Pieces and Players

by Blue Balliett

  “No company name on anything, at least not yet,” Tommy said. “But look — you can see rectangles pressed into the paper where it was folded. Like the shape of a picture frame, you know?”

  Zoomy suddenly leaned close, his nose right on the pile. “Smell this,” he ordered Tommy. “I recognize it.”

  Tommy did, then rocked back on his heels. “Whoa,” he said slowly. “It’s Mrs. Sharpe!”

  * * *

  After carefully refolding the paper into a neat bundle, the boys called the other three, who were excited to hear they had news.

  “We’ll tell all tonight,” Tommy promised Calder, Early, and Petra, enjoying his power.

  By the time the five kids met at Zoomy’s place at a quarter to seven, everyone was more than happy to be back together as a team.

  “Okay you guys, let’s have it,” Calder said, a little insulted that the other boys had gotten together without him.

  Zoomy explained that they’d taken a walk and just kind of stumbled on the paper used to wrap whatever the girls had seen in the Cracken house the day before.

  “But you were the one to hear this clue and then smell it!” Tommy added. “I just grabbed it.”

  “My grandpa would call that a one-two,” Zoomy said.

  “Maybe the perfume smell is something lots of rich old ladies use,” Petra said. “Like, it could be Winnifred Whacker’s perfume.”

  “So, I guess this discovery means that whatever was wrapped in the paper is inside that house,” Calder said in a flat tone. “And that some rich lady was nearby.”

  “But how does perfume get onto paper like that, unless some lady was carrying the packages pressed against her — ah, upper body?” Tommy asked.

  The five were silent for a moment, each trying to picture either Mrs. Sharpe or one of the other old ladies juggling a load of heavy art, their jewelry flashing and jingling.

  “However it got that smell, the paper could be a message that the art is inside the Cracken house, like Calder said and like Petra and I suspected,” Early mused. “Or it could already have been transferred to another place! Sometimes thieves move valuables by hiding them in one type of thing after another. And think of all those empty storage boxes in Mrs. Sharpe’s basement.”

  Petra didn’t want to think about that. What if the Vermeer they’d seen at Mrs. Sharpe’s really was The Concert? What if the old lady wanted the kids to see that and turn her in? What if she was at the mercy of Eagle — and so was Ms. Hussey? Petra’s mind was racing.

  Or, what if the perfume on the paper meant their elderly friend had been involved in stealing and handling a whole bunch of the paintings, cane and all? What if the kids had blown a great opportunity when they’d been alone in the house — blown it by spilling sardines all over and crawling through the basement with pails on their heads?

  “I stashed it in a closet at my place,” Tommy said. Petra, for a startled moment, thought he meant the Vermeer. “Frightened Goldman with all the scrunching.”

  “Let’s keep the paper caper to ourselves tonight, seeing as Eagle is Mrs. Sharpe’s son and all,” Zoomy said. He pulled a Baggie with five squashed dilly beans from his pocket and they each had one, talking busily every step of the way to Mrs. Sharpe’s. It was only as they reached the alley behind her house that the cheerful tone changed.

  “I’m nervous,” Zoomy announced, licking his fingers.

  “So am I,” Early said.

  “Me, too,” Calder admitted.

  “It’ll be okay,” Tommy chimed in, even though he, too, had worries.

  “Sure hope so,” Petra murmured.

  When Eagle’s van rolled quietly around the corner, the five climbed in and were greeted by a warm waft of pizza. The kids relaxed, at least a bit; it was hard to feel jittery when things smelled so good, and the scent of pizza was a thousand times better than any perfume.

  Eagle explained the plan. “First, we drive over and park a block from the Farmer. Next: a car picnic with pizza and Coke. After all, this was supposed to be dinner at Mrs. Sharpe’s, right? Investigating on an empty stomach is never a good idea.”

  “Thanks for getting the supplies,” Petra said. “Ms. Hussey says that, too. Does she know we’re here?”

  Eagle squinted through the windshield, his attention on the road.

  “Nice of you to feed us,” added Tommy. How bad could the guy be?

  “I smell pepperoni,” said Calder.

  “Hodilly-hum,” Zoomy muttered.

  “Mm-hmm,” Eagle said evenly, and Petra decided not to ask again.

  When the van was parked around the corner from the museum, Eagle turned in his seat. “Okay, let’s eat. Napkins are with the drinks.”

  He’s eating, too, Tommy thought. So the food can’t be poisoned.

  “I have a question for you,” Petra said. “Each of us had a dream the other night, about one of the stolen works of art. We wanted that to happen — I mean, we were thinking about the art really hard, but then it was kind of like one painting picked each of us. If you picked one of the thirteen stolen pieces to dream about, or rather if it picked you, which one would it be?”

  The chewing and burping stopped. Would he tell?

  Eagle turned away from the kids and looked out a window into the dark sky. “Easy,” he said. “There’s one piece I think of all the time.”

  “The Vermeer?” Petra asked.

  Eagle shook his head.

  “The eagle?” Zoomy guessed.

  “Nooo.” Eagle laughed.

  “Please tell us,” Early asked.

  Her tone is the kind that gets people to spill secrets, Tommy thought to himself. How does she do that?

  “The Rembrandt self-portrait,” Eagle confided. “His face is gentle but filled with solutions, and, well — if I’d had a father as a kid, I would have wanted him to look like that. Like he wasn’t shocked by anything and was there for me all the time.”

  “Your hat!” Petra crowed. “Now I know why it looked familiar. It’s just like Rembrandt’s!” So maybe that was who had been dreaming about that face!

  Feeling shaken but somehow relieved that it was Eagle — and after all, how bad could any art-dreamer be? — she wondered, But what does this mean? I wish I could tell the others.

  Eagle ducked his head. “Got me,” he said. “Silly, huh? But if you grow up in an orphanage, you make your own family out of what life offers, and I’ve always been so attached to that image. Somehow, Rembrandt’s face feels familiar to me.”

  “Mrs. Farmer liked kids,” Tommy said.

  “Likes,” Zoomy corrected.

  “Which brings us to what we’re trying to do here,” Eagle said. “I know my mother — Mrs. Sharpe — feels there’s an advantage you guys may have with Sarah Chase Farmer. That is, her spirit may allow you to get closer to the people in her art than any adults.”

  “I kind of felt the Vermeer pulling me in,” Petra confessed. Even now, she was feeling the pull.

  “Exactly,” Eagle said. “As long as it doesn’t pull you into a place with a farmer’s wife who cuts off the tails of blind mice,” he added with a grin that chilled the recent coziness in the car.

  Seeing the kids’ expressions, Eagle said quickly, “Just kidding, bad habit, and nothing to do with you, Zoomy. Guess I’m ruffling feathers to be sure everyone’s alert. It’s the hunter in me, or perhaps the bird of prey — I never can resist the comfort of a scare.

  “Now, are you guys ready? I’ve timed this so that the hourly guard rotation around the outside of the building will allow us access to the basement, and then, once inside … well, we’ll see how it goes. The two guards in the security room take turns walking through the building several times a night. I’ve disabled the camera that covers the area we’ll be in, but they’re used to those old cameras not working perfectly so no one will think it’s unusual to see a blank lens. I hear a new security system is being installed next week, so we’re just in time.

  “First, we clip ourselves t
ogether so we can’t be separated. Second — not a word once we’re underway, not until we’re inside.”

  Eagle passed out heavy spring clips, each fastened to a length of thin rope. Then he fastened his sleeve to Tommy’s, Tommy clipped himself to Zoomy, then Zoomy to Early. Next came Petra, and finally Calder. “You okay at the end, buddy?” Eagle asked, and Calder nodded. Circling the group, Eagle tested the knots and clips, pulling lightly on each one. Next he opened the trunk of the car, pulled out a backpack, and slipped it over his free shoulder.

  Calder found himself thinking that this was oddly perfect, as they were all linked to the art they’d dreamed about, and now they were truly linked — to each other. Maybe this meant the art would be easier to find, with this double click. Maybe it also meant the five of them would always stay friends.

  “I wish the moon weren’t quite so bright,” Eagle muttered. “We could use a few clouds.”

  “I live with the deeps whether it’s night or day, so this is normal for me,” Zoomy announced. “And my hearing’s excellent, so I’ll be the first to know if someone’s coming, like a farmer’s wife.”

  “You’re quite the kid,” Eagle said. “Sorry about that joke.”

  As they crossed the deserted street and crawled under a fence, Tommy glanced up at the moon.

  I wish I were up there — it looks so safe, he found himself thinking.

  Next he wished he were on Calder’s Rembrandt boat, in the terrible storm — anyplace but here, tied to a man who was taking them into a building with a ghost.

  Early tried not to think about how worried her parents would be if they knew what she was doing. They had a healthy respect for how dangerous it was to get too near stolen goods, especially if you had no idea where they were hidden.

  Petra found herself silently reaching out to the woman at the harpsichord, thinking, Oh, please tell me! What did you mean, For art, this building — this comfort? Is it this building?

  And then there were Eagle’s careless words: the comfort of a scare. It was another echo, and this time a twisted one.

  The Concert isn’t silent, Petra thought suddenly. Speaking of echoes, it’s filled with music — singing, strings, old-fashioned woodwind instruments lying around and one in the hands of the man with his back turned. Is it about the art of music, or painting, or people?

  Comfort … Mrs. Farmer was all about comfort, comfort and secrets. Petra felt the forceful pull of the Vermeer again.

  They moved in a tight, careful group so that no one pulled anyone else. Crossing a huge lawn, the six ducked under towering bushes, shuffled along a bumpy brick path, and finally stood in a line facing the back wall of the Farmer. As Eagle had promised, there were no guards in sight. The building loomed, looking more like a shadowy castle than a modern-day museum.

  “I disabled one of the exterior alarms,” Eagle whispered. “Just the one covering the basement door. I’ll reactivate it when we go.”

  Glad to hear we’ll be leaving at some point, Tommy thought.

  “If someone else has set it again, which I very much doubt, we’ll run like crazy. And if we’re caught, tell the cops we were having a fun adventure. Got it?” Eagle was already pulling the key from his pocket. “Stole this from my mother, needless to say.” As he grinned, the moon caught his teeth, lending them a scary brightness.

  Who smiles about stealing from their mother? Tommy wondered.

  The five kids were now wishing they hadn’t come, but something about being fastened to each other kept the peace. Hearts pounded, sweat broke out, and Zoomy whispered, “Scaz,” just as the key clicked and the door swung open.

  As they stepped cautiously into the basement, Eagle pulled them forward and then eased the heavy metal door closed. He clicked a bolt above the lock.

  Locking us in, Tommy thought, fighting panic.

  “That for them or us?” he blurted.

  “Depends on who’s ‘them’ and who’s ‘us,’ ” Eagle said pleasantly. A single bulb lit the cavernous area, a light that seemed to create more shadow than clarity. Eyes became holes in faces, mowers and cleaning equipment looked like medieval torture devices, brooms and shovels became weapons. Tommy wished he hadn’t seen so many scary movies, the kind where people crept around in the dark and prisoners were chained to dripping walls. His mom loved that stuff.

  Reaching into the backpack, Eagle pulled out six very small flashlights and passed them around. Not even big enough to bop someone on the head and confuse him, Tommy thought, turning his over in his hand. And because we’re all clipped together, no one can run without everyone else. Clever.

  “These are pocket lights, really more to make you feel comfortable than anything else,” Eagle was saying. “They can’t be seen from the outside, which is why you have them. Now. No time to waste, and as soon as you step out of this basement, which is quite soundproof, there’ll be no communication except in whispers.

  “The best place for us all is the heart of the building, which I believe is in the center of the courtyard and of the mosaic, close to Medusa’s head. That isn’t really allowed these days, but I’m sure Mrs. Farmer won’t mind,” Eagle said.

  “How do you know?” Petra asked.

  Eagle paused. “Time spent here. Knowing her home and her art is knowing her, you know?”

  Petra nodded. Somehow, what he said felt true.

  “Plus, you’ll want to record what she says, and she’ll know you need some moonlight to do that. Here’s the plan: As soon as you five are settled cross-legged around Medusa, I’ll run upstairs in my socks in order to find Mrs. Farmer’s Ouija board. I put the new one in my backpack just in case, but I have a feeling she’d prefer to have us use her own.”

  “What’s a Ouija board?” Early asked. She could tell from the look on everyone else’s faces that she should already know the answer — but she didn’t.

  “Ouija boards were popular around the time Mrs. Farmer built the museum, and although she never wrote much about these experiences, feeling they were private, she used to invite select friends to come over and use her ‘talking board’ near the art. A small table would be set up in one of the rooms and guests came for tea and questions.

  “There was nothing spooky or devilish about the game in those days — it was thought of as a way to contact the spirit world. The Ouija board has a darker reputation now, but not so much then. We’re only going to use it to talk to her ghost.”

  Only! Tommy thought.

  Eagle continued, “When you saw Ms. Hussey downtown — yes, she told me — I was having a chat with the trustees. I needed to do that without her there.

  “I had to ask those old folks if any knew what had become of Sarah Chase Farmer’s much-loved Ouija board. Well, it worked: Hurley Stabbler, the oldest trustee, remembered seeing her pull it out of the bottom of a china cupboard up in her apartment. As a neighborhood boy, he’d been invited over for tea and a session with the art, something Mrs. Farmer loved to do with boys and girls from the area. He said he never forgot: The pointer jumped across the board and told them all sorts of things about a painting with a maze in it.”

  “Hey, I like that one!” Calder whispered.

  “Of course you do,” Eagle said smoothly. “And Mrs. Sharpe understood that I had you five in mind when I asked about the board, although I’m not sure any of the other trustees did. We both knew how important Mrs. Farmer felt children were, and how much she enjoyed having them in her museum. And we knew Ms. Hussey would probably not allow me to involve you.”

  Dear Ms. Hussey, Petra thought, blinking.

  “What if we hear one of the guards coming?” Zoomy asked.

  “Ah, good question,” Eagle said. “Duck and roll. You’ll have to pretend Medusa caught you. That courtyard has so many statues and plants, it should be easy to hide.”

  Passing piles of fold-up chairs and stacks of small tables, the group moved silently through the rest of the basement and up a steep flight of stairs. Eagle pushed open a heavy wooden door
and they stepped into a rush of sweet, damp smells — faintly fragrant and somehow delicious. Everyone’s shoulders relaxed.

  Standing at the edge of the courtyard in the dark, none of the kids even wanted to turn on a light. The moon shone down through the greenhouse roof, casting a complex net of shadows. Leaves and fronds stretched curious fingers toward the group, and a shimmer of lines crossed faces, confusing skin with stone.

  Zoomy took a step forward. “Nice deeps,” he whispered.

  Eagle led the way to Medusa and stopped. Unclipping himself from the group, he said quietly, “You guys settle in a circle, right here, and remember that Mrs. Farmer is surely pleased to have you in her home tonight. I’ll be right back.”

  Eagle put down the backpack, slipped his boots into it, and walked softly and quickly out of the courtyard and up the stairs, his silhouette fading into the darkness.

  The kids could hear the distant buzz of a radio coming from the security room at the end of a long hall beyond the courtyard.

  “Hinigere winige arinige,” Zoomy said.

  “Now I’m getting a glimpse of what it’s like to see like you,” Early murmured to him. “There’s a ton of deeps around here.”

  “Which can be a good thing,” Zoomy said comfortably.

  “Better scout where you’re each gonna hide if we hear a guard coming,” Calder whispered.

  Tommy pointed to a giant fern not far from where Zoomy was sitting. “Hey, man,” he whispered. “There’s your cover, a plant five steps to the left.”

  “Got it.” Zoomy nodded.

  A chill ran down Petra’s spine and she whispered, “I wish we were sitting against a wall instead of out in the open; I’d feel better.”

  “Just think about the art,” Tommy murmured, surprising himself. “It’s alone in here every night.” This wasn’t the kind of thought he usually had.

  They sat quietly, trying not to feel afraid now they knew for sure that Ms. Hussey wouldn’t have let them come and didn’t know they were here. No one spoke and the pocket flashlights stayed off. It’s as if someone’s listening and watching, Tommy thought. Someone who isn’t a guard and isn’t one of us.