’re paying to be here,” I murmured.
“So has your grandfather, plenty of times over the years,” Caroline said.
“Are you sure we can’t help you, madame?”
We both started slightly at finding the bell captain at our elbows.
“No, no,” Caroline said. “For now, I just need to visualize.”
She held up both hands to create a frame in a gesture I’d seen painters and photographers make to assess the pictureworthiness of some bit of scenery. Then she nodded approvingly.
“Very nice,” she muttered. “Meg—follow me!”
She began striding briskly through the lobby. I had been trying to study the two businessmen out of the corner of my eye, wondering if they worked for the Evil Lender, and she caught me by surprise. I had to hurry to catch up with her.
“So whose room are we burgling first?” I asked, sotto voce.
“Inspecting,” she said. “And I think we’ll do the PI first.”
“Not that way, then,” I said, grabbing her arm. “That leads to the cottages. I doubt if they put the PI in the cottages.”
“Oh, right,” Caroline said. “Force of habit.”
I understood. I’d almost taken the same route myself.
Nowadays, Grandfather had his own suite at the farm that Mother and Dad used as their summer cottage. But back when he had first begun coming to Caerphilly, he’d frequently stayed in one of the Inn’s three cottages. The Washington Cottage was a miniature replica of Mount Vernon, the Jefferson Cottage resembled Monticello, and the Madison Cottage was loosely inspired by Montpelier. All three were decorated with acres of chintz and a mixture of real antiques and pricey reproductions. And given their inflated price tags, even the Evil Lender hadn’t rented the cottages for their minions—although they had been known to house visiting senior vice presidents there.
A pity we didn’t have any senior vice presidents to burgle. All three cottages had multiple French doors opening out onto the terraces with their panoramic view of the golf course. They’d have been relatively easy to break into, even without Ekaterina’s help.
Caroline had been fumbling in her purse and emerged, triumphant, with a slip of paper.
“Here it is,” she said. “The Annex, room 212.”
“That makes sense. This way.” I turned away from the elevator and led the way to a long and much more modest corridor tucked away nearby.
“What is this Annex place, anyway?” Caroline asked. “Is it new?”
“No, it’s fairly old, although they’ve renovated it nicely,” I said. “It’s the servants’ quarters. If someone brings along their personal maid, or their nanny, or their private secretary, the Annex is where the Inn puts them.”
“Rather insulting for poor Mr. Denton,” Caroline said, with a sniff.
“I expect he’s seen worse.” I stopped by a smaller elevator. “This leads to the Annex. Shouldn’t we get the key before we go up? Where is Ekaterina meeting us?”
“She doesn’t want to be seen with us,” Caroline said, as she punched the elevator button. “She’s hidden the key in a dead drop near Mr. Denton’s room.”
“A dead drop?”
“Her idea,” Caroline said. “Her father used to spy for the CIA in Moscow back in the Cold War days. Or so she says. Don’t worry—she gave me instructions.”
When we stepped out onto the second floor of the Annex, I decided that the maids and nannies weren’t too badly treated. We were walking on lush wall-to-wall carpet instead of an oriental rug, and there was far less marble and gilding than in the other wings, but I felt a lot more at home.
Caroline was slowly walking up and down the hallway, studying each of the paintings. I’d never known her to be particularly obsessive about art, so I deduced she was looking for the key.
When she reached the far end of the hall she stopped and turned around with a puzzled look on her face.
“That’s odd,” she said. “I don’t see it.”
“Don’t see what?”
“The dead drop. Ekaterina was going to tuck her master key—actually it’s one of those electronic key cards—behind a bit of loose baseboard beneath the painting of a policeman.”