"Couldn't find him," Peter said, his voice worried. "Let's take you home."
"Okay," she said, and they got in the car and headed out of the parking lot.
They didn't talk much on the way home, their minds racing for what questions to ask. As soon as they were parked Gwen rushed up the steps and let herself into the house, Peter on her heels. "Maybe he got home before us," Gwen said. "Dad! Dad?"
Peter headed for the study, and Gwen went to the living room. "Dad! Are you okay?" he heard her say, and Peter changed course.
"Mm?" John Stacy said, blearily blinking. He was sitting in an easy chair, his shirt half unbuttoned, one cuff done up and the other loose around his wrist. "Gwen! Hello, what time is it," he muttered, levering himself forward.
"Almost ten," Peter said. "You must have driven pretty fast to get back here before us."
"Back?" he said, confused. "Ten? But… Oh, no, I must have missed the beginning of the auction!" he said, his eyes suddenly wide awake.
Peter felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck as his mind tried to put the pieces together and couldn't find them all. "What's the last thing you remember?" Peter asked.
"I had just finished breakfast," John said, gesturing with his bony hand towards the breakfast nook with its large bay window. "Came in here, sat down for a moment… that was just after six." He blinked again. "You kids leave the auction early?"
The doorbell rang, and the three of them froze. "I'll get it," Said Gwen.
She opened the front door. A man with a grim look on his face stood on the stoop. He raised his hand with its badge, and though the words cost him great effort, he said "I'm Detective Brilhart. Is your dad home?"
She took a long, dizzy moment to collect her answer as she looked the Detective over. His face was old for a man as young as he was; he was thirty but his eyes were far older. His dark hair was combed, his suit neat enough. She nodded curtly and stepped aside. He had been here for dinner many times. He knew the way to the living room.
"Hello, Jim," John said as the detective walked into the room. "What's going on?"
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you not to leave town, John," the newcomer said. "The auction lots. They were stolen. You are a suspect, John."
Retired Police Captain John Stacy went white to the lips.
"Ah, come on now," Peter said. "Based on what? What's the charge?"
The detective looked at him sideways. "Someone stole all three exhibits for the auction today. We have some evidence that is incriminating, John. We'll need a statement from you two as well."
"This is unreal," Gwen murmured, sitting on the couch.
"I've dissuaded them from taking you to the station," Brilhart said to John. "Please don't do anything rash. I've got to go. I'll get your statements at the station if you wouldn't mind dropping in," he nodded to Peter and Gwen. "I believe you know the way. Speaking of which, I can show myself out." And he did.
The room was bathed in stunned silence for a long, long moment. No one made eye contact.
"Incredible," John muttered. "Simply incredible." He half turned, then his mind dropped into first gear, pulling him out.
"The guestbook is where they'll start," he murmured, his eyes distant. "They'll get statements from everyone who signed in and begin to cross reference the list with what's on the videotape surveillance to see who's missing or who doesn't belong. Yes. And the staff, too." He sank into his chair.
"I saw you there," Peter said. "We both did. You were at the auction."
"I have no memory of that," John said, looking at him. "I can't deny it, but if I was there I took the car. Come on," he said, and he got up and headed out the door. Gwen and Peter exchanged a glance, then followed.
John walked up to the ancient luxury sedan he cruised town in. "Here," he said, putting his hand on the hood. "It's cool, see?" he said. He unlocked the car, and popped the hood. Peter raised the hood up and touched the engine. It was cool.
"It's a twenty minute drive to the museum," John said quietly. "Unless I took the bus?" He and Peter looked into each other's eyes for a long moment. Then John looked to his daughter. "Gwen, could you please get me something to drink. I'm quite overcome." He slumped at the wheel.
"Yes, just a minute," she said, and she trotted back up into the house.
"Peter," the retired captain said, his eyes and voice suddenly sharp, "I need you to trust me. I might know a little more about you than I let on. I keep my eyes open, as it were. And if anyone can help me in this unusual case, it's you. Will you trust me when I say I didn't do it?"
There was a pause that threatened to stretch out indefinitely. Peter thought back over his time with Mr. Stacy. There was only one answer.
"I trust you," he said. Then, with more conviction: "I trust you."
"Then let's figure this out," John said in a low, hard voice. He stood, energy fresh in his figure. They returned to the living room, where he took the water from Gwen, who sat.
"What was I wearing?" he asked.
"Your gray tweed," Gwen said. "I saw you distinctly."
"For the moment let's operate on the hypothesis that I wasn't there. We can modify later if appropriate," John said. "We can be confident I did not arrive under my own power, so if I was there, someone took me. But as you see," he said, looking down, "I'm half into my brown suit."
"Why change you?" Peter asked.
"This is odd because I put on my gray suit this morning, but was changing into this after breakfast because I dribbled some jam on it," he said. He left the room and bounded up the stairs, followed by Gwen and Peter. In his bedroom, he stopped. The gray suit was neatly laid out on the bed. "I put it there to go to the cleaners, and it has not been moved, I wager," he said. "Still, to have the same suit, someone must have seen me this morning, so I was under observation." He paused, rubbing his hands together.
"Now the question is," he said, turning to them, "did they acquire the suit before today, or on the spot? I would think that if they were professionals it would be before hand, which means they either observe me closely, check with my cleaners, or have entered the house before to inspect my wardrobe. Let us keep that question in mind and see if other questions can inform a theory." He turned and walked back down the stairs, and sat in the den. They joined him there.
"It is not like me to fall back asleep in the mornings," he said. "I think I was drugged. The question is, how? I had just completed breakfast, so there could have been a chemical agent there. Or they could have drugged me in my sleep with something that didn't kick in until later. If they put a chemical drug in the food, that could be dangerous because it could get Gwen instead of me, or it could be found by a thorough police investigation. No, it is more likely someone entered the house and put something in my food while I was looking the other way. Gwen, did you see anyone this morning?"
"No," she said, wide eyed. "I just said goodbye to you on my way out."
"I mean when you came back to change your shoes," John said. "When you got a piece of toast for yourself?"
"I didn't come back," she faltered, glancing between him and Peter. "When I left here, I went straight to Peter's place."
"She called first, woke me up," Peter said. "There wasn't time for her to go back."
"Then we're dealing with multiple imposters," John said, his brow furrowed with thought.
Or someone who can impersonate both Stacys. Peter's eyes narrowed. "I have a theory. I'm going to go talk to the detective," he said, and he stood and headed for the front door.
No one stopped him.
xXx
Peter waited in the lobby of the museum, by the police line over the entry to the exhibition gallery where the auction had been cancelled.
"You wanted to see me?" Brilhart said, meeting Peter with the police tape between them.
"I'd like to help," Peter said. "I'm familiar with the Captain, and I think I can be of some use to you."
"Or some use to him?" Brilhart said, raising an eyebrow.
"I want the truth to come out," Peter said firmly, making eye contact. Brilhart thought it over.
"What do you want?"
"I just want a chance to look at the video tapes, that's all," Peter said.
"Forget it, kid," the detective said, turning away.
"The captain spilled jam on himself this morning," Peter said. "Remember, when you showed up he was in a tan suit. The suit he took off, with the jam on it, was the gray tweed you'll see in the tapes."
Brilhart looked at him. "Maybe he got dirt on it, ripped it."
"Do you really think he nodded off without chemical assistance? You think he faked it to cover his tracks? You think a brilliant detective like Stacy couldn't come up with a better alibi than he dozed in his chair?"
There was a tense moment of silence.
"Okay, you can look at the tapes, but that's IT," Brilhart said.
Peter ducked the tape and headed in.