Claire entered the foyer of her father's house, thoroughly exhausted by her shopping trip. A line of servants followed her inside, carrying her purchases. The butler shut the door and waited to take her jacket. She picked her gloves from her fingers and swept her eyes over the foyer. The house lay implacably quiet.

"Your aunt has gone to lunch with an old acquaintance," the butler said to her questioning eyes. "Your father and Mr. Reiniger are still at the factory. They should return in time for dinner."

"Thank you, Wilson." Claire smiled at him, folding her gloves in her hands. "Can you have my packages brought upstairs?"

"Right away, miss." Wilson nodded.

"I'm going to get some lunch from the cook and then I'll be upstairs if anyone needs me."

Wilson nodded again.

Claire stepped down the narrowing hall to the kitchen and disappeared. Sometime later, after the cook had whipped up a nice sandwich and her purchases lay all over her room, Claire wandered downstairs. The house felt empty as the servants busied themselves elsewhere. Claire took the last step and scanned the room to be sure she was indeed alone. The rain picked up outside, making a tedious cadence.

Claire took a step toward the sitting room and stopped. She thought about earlier at the café and then about the night before. Her face slowly pivoted toward the office door. The portal was closed, providing a moment for her to question what brewed in her mind. She smoothed her skirt and sighed. She would never clear her father's name in her mind if she didn't settle what she saw. Frowning, she decided a short peek at that secret alcove would be enough.

Opening the office door, Claire entered her father's office. Her eyes swept the room, afraid she would find him sitting behind the desk and Carsten on the leather sofa. The room held a dim energy that nearly chased her back out the door. Claire held the doorknob still tightly clutched in her hand. She released it and took a step further. Her eyes swept the room once more.

Finally assured the room belonged to her alone, Claire made her way around the desk to the corner where she had spied Carsten the night before. The bookcase stood tight to the wall. No obvious seam or switch showed. Claire ran her hand down the panel and then over the books. She stepped back and inspected the shelves. She crossed her arms, then cupped her chin in one hand, trying to figure out how it opened. Her eyes swept back and forth over the bookcase; her mind played back old radio mysteries. The trigger was always some switch or button disguised as a carving, statue or book.

Claire stepped back to the shelves and studied the books and ornaments filling them. She saw nothing suspicious. She shook her head and threw up her arms, groaning in frustration.

"What can it be?"

Claire ran her nails across the bottom lip of the shelf. She paused, abruptly seized by an idea. Her fingers shifted to the underside of that lip. The tips of her fingers gently ran back across to the corner. She stopped, discerning a seam. Claire dropped to her knees and looked up. The shadow of the shelf made it hard to see, but a rectangular cut marked the wood. She dug with her nails thinking it must be what she searched for. It fell open. Inside sat a square loop of metal. Her heart pounded excitedly.

"Twenty-three skidoo," Claire said, sitting back on her heels.

Pausing only a moment to reflect on her sleuthing skills, Claire pulled the handle and the bookcase released from the wall. She rose to her feet and studied the craftsmanship of the door. Her father had gone to a lot of trouble for some reason.

"Focus, Claire," she said to herself. "We're here to see how silly you are, not prove how smart you can be."

Claire opened the bookcase door wider and stepped into the dusky nook behind. A small lamp on the table caught her eye. She switched it on. The papers on the walls and desk came into full view. Ledger sheets and accounting paperwork was all she found. She exhaled through her nose and ran her fingertips over the typewriter-like machine in the middle of the tiny desk. She saw the same phone Carsten had used to call his grandmother last night. Her heart sunk and her stomach sickened. Once more her suspicions had whipped up her curiosity to get her poking her nose where it didn't belong, ending in the casting of a refugee as a villain.

Carsten must be helping her father with his accounting ledgers. He'd gone to the lawyers to clear something up. Her father nearly always faced a suit or tripped on the edge of some such trouble. Businesses often faced such interruptions that threatened to topple them, and it took more than one mind to jump through the hoops to keep things going. Now that she thought about it, her father mentioned last Christmas that his head accountant planned to retire. Carsten must be there to replace those hard-to-fill shoes.

Claire tsked at her suspicions. She shut off the light and closed the bookcase, setting the switch handle back the way she found it. She left the office and slowly made her way upstairs feeling worse for not finding a thing.