The Body Thief Read Free Page B

fortune.”
    “It’s nothing you can’t handle, princess. Just remember, my brother is a devil, and he won’t be an easy mark.”
    “Maybe not,” she said confidently, “but I believe I’m equal to the challenge. If there’s one thing you’ve taught me, Father, it’s how to make a good impression. Give me a few weeks, and he’ll love me like his very own daughter.”
    Her father nodded his approval. “If anyone can do it, you can. For my part, I’ll tell you as much as I can about Silas and the rest of the family. This is it, princess. There’s a fortune at stake here, and only you can get it for us.”
    “Relax, Father, I already have a plan of attack,” Isabella told him sweetly. “This will be the easiest money we ever made.”

3
    Milo
    Still fits me like a glove!” said the maestro triumphantly as he admired his impressive reflection in the wall mirror of the dimly lit bedroom he shared with his grandson Milo. “I had this tailcoat made for me in Vienna just before I conducted my first symphony and just look how it fits me still!”
    “Amazing,” said Milo as he struggled with the astoundingly difficult task of doing up the buttons on the maestro’s tailcoat. “Could you breathe in a little more please, Maestro?”
    “Breathe in?”
    “Your stomach,” said Milo. “You need to suck it in…just a little.”
    “If I breathe in any more I will pass out,” declared the maestro, slightly wounded that there was any sucking in required of his perfectly flat stomach.
    Milo Winterbottom and his grandfather had lived in the tiny basement apartment for two years—ever since the maestro had abandoned his life in Florence and come to Wales to take care of his ten-year-old grandson, after the boy’s parents were lost in a tragic accident.
    “There, all done,” said Milo, wrestling the final button into place.
    “Tonight, Milo,” announced the maestro grandly, “the Wrinkly Symphony Orchestra will bring beautiful music to the world.” He smiled brightly. “Well, at least to the Winslow Square Community Theatre.”
    The Wrinkly Symphony Orchestra was a ragtag group of retired orchestra musicians whom the maestro had collected during his travels around the city. Their free concerts were a favorite for many residents of the square.
    “The curtain rises at eight,” said the maestro, adjusting his bow tie. “You will be there, yes?”
    “Sure I will,” said Milo, brushing down his grandfather’s jacket. “I just have to make a delivery for Mrs. Boobank first.”
    The maestro stopped in front of a three-legged writing table leaning up against the wall; it wobbled perilously as he opened the drawer and removed his baton case.
    “You work too hard, my boy,” he said somberly.
    “I like working,” he lied. “Besides, Mrs. Boobank pays me well, and we need the money.”
    The maestro blew a loud raspberry. “What good is money?”
    “Maestro, we cannot live without it,” said Milo wearily as he cleared the lunch plates off the table and wiped them clean. “If you would just collect some of the money your students owe for their music lessons—”
    “Bah! You worry too much, my boy.”
    “Maybe I do,” said Milo diplomatically. “But still, we must eat.” Picking up his skateboard, he pushed his grandfather toward the front door. “Time to go, Maestro. Winslow Square is waiting!”
    And with that, they headed out in the fading light of late afternoon.
    ***
    It must be said that Milo did not look like a typical Winterbottom, although he did have the trademark dark hair that flopped over his forehead in wavy bangs. But while his father had been famous for his dark eyes and brooding good looks, Milo had his mother’s complexion—her pale skin, large green eyes, and shy smile.
    As they strolled across the main square, the maestro occupied himself with preparation for the forthcoming concert, unaware that Milo’s head was filled with more troubling matters concerning the letter he had