The morning papers arrived at the Hôtel in a bale of angry newsprint. Already the first blurry photographs of the crime scene had popped up in The Troubadour. The headline read OUVOLPO: ARTISTES OU ASSASSINS?, which Shenanigan did not need her half of the phrase book to translate.

Across the city, people were heading to offices, stopping by newspaper kiosks, sitting down to their breakfasts. Over coffee and pastries, Parisians were learning that Ouvolpo—the noble thieves who had courted controversy for decades—had finally turned to murder. If public opinion could be heard or felt, then a low hum was spreading across the city, as those who had previously supported the thieves hurriedly changed gears and reversed their beliefs.

In the Hôtel restaurant, the Martinets were just as enthralled, though for different reasons.

“Gracious,” breathed Silhouette, with a half-excited little shiver that shook the newspaper in her hands. “Murder!”

“They’ve finally shown their true colors,” said Débris, tearing her croissant into little pieces, scattering flakes across the tablecloth.

“I told you!” Soufflé hadn’t stopped grinning since he’d seen the headline. “I’ve always said it was only a matter of time. The criminal classes are of uniformly sanguine temperament.” When the others looked at him, confused, he explained, “By which I mean they’re bloodthirsty.”

“You don’t think they’ll bring that, euh, thirst here, do you?” asked Bouquet, glancing nervously at a nearby table as if an axe-wielding art thief might be hiding under it.

“They might,” said Esprit. “There’s only one Pierrot left now, and it’s here in the Hôtel.”

Bouquet’s hand fluttered to his mouth. “What if Ouvolpo don’t wait for the exhibition? What if they try to steal Toujours from here?”

“We’re all going to be murdered in our beds!” said Silhouette, who almost sounded happy about it.

A few tables away, the Swift children poked glumly at their half-eaten breakfasts.

“D’you think they’d be so cheery if they knew who the victim was?” asked Erf.

“I know Rousseau said not to, but we should let them know, surely?” Felicity chewed at her lip anxiously.

“We should. But not right now,” said Phenomena. “Ideally, we want them all in the same room together, so we can observe their reactions. Where is Pomme, by the way? I wanted to ask her some questions about Bernard.”

“She’s not back yet.” Shenanigan had been wondering that herself. She’d assumed Pomme would get back to the Hôtel before them, but there wasn’t a frock coat in sight.

“Well, we can’t wait any longer.” Phenomena set down a glass of apple, spinach, and mint juice, specially made up by Gourmet. While it wasn’t quite her Solution Solution, she had refilled her flask, and all that green seemed to have revived her. She had the look in her eye that Shenanigan associated with lists and timelines and logic. She felt her heart sink.

Shenanigan dragged her feet as she followed Phenomena to the lobby. Maelstrom was squeezed in behind the front desk with Mercredi, calling Swift House on the Hôtel’s aged telephone. In an unusually generous gesture, Soufflé had asked Mercredi to dig out the Hôtel’s entire stock of old guest books for Inheritance. The Archivist was now happily lodged in the Non-Smoking Room among stacks of lilac volumes, gradually walling herself in. Since the Grand Opening, every guest who had checked into the Hôtel had their name, room number, and juice preference recorded, and with Family permitted to stay for free, a great many Swifts had laid down their heads in the Hôtel. Every now and then Inheritance cried out with delight as she discovered which of their relatives had a taste for guava juice.

An enormous broadsheet occupied most of the front desk.

“Salut, Swifts! I see you got more than you bargained for at the gallery!” The paper folded down, and Souris’s sharp eyes searched them. “Is it true? Have Ouvolpo killed someone?”

“No, they haven’t,” said Erf before the others could answer. “Has Pomme come through here?”

She hadn’t. Had she been caught leaving the Galerie Valerie? Shenanigan tried not to think of Pomme cuffed in the back of a police car somewhere.

Maelstrom’s face was grave as he hung up the phone. “They’re not happy back at Swift House,” he said. “They’ve asked us to come home.”

In the Non-Smoking Room, Inheritance shouted, “Noisette Martinet! Grapefruit!”

“Come home?” demanded Shenanigan, horrified.

“But the case is just getting interesting!” protested Phenomena.

“We came here to chase thieves,” said Maelstrom. “Not murderers. Things have changed.”

“We were chasing potential thieves,” corrected Felicity. “And now we’re chasing potential murderers.”

“So Cook and Fauna should only be potentially worried,” said Shenanigan.

“Wilting Swift! Orange juice! Oh, freshly squeezed, what a diva!” chortled Inheritance.

Maelstrom glanced at the Bakir-Martinets, who were doing fantastic impressions of people who weren’t eavesdropping.

“Time for one of Fauna’s Family Meetings, I think,” he said, ushering the children into the Non-Smoking Room and shutting the door firmly behind him. “In private.”

It was a small room, dimly lit, and paneled almost entirely in dark wood. Green leather chairs were dotted around in fours, like clovers popping out of the rug, and antique oil lamps capped each table. The small bar by the door had not been used in many years, and the bottles behind were thick with dust. Once, this had been the sort of room in which men in silk jackets would congregate and congratulate, a slap-on-the-back, handshaking sort of place where everyone was “my good friend” even if they were your worst enemy. It was, in fact, much like an old-fashioned Smoking Room, except there were pointedly no ashtrays. A large painting in reds and oranges loomed on one wall, as if in warning of the hazards of fire.

“You’re not actually thinking of leaving, are you?” asked Shenanigan, bristling with indignation.

“I am,” said Maelstrom, rubbing his beard. “I’d like to recover A Clown Laments His Lot in Life, but it’s not worth putting you children in harm’s way.”

“Yes it is!” said Shenanigan. “That painting’s worth an arm and a leg! Off each of us! Easily!”

Maelstrom continued. “And, besides the physical danger, Rousseau will arrest anyone who interferes with his investigation. Don’t roll your eyes, Felicity. He wasn’t bluffing.”

“Rampant Martinet! Black coffee!”

“Is nobody going to say the obvious thing here?” interrupted Erf, their hair bristling. “Ouvolpo. Don’t. Kill. People.”

“I know you admire them, Erf, but the evidence suggests otherwise,” said Maelstrom. But his mouth twisted as he said it, and Shenanigan knew he had his doubts.

She had doubts too, and she was cross about it. If Ouvolpo were killers, then Erf and Felicity would be forced to admit their terrible judgment, victory would be hers, and she wouldn’t have to feel guilty about trying to catch them. But something about the crime scene hadn’t felt right. She couldn’t put it into words, especially not to Phenomena, who thought a hunch was a sign of poor mental posture.

Erf’s eyes were hard. “I don’t believe it,” they said firmly. “I don’t. It just—they don’t seem like killers to me!”

“You can’t go by seems,” said Phenomena. “That’s how you get ‘She seems such a nice old lady—I can’t believe she stole all those teeth.’ ”

“Yes, but—”

“Or ‘He seemed such a charming young man—I can’t believe he was planning to murder his entire Family for a lost treasure,’ ” added Phenomena. She took a swig of Gourmet’s Solution Solution.

“This isn’t like the Reunion,” Erf insisted. “You said before that criminals don’t usually change their—what’d you call it, the way they commit crimes…?”

“Modus operandi?”

“Yeah, that. It’s like Ouvolpo are crossbills,” said Erf. “They’re a type of bird, specially evolved to eat pine cones. Their beaks are a specific shape to crack open the cones, and they have exceptionally strong tongues to get the seeds out. They’ve honed the skill over years and years, and they’re good at it. Think of how weird it would be if they suddenly started going after, I dunno, acorns!”

“People aren’t birds, Erf,” said Maelstrom, rubbing a button on his coat of arms. “They change all the time.”

“Not without a reason.” Erf folded their arms, jaw set.

Maelstrom sighed. “I don’t disagree,” he said gently. “But these are troubled waters, young Erf. The situation is complicated. The Law is involved.” They could hear the capital letter in his voice. “And, once they are involved, things are taken out of our control, however much we think we could do a better job.”

Phenomena sniffed. “Well, then. Are you going to forbid us from investigating?”

Maelstrom shuddered. “Forbid? No,” he said. “Have I ever forbidden you anything? I’m going to ask you not to, and trust your wisdom.” With a groan, he stood, cracking his back. “Now, I’m going to check on a project of my own. I’ll see you at lunch.”

He left.

Felicity sighed. “Oh, Uncle. He’s never been very good at discipline,” she said.

Shenanigan was familiar with Felicity’s attempts to impose discipline on her younger sisters. It mostly involved ratting them out to Cook or Schadenfreude. “Does that mean you’re going to forbid us instead?”

“What?” Felicity tossed her hair. “No, I’m with Erf. Ouvolpo wouldn’t have done this.”

“I admit that it is strange,” said Phenomena thoughtfully. “Other than his connection to the Hôtel Martinet, and by association the Pierrots, I don’t see what possible motive Ouvolpo would have for killing Bernard.”

There was a tiny gasp.

Quicker than Shenanigan expected, Felicity leapt up, reached a hand behind the bar, and dragged out a person who’d been hiding there.

It was Souris. The bellboy’s eyes were huge and round as Felicity lifted him bodily and plonked him on top of the bar.

“Do you know,” she said, “when I came to Paris, I thought, Finally, I don’t have to worry about my relatives sneaking around and eavesdropping. No offense, Shenanigan.”

“None taken.”

“How did you get in here?”

Souris kicked one heel hard against the wood-paneled siding of the bar, and a portion slid back.

“The bar is hollow,” he said. “You can sneak in from the outside to listen. Did you say the dead man is Bernard?”

Felicity’s expression softened. “Yes. Pomme recognized him.”

Souris nodded. His mouth was a hard, set line, and his eyes shone more than usual.

“I knew there was something wrong, for him to just quit without warning,” he whispered. “But I didn’t think— Why would anyone want to hurt him?”

Phenomena sat back. Her eyes, behind her glasses, were glittering. Shenanigan knew that look.

“This investigation has proceeded without structure for long enough,” she said. “We need to put our thoughts in order. Souris, are there any other ways for someone to eavesdrop on us in here?”

“Yes.” Souris clambered onto one of the barstools, reached up to the vent over the door, and slid it shut. The room took on an odd silence, as if it had just sunk underwater. “And now, no.”

“What did you just do?” asked Shenanigan.

“In the old days, rich men would come here to discuss business dealings. Closing the vent makes the room airtight and soundproof. Unless you happen to creep into the hollow beneath the bar.” He grinned his gap-toothed grin.

“Diaphanous Swift! Egg whites and hot sauce!”

They looked doubtfully at Aunt Inheritance, but Erf shrugged.

“Don’t worry. We’ve lost her for a few hours, at least. We’re going to discuss the murder now, Gran! ” they called.

“No, I’m not hungry, thank you,” said Inheritance absently, flipping a page.

“See?”

“What happens if you prick her with a pin or something?” asked Shenanigan curiously.

“Dunno, never tried.”

“Interesting. Hey, Felicity, can I borrow your brooch?”

“Don’t stab our aunt,” said Felicity as she turned over the large flaming canvas on the wall. “Here. It’s not your chalkboard, Phenomena, but it’ll do.”

“What about Pomme?” asked Shenanigan.

“We can’t wait for her,” said Phenomena. “She’ll have to catch up.”

Shenanigan folded her arms, scowling. “And him?” She pointed to Souris.

“What about me?”

“I don’t trust you. You tried to spy on us.”

Souris folded his arms in a parody of Shenanigan, irritating her even further. “This is my Hôtel. Whatever is happening here is my business. And I liked Bernard.” His lip wobbled dangerously, but straightened through sheer force of will. “On my honor as a bellboy, I will assist you in any way I can.”