Chasing Vermeer

by Blue Balliett

  “Yes. His ideas have meant a great deal to me.” Mrs. Sharpe looked coldly at her teacup as if it had spoken instead of her. It occurred to Petra that maybe the old woman had said more than she’d meant to. But before Petra could think up an appropriate response, Calder blurted, “Then why did you get rid of your book?”

  As soon as he’d spoken, he knew he’d made a mistake. Trying to chat with Mrs. Sharpe was not easy. It was kind of like playing with a dangerous animal.

  “I was finished with it.” Mrs. Sharpe’s tone made it clear that she could soon be finished with Calder, too. There was another silence. “It has a dreadful stain on it, if you haven’t noticed. All of Fort’s books have just been beautifully reprinted in one volume, so I now have that.”

  Calder remained judiciously silent.

  Petra stirred more sugar into her tea. “You must like Vermeer. Horrible news about the theft, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Sharpe’s face was masklike. “Charles Fort would have been pleased.”

  Petra looked shocked. “Why?”

  Calder thought he understood. “You mean pleased about all the questions, right?”

  Mrs. Sharpe made a noise kind of like a snarl. Calder, aware that he had trespassed again, looked down at the table. He was moving too fast — what was wrong with him?

  Petra tried to make things better. “Pleased about how people are thinking for themselves?”

  Calder pulled a pentomino out of his pocket and began tapping it nervously against his knee. For a long minute, everything was silent.

  “I think the thief is very intelligent,” Mrs. Sharpe said.

  Both Calder and Petra looked at her.

  Calder couldn’t restrain himself. “Sure he’s smart, but so what? Does that make the theft okay?” There was a long silence, and Calder could feel Mrs. Sharpe’s eyes drilling into his head.

  “I think, as Charles Fort does, that people don’t look carefully enough at what is around them.” Mrs. Sharpe stood up, signaling that tea was over.

  As they followed the old woman silently through the house, Petra and Calder absorbed as much of what was around them as they could. A pewter pitcher … several tapestries … goblets made of green-and-bubbly glass.

  “We must talk soon. I’ll leave word with Mr. Watch.” The door was shut before Calder and Petra could reply.

  They stood outside in the twilight looking at each other. Calder was still holding what he now realized was the F pentomino.

  “For someone who obviously loves Vermeer, she didn’t seem too upset,” Petra said.

  Calder frowned. “You know what my pentomino just said? Fooled. If she wasn’t so old, I’d wonder if she had something to do with the painting disappearing.”

  “What reason would she have for stealing it?” Petra asked. “Plus, can you imagine her hiring a bunch of criminals to do the dirty work? But what she said about people not seeing what was right in front of them — that did feel almost like a hint.”

  They walked several steps in silence.

  Calder was scratching his chin with the F pentomino. “You think that it’s Mrs. Sharpe who’s fooled, or us?”

  Calder got another letter from Tommy that evening. Something else had gone wrong, something besides Frog’s disappearance:

  L:1 F:1 Z:1 N:1 P:1 T:2, -

  T:1 T:2 P:1 N:1 - L:1 F:1 W:2 U:1 V:1 V:2 -

  F:2 P:1 - Z:1 L:2 L:2 Y:1 W:1 I:2 U:1 - T:1 L:2 T:2 -

  L:1 Z:1 W:2 P:1 U:2 - L:2 I:2 - T:1 T:2 L:2 U:1. -

  U:1 L:2 V:2 - F:2 P:1 F:1 I:2. - V:2 L:2 L:2 Y:1 -

  F:2 F:3 - I:1 W:1 Y:1 P:1. - F:2 L:2 F:2 -

  F:1 I:2 N:1 - T:1 T:2 P:1 N:1 -

  T:1 W:1 U:1 V:1 V:2 W:1 I:2 U:1. -

  V:2 L:2 F:2 F:2 F:3

  Calder felt partly responsible — it had been his idea that Tommy do some detective work, and now his buddy had gotten in hot water because of it.

  Suddenly Calder felt guilty that he and Petra were sharing secrets while Tommy was on his own. He’d always told Tommy everything. It wasn’t that he’d meant to leave Tommy out. It was just that so much had happened without him.

  He decided to call his old friend. There wasn’t the same privacy on the phone as in their letters, but at least they could make a few jokes.

  Calder got a recording saying that Tommy’s number had been disconnected. A shiver of fear ran down his spine.

  He dialed Petra’s number and told her the news. “I can’t help remembering Fort’s stories about people who vanished into thin air, sometimes from the same area. You don’t think this could be anything like that, do you?”

  Petra’s voice was subdued. “No, but guess what? My dad just left on a business trip and wouldn’t tell my mom where he was going. He wasn’t mad or anything, but said he couldn’t tell her right away. He hasn’t been acting like himself at all lately. He kind of disappeared, too.”

  Both were silent for a moment. Calder was the first to speak. “Got the Vermeer notebook?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you add something about our tea with Mrs. Sharpe? And maybe even Tommy’s letter and the disconnected phone, and your dad’s mysterious trip? You know the way writing things down sometimes makes stuff clearer.”

  “Good idea. Come over, okay?”

  Before Calder got there, Petra looked at their last entry in the notebook. It said, Unknown: Do objects and people repeat because V. painted at home? Then she remembered. They’d been wondering if the women who kept turning up in Vermeer’s paintings were his family, surrounded by the everyday stuff of their lives.

  Absentmindedly, Petra underlined “objects and people repeat.” People repeat. Who was the woman in A Lady Writing? Suddenly, it all felt so sad, not only the theft but the thought that the woman didn’t have a name. Unknown. She was hidden somewhere in the dark, in danger and alone. Petra shut her eyes. As the first tear rolled down her cheek, she could suddenly picture the woman looking at her, her earrings shimmering in that clear light. Don’t worry, she seemed to be saying. I remember you, and I’m right here.

  Petra opened her eyes and sat up straight. She blew her nose. But where are you? she asked silently, feeling excited but kind of silly. Imagining a safe place to hide a small painting, she thought of drawers, cupboards, cabinets, closets, blanket chests…. Everything she pictured was wood. And then Petra felt an odd certainty: It was dark wood they were looking for.

  By the time Calder turned up, she was writing madly in the notebook.

  “Calder! I think we just might have a clue!”

  She explained that the Lady had kind of helped her think of it. She wanted Calder to understand that.

  Calder shrugged. “It’s a logical idea, you know? Dark wood equals fancy places. The thief is an educated person, maybe with a lot of money — he or she could easily live in a mansion with old cabinets or something. Good thinking.”

  Petra wrote: Look for wooden storage places in Chicago.

  Of course, there was Mrs. Sharpe’s house, but neither remembered seeing anything that might fit that description in the living room or kitchen.

  “Maybe we can get a look at more of her house when we go back. I’ll make up an excuse about using the bathroom and run upstairs,” Calder suggested. “Or maybe she’ll want something from Powell’s before then.”

  They laughed nervously about how furious Mrs. Sharpe would be if she caught them spying. “We’d be the next to vanish, you can count on it,” Calder added.

  Both felt better by the time they had a blue one and closed the notebook. There was comfort in making plans.

  The next morning, they had another surprise. This one came from Ms. Hussey.

  She asked her students to think about what they might have done if the thief had written them a personal letter before the theft took place, a letter delivered to their home.

  “You mean like one of the three letters the thief talked about?” asked Calder.

  “Not necessarily. We’re just inventing a situation,” Ms. Hussey answ
ered, with some of her old we’re–in–this–together–and–it–might–be–dangerous tone.

  Hearing the undercurrent of excitement, her class grew quiet.

  Ms. Hussey went on to explain that this letter would have asked anonymously for their help. Say the thief had offered lots of money, promised that the cause was honorable, and — last but not least — threatened their life if they showed the letter to anyone else.

  Petra scribbled Calder a quick note: The letter that blew away from me that day on Harper Avenue — it sounded just like this! Except I didn’t get to finish it and don’t remember the threat.

  As Calder read Petra’s note, Ms. Hussey was saying, “This is a question of judgment. It’s not clear, in your letter, if the thief is good or bad. I’m interested in what you might do. And Calder, could I keep that, please? You know I don’t allow those kinds of communications during class.”

  Calder flashed an uh oh look at Petra, who had slumped down in her seat. He stepped carefully over Denise’s outstretched foot as he handed Ms. Hussey the note. She popped it in her pocket.

  Although she knew Ms. Hussey wouldn’t be angry, Petra had a queasy feeling. How could the letter Ms. Hussey was asking them to imagine sound so similar to that one about art and crime? But maybe this was just another coincidence, pure and simple — there had been so many lately. Or maybe Ms. Hussey had found the letter blowing around, too! Of course — the thought was a relief. Petra sat up.

  Ms. Hussey wrote some of their responses on the blackboard:

  — Go directly to the police and get protection.

  — Hide the letter and try to figure out who the writer was.

  — Change the locks on the doors.

  — Do what was asked, have an adventure, and hope you weren’t breaking the law.

  — Tell a friend and make them promise not to tell, and then talk about what to do.

  Ms. Hussey listened closely to what the kids were saying, as she always did. At the last suggestion, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. Then, just as quickly, they were gone, and she was muttering something about dirt in her eye.

  Out in the hallway, Calder looked upset. He said to Petra, “Do you suppose Ms. Hussey got one of the three letters, and dropped it or something and you picked it up? What if she’s kind of looking for help by asking us what we think?”

  “But why would the thief ask her to help him? I mean, she’s just a sixth-grade teacher.” Petra’s voice sounded unsure.

  “Good people sometimes get caught in bad things.” Calder was thinking now about Tommy, about Frog, about Petra’s dad, about Vermeer himself.

  Should Ms. Hussey be added to the list?

  As if he or she were playing on Petra and Calder’s fears, the thief resurfaced the next morning. A full-page ad appeared in newspapers around the world.

  After the thief’s first published letter, the fuss over A Lady Writing had been tremendous. The catchy phrase You will come to agree with me, the message found inside the packing box after the painting was stolen, had been picked up everywhere. It appeared spray-painted on subway cars, on walls, and on the sides of buildings in New York City, in Chicago, in Tokyo, in Amsterdam. It turned up on cheap T-shirts in English, Dutch, French, Spanish, even Japanese. Demonstrations were organized outside several museums, and protestors were photographed marching and shouting. There was footage on the evening news of signs that said things like: TELL THE TRUTH! GET HER BACK! Or X THE EXPERTS! Or ¡VIVA VERMEER! ¡SOLAMENTE LA VERDAD! Museum officials had days when they had to scurry, protected by police, through noisy crowds to get to work.

  It was after this first wave of passion began to die down that the first full-page ad appeared.

  It said simply: You are doing the right thing. Sure enough, the response from the public was instantaneous. There was more mail, there was more publicity.

  The next time the public seemed to be losing interest another message appeared, saying: Be patient. Do not give up. This also was followed by a flood of letters.

  The ad that Calder and Petra read before school that morning in the Chicago Tribune said: You have come to agree with me. They will come to agree with you.

  In tiny print below the letter, newspaper editors, under pressure from the FBI, the police, and a committee of museum directors, explained that they would not publish any more of the mysterious advertisements. This was the last. The first advertisement was mailed from New York a week after the theft, the second from Florence a week after that, and the third from Amsterdam. The thief almost seemed to be showing off, thumbing his nose at the authorities.

  Ms. Hussey said nothing to Petra that morning about the note she had pocketed the day before. Maybe she hadn’t even read it, Petra thought with relief. Class began with a discussion about the thief’s latest ad.

  Ms. Hussey asked, “Why do people assume the thief is just one person? I mean, couldn’t this be a group?” She was absentmindedly twisting her ponytail around and around one thumb.

  Calder raised his hand. “Don’t the police think three other people are helping?”

  “I don’t know,” Ms. Hussey said. “Do they? I guess it depends on what is considered helping. And whether those three letters even exist.”

  She looked so genuinely concerned that Petra and Calder began to wonder if they had jumped to silly conclusions the day before.

  One thing was clear to the sixth graders: In spite of their discussions earlier in the year with Ms. Hussey, the letter as a form of communication was very much alive.

  Calder arrived at Powell’s that afternoon just as Mr. Watch was folding the top closed on a large paper bag. He nodded to Calder and began lettering S-H-A-R with an indelible marker on the outside.

  Before Calder could say anything, Mr. Watch pointed toward a massive pile of children’s picture books. “Need to be shelved.” He turned back toward the bag and added P-E.

  “But I’d like to deliver that,” Calder blurted. “I mean, she’s nice,” he added lamely. Nice? he thought to himself. Hardly.

  Mr. Watch stood up and adjusted his suspenders. “I can drop them off myself after work.”

  Calder looked miserably at the picture books. When Mr. Watch went to use the bathroom, Calder rushed over to the bag and peeked inside.

  They didn’t look like the kinds of books most people would bother with. There were several on the history of mathematics, a book called On the Plurality of Worlds, and another called The Roots of Coincidence. Calder heard the toilet flush and hurriedly closed the top of the bag. Funny that Mrs. Sharpe was also thinking about coincidences.

  He worked extra quickly on shelving the picture books and returned to the front desk. Mr. Watch was surprised and gave him a smile that revealed a row of small, pointed teeth. No wonder the man usually kept his mouth closed.

  “Need that delivery now?” Calder asked.

  Mr. Watch shrugged. “Fine,” he said, then reached into his pocket as if to find something. “Wait — no, never mind. Go ahead.”

  Calder hurried south on Harper Avenue. Should he stop at Petra’s and let her know where he was going just in case something happened? No, that was ridiculous.

  When the door opened, Calder was surprised to see Mrs. Sharpe looking almost friendly. The wrinkles in her face were arranged into something that resembled a smile.

  “Come in while I get a check for you, boy.”

  Calder was left to look around again for several moments. This woman had money, no doubt about it. What did she do all day? Calder noticed a hefty pile of papers next to her computer. They were too big to sit on her desk and had their own foldout table. Maybe she was a writer. A writer and a thief?

  When Mrs. Sharpe returned, Calder shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hoping she’d get the hint. She paused to look at his feet, as if there were something wrong with them. Calder took the plunge. “Mrs. Sharpe, would it be possible for me to use your bathroom? I’m not feeling well.”

  Mrs. Sharpe waved a bony hand behind herself
. “Up the stairs, turn left.” Then she gave Calder a hawklike glance, as if to say, I’m old, but not that old.

  Calder, sweating already, scurried up the stairs. They creaked horribly under his boots. Once at the top, he paused, trying to take in as much as possible. Sure enough, to his right, he saw a large standing wardrobe. A perfect storage place, it looked almost identical to the one behind the Geographer in Vermeer’s painting.

  Mrs. Sharpe’s voice came from downstairs. “The switch is high, inside the door.”

  “Got it,” Calder called back, fumbling on the wall inside the first room he came to. The light went on in a huge bedroom. There was another wardrobe with carved panels, this one covering most of the far wall.

  “Oops,” Calder called down, trying to sound lost. He was back out in the hall, the bedroom light off. Ah — the bathroom. Calder shut the door, flushed hurriedly, and took several deep breaths.

  On his way down the stairs, he noticed a built-in cabinet with heavy doors beneath an old bench on the landing. The house was nothing but wooden storage places.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Sharpe,” Calder said, realizing he probably didn’t have to overdo it on not looking well. He stuffed the check in his pocket. “See you soon.”

  The front door was closed almost before he was out of it. The old woman clearly wasn’t big on good-byes.

  Calder went directly to Petra’s and invited her back to his house. It was quieter there, and they had to get his discoveries written down. Petra carried the Vermeer notebook.

  On the way over, she said happily, “My dad just got home. He was doing some kind of research for his department. Strange it had to be so secret, isn’t it?”

  “Not so strange,” Calder mumbled. “Secrets seem almost normal these days.”

  Together they sat on the floor in Calder’s room. First, Petra wrote down the titles of the books Calder remembered from Mrs. Sharpe’s bag, then Calder sketched the standing wardrobes. They each ate several blue ones before there was a knock at the door.