“She must be angry,” Zoomy blurted. “When bunnies get into our garden and eat the best seedlings, my grandpa says he’s mad as a broody chicken in a plundered henhouse.”
“But I’m sure if Mrs. Farmer knew you guys were working on this terrible theft in her henhouse, she’d be pleased,” Ms. Hussey said, glancing around at the kids, “Not broody.” Pulling her turtleneck high on her neck as they left the Dutch Room behind, she muttered, “Much colder in there.”
Calder, Petra, and Early peppered the guard with ghost questions as they moved down the hall toward the next gallery.
Early, turning her head for a last look at the empty frames, froze. Then she rubbed her eyes and hurried ahead, pushing her way into the middle of the group.
Score, Tommy thought, suddenly less worried about the unseen as Early squashed in between him and Petra.
Downstairs, Gam looked up from her paper and then out at the courtyard. “Mighty nice home here,” she murmured. “No wonder you gotta get them things back.”
A gentle breeze ruffled the ferns, and Gam sniffed appreciatively.
* * *
Each room on the second and third floors had its own color scheme. Some were persimmon, some golden, some a watery silver, or blue like the sky. Each had a massive fireplace that had been brought back from an ancient castle or palace in Europe, and on either side of the hearths there were almost always a couple of chairs set up for a knee-to-knee chat.
Zoomy noticed that these seats were extra small and low. “Look, it’s like they’re kid-sized! And check out all the carvings and cushions; each one is different from the others. Maybe she wanted kids to feel welcome and then come back. I wish I could try one out. But don’t worry — I won’t!”
“Good point, Zoomy,” Petra said. “In The Truth About My Art, it said Mrs. Farmer was heartbroken when her little son died, and she never got to be a mother to another child. Now I’m noticing that there’s a ton of mother-and-child paintings. Peaceful ones. It’s as if she wanted her little son to feel welcome in the house even if he was gone.”
“Ooh, that’s shivery,” Tommy muttered.
* * *
As one room followed another, Petra began to relax. Being in Sarah Chase Farmer’s home after finding the red book felt magical — as if part of their investigation was happening inside one of Mrs. Farmer’s parties. She had known how to mix coziness, elegance, and surprise. And she didn’t put labels next to the art, as in most museums. If you wanted to know about an object — like who’d made it and when — you had to look it up on the big information cards that stood in a rack in the center of each room. That took some doing, as a diagram of each wall had to be deciphered by number. Plus the rooms were dimly lit, making the writing on the cards hard to see.
“Hey, can you turn up these lights?” Tommy asked at one point, noticing Zoomy was doing his best to check out a hunting scene on a tapestry.
Mr. Steel shook his head. “When she started the museum, Mrs. Farmer had only candles in these wall sconces. Then electricity came in, and she wanted the lights to stay as close to candlelight as possible. You’re not even allowed to use the light on your cell phone. What you see is what you get.”
Mr. Steel cleared his throat and looked around. “I’m sure her intent was for people to visit many times, from season to season. What you see on a winter afternoon is completely different from what pops out on a summer morning or a spring evening. Of course, for years now the museum has only had limited hours, so it can’t work that way. Not easily. A pity.”
“It’s like Mrs. Farmer wanted you to see her things in a homey way,” Early said. “To enjoy them and not worry about whether something was especially valuable. Maybe she wanted you to let the art speak for itself.”
“Yeah, not think about how famous the artist was or stuff like that,” Calder added. “Just see what he or she made.”
“Exactly,” Ms. Hussey said. “It’s refreshing, don’t you think? Nothing is more important than anything else. Or at least, that used to be true, before the theft.”
“Seems like the thieves were a bit like Mrs. Farmer,” Petra said. “They chose some of this and some of that.”
“And some of it’s worth a fortune, and some not as much,” Early said. “It really is weird. Why wouldn’t a thief just go for the big-ticket items?”
Ms. Hussey was studying a painting of a woman playing a lute. “You’re right, Early,” she said. “It’s funny, isn’t it, that they didn’t take some of the other hugely valuable art instead. There’s Europa, over on that wall, which many believe is the finest Titian in the United States, or the Michelangelo pen and ink. Or a Raphael, a Botticelli, a Fra Angelico, a Bellini …”
Petra wandered over to look at Europa. Tommy joined her.
“Scaz, she needs a new nightgown,” he muttered as he witnessed the woman flying through the air on the back of a bull and losing most of her ripped clothing in the process.
“Guess nakedness was just part of life in those days,” Petra said.
Tommy nodded. He felt he’d seen enough bodies today to last for a while.
Mr. Steel was pointing to a corner. “The brass eagle came off a flagpole that stood here. Not valuable compared to some of the other treasures that were taken,” he mused. “Like you kids were saying, this is truly one of the oddest art heists in history. Maybe it was done by someone insane. Ouch!” He slapped his hand on the back of his neck. “I keep getting these freezing-cold sensations. Almost like a sting. Gotta see a doctor.”
“I wonder why they chose that eagle? And why the Ku, the wine cup?” Calder said. “It’s like they went from top to bottom in the museum, just grabbing whatever they felt like. But what art thief does that?”
“Yeah, it’s definitely odd,” Ms. Hussey said. “Most thefts are only one or two paintings or works of art, and the choices are predictable. This combination of famous art and everyday objects seems …”
“What?” Petra prompted.
“I was going to say ‘personal,’ ” Ms. Hussey finished.
* * *
“Oh, man!” Zoomy crowed. In another room, he’d found a long table covered with small boxes, some with fancy locks, inlaid shell, and chips of gems. “Danger boxes for priceless secrets! If I’d been the thief, no question I would’ve kept one of these. Ha-chooo!”
“Stop!” Tommy warned as Zoomy reached out to blot the sneeze.
Mr. Steel spun around and snapped, “No touching, young man!”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to get spit on it. Guess I snorted some old dust,” Zoomy explained, looking shaken.
“No harm done,” Ms. Hussey said, shooting a cool glance at Mr. Steel. “These kids know what’s what.”
“Do they,” he muttered. “Kids, yeah, always have to remind them to keep their mitts off the goods. Holy —” He grabbed his nose with one hand. “I could swear someone attacked me with ice tongs.”
Whoa, there’s that same silvery giggle, Tommy thought. The one I heard downstairs. Or did I? No one else seems startled. Maybe it’s just the trustees upstairs, and sound travels around here in funny currents.
“Zip, Zoomy,” he said, pulling his friend over to where Petra and Early were standing.
“Check out this leather book!” Petra exclaimed. “It’s about three feet long and wide! Biggest one I’ve ever seen — and it’s a notebook. Scaz, can you imagine having something so cool and huge to write in?”
“Awesome,” Zoomy agreed. “Like turning into one of the Borrowers.”
“And here’s something for Goldman,” Calder called out from across the room. He stood by an ancient stone bowl in front of one of the windows to the courtyard. Two stealthy cats, worn by decades of touching, crept up the sides. “He’d get a fresh-air workout plus a view in here. Round and round.”
Even from across the room, Tommy could see that Goldman would die of terror if he spent even five minutes in that bowl.
“That’s okay,” he called. “But check this out, Calder.”
> Soon Tommy and Calder stood side by side, facing the wall where the Degas sketches had hung. “That square of yellow crime tape makes the emptiness worse,” Tommy said.
“Yeah, like a puzzle frame with no pieces inside.” Calder scratched his head with the M pentomino.
Petra joined them, adding, “No pieces seems pretty sad. Do you think we used to be faster at figuring out stuff?”
Tommy told them about the lions that might be a clue about lying — or a Mrs. Sharpe piece of trickiness. Petra listened with a respect that made him blush happily.
“That’s awesome, Tommy,” she said. “Maybe the solution is all about double meanings. Like the thief picked items that are somehow a clue to her or his identity. That, or the theft is disguised to look like what it’s not.”
“A flip, like the M pentomino could also be a W,” Calder said. “Or the truth could look like a lie.”
“That all sounds smart,” Tommy said flatly. “But what the scaz are we talking about?”
“Something we don’t understand and can’t see,” Petra said glumly.
“But we’re thirteen now, and thirteen’s gotta be a key,” Calder said.
“A team of five thirteens,” corrected Zoomy from behind them.
Early had been studying a nearby oil portrait of Sarah Chase Farmer that was hung high on a wall; the woman was young and faced the viewer in a flowing white dress, arms raised as though she’d just flung open the doors to her balcony in order to welcome the world.
“It’s not just about meanings, you guys,” Early said suddenly. “It’s about what she saw and heard, which was a whole bunch of secrets! Secrets connected to the heist.”
“Nice,” Tommy said, sucking in his cheeks and offering a fist, which Early didn’t see. His hand slid back into his pocket.
Early’s tone drew Ms. Hussey and the others over.
Ms. Hussey sighed. “I love this portrait by Anders Zorn. It is horrifying to think that this painting of Mrs. Farmer witnessed the theft of those Degas pieces. When you think about how alive everything was to her, and —”
“Early’s right!” Petra interrupted. “Maybe the stolen art will speak to us like it spoke to Mrs. Farmer.”
“From wherever it is?” Zoomy asked.
“Why not?” Early threw out her arms, looking suddenly like the woman in the painting, minus the fancy dress.
Tommy couldn’t believe he’d ever thought Early was shy and Zoomy came from another planet.
“I guess you five will find out,” Ms. Hussey said, with a secretive gleam.
Her cell phone rang. “Yes, ten minutes,” she said. As she slipped the phone back in her pocket, she announced, “The trustees will see us. Think of any questions you may have for them about the theft or the collection. Anything you feel is relevant.”
Early whispered something to Petra, who nodded.
“Ms. Hussey, can we find the ladies’ room first?” Petra asked.
“Ah, let’s ask —”
Mr. Steel cleared his throat. “Sure thing. We’ll make an exception. Follow that corridor around the corner, then three or four steps down and take a right. You’ll see it before the small stairwell. Says ‘Staff Only’ on the door.”
Shoulder to shoulder, the girls hurried away. Ms. Hussey left the three boys to look around for a few minutes without any girls nearby. They headed toward a panel covered with soldiers in armor.
She walked over to one of the French doors that opened onto the courtyard, and gazed up at the apartment where Mrs. Farmer had lived.
Was that Mrs. Sharpe shaking her finger at another old lady? Seeing a number of faces in profile, Ms. Hussey could almost feel the fury in that room. Mrs. Sharpe had said to her once that the old are free, because they aren’t afraid to die.
Did being free mean you could do or say anything you felt like? What if you hurt the people around you?
And was a ghost free?
Ms. Hussey shuddered, and wondered for the first time if she’d been right in helping Mrs. Sharpe to gather the five kids and invite them to tackle this hideous crime. Speaking of double meanings, the younger woman realized recently that her old friend had hidden some big truths from her, truths that almost felt like lies.
What else did Mrs. Sharpe know? And what else was she hiding?
The stairs opposite the bathroom curved upward in a slow spiral marked by a delicate brass rail. As the girls paused by the first step, a roar of anger gusted down.
Bam! Bam! Something pounded the floor. “You are over the top, Hersh! How can you say such a thing?” An old voice, a woman’s, crackled and trembled with rage.
Now, a man, his voice hoarse and his words thick, hollered, “It’s not like we didn’t discuss it, Carolyn, and in front of William. No use pretending we didn’t talk about an occurrence!”
“Not an occurrence — you make it sound like indigestion or litigation. It’s more like an event. It’s a reason for the world to pay attention to our crisis and —”
The third voice, a woman’s, was cut across by a fourth, a man’s, and all were creaky but bright with fury. “Let’s face it. We’ve been idiotic, having taken so much time to discuss options. Like a bunch of children who all want their way. And once the discussion got out into the press, with all that embarrassing information about leaks and humidity and inadequate security, well — what did we expect? That all the art thieves in the world would stand back and wait for us to become impenetrable? We practically invited the heist.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Mrs. Sharpe’s voice. “Turning on each other will get us nowhere. Whatever mistakes have been made in the past, let’s do our best to move ahead. For William, if not for each other.
“He invited each of us, years ago, to sit on this board and contribute our individual experience, feeling the input each one of us brought to the table might be of value. But we sit in his family’s museum. It’s his, in a way, even though every group of trustees should provide balance to the director. And he tried so hard to tell me something. I’ve asked you all to think of the F followed by A. He trusted us, and now we need to trust him — he was desperate to communicate something. I’m sure it had to do with the heist, as he did nothing but talk about what it might mean last week, if you remember. Let’s use these brains of ours. Well?”
At that point, the voices all talked over one another in a gravelly garble, the sound of dry sticks being rubbed together. Petra and Early heard “favor,” “fate,” “faith,” “fault,” and “fake.” Next came “face” and “facility,” followed by “fatuous,” “false,” and “fair.”
Bam! Bam! A woman’s voice cut across this pileup of F-A words. “And we must include the thinking of others. The authorities are working on it, of course, but Louise knows some children who’ve come up with creative solutions that have actually solved major thefts in the past. You may have read about them in the news. They’re local, and her young friend Isabel Hussey taught some of them. Louise believes that children can contribute valuable insight to a crime of this sort. She’s invited the teacher and the five kids to meet us briefly this morning, for an information session.”
Next came the dry rumpa-rumph sound of Mrs. Sharpe clearing her voice for emphasis, the sound she used with the kids when she wanted them to listen but not respond. “Thank you, Winnifred. I’ve also included my son, Eagle Devlin, who has been away for a couple of years now. Perhaps some of you will remember him; he runs a fine arts storage and handling business in New York. He grew up in an orphanage in Chicago, and Leland and I adopted him at eighteen, after meeting him here, at the Farmer. He arrived late today for business reasons, but has probably joined the group downstairs by now. Shall we call them up?”
Petra and Early made whaa? faces at each other just as they heard the voices of the others coming closer. Mrs. Sharpe had a son? The girls ducked out of the stairwell and faced the galleries.
Around the corner came the guard, followed by Ms. Hussey and — “Huh?” Petra said
aloud.
Here was the man from Powell’s, the one who had been reading Mother Goose to Jubie. Ms. Hussey’s face was grim.
“We meet again. Just call me Eagle,” the man said to the girls with a twinkle.
Mr. Steel knocked loudly on the wall at the base of the stairs. “Hel-lo!” he called. “Coming up!”
As the silent group of seven followed Mr. Steel up the narrow staircase, Tommy had a flash of yikes, we’re meeting in her apartment, is that okay? Remembering the small chairs by the fireplaces, he relaxed. Mrs. Farmer likes kids. She’ll be on our side.
Moments later, they were seated in the boardroom, a bright space with a huge mahogany table and a dozen upholstered chairs. Oriental carpets, lacy curtains, and cut flowers made it look oddly like Mrs. Sharpe’s house. The six old people, now lined up on one side of the table, were resettling coats and scarves. The five kids and two adults squeezed in opposite the trustees after Eagle popped around a corner and returned with an extra chair.
He knows his way around her place, Tommy realized. Wait, why am I thinking about Mrs. Farmer like she’s here and knows what we’re up to? He sat up straighter in his chair, as if to make his thoughts line up with the real world.
Mrs. Sharpe made the introductions. The trustees barely smiled. It’s a wall of wrinkles and wispy hair, Tommy thought. Kind of like a zombie movie.
Petra had bravely put up her hand and now asked a question.
“Is there a museum copy of The Truth About Art I could borrow? Maybe Mrs. Farmer’s ideas can help, even though, you know, it’s from so long ago.”
“Published after her death, per her wishes.” Monument Cracken nodded and ran a bony hand along the silver head of his cane. “Not many copies around. You may borrow mine, if you handle it with utmost care.” Petra followed his eyes to her fingernails. Luckily they were short and clean. “Come to my house on Blackstone Avenue, tomorrow at 2:00 P.M.” His voice shook slightly as he spoke, as if someone were jiggling his chair.
What if she had something else to do? Tommy wondered. These people are used to giving orders.
Pieces and Players Page 7