I brought him a beer and some cheese and crackers to hold him until the frittata was out of the oven. “How’s it going? Any ideas?”
“The original owner of The Key House, Malcom Key, and the architect, William M. Butterfield, belonged to the Boston Society of Natural History. They would have known Monroe Tichy, and most likely one or both of them was a follower of Lovey, or at least knew him. So maybe the Society is the common denominator. I’m guessing Duane and an early owner of the Van Gogh painting were also Society members.”
“And either Lovey or one of the Society members had the unique ability to energize an object in such a way that another kind of energy would trigger a message.”
“Yup.”
“Do you know where any of this takes us next?”
“No. It would help if something magically appeared on the plaque.”
We looked at the plaque but nothing appeared.
“It’s always something different,” I said. “The first clue was visible to Glo. The second clue was produced by the tone of the bell. The third clue responded to Carl. And the fourth clue was produced by the key.”
“I have no basis for thinking this, but I can’t shake the feeling that the writing on the back of the plaque is the clue.”
I left Diesel to study the clue he’d copied onto paper and returned to the kitchen. I didn’t have fresh greens for a salad, but I had some frozen French bread I could defrost, and there were vegetables in the frittata.
The towels and sheets were still on the windows, and not doing a lot for my decorating scheme or my mood.
“Someone toasted my car,” I said to Cat. “I think it might have been Deirdre Early. She’s a really mean person.”
I took the frittata out of the oven, gave a slice to Cat, and plated the rest for Diesel and me, along with the bread. I brought the food into the living room and we ate in front of the television.
“I found a connection,” Diesel said. “In 1885, a secret society, Sphinx, was founded at Dartmouth College. In 1903, the society erected a Sphinx Tomb on a small piece of land on Wheelock Street on the Dartmouth campus. William M. Butterfield was the architect for the Tomb. I downloaded a picture of it, and it’s hard to be sure, because the resolution isn’t as sharp as I’d like, but I think there are markings on the Sphinx cornerstone that resemble the hieroglyphics on the back of the plaque.”
I looked at the downloaded picture and gave an inadvertent shudder. “Whoa, this is solemn. It actually looks like a tomb.”
It was a windowless gray stone structure with stone steps leading up to a large solid door that was bordered by columns reminiscent of Egyptian temples. Difficult to tell how large the building was from the photo.
“Does this mean we’ll be going to Dartmouth?” I asked.
“It’s the best lead I have so far.”
“Are we going tonight?”
“No. You have to get naked tonight.”
“In your dreams.”
“Frequently,” Diesel said. “You look good.” He stared down at his empty plate. “Is there dessert?”
“Fruit.”
“Fruit isn’t a dessert unless it’s in pie crust.”
I had my cell phone clipped to my jeans waistband, and I felt it buzz. I looked at the readout and saw Glo’s number.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“He wants the Lovey key,” Glo said.
“Who?”
“Wulf. He has me, Lizzy. I don’t know where I am. It’s dark and it smells like dirt, and Hatchet is here and he has knives. And he cut me, and I’m bleeding.”
Her voice was shaking, and I could hear she was crying.