Pieces and Players

by Blue Balliett

  “It’s been my compass,” Eagle said quietly, “and with Mrs. Farmer’s and the Sharpes’ help, I hope I’ve honored her wishes.”

  “Why do you think she said ‘hunt’?” Tommy asked. “Sounds kind of violent. Like my mom, she calls me a finder but not a hunter.”

  “Tommy!” Ms. Hussey said.

  Now it was Eagle who blinked. “Well, hunters and finders are two kinds of people. Speaking of hunting … Mrs. Sharpe is ready for you.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Sharpe sat up in front with Eagle on the trip downtown, leaving the five kids in back.

  “Scinigaz,” Tommy said. “What if some person is waiting for us to open that door and — I don’t know, shoot us with an arrow.”

  “We’ll have a witness, at least,” Petra said. “Mrs. Sharpe.”

  “And she has her lion’s head cane,” Tommy said, hoping the old lady would smile. She didn’t.

  Eagle looked at the kids in the mirror and said soberly,

  “Robbin-a-Bobbin

  Bent his bow,

  Shot at a pigeon,

  And killed a crow.”

  “Don’t be cruel,” Mrs. Sharpe said in a tone that ended conversation. The van rumbled north on Lake Shore Drive, the five kids glancing uncomfortably at each other.

  Is this just one of Eagle’s jokes or is someone about to be killed? If Mrs. Sharpe is on edge, shouldn’t they be? What if she knows more than she’d shared about all of this? Shouldn’t Ms. Hussey be more cautious? Questions darted through Tommy’s head.

  Petra, with a stab of foreboding, remembered what she and Early had overheard in the Farmer Museum on the day they’d met the trustees, the talk of an “event.”

  “This is an event to remember,” Petra blurted.

  Mrs. Sharpe smiled for the first time that day. “That it is, complete with a Carrier of the Key.”

  “What’re those guys up to?” Calder asked, his fingers missing his pentominoes dreadfully.

  The five kids and Mrs. Sharpe stood outside the front doors to the Fine Arts Building and watched a group of students in black jackets hurry out to a beat-up van with a load of crate-like cardboard boxes.

  “Doing what students do, no doubt,” Mrs. Sharpe said drily. “Moving art around.”

  All six squashed into the tiny elevator for the ride up to the sixth floor. Eagle waited outside in the van, having given his cell phone number to the kids.

  As the operator opened the elevator gate, his passengers peered anxiously around him. A young man in a black jacket had just locked the door to 619 and was slipping a key into his pocket.

  Five mouths dropped open in horror.

  The sixth, however, barked out an order, thumping the floor for emphasis. “Young man! Not another step! In the name of William Chase, I command you to wait right there!”

  The young man did. “Can I help you?” he asked in a strangled squeak when the group arrived at the door. One eye twitched and he had the worst acne Tommy had ever seen up close. My occasional Krakatoa is nothing compared to the Alps here, he thought with a flood of sympathy. Things could be worse.

  Mrs. Sharpe said nothing, but produced her key and fit it easily into the lock. Now it was the young man’s turn to gape.

  He stepped back as the door swung open and the kids crowded into the studio. Mrs. Sharpe blocked his retreat with her cane, waving him inside ahead of her. The space was empty with the exception of a desk and chair, a garbage can filled with food wrappers, and a scrap of heavy cardboard.

  Shoulders slumped; a fog of disappointment filled the room.

  “We need to talk,” Mrs. Sharpe said in her iciest voice. She sank down on the chair. “Now, shut the door,” she ordered the young man. He stepped over and placed one hand on the knob, his head down, then flew like lightning around the side of the door and back out into the hallway.

  The five kids dashed after him, but he was already pounding down the stairs.

  “Quick, call Eagle,” Mrs. Sharpe ordered. Petra got through first, and handed the phone to the old woman.

  * * *

  By the time they’d crowded out of the elevator on the first floor, Eagle had the young man pinned outside against the corner of the building.

  “Believe me, I didn’t want any of the money!” he pleaded. “I just did it to help the others. It went on for so long — I was one of the recruits. Relief duty. People had to sleep, you know? And we’re supposed to be in school, not watching art, for crimminy’s sake!”

  Mrs. Sharpe looked at the student as if he were a centipede. “And where is the art?” she asked. “Tell me now or we will turn you over to the police.”

  To everyone’s horror, a tear rolled down the student’s face. “The art was the happening itself — taking it out that night, moving the crates, keeping watch down here, and then returning it when we got the word. But of course he died …” Another tear rolled.

  Mrs. Sharpe fished a tissue out of her handbag and handed it over. “Pull yourself together — we’re not going to hurt you.” Her voice had thawed. “Let’s try again. Where, my boy, is the art?”

  “One of us heard a sound outside the door yesterday and realized someone was planning to break in. We couldn’t decide what to do; we were afraid we’d be blamed for the theft and no one would believe how this happened, so —”

  “Yes? So? Get to the point.”

  The young man looked around for help, found himself alone, then sighed. “We’re just students at the School of the Art Institute. Honest! He offered lots of money to carry out his orders and remain silent until he gave the word, and then we were supposed to share the disappearance and reappearance of this great art as an ‘event,’ an art happening. It seemed like an adventure and a win-win situation. I mean, how many students get to carry out a heist that stuns the world, and then bask in publicity and a generous check when it’s all over? It was a staged piece of performance art that he said would safely but effectively highlight ongoing struggles within the art world. A scare that was drama, not reality: Lovers of art all over the world could learn from and enjoy it. He also thought the trustees would realize the value of what they had if it was gone for a little while. But now …”

  Mrs. Sharpe’s face was grim. “Would that ‘he’ be William Swift Chase?”

  The young man nodded. “Nice old man. And we’ve all been hanging around in the neighborhood since he died, keeping his secret and watching to see where or how we could safely dump the art, as we weren’t sure anyone would believe we hadn’t really stolen it! There’re so many police around the Farmer Museum now, it didn’t seem possible to leave it and run. We even watched some of the trustees’ houses nearby and thought about unloading it in one of the yards, but that felt much too risky. We saw you kids going inside with the trustees a few days ago, and so we kept an eye on all of you. We followed you down to Millennium Park one day, and watched you around the Bean. Fastening the boxes high inside the sculpture in the middle of the night seemed like a cool idea, but we couldn’t find the right brackets or mirrored coating for the cardboard. Whoa, would that have made a terrific TV opportunity, if the art could’ve been ‘found’ there …”

  “Give it to us,” Calder said suddenly. “We have a van.”

  Everyone looked at him.

  “Thank you, we most certainly do.” Mrs. Sharpe shot Calder an admiring glance.

  “And you won’t tell?” the young man asked. “There were originally only five students involved, but then, what with all the watching and following, they had to reach out to friends and there’re probably two dozen of us Black Jackets now.”

  “I am a trustee. No questions will be asked,” Mrs. Sharpe assured him.

  “Dirk!” the student said into his cell phone. “I’m with one of the Farmer trustees. She says she’ll take the art, no questions asked. Where are you? Already? No one saw you guys?”

  The student shrugged apologetically. “Mission accomplished. The boxes were delivered minutes ago to a graveyard in W
oodlawn, on the South Side. Oak Woods Cemetery. That’s where generations of the Chase family are buried. They’re stacked — I mean, the containers — in the huge family tomb, which looks like an open Grecian temple with low walls and columns. Sarah Chase Farmer is there, and that’s where William Chase will go. It seemed logical.”

  “And what if someone from the cemetery grounds department saw your van and is over there busily throwing away the crates this very moment?” Eagle asked. “That’s one of their biggest and fanciest monuments, and that section is always neatly kept.”

  Mrs. Sharpe waved her cane toward Eagle’s van. “Not a moment. Hurry!” she barked. With Petra on one side and Calder on the other, they hustled her into the front and leaped in the back with the other three, still fastening seat belts as Eagle roared out of his parking spot. As the van zoomed away, the student leaned weakly against the side of the Fine Arts, as if he’d just been released from a den of lions.

  “One of you children,” Mrs. Sharpe ordered, “call Oak Woods right now, and try to get a living person.”

  “Right, not one of the dead,” Zoomy added in a hodilly-hum tone.

  “Actually, I meant not an answering machine.”

  Tommy tried over and over, as did Petra, but no one picked up. The van careened south on Lake Shore Drive.

  “I knew it!” murmured Early. “We were being watched.”

  “By four-and-twenty blackbirds,” Petra added.

  “After one of them sang!” Calder’s voice cracked hideously on the last word.

  “And now we get to clobber the pie,” Zoomy said happily.

  “Hopefully,” Tommy bleated.

  It was Early who suggested they call Ms. Hussey and send her over there, but then they realized that she didn’t have a car to use and by the time she’d called a cab, they’d be at the graveyard.

  “Don’t call her,” ordered Mrs. Sharpe. “She’d probably try running, and it’s several miles and those streets can be deserted at the best of times. We’ll be home soon.”

  “Yup, too far on foot,” Eagle agreed.

  An odd peace settled on the van, as each kid sent thoughts of hope and protection toward the art. Early sat with the Lady and Gentleman in Black, keeping them company as they waited; Calder sent rescue vibes to the men caught in The Storm on the Sea of Galilee; Tommy felt as though he was trotting purposefully along that inviting path in the Flinck landscape; Zoomy told the man writing to keep right on with what he was doing; Petra was back in the Vermeer, the pull toward the Xs so strong and clear that she called out, “Mrs. Sharpe!”

  “Yes?” The old lady responded.

  “Why did you say that to me in the dream? ‘For art, this building. This comfort.’ ”

  Mrs. Sharpe turned slowly around from the front seat.

  “Where did you hear that?” she asked softly. “I wrote a novel titled What If He Turns? It’s loosely based on The Concert. I pulled out my manuscript the other day, wondering if I should show it to someone — but I haven’t as yet. I wrote it in honor of my husband, really as a tribute to him. That was his favorite Vermeer. And in my story, the woman who is singing says those words in her song.”

  “Oh,” breathed Petra. “In my dream, the woman at the harpsichord turned her head and said those words to me, and somehow — well, I knew it was you, Mrs. Sharpe.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Sharpe said, echoing Petra.

  “Mrs. Farmer told us on the Ouija board that the people in her art were alive not alone, just like her,” Zoomy said. “I think she meant it.”

  “Marvelous,” Mrs. Sharpe said. “Alive not alone …”

  “Great,” Tommy muttered, thinking it wasn’t. Goldman would hate this, he thought to himself.

  Petra looked as though she were walking on air. “Maybe that’s why we got the same message, Mrs. Sharpe!”

  “It’s the madness of art,” the old lady murmured.

  The Chase tomb was located beneath a huge oak tree, in the fanciest part of the cemetery.

  Eagle careened around the corner of that section of the drive just in time to see a maintenance truck pulling up from the other side.

  “Whoa!” he shouted out the van window. “We’re here to pick up those boxes!”

  The groundskeeper crossed his arms, watching with surprise as Mrs. Sharpe, Eagle, and the five kids spilled out.

  Mrs. Sharpe peered into the tomb, looking with obvious distaste at the cardboard crates. “Hardly adequate packing and storage materials,” she sniffed. “William was carried away by his clever idea but didn’t handle things appropriately. How like him! Probably regretted it terribly, poor man,” she added.

  “And who are you?” The man stared at Mrs. Sharpe and Eagle. “We’re required to dispose of all packaged goods and trash left on this property. No pickups allowed.”

  “I am Louise Coffin Sharpe, a trustee of the Farmer Museum,” Mrs. Sharpe said, standing at her tallest, her cane snarling out in front. “And this, my man, is recently stolen art. We plan to take it and will.”

  “It is these five kids who are responsible for rescuing it,” Eagle added. “And not a moment too soon.”

  Responsible for rescuing. The words sounded beautiful. Calder, Petra, and Tommy realized with a shock of delight that they’d reached new heights as players; Zoomy was stunned to realize that these thirteen pieces of the world might have taught him to play the game like everyone else; and Early, flying, caught a glimmer of how she fit with all the pieces and players around her, including Mrs. Farmer — fit and belonged.

  “And who are you?” the man asked Eagle.

  “I’m — well, I’m William Swift Chase’s son.”

  “Well, that’s different,” the man said. “So sorry for your loss.” He nodded formally to Eagle.

  “Thank you,” Eagle said politely. “And now, if you don’t mind, we’ll load this up.”

  “Mighty odd spot to find the art.” The man shook his head and climbed back into his truck. “Thieves are crazy these days. Nothing’s sacred. Well, so long, we’ll be seeing you back here in a few days, at the burial.”

  As Eagle reached down to pick up the closest of the boxes, he jumped back. “Ouch! Yeow, something stung me!”

  Mrs. Sharpe laughed, a high-pitched creaking sound. “Oh, my,” she said. “Oh, my! Too early for bees. I’m sure it’s just a reminder of what’s what and who’s who. And as Mrs. Farmer put it, ‘We never see all that we know is there.’ ” Turning toward the tomb, the old woman said, “Thank you for all, my dear — for watching, helping, and intervening to the best of your abilities. They’re on their way back.”

  The five kids watched, their mouths open.

  Eagle touched the box lightly with a finger, braced for a second shock. There wasn’t one, and he loaded the pile of boxes with no problem. Soon a packed van headed slowly north to Mrs. Sharpe’s house, swerving gently to avoid all potholes. As it pulled up, Ms. Hussey burst out the front door.

  “This is the Welcome Home wagon.” Eagle smiled. Isabel Hussey peered into the back of the van and shrieked.

  * * *

  “Unload the art, Eagle. My decision. I take full responsibility,” Mrs. Sharpe said, leading the way into her house.

  “Scinigaz,” Tommy muttered.

  “Inigis shinige stinigeinigaliniging inigit?” Early whispered.

  “Really, children!” Mrs. Sharpe whirled around, looking suddenly years younger and happier. “You’ll have to do better than that variety of Igpay Atinlay!”

  “Guess Gam was right about raisins being grapes,” Zoomy said.

  Eagle and Ms. Hussey stood quietly by the van, as if not sure what to do.

  “Well? Think I’ve lost all remaining marbles?” Mrs. Sharpe said lightly to them. “I haven’t. But your idea of welcoming the art home is just right. The children have earned an unforgettable dinner party, and I, for one, would like to attend.”

  Eagle did as she said, carrying the boxes into the living room as Ms. Hussey stood guard, looking up
and down the street to be sure they weren’t being watched. Once they were all inside, she pulled the curtains and closed the blinds.

  Mrs. Sharpe sat happily in her corner of the red sofa, although this time she sat straight. “Now. Everyone but Eagle take a seat,” she ordered. “Here’s what will happen: Isabel dear, would you please call all the parents and explain the situation; we need to keep the children for a couple of hours. Children, you can talk amongst yourselves and decide what kind of feast we shall have. It should, however, be takeout from somewhere close by, in Hyde Park. Mind you, spare no expense. Italian would be fine, or French, Thai, Jamaican, or Middle Eastern, although I draw the line at ribs. My upholstery would never survive. Your choice in ordering, and I repeat: It is critical that everyone remain where they are. No moving around, with the exception of the … ah … powder room, of course.

  “Son. As a trained professional in the world of museum-level storage and as the only relative of Sarah Chase Farmer in this house, I’d like you to unpack her art.”

  Gasps filled the room. Eagle paused, his head on one side. “Let me get this straight: We all eat together, the living and — I was going to say the dead, but that isn’t right — and then we return these treasures to their home tonight, in my storage boxes from downstairs. No more cardboard.”

  “You could call our dinner group the living plus the alive-not-alones,” Early suggested.

  Tommy noticed at that moment that the sculpture of the naked man wasn’t in the living room in its usual spot. Good thing, he thought.

  “That would include all ghosts, the people in the art, whatever you want to call that crowd,” Calder agreed.

  “Right.” Mrs. Sharpe nodded. “It’s a plan.”

  “So?” Zoomy asked, swinging his legs. “Clobber away, Eagle! I want to meet everyone!”

  Ms. Hussey leaned toward her elderly friend and whispered in her ear.

  “Due to your range, young man, you’ll be allowed closer when the time comes,” Mrs. Sharpe announced to Zoomy. “But for obvious reasons, we must keep all spilling and chaos on this side of the room.”