Code(28)

Even among its elegant neighbors, Chance’s ancestral home stands out. A registered historical landmark, Claybourne Manor is the largest private residence in South Carolina. Modeled after a nineteenth-century Italian manse, the main building has forty rooms, twenty-four fireplaces, and sixty bathrooms, and occupies over two acres of prime downtown real estate. A home fit for royalty.

We halted outside a ten-foot, spike-topped wall split by an ornate iron gate. Twisting metalwork displayed the Claybourne family crest: a gray shield with three black foxes, encircled by black and red vines.

“My family needs a coat of arms,” Hi mused. “Something that conveys what it means to be a Stolowitski.”

Shelton chuckled. “What, like a stuffed-crust pizza?”

I held up a hand. “Everyone ready?”


No replies. At least they weren’t complaining again.

Taking silence as assent, I rapped on a stout metal door beside the gate. Seconds passed, then a bolt slid sideways, and the portal swung inward.

“Yes?” The guard was lean, mid-forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and the demeanor of an ex-cop. No name tag. He didn’t look happy to see us.

“Hello!” My brightest smile. “We’re here to see Chance.”

“Do you have an appointment?” Stern.

“No, but we’re classmates from Bolton Academy.” Time to ham it up. “We heard Chance is coming back to school, and wanted to give him a big Griffin welcome back!”

Hi snorted, then covered it with a fit of coughing. My grin stayed frozen in place.

“Master Claybourne isn’t taking visitors.” Boredom crept into the guard’s voice. “Leave a name if you’d like, but you can’t loiter on the street.”

“But the four of us go way back with Chance,” I said quickly. “Are you sure we can’t—”

“Quite sure. Make an appointment.”

Grrr. “Please tell Chance that Tory Brennan stopped by, along with Hi Stolowitski, Ben Blue, and Shelton Devers.”

I hesitated. Should I say more? “Let Chance know we’d like to speak with him when it’s convenient. We have something for him.”

“Thank you.” The door closed with a loud clank.

“You should’ve offered another Human Spirit Award,” Hi quipped. “Worked last time.”

“Shut it.” I hate being thwarted. My mind raced, but came up empty. There was nothing to be done—the ball was now in Chance’s court.

“Let’s bail.” Ben was already moving. “We should be working the Gamemaster’s clue, not wasting time—”

The door abruptly reopened. The guard craned out, spied me, and breathed an audible sigh of relief.

“Terribly sorry, Miss Brennan!” Hustling out onto the sidewalk. “Name’s Saltman. I’m a new hire, and haven’t memorized the logs. Of course you may come inside. I’ll let Master Claybourne know you’ve arrived.”

Saltman nervously rotated his cap in his hands. “We don’t need to mention this little mix-up, do we, miss? It was an honest mistake.”

I covered my surprise with an airy wave. “Not at all.”

But what was he talking about? I took a calculated risk. “I’m on the list?”

Saltman nodded like a bobblehead. “Oh, yes ma’am! The instructions are quite clear: no visitors except by appointment, but Miss Brennan is to be shown in at any time, day or night.” He smiled ingratiatingly. “You must be very special to young Master Chance.”

WTF?

Chance left instructions about me? Had assumed I’d come? Sometimes the world made no sense at all.

“Chance is home?” I asked, stalling for time.

“In his father’s study.” Saltman cringed as though slapped. “His study, I should say. If you’ll wait in the reception, I’ll have him summoned straight away.” Then his gaze shifted to my companions. “The directive only mentions you, Miss Brennan. I’m not sure—”

“Chance will want to see everyone.” I added steel to my voice. “Let’s not waste more time gabbing in the driveway.”

That was enough for Saltman. “Of course, right this way.”

We traveled a short, flower-lined walk to the front entrance. Saltman pulled wide the massive oak door to reveal a cozy vestibule. The manor’s signature room was just ahead—a fifty-foot grand entrance hall in antebellum style.

Memories flooded back. I pushed them away.

Keep your head straight. Chance is no one to trifle with.

Saltman led us to a smaller chamber on the right—a spacious wood-paneled parlor decorated with elaborate crown molding, painted friezes, a wooden mantel, and a giant crystal chandelier. In the center, six leather chairs surrounded a mahogany coffee table.

“Please have a seat.” Saltman pressed a false panel to reveal an intercom system. “Inform Master Claybourne he has four guests in the reception. Tory Brennan and . . . some others.”

When a liveried butler appeared, Saltman retreated the way he’d entered. After declining refreshments, we sat, waiting, taking in the rich appointments.

“I assume you’ve got a plan,” Shelton whispered. “We’re not just gonna toss this bag of loot at him, right?” He tapped a pocket containing two stacks of gold doubloons.