Pieces and Players

by Blue Balliett

  Petra elbowed him. “You’re a freak, Tommy.” For all Mrs. Sharpe’s bark, Petra couldn’t imagine her hurting anyone.

  Early wasn’t so sure. She definitely sensed that being on Mrs. Sharpe’s bad side was a bad place to be. The old woman had been hunting her husband’s murderer for years now, and without much help from the police — someone like that had to be both tough and tricky.

  Calder stirred his pentominoes and now pulled another one from his pocket. “Perfect. M for money and F for fight. And Mr. Chase’s F.”

  “F for freak,” said Tommy, his words ending in a ghastly squeak.

  “Ferocious,” Early added.

  “And Mr. Chase is part of Mrs. Farmer’s family,” Petra mused. “He must feel extra bad. This little book, The Truth About My Art, is packed with ideas his great-aunt had about her art and her home. It sounds like she was an awesome person — I wish I’d met her! She’s like a much less spiky Mrs. Sharpe.”

  Tommy tried to imagine what a less treacherous Mrs. Sharpe would be like.

  He couldn’t picture it.

  “Listen to this.” Petra opened the book. “Here’s what Sarah Chase Farmer says about Vermeer’s The Concert.” She read the passage aloud:

  “Three faces, two of which are unselfconscious and absorbed, making music in the light. One is forever hidden, but clearly a part of the trio. Because his face is hidden, the viewer returns to thoughts of him again and again. Without a face to decode, the viewer feels a touch of anxiety. Perhaps that is part of Vermeer’s spell: He wants you to worry about what might be coming. He wants you to wonder, What if he turns?

  “It’s the story of life. We never see all that we know is there. Art keeps us wondering, and while we wonder, we’re not alone.”

  Early looked sad. “That’s haunting. I kind of know what that feels like,” she said. “What if he turns?” Instinctively she looked over at Jubie and the man. Neither of them turned.

  Calder thought of the thieves who’d stolen the paintings from the Farmer. They must have felt the same way about the sleeping guard. What if he turns?

  Tommy wondered if the man with his back turned had some reason he didn’t want to be seen. Maybe he had an adult-sized Krakatoa, and Vermeer didn’t want to paint it.

  Petra was still reading. “Whoa,” she said. “It sounds as if Mrs. Farmer knew what it was like to have hard times. Here in the introduction, written after her death in 1924, it says that she lost her only child when he was a baby and that her husband died suddenly in 1898, just as they were about to begin construction of the museum. She’d inherited a ton of money from her father, who was in the Chase meatpacking business. The museum was opened to the public in 1903, and Mrs. Farmer lived in an apartment on the top floor. The rest of her life was devoted to enjoying and sharing the treasures that made her happy, and to writing this book, which was published in 1930. I’ll bet she loved doing that.”

  Even as she said it, Petra wondered if this was too easy. Then she reminded herself that art had once made her feel happy and filled with dreams. Not much lately, but once — when she was younger. When she wasn’t thirteen.

  Shoving these thoughts away, she went on, “You guys — what Mrs. Farmer says could be giving us clues about where the art has gone. Especially if the person who planned the theft knows this little book. Like the trustees, right? I’ll come back here with my notebook.”

  Early saw signs of restlessness in Jubie and knew she’d have to leave. “Read us some more, Petra. Quick, before I have to take Mr. Pow-Gangstahs to the playground.”

  She’s one of us, Tommy thought happily.

  “Okay. How about this,” Petra said.

  “Welcome to my collection. I truly hope that it will give as much to you as it has given to me. While living with great art is one of the deepest privileges a person may have, I do believe that one only needs to meet and fall in love with a masterpiece in order to call it one’s own. In this way, what’s mine can become yours.

  “The people in my art are my friends and family. They speak, filling my life with their presence. I respond. I love to think that others may visit my home and do the same.

  “What you see will be different from what I see; a thousand people can love the same painting in a thousand ways. Such is the cycle of life, as art reaches out beyond the will of its maker or owners.

  “Great art will live, given a chance.”

  “Bit nutty-bananas,” Tommy commented.

  “Not if you’re truthful with yourself,” Petra snapped. “And not to someone who loves art and might feel a bit lonely. This is generous and honest. She’s a guide. Lots of us who look at art think about stuff like this, but who says it? And maybe by believing the art could talk back to her, that it was kind of alive, she made it happen. Maybe what she says in this book can change the people who read or hear it. Maybe there’s some magic here. Some power. Just like athletes before a big game psych themselves into winning, you know? They focus extra hard on what they want to see happen because they believe that’ll change what they can do. Why is that nuts?”

  Tommy gazed at the shelf behind Petra’s head, hoping one of the titles might help him. “It’s not — it’s the good kind of nuts. Like ours.” Calder elbowed him in the ribs and Tommy stared back furiously when he realized why. I hate hanging around with girls. Seems like everything gets twisted into something embarrassing.

  Early, happily, didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t think any of Mrs. Farmer’s ideas are wacky,” she said. “It’s the opposite — they’re more than right! But what I don’t understand is, who would steal from a museum like this? I know we said stuff about the trustees taking the art from each other, but the truth is that a theft like this would be done by someone pretty bad, right? I mean, who takes priceless art like this? Are we sure it’s safe for us five to be working on it?”

  “Mrs. Sharpe wouldn’t pull us into something really dangerous,” Petra said, although she didn’t look positive. She glanced around and then added, “I don’t think. And Ms. Hussey would know if it was something we shouldn’t be doing. I think.”

  Early rolled her eyes unhappily just as Jubie popped to his feet and trotted over. “All done, Early. No puppies got hurt.”

  When Early turned to thank the man who’d been reading to Jubie, she found he was already gone. Another man in a black leather jacket, someone younger and scruffier, was running his finger along the titles in a nearby aisle.

  “Hey, black jackets are big around here, aren’t they?” she half whispered to her new friends.

  Sliding the slender red volume back onto its shelf, Petra shrugged. “Haven’t noticed.”

  A shadow crossed Early’s face. As if reading her mind, Tommy said, “Make you think of blackbirds baked in a pie? Next thing we know, someone’s nose will get snapped off.”

  Calder elbowed Tommy, knocking him sideways. Jubie imitated the two big boys, staggering sideways into a shelf.

  “Yeah, snapped off!” Jubie shouted. “No nose!”

  Early bent down to pick up Jubie’s hat, then grabbed his hand. “See you,” she said — mostly to Petra, and a little to the boys. She was out of the store before they could say good-bye.

  “You scared her,” Calder said to Tommy.

  “I don’t think so,” Petra said. “It was like she saw something.”

  The three scanned the area Jubie and the man had been sitting in.

  “No one,” Calder said. They walked through the bookstore together, even ducking under water pipes in the basement to check out Mysteries and Science Fiction, but they couldn’t find even one black jacket.

  “Doesn’t mean they’re not here. This is an easy place to change directions and hide, there’re so many loops,” Tommy said, thinking of Goldman and his underwater palace.

  Before leaving, Petra muttered, “I wish I could take Mrs. Farmer’s book home, that it wasn’t so expensive. It’s twenty-five dollars. Wait, just a last look,” and stepped back to check the shelf.
r />   The others heard her gasp.

  The book was gone.

  “But if no one bought it, where did it go?” Petra’s voice was shrill in the quiet store.

  Mr. Watch, behind the front desk, scratched his head. “You sure that’s what you were looking at today? Someone asked for it earlier this week and I couldn’t locate it. Show me where you found it.”

  Petra stomped back to the shelf, Mr. Watch and the others following.

  “Could you have put it back in the wrong spot?” he asked.

  Petra’s face was thundery. “Not a chance.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll look around in my spare time today. Sometimes people duck in and out, spending a few minutes before they hop on the train downtown. They pull out a book, then jam it back in the wrong spot.”

  “It’s got a red spine,” Petra said. “We walked through the store before we left and didn’t see too many people …”

  “I know you, and you know I’ll check,” Mr. Watch said. He snapped his suspenders, as if that was that.

  Leaving the store a moment later, the kids spotted two young men in black leather jackets walking toward the playground.

  Without a word to one another, the three followed. Up close, the two looked more like uncomfortable college students than anything else. Early and Jubie were nowhere to be seen.

  “I have to be in charge at home this afternoon,” Petra said gloomily. “I’ll call Early and ask her if she wants to walk to the Farmer with me tomorrow morning. Buddy system, in case she’s feeling spooked.”

  “She’d probably like that.” Tommy paused for a beat then shrugged. “Sorry you have to go home. See you, Petra,” he said.

  As Calder and Tommy crossed the street, another black jacket ducked into the Medici Bakery. Just then, five crows swooped down on a nearby tree, chattering and cawing.

  “Maybe the crows are like the prime numbers,” Calder said. “Or us. Or the five black jackets. Part of a pattern.”

  “I dunno,” Tommy said. “They might just be birds who needed to stop and poop, and there might just happen to be a few people around here wearing some of the millions of worn-out black leather jackets in Chicago.”

  “You wouldn’t be sounding like such a grouch if the girls were still here,” Calder said.

  Tommy stopped dead and stared at his old friend.

  “I’ve never heard you talk this way, Calder Pillay! The girls! Yeah, we’re hanging out with girls who’re — you know — not just girls anymore.”

  Calder punched Tommy in the shoulder, and his buddy staggered happily.

  “Yeah, major detective work. I know what mystery you’re working on,” Tommy squawked. Neither was quite sure what that meant, but it sounded good.

  After several more swats at each other, they walked on, not noticing a curtain that moved in one of Mrs. Sharpe’s second-floor windows. It opened a crack as the boys passed on the other side of the street. If either had looked up, they would have seen that the fingers holding it were not those of an old lady.

  They were those of a young man.

  * * *

  Saturday morning was pearly, the air filled with the promise of spring. Sun warmed the two- and three-story roofs in Hyde Park, and now darted through windows and around stone balconies on the grander buildings in Kenwood. Like an unhappy gift, the Farmer Museum stood wrapped in yards and yards of crime tape, its gray-brown brick stark beneath the yellow ribbon.

  Zoomy and his grandma were the first to arrive. They sat in their truck, joining two police cruisers parked at either end of the block.

  Tommy was next. He waved to Zoomy, who didn’t react. Gam waved back.

  Oh, yeah, Tommy reminded himself. The kid can’t see more than a couple of feet.

  Tommy looked around and spotted Calder across the street, then, farther away, Petra and Early. Not wanting to look stupid, Tommy stepped closer to the truck and tapped on the passenger-side window. Zoomy jumped, then grinned. Tommy rested one arm on the passenger-side mirror, relaxed-man-style. It began to move.

  Bam! It ripped off the door and bounced into the gutter.

  Even worse: A bad word ripped out of Tommy’s mouth. Why hadn’t he said scaz?

  As he was picking up the mirror, Zoomy’s grandma rolled down the window and Tommy realized she might not have heard. “I’m so sorry!” he said.

  She shook her head. “Old truck, we’re good at fixing,” she replied.

  Early was next to him by then. “Hi, Tommy and Zoomy,” she said calmly. She had on a bright red jacket and somehow looked like an advertisement for clean everything.

  “Try duct tape,” Early said. “My dad says most of the world comes together with duct tape.”

  Zoomy and his grandma climbed down from the truck just as several limousines pulled up and car doors opened and shut on all sides. The sidewalk in front of the Farmer filled with unfamiliar faces. Fur collars, velvet, tweed jackets, walking sticks. In the midst stood Mrs. Sharpe, wearing a long red coat with sparkly buttons. Ms. Hussey, next to her, had her school backpack over one shoulder and looked very young and out of place.

  The group moved in a jingly, perfumed way toward the front door. No one but Ms. Hussey said hello to the five kids and older woman now standing by Zoomy’s truck. A policeman opened the door to the Farmer, and the group passed slowly between the two stone lions guarding the front, their canes tap-tapping on the brick walk. Ms. Hussey helped Mrs. Sharpe up three steps and into the gloom, then reached back to the trustees who followed, but no one else took her open hand or even thanked her.

  Rich people, Tommy thought to himself. Spoiled. He caught Ms. Hussey’s eyebrows going up as she closed her hand, said a word to the policeman, and headed across the street toward the kids. Walking quickly, she pulled a long thread off a frayed cuff on her winter jacket and shrugged, as if to say, Their loss.

  “So,” she said briskly, “this is it! I know everyone but Zoomy has been here before. The museum is officially closed and the guards on duty inside know you five are allowed to explore. The trustees are meeting in their room upstairs, on the fourth floor. Mrs. Sharpe will tell them something about you kids, and then hopefully you’ll be invited up at the end of our visit.”

  Calder, Petra, Tommy, and Early hadn’t visited the Farmer recently. It had only been open part of the week for years now, and those days were always crowded.

  The group stood for a moment, looking up. Oddly, this blocky, rectangular building seemed to look back down, as if excited about keeping so many secrets behind a plain exterior. The only decorative detail was a Y — or was it a wishbone? — that rose up the middle of the façade. Over the front door was an inscription: C’EST MON PLAISIR.

  Ms. Hussey followed Early’s eyes and translated the French: “It’s my pleasure. Lovely, huh? A message from Mrs. Farmer.”

  Once in the dark entrance hall, Petra hurried ahead past the security booth, which was packed with guards, and stepped into the courtyard. “Empty!” she breathed. “Heavenly, this is what it must have felt like to live here.”

  Anchored by a rectangular garden in the center, the space rose four stories to a delicate glass roof. Countless tall windows bracketed by balconies and decorative arches opened onto the courtyard, giving it an airy, summery feel. The walls were a creamy peach and it all looked old. Very old.

  Soon Ms. Hussey had her backpack open on a stone bench and was passing out clipboards. Each had a pencil attached, one piece of paper printed on both sides, and several blank sheets.

  “Think I’ll settle down here,” Gam said. “Got a sore foot from dropping a honey jar on it yesterday. I’ll be happy as a squirrel with an acorn.” She pulled the Three Oaks Gazette out of her purse. “You good, Zoomy?”

  He nodded. Ms. Hussey touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Zoomy, I know you’re a terrific detective with different eyesight. What’s your range?”

  “End of my arm,” Zoomy said. “After that, it’s all deeps. But if I look close, I can see all sorts of
things other people miss.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that about you,” Ms. Hussey said comfortably. “Would you like someone to be your partner in the museum here?”

  Zoomy nodded. “How about Tommy?”

  “Deal,” Tommy said right away. It didn’t seem hard. But what were deeps?

  “Calder,” Ms. Hussey said, “if you keep clicking your pencil like that, you won’t have any lead left to write with.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He plunged the hand with the pencil into his pocket and stirred his pentominoes, still wondering what the trustees were up to. Pulling out a U, he scratched his head vigorously with it.

  “Unhappy and unfriendly,” he mouthed. “Huh?” he squawked suddenly, slapping one hand on his neck. He poked Tommy with the U piece. “Cut it out!”

  Tommy was next to Zoomy. “What? I didn’t touch you!”

  “Your fingers are freezing and you poked my neck!”

  “Did not. You saw, Zoomy — I mean —”

  “Didn’t see but you didn’t move,” Zoomy said. “Hodilly-hum, she likes us.”

  “Who likes us?” Calder asked.

  Zoomy shrugged. “The lady.”

  Calder looked confused.

  Is he talking about Ms. Hussey? Tommy wasn’t sure — but he also wasn’t going to ask.

  Early and Petra headed quietly toward the edge of the courtyard.

  “Wait, you two, come back here!” Ms. Hussey called out. “A … um, friend of Mrs. Sharpe’s printed out this reference sheet for you guys yesterday. On one side, you’ll see thumbnail reproductions of the thirteen stolen pieces. Beneath that is a typed summary with titles, date, and medium — you know, oil painting or sketch, etc. On the other side is a list of the seven trustees, so that you have their full names. Then all of our full names.”

  “Why does it say Pieces on one side and Players on the other? Like it’s some kind of game?” Petra asked. “This is spooky.”

  “I don’t think it was meant that way,” Ms. Hussey said lightly. “This man’s name is Eagle Devlin. I met him yesterday at Mrs. Sharpe’s house. He runs an art storage business, and he’s organized.” The kids waited for her to say something more, but she didn’t. Gam’s newspaper rustled.