Pieces and Players

by Blue Balliett

  “I went back to The Truth About My Art,” Petra told Tommy over the phone. “Listen to this:

  “Some of the pieces in this building symbolize, to me at least, Chicago and her history. I am thinking about events and a variety of moments, both good and bad. Call me a collector of postcards who does not pack bags or travel. Chicago is my voyage, and this home, my ship. This city has welcomed my family for generations, and this museum is my way of saying thank you.

  “Right or wrong, I see Chicago through the lens of my art collection, and vice versa.”

  Tommy sighed. “You think someone should try to match up the stolen items with Chicago history and culture, like one of those two-column work sheets where little kids draw a line between the things that match. Smart — if you believe it’ll help.”

  Petra grinned, not noticing his tone. “Thanks. And remember when Ms. Hussey asked the trustees if they believed the theft was personal? Maybe that’s what this is about: the Chicago connections!”

  “You know we promised the police to stop working on this heist,” Tommy said. “I feel better that we’re gonna have this tea later today and a chance to sort through what really happened with people who will get it, but … maybe this is where we give up trying to be such hotshot detectives, you know?”

  “Huh?” Petra asked. “You mean, abandon the art? You’re kidding!”

  “Easy for you to say, Miss Smarty-pants,” Tommy said meanly. “I feel like enough of an idiot as it is. Did you hear the police calling us Teen Nancy Drews? That was horrible!”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Petra asked. “Who cares? I’m telling the others!” she barked, and hung up before Tommy could say another word.

  Minutes later, Early said to Tommy, “What if we stop trying to guess who took it and try to figure out why those thirteen pieces. Like, how they fit with their home city? That kind of lets us off the hook on chasing criminals.”

  “I’m not psyched about it,” Tommy said. “And I don’t feel like looking up more stuff.”

  For the next half hour, Tommy’s phone was silent and he wondered what he’d done.

  Zoomy was the next to call. “Of course it’ll tell us something,” he said. “You don’t have to see to see that. And you can’t let the rest of us down. We need you.”

  “You do?” Tommy had said. None of the other four had put it that way.

  “Yeah, of course,” Zoomy replied. “What’s five minus one? Pathetic, that’s what! A fox with no tail!” This made Tommy smile.

  Calder was on next. “What if the art has been trying to show us all along? And then just when we collect some real clues, like we did last night, we turn our backs on it?” he asked. “I didn’t like being called a retro girl detective either, but what matters more: finishing what we started, or playing it safe by wimping out?” No one could see him fishing nervously for a pentomino as he spoke. “I don’t see how we can quit,” he added.

  “You wouldn’t quit with me?” Tommy asked.

  “It’s too late to quit,” Calder said. “You’d feel like a Nancy Drew who got bullied.”

  “Quit calling me a girl!”

  “You started it. Actually the cops did, but they didn’t really mean it. Plus, we both know that girls can sometimes be better at scoping out the big picture than boys. Like Petra with this Chicago link. I think it might uncover something.”

  “Okay, okay,” Tommy said. “I’m back.”

  * * *

  Only close friends could have managed the network of calls that followed. Early worked by cell phone with Petra, and Zoomy with Tommy, then they changed partners. Calder did online research — his home computer had the fastest service — and spoke to everyone. Mrs. Sharpe, amazingly, responded to a number of unexpected questions, most of which involved Sarah Chase Farmer’s life. Having been the closest of all the trustees to William Swift Chase, Mrs. Sharpe agreed that she was a valuable resource.

  “Call me a walking encyclopedia,” she sniffed cheerfully to Petra, after her third call. “A relic.”

  This time, Petra pulled together the notes. Her list, after a couple of hours, looked like this:

  — Vermeer’s The Concert: Bought by Sarah Farmer to symbolize the 1904 building of Orchestra Hall by Daniel Burnham. Chicago was famous for this state-of-the-art classical performance space.

  — Rembrandt’s Ship at Sea: Bought to commemorate the 1915 sinking of Chicago’s SS Eastland, a disaster in which 844 people died. One of the ten greatest shipping disasters in US history. Chicago was a place for water commerce.

  — Rembrandt’s A Lady and Gentleman: Bought shortly after Mrs. Farmer’s marriage, to commemorate the couple’s love of parties and dress balls.

  — Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait: Perhaps a signature nod — by the thief — to William Chase’s importance as Sarah Farmer’s relative. Mr. Chase was a ringer for Rembrandt.

  — Flinck Landscape: Memorializes Frederick Law Olmsted’s many Chicago parks and the Chicago Exposition of 1893.

  — Manet’s Chez Tortoni: A symbol of Chicago’s many early twentieth-century writers, like Upton Sinclair, L. Frank Baum, Sherwood Anderson, and Carl Sandburg.

  — Degas’s sketches of a walking procession, horse racing, musical instruments, dancing, and boat masts in a harbor: Early in the last century, Chicago had many racetracks. Add to that music, theater, dance, sailboats, and parks — all a part of Chicago’s landscape.

  — Bronze eagle: Sculptor Lorado Taft was famous at the time Mrs. Farmer was alive. He created the bronze Fountain of the Great Lakes sculpture, which sits outside the Art Institute, and Fountain of Time, a huge, hundred-person concrete sculpture at the end of the Midway, in Hyde Park. It’s still there, and his studio was not far away. He began something called the Eagle’s Nest Art Colony, a summer place that supported artists from the University of Chicago and the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

  — Ku: This drinking goblet could refer to the rough Prohibition days in Chicago, which of course happened mostly after Mrs. Farmer’s death, but played a big part in Chicago’s history. That would be a nod to Al Capone and the other gangsters.

  The kids had to agree that the thief or thieves had chosen pieces that weren’t simply valuable — they also sent a message that said, Chicago! Chicago! Only someone who knew the city and Sarah Chase Farmer’s ideas could have chosen the thirteen, which would make this a coded theft.

  And if this was right, the art was probably hidden someplace that was symbolically important.

  But why? Who would do such a thing? Someone who thought the art belonged to Chicago for all time?

  The reason wasn’t even partway clear. Why would anyone who cared about Mrs. Farmer’s art steal it, to begin with?

  * * *

  The mirrors in Hyde Park were busy that afternoon as the five kids washed, combed, tried on their nicest clothing, and made themselves as neat and clean as possible. Calder found some deodorant; Petra’s mom helped her with a little makeup and two new, sparkly hair clips; Gam found Zoomy an I Love Chicago kid-sized necktie in the local drugstore; and Early’s mom braided her hair with ribbons, making an elegant do. Tommy slicked back his hair, which made him feel — at least with the bathroom light off — as though he looked more than a little like Johnny Depp.

  Stepping into the stretch limousine, the kids were almost shy with each other and the adults. Gam had on her Sunday best — a green dress and white cardigan sweater — and Ms. Hussey wore a long purple skirt, a lavender top, and an array of tiny, multicolored pearls in her ears. Mrs. Sharpe wore a blue dress edged with sparkles and a shawl with swirls of peacock feathers.

  “Well, here we are,” Ms. Hussey said, looking around at the group. “You five have done some valuable thinking this spring break, and it’s too bad it had to end in the police station.”

  “We practically forced Eagle to bring us back to the Farmer,” Petra said. “Like we said that night, it was really our fault.”

  “Mmm,” Mrs. Sharpe said.
“You are a force to be reckoned with.”

  “Where’s Eagle today?” Calder asked.

  “Busy,” Mrs. Sharpe said in a voice that invited no further questions.

  “We talked to Mrs. Farmer that night,” Early said quietly.

  “So I heard, so I heard.” The old lady nodded.

  “And we think we now understand what the thirteen stolen items stand for, all key stuff about Chicago, but not why they were taken. I mean, who would want to hurt the Farmer or disturb the art if they understood what both meant to Sarah Chase Farmer?”

  “Who indeed?” Mrs. Sharpe murmured.

  Maybe the old lady did take it, Tommy thought to himself, remembering the familiar perfume in that packing paper. And made Eagle come visit and set up those art cases in the basement … But wait, the cases were empty.

  A similar ripple of ooh-maybe-but-guess-not expressions crossed the others’ faces.

  “Seriously, Mrs. Sharpe: Do you think someone will find the art one day? This is such a crazy theft!” Petra blurted. “It’s like the people who would know to take what was taken couldn’t have done it! Wouldn’t have done it.”

  Mrs. Sharpe blinked her eyes for a moment, one hand to her throat, and then sat straighter in her seat. “Hard to say what people will do. I’ve always loved this Henry James quote,” she said. “ ‘We work in the dark — we do what we can — we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion, and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.’ Henry James was a contemporary of Sarah Chase Farmer. I imagine they may have met.”

  “We worked in the dark,” Zoomy said mournfully.

  “And there was madness,” Tommy added. “Things got a bit weird.”

  “And method to your madness, I might add,” Mrs. Sharpe said brusquely. “But it’s critical to foresee consequence and keep an eye on where you’re headed. This afternoon, I’m taking you to the Blackstone Hotel, one of Chicago’s landmarks and certainly a spot Sarah Chase Farmer visited. Twelve United States presidents have stayed there, and all in the past century — it was built between 1908 and 1910, right around the time the Farmer Museum and the Robie House were built. It fell into disrepair in the 1990s, but is now fully renovated, I’m told, and back to some of its old grandeur.”

  “And I’ll bet tea, in this hotel, means china teacups and silver,” Ms. Hussey said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Always,” Calder murmured.

  The limousine stopped in front of the Blackstone, and a doorman rushed out to open the door. He helped the ladies first, and then nodded to each of the five kids as they scrambled out of the interior.

  “Your tea room?” Mrs. Sharpe asked after climbing the stairs.

  She always sounds like royalty, Tommy noted. It’s kind of embarrassing.

  “Oh,” the doorman said, “If you want coffee, there’s a small Starbucks downstairs, and then the Artist’s Cafe is just down the street. Our only restaurant now has a prizewinning Spanish menu. The chef is from Barcelona. Olives to die for, and all those little plates of whatchamacallits.”

  “What!” Mrs. Sharpe thumped her cane on the rug, which looked plushy but far from Victorian. “No tea? In one of Chicago’s most elegant historic hotels?”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Ms. Hussey placed her hand lightly on Mrs. Sharpe’s arm. “Let’s take them to the Artist’s Cafe! That’s a great building as well, and has a charm of its own.”

  Back they piled into the limousine, Mrs. Sharpe muttering, “Imagine offering us olives to die for! No taste, none at all!” and drove two blocks north on Michigan Avenue.

  The Artist’s Cafe was not exactly fancy but bright and clean. A huge array of pies and cakes lined the shelves behind the counter. Stepping inside, the kids smelled hot chocolate, cinnamon, vanilla, and butter.

  “Mmm,” Zoomy said. “This smells like birthdays.”

  “Best place we could have gone,” crowed Petra. “Yum!”

  “My dad took my brother and me here once for a treat, after going to the Harold Washington Library. It’s part of the Fine Arts” — Early broke off, her eyes widening — “Building,” she said slowly.

  “Finigininige inigarts,” Calder muttered, looking around at the other four.

  “Whatever language you’re speaking, it’s rude to do that in front of your hostess,” Mrs. Sharpe said icily as Ms. Hussey helped her out of her coat.

  “Right she is,” Ms. Hussey agreed.

  “Hodilly-hum,” Gam added.

  Mrs. Sharpe looked at the ceiling, as if wondering what form of word mangling would come next.

  What followed was a dream tea. The kids were told to order whatever they’d like, so the table was soon covered with tea, hot chocolate, cherry pie, German chocolate cake, berry crumble, apple strudel, warm pecan pie with vanilla ice cream, and a plate of assorted cookies for those who needed an extra bite.

  Even Mrs. Sharpe had a crumb on one cheek after they’d finished. It was more dessert than anyone there had tasted in many moons, if ever.

  “On reflection, this is a more appropriate spot for this gathering than the Blackstone Hotel,” Mrs. Sharpe said. “I’m very pleased that things worked out this way. Did you children know that the Fine Arts Building is the oldest studio arts building in the country? It was built in 1885, and by 1898 was filled with artists’ workspaces. It has been of continuous service to the arts ever since. It still has the original interior detail — brass and ironwork, old clocks, stone columns and floors, the manual elevators — and, at the top of the building, some marvelous Beaux Arts murals done by artists who worked here at the turn of the century. I believe Frank Lloyd Wright had a studio here at one time, and W. W. Denslow, the illustrator of L. Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz, worked here. It’s still used by architects, artists of all kinds, musicians, and those who practice repair and restoration of the finest woodwind instruments.”

  Mrs. Sharpe took a much-needed breath, then continued, “I’m sure that Sarah Chase Farmer was here at many a soiree, either listening to a recital or visiting an artist’s studio. Lorado Taft worked here for a while. And, if I remember correctly, there is an interior Venetian courtyard, one that Mrs. Farmer no doubt knew. It may even have influenced the design of her museum, which wasn’t complete until long after this one. Goodness, that’s a thought that never occurred to me before. Oddly appropriate, our being here. Shall we venture in?”

  “You bet,” Calder murmured, just as Early said, “Absolutely,” and Zoomy, looking straight ahead, whispered, “Think Mrs. Farmer will show?”

  Tommy smiled. “We’ll keep an eye out for her boot.”

  Early, standing next to Petra at the back of the group, said quietly, “First we get the Fine Arts message, and then we’re here. It’s another one of your echoes, or maybe a pull. Like a trail of crumbs.”

  “It would be difficult to leave a bigger trail than the one we left in the cafe,” Ms. Hussey said comfortably, only half listening to what Early had said.

  As if to check the trail, Ms. Hussey glanced back and saw a black jacket very similar to Eagle’s on someone chatting with the limousine chauffeur at the curb. She squinted, unable to see clearly through the double set of doors, then frowned.

  She’d noticed more black jackets around Hyde Park than usual, as the kids had. More crows, as well. She shrugged, reminding herself that it was all a sign of spring. Did crows turn up for murderous reasons when nesting season for the smaller birds began? Well, at least there hadn’t been any crows popping out of the pies today.

  Ms. Hussey smiled and shrugged, but a sharp sliver of doubt had lodged in her mind. She did a quick field-trip survey of the little group, counting to seven twice.

  The lobby was straight from another era, as Mrs. Sharpe had said it would be. Arched columns and old lamps, an expanse of polished stone on walls and underfoot, even an old post box; countless undisturbed details gleamed in a dim interior light.

  On the wall above the second set of front doors was a boldly l
ettered statement:

  ALL PASSES — ART ALONE ENDURES.

  “Where to, ma’am?” asked the one elevator operator in sight. He held back an intricate metal gate as Mrs. Sharpe stepped inside, obviously pleased that all was looking and sounding as it should.

  “The top,” Mrs. Sharpe replied. “Tenth floor. Everyone should start there.” The elevator wasn’t much more than a closet, and only five of them fit comfortably inside.

  “I’m the only operator at this time of day,” the man apologized. “Not like old times.”

  Ms. Hussey stayed downstairs with Petra and Tommy. “Meet you up there,” she called cheerfully.

  As the gate latched, they heard Mrs. Sharpe saying, “Cast bronze elevator doors on every floor, such style. They will surely outlive —” The door clicked shut, ending her sentence.

  “Ms. Hussey,” Petra said slowly to her old teacher. “Would you say it’s a good or bad sign if we keep noticing echoes? Things that are coincidences but not quite, because they feel less random — like, well, they’ve happened because of something else?”

  The young woman frowned, studying Petra’s face. “Good or bad? Well, I guess when I notice a human pattern it usually seems as though it’s connected to something I want to know.”

  Tommy, looking up at the statement ART ALONE ENDURES on the wall, suddenly felt as if someone had flashed a camera in his face. FIND ARTS FINE ARTS … FIND ARTS FINE ARTS 6 …

  “Scinigaz!” he shouted. As he turned happily first to Petra and then to Ms. Hussey, he opened his mouth to speak and then snapped it shut again.

  Someone had stepped through the front doors behind Ms. Hussey, and that person had the soft, wary tread of a large cat.

  Ms. Hussey jumped when she heard the words, “Well, if this isn’t a popular spot today!”

  “You stay right here,” she ordered Tommy and Petra. Grabbing Eagle’s arm, she turned him before he and the two kids had even said hello. The adults walked several steps away.

  Eagle glanced over Ms. Hussey’s shoulder at the kids and winked. Looking down at Ms. Hussey, he shrugged and spread his hands, as if to say, Not my fault.