Pieces and Players

by Blue Balliett

  The thing about Mrs. Sharpe, Tommy thought, was that you were never quite sure where the mystery stopped and she started. You knew she was hiding stuff, you could feel it, and you were never 100 percent sure it was for the right reasons.

  You never knew who was fooling whom.

  Mrs. Sharpe lived in a Victorian house that was gray with plum trim and boasted a huge wisteria vine over the front porch. Without leaves, the vine looked threatening, more like a boa constrictor than anything else. The house was bigger, fancier, and less homey than the places the kids lived. Plaster lions reared up from the garden as you walked to the front entrance, as if reminding you to feel uncomfortable.

  The door flew open after one knock. It was dim inside, and Ms. Hussey’s voice was subdued. “She’s not feeling too much like herself,” she half whispered to the kids. “Come on in.”

  “Uh-oh,” Calder said.

  As they stepped in, Petra reached quickly into one pocket and pulled out a hair clip. Tommy didn’t see her elbow coming and it poked him right in the eyebrow, the one located beneath the volcano.

  “Ow!” he yelped. Calder turned around just as Petra stepped to one side, and the two bumped bellies. Both moved away in the same direction, pressed together in a dreadful dance.

  Petra was the first to recover. “Hello, Mrs. Sharpe,” she said. “We’re here,” she added … and then wished she hadn’t.

  Mrs. Sharpe’s voice rose from a small red velvet sofa in the corner.

  “That is evident. I should have known you three would arrive in style.”

  The old bag sure knows how to make a bunch of kids feel at home, Tommy thought to himself.

  Immediately Ms. Hussey cleared her throat with a businesslike chuh-chuh-chuh-hum and introduced the other two kids in the room.

  Tommy couldn’t help but stare at this kid Zoomy. He was like someone from another planet. First of all, he was super small — sitting down, his feet didn’t even touch the floor. He had glasses that were so thick they looked like a part of a Halloween costume. When Zoomy was introduced, he began tapping his chin and didn’t stop. Everyone got silent for a moment, watching.

  Ms. Hussey reached across the coffee table and touched Zoomy’s arm. “Got something to write on?” she asked.

  Zoomy nodded, stopped tapping, and pulled a small notebook and a purple pen out of his pocket. Leaning close to his knee, he wrote several words.

  Maybe he’s weird like Einstein, Tommy thought.

  Next came Early, the girl. The first thing Tommy noticed was how tidy she was. A thick black braid clung to the back of her head like a giant caterpillar. Her jeans had a crease down the front and her sweatshirt looked as if it had been folded five minutes ago. And what was that lilac smell? Couldn’t be Mrs. Sharpe, who only smelled like grown-up perfume, and it wasn’t the other four — Ms. Hussey always smelled like vanilla, that spoonful just before it went into making French toast.

  Next Tommy noticed that Early looked ready to run. She was sitting as straight as Calder’s N pentomino, back and shins parallel, eyes darting around as if she’d landed in a crowded fishbowl. Suddenly, in a flash, Tommy realized that it would be nice if he and Calder and Petra helped the other two feel comfortable. Plus, if he made the first gesture, maybe this new girl would like him. After all, it was dark in Mrs. Sharpe’s living room and his Krakatoa might be less visible. He wished he’d washed his hair that morning. Reaching quickly for a plate of cookies on the table, he passed them to Early.

  “Stop, boy!” Mrs. Sharpe’s voice cut like a knife. Tommy froze and three of the cookies kept going, landing with a plop in Early’s lap.

  Tommy heard her suck in her breath, surprised.

  Ms. Hussey laughed, somehow making it all better, and bustled around, straightening Mrs. Sharpe’s blanket and passing paper napkins to the kids. The napkins each had a fancy crest on them — two lions standing up on either side of a red-and-black shield with a crown on the top and three silver Xs running down the center. Long words in some other language decorated a scroll beneath the shield.

  Petra reached an open hand toward Early, who gratefully gave her two of the cookies and a cautious smile. Tommy wanted to kick himself. Oh, well, he thought. Since when have my plans for girls worked out? He slumped back into his seat. Petra passed the third cookie to Calder.

  “They’ll be careful,” Ms. Hussey assured her old friend as she passed around heavy glasses of lemonade. “Now. Should we cut to the chase? I’m sure these kids are wondering why on earth we’ve called them all here this afternoon.”

  Ms. Hussey, Tommy noted, was the only person he’d ever met who could be normal with Mrs. Sharpe.

  All eyes were on the old woman, who closed hers for a moment as if to gather strength. “I have called you here because you are all rather extraordinary. Mentally,” she added, with a hawk-like glimmer. She paused, as if to let that sink in. “Each of you has done some detective work that the adults around you were incapable of doing. Three of you have already worked together. My hope is that the five of you will be able to rise to even greater heights.” She paused for a shaky sip. Ms. Hussey reached to help her with the glass, and didn’t seem to mind when Mrs. Sharpe forgot to say thank you.

  The old woman continued, her voice quavering. “I had hoped that within the past week you five would have begun an investigation on your own. That you’d have asked for my help. But perhaps, at this stage, you’ve been too busy trying not to be what you are and disguising things as opposed to revealing them. It’s a pity that children mature in such predictable ways.”

  Tommy had thought Mrs. Sharpe was going to call them disgusting when he’d heard that disg. She’d said the word slowly, like she’d wanted them to think that. Tommy popped upright and glanced at Petra, who also looked shocked and embarrassed. No pleasing some people, Tommy thought to himself. He felt sorry for Zoomy and Early, who’d never met Mrs. Sharpe before. If he were in their seats, he’d be scouting out the nearest exit.

  Tommy tried to peer at Early out of the corner of his eye. Was she even breathing?

  Mrs. Sharpe cleared her throat. “One of the thirteen pieces stolen from the Farmer is irreplaceable.” She paused. The room was now silent. She cupped her hands together, as if in prayer, then anchored them in the saggy web beneath her chin. Stones sparkled from between swollen knuckles and veins.

  Her skin is worse than ours, Tommy thought, and he wondered if any of the others had noticed the same thing.

  “I speak of an extraordinary work of art, and there’s no need to say which one. Quite truthfully, this crime has destroyed me, in part because I feel responsible, as one of the trustees of the museum. As trustees, we are the people in charge of the institution and its future. But for the past year, we have been dillydallying around and arguing about whether the place could be restored or whether the collection should go to Washington! Those of us who were in charge should … should …” Mrs. Sharpe’s cheeks were flushed, and she now stabbed the back of the couch with a closed fist, as if holding a dagger. Even Ms. Hussey jumped.

  “This is a crime so heinous that it must be resolved, and quickly.” The old woman closed her eyes. “There’s no excuse for endangering this collection the way we did. The thirteen missing pieces belong to each one of us in this room and to — to — the future of humanity. To millions of people all over the world. And to the wonderful spirit who collected and displayed them for the public —” Mrs. Sharpe broke off, ran her tongue around her lips, and patted them with her napkin.

  She’s not a normal old person, Tommy thought to himself. She’s more like a bloodthirsty dog that would give anything to bite down on a plump squirrel.

  Mrs. Sharpe was speaking again. “Suffice it to say that I am horrified by the loss of every item that was taken that night. Three are by the incomparable Dutch master Rembrandt, and he is considered to be one of the greatest artists of all time. I confess, however, that the one painting I referred to earlier, The Concert, has haunted my dreams s
ince the moment it was stolen. You all know it, of course.”

  “Not me,” interrupted Zoomy, staring up at the wall over Mrs. Sharpe’s head. “But I know you mean the Vemmer painting.”

  “That’s Ver-meer, emphasis on the second syllable,” Ms. Hussey said quickly, not giving Mrs. Sharpe a chance to respond.

  Calder, Petra, and Tommy all grinned, and Tommy leaned toward Zoomy and whispered, “I like Vemmer better.” Ms. Hussey frowned at him.

  Zoomy nodded and Tommy thought he caught the tiniest smile on Early’s face. Score, he thought happily.

  “To tell you the truth,” Mrs. Sharpe went on, raising her voice, “I have my suspicions about who took the art but truly don’t care to know who the thieves were or are. It’s the thirteen objects — every single one — that I want. If all are returned safely, I shall die in peace.”

  There was no response. Somehow, it wasn’t possible to tell Mrs. Sharpe that she shouldn’t think about dying — she’d probably think it was rude. Calder dug one hand into his pocket, making a sudden clacking sound.

  “Thirteen and seventeen, the art and the date of the robbery. Both prime numbers,” he blurted. “And so is five. One of a kinds, if you know what I mean.”

  “Mmm, well put, boy.” The old woman’s face creased into a shape that was almost friendly. “Oddly fitting. A prime crime.” She paused for a moment, as if waiting for someone to comment. No one did. “Not possible to divide by multiples,” the old woman finished curtly.

  “Fewer red herrings.” Ms. Hussey nodded, and Mrs. Sharpe lifted her chin, as if to say, Exactly.

  Their old teacher cleared her throat. Reaching for her computer, she gave the group a slideshow glimpse of the thirteen pieces, from the interactive FBI website. She passed the screen extra close to Zoomy.

  First, the delicate, dreamy Vermeer … next, a ship filled with panicky faces … portraits of well-dressed people … a friendly self-portrait by Rembrandt … a scene of the country with a tall, skinny tower and a bridge … sketches of horses and dancers and musical instruments … a man writing at a table … then two objects, one a brass eagle from the top of a flagpole, the other a heavy-looking drinking cup.

  The kids had seen some of the pictures in the news, but not all of them. Calder, Petra, and Tommy whispered comments to one another, partly because Zoomy and Early were listening.

  “Jeez, how did they handle so much? I hope they didn’t put that eagle in a bag with the Vermeer!” Petra said.

  “Or the cup in with the big landscape!” Tommy added. “That’d be a bad move!”

  “Whoa, nasty storm: nightmare waves, even for a surfer dude. Those guys are saying, ‘Lemme outa here!’ ” Calder observed.

  Mrs. Sharpe raised her hand for quiet. “Don’t assume everyone old is hard of hearing. Some of us are robins who never miss a worm. Let us hope that the five of you can stop trying to impress each other long enough to get to work.” Mrs. Sharpe dropped the last three words as if they were tissues she’d just used for blowing her nose.

  Instantly the room was quieter than silent.

  Wasn’t she just trying to impress us? Tommy wondered. He didn’t like adults who were nice one moment and nasty the next — or were unjust. After all, Zoomy and Early hadn’t said a thing.

  Mrs. Sharpe now looked around at the group, who squirmed on their chairs. She sighed. “I wouldn’t ask you five to engage in this investigation if I didn’t believe that you will make an extraordinary, unexpected, and understated team. A team that no one will notice.”

  Forgetting his Krakatoa, Tommy lifted his glass the tiniest bit in Calder’s direction, like an adult doing a toast after a speech. After all, how could no one notice them if they’d been invited by a rich grown-up to do something cool? It was a joke.

  At that moment, Tommy’s lemonade slipped from his grip and descended in slow motion, the glass bouncing on the thick carpet beneath.

  “Scaz!” he gasped.

  Everything happened very quickly after that. Ms. Hussey dropped her laptop on the sofa and hurried into the kitchen to get a towel. Mrs. Sharpe tried to sit up straight but began to tip off her seat, and Petra reached to help just as her hair clip popped from her head and shot beneath the coffee table. Zoomy chin-tapped, and Calder cracked heads with Early as both reached to grope around for Petra’s missile. Ms. Hussey, kneeling to sop up the sugary mess, yelped in pain as her knee connected with the metal clip.

  An odd creaking sound came from the sofa. Was Mrs. Sharpe laughing?

  “That’s it,” she wheezed. “Spilling and purposeful chaos! Children! A natural asset in any sting.” She paused. “Infallible timing,” she added under her breath, her voice suddenly distant. She closed her eyes and leaned back against a cushion.

  Tommy had no idea what she was talking about but felt a tiny bit better. The word infallible sounded important. But wasn’t a sting some kind of criminal setup?

  He remembered a great film called The Sting that he’d watched once with his mom. One bunch of gangsters had tricked another, and in such a way that the audience was also fooled until the very end. Well, Mrs. Sharpe probably never watched movies and didn’t know what she was saying. Maybe she was thinking of bees. Hyde Park was full of them in the summer. Chaos would certainly distract you if you got a nasty sting.

  He then realized that Zoomy’s notebook had slipped out of sight in the excitement and that he was chin-tapping again. Tommy leaned toward the smaller boy, retrieved the notebook, and said, “I just made a horrible mess with my lemonade. And we all got clumsy and smashed into each other.”

  Zoomy nodded and said, “Sometimes I get jittery-splat when I’m nervous.” He paused to write for a moment in his notebook before adding, “And I’m great at falling down.”

  Jittery-splat? Tommy wondered. He glanced at Zoomy’s notebook and saw that he’d written, ~big farming theft.

  It was then that Ms. Hussey took Mrs. Sharpe upstairs to rest. She returned moments later.

  “Exciting, huh?” She looked around at the kids. “Think you can tackle this?”

  Four of the five glanced at one another. Zoomy held his notebook with both hands and looked straight ahead. Early said quietly, “Is this for real? Does she really want our help?”

  “Absolutely,” Ms. Hussey said. “She realizes that kids your age can be problem solvers who are far more observant — and less likely to be watched — than the adults around them. Plus, as every kid knows, you guys are often misjudged or underestimated. This can be an advantage. Sometimes it’s best to be overlooked, you know? Not only does she want your help, I believe she’s counting on you.”

  “I’m in,” Petra said. The others nodded while Zoomy raised his notebook and tapped himself lightly on the head with it.

  “Bonk,” Tommy whispered, and Zoomy grinned.

  Ms. Hussey stood quietly in front of the group, tightened her ponytail, and lowered her voice to its listen-carefully-or-you’ll-miss-it level.

  “This is truly a compliment, Mrs. Sharpe wanting you five to work with her on this robbery. This matters more to her than I can tell you.

  “Zoomy and Early, you may not know this, but Mrs. Sharpe’s husband was a Vermeer scholar, and he was murdered many years ago. In Amsterdam. Shot in the back on the steps of a big museum. He’d told her the morning before his return flight that he’d uncovered something huge, but that he couldn’t yet share it. And then, poof! Tragically, he was gone.

  “Mrs. Sharpe has tried unsuccessfully to solve that crime. The police wrote it off as a random act of street violence. She never believed that, having heard the edge of excitement and nervousness in her husband’s voice. Obviously he hadn’t felt it was safe to share this news over the telephone.

  “Mrs. Sharpe has replayed this moment a million times in her mind, and devoted much of the rest of her life to trying to retrace his last steps and uncover whatever her husband had found. This has meant learning a great deal about Vermeer’s work and following the controversies that s
urround it. Perhaps he discovered new information on the artist’s life, or a lead on a long-lost painting — she made it her business to learn so much about Vermeer’s work that she’s even become known in the US as something of an unofficial Vermeer expert. I know she thinks that she could have done more when her husband hinted that he’d made a discovery; that she could, somehow, have pressed him to share his secret and in doing so saved his life.

  “In the thirteen years since her husband was murdered, Vermeer’s mysterious legacy has remained her primary focus. She and Leland always adored The Concert, an absolute gem painted at the height of Vermeer’s powers, and felt more than lucky to be living near it. As a trustee of the Farmer Museum, Mrs. Sharpe told me that she’s stopped after each and every board meeting to visit the painting before heading home: for herself, for her husband, for their mutual love of that great work of art. And now this! It’s the heartbreak of a lifetime.

  “Here,” Ms. Hussey said, tapping her computer screen and passing the painting around again. “Somehow, Vermeer is always with you once you know his work.”

  The five kids leaned in, studying the painting. Two women, one playing the harpsichord and the other singing, flanked a man who sat with his back to the viewer. The women were serene and absorbed in the moment, their pearls and hair ribbons shining in the light, their outfits an elegant mix of yellow, pebble-gray, and cream. The man between them looked oddly out of place and somehow disturbing. Was it his powerful shoulders or the red, flag-like square on the back of his chair? The image was awash in peace and the flow of music, despite the figure without a face — as if Vermeer had wanted to challenge the viewer and say, “All is right with the world here … or isn’t it?”

  Petra sat back. “Funny, the picture pulls you in, but it also makes you hesitate, like you might not be welcome. And it makes me miss the lady in A Lady Writing. In fact, I think it’s her playing the harpsichord, don’t you, Calder?”