Pieces and Players

by Blue Balliett

  As Eagle cut open the boxes with a razor blade, moving ever so slowly, the room was silent. Faces relaxed when he slid out the first of the framed works.

  “Amateurish job, but at least nothing touched the surface,” he said, holding one of Degas’s Jockey sketches up in the air. “Here’s to the Black Jackets!”

  “Hooray!” the room shouted.

  Minutes later, the thirteen pieces were lined up on a white sheet, across the room from where the three adults and five kids sat. The framed art was propped against chair legs so it could be seen; the small Ku and the brass eagle, his wings shining, bracketed the lineup. Mrs. Sharpe had asked Ms. Hussey to find as many candles as she could for the area they were planning to eat in. She ordered Eagle to turn off all the lights, with the exception of two bright reading lamps. These last shone directly at the art from some distance away, bathing it in a soft pool of light.

  Whether it was the flickering candles or the excitement of the moment, something very odd then occurred.

  As eight pairs of eyes studied the art, soaking in this extraordinary parade of color and detail, the people in the art began to move — just the gleam of a fingernail, a blink, or the twitch of a head. It was as if something unearthly, something at least as powerful as the moon, had pulled the everyday into an irresistible place, one in which every heart was welcome. What had been painted or drawn centuries earlier could now say, Yes, yes! to the present. And those sitting in a certain house in Chicago, each framed by their own lives, realized they would never again feel either alone or without the echoes and passions of those who had lived before them.

  The Yeses in the room bloomed in silence as everyone tried to absorb a mind-bending variety of thoughts.

  Zoomy, down on the carpet in front of Manet’s man, saw the writer’s ear move ever so slightly as his face relaxed. “I won’t tell your secret,” Zoomy whispered.

  Tommy saw the couple in the Flinck landscape turn toward each other. Light caught on a cheek, a nose, leaves shimmering at the top of the gnarled tree. And was that the burble of running water?

  Early caught the promise of a smile from the man who stood waiting. Next, the lady stretched her right hand in just the tiniest of movements. A spark flew outward from the ring on her first finger, as if to say, Yes! It will happen!

  Petra caught the light dancing in the harpsichord player’s earring and thought she heard the rustle of skirts. A fold in that long, cream-colored cascade of fabric deepened into a V, as if to say, Vermeer! He knows you are here, and all is well! There is no need for him to turn!

  Once again, Calder thought he heard the screaming, the snap of torn rigging, and the slap of the storm. And at that moment he knew the fear in the faces of these men would subside, and the break in the clouds overhead would open outward, spreading calm. As he looked at the one face that stared steadily back — the man in the foreground who many believed was Rembrandt himself — he caught the tiniest nod of thanks.

  “Henry James was right,” Mrs. Sharpe said suddenly. “You can live with doubt, but what’s seen or felt or heard is yours for life. No one can ever take that away.”

  * * *

  “Do you think the people in the art will miss each other?” Zoomy asked, helping himself to seconds of barbecued chicken pizza and Caesar salad.

  “You mean, after all these days of being stuck face to face in the dark?” Tommy asked. Scaz, did that sound bad. Embarrassed, he added, “I mean …”

  “We get it,” Petra said, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, I wonder what happens when no one is looking.”

  “If being rescued means they can finally relax, I think my lady would take off that stiff collar and rub her neck,” Early said. “And maybe she’s thinking about having a walk in that restful Flinck painting and getting together with friends.”

  “I like it.” Tommy nodded.

  “And everyone in the boat but Jesus and Rembrandt are stepping on each other and shouting, ‘Me first!’ about getting off that thing,” Calder said, his cheeks bulging with fettuccini Alfredo.

  Ms. Hussey passed him another napkin.

  “My Manet man is relieved he can stop writing and have a dilly bean,” Zoomy said. “Plus, he’s probably taken off that top hat and stepped on it. Must’ve been like wearing an upside-down cookie jar.”

  “Or a pail,” Petra said.

  Tommy nodded. “I think my Flinck man is smiling and he’s been dying to do that for centuries.”

  “Mine, the self-portrait, is shaving those cat whiskers from his face,” Eagle said, glancing at Ms. Hussey. “He’s been dying to do that, too.”

  “I don’t mind the whiskers,” Ms. Hussey said.

  “And in The Concert,” Petra mused, “while those two women are playing lovely music, the mystery man turns and invites the gentleman in Early’s painting to play ping-pong. Or maybe hit the basketball court — no one’s gotten any exercise for a long time. Meanwhile, all the ladies hang out and yuck it up.”

  The others laughed. “Yeah, and imagine the welcome-home celebration that will happen in the Farmer after they’re back on the walls!” Calder looked around. “I mean, the private party that no one living gets to see. Think of those people in the Dutch Room who were watching the theft from the walls when it happened.”

  “Now they can cheer and jump up and down,” Zoomy finished for him. “They’ll probably say stuff like, ‘Where the dingleberry have you been?’ ”

  “I think you guys have had enough Coke for one meal,” Ms. Hussey said.

  “Not me,” Eagle said, refilling his glass. “I can’t get enough fizz tonight.”

  Instead of looking irritated, Ms. Hussey grinned and he grinned back, as if all those bubbles were only the beginning.

  Saw that, Tommy thought to himself.

  Looking up, he caught Mrs. Sharpe’s eye. “Could be the dish and the spoon,” she murmured.

  Encouraged, Tommy blurted a question. “Mrs. Sharpe, do you think Mrs. Farmer heard you out there in the cemetery?”

  The room quieted down, excepting the rustle of Calder’s fingers in his empty pants pocket. Ms. Hussey had already promised him a box of small teak cubes that he could glue together into a special new set, and he couldn’t wait; thinking without pentominoes wasn’t easy.

  “Well …” Mrs. Sharpe looked thoughtful. “She’s buried there, of course. But you remember what she wrote in The Truth About My Art: Those paintings became her family, and family connections don’t exactly die. More accurately put, they change form.”

  “Oh.” Petra’s eyes widened. “Like Eagle finding out he’s a Chase, after a lifetime of feeling comfortable in the museum. It’s different but not.”

  Ms. Hussey glanced happily at Eagle, who smiled as if they were the only people in the room.

  Jeez, Tommy thought. Go easy, guys.

  “Mrs. Sharpe,” he went on, “are we all coming to William Chase’s funeral and burial service?”

  “I hope you will,” she said. “That cemetery is actually a lovely spot. It’s where my husband is buried and —” She paused and swallowed. “Our little son, who died shortly after birth. Plus thousands of soldiers from the Civil War, a number of Chicago mayors, and some senators, scholars, writers, social activists, and scientists, including Ida B. Wells and Enrico Fermi. Quite a crowd.”

  Ms. Hussey patted her arm. “And now your other son will be able to help you out a bit more. I understand he’s thinking of moving back to Chicago.”

  Mrs. Sharpe tried to hide a smile. “And it’s about time,” she said briskly, reaching over to pat Rat-a-tat, who rested his head on one of her shoes. He licked his lips and blinked pleasantly. Mrs. Sharpe quietly pushed a small piece of chicken off her plate and — snap! — Ratty caught it in midair.

  “Since you’ll probably want your own place and it might be an apartment, perhaps this ferocious gentleman can stay with me.”

  “Good thought,” Eagle said. “And speaking of good thoughts, I’ve been thinking ahead about how to ex
plain the reappearance of the art. As we know, the Art Institute blackbirds will be singing about their role in this — what should we call it? — ‘fabricated heist’ as soon as the news of the return is out. I think the trustees can explain William Chase’s basic idea, but it’s the recovery that everyone wants to hear about.”

  Mrs. Sharpe nodded. “And that’s when these five kids will explain their excellent work to the press. I have no illusions about the dreadful mess many of my peers are responsible for, a mess we brought on ourselves! If you children hadn’t badgered Eagle into taking you to the Farmer that night, you wouldn’t have received the messages that led you to recognize the importance of the Fine Arts Building. And if you hadn’t managed to finagle a room number and the giveaway name of Sally Stayz — and I’ll bet Sarah’s collection will stay in Chicago now, the donor money will pour in — I hate to think what might have happened. Those Art Institute students were a jittery wreck, and if they hadn’t dumped the crates in Oak Woods today, they might have done it tomorrow. Understandably, as their fears of being blamed for the heist were probably justified.”

  The old woman shuddered. “Let’s face it. Because of Mr. Chase’s risky behavior and subsequent untimely death, the art might well have ended up in the back of a garbage truck.”

  “Mrs. Sharpe, Early and I saw something odd at Mr. Cracken’s house,” Petra began. “A bunch of what looked like wrapped paintings, and some of the trustees were there. Then Tommy and Zoomy got hold of the packing paper when the butler was getting rid of it.”

  “Ah,” Mrs. Sharpe said. “That was an effort to raise money, amongst the trustees. Eagle provided wrapping materials for us all, and we each agreed to contribute whatever art we felt willing to part with, to raise money for the Farmer — and store it at Monument’s house.”

  “And the wrappings smelled like your perfume,” Zoomy said flatly.

  “Hmm,” Mrs. Sharpe said. “Well, I did hold the paper for my son while he unrolled and cut it in sections before the trustees arrived that day, and what with the sardine smell —” She sniffed. “I must say, I squirted quite a bit of my Chanel on the rug in here.”

  “Whew, good to know,” Calder said. “Not that we thought …”

  Mrs. Sharpe gave him a withering glance. “I may as well tell you that William’s sting stung me as well, and I’m glad. I’ve come to realize that he was right about keeping the art here in Chicago, in the home that Sarah Chase Farmer built for it. I will put my entire available estate toward helping. In hopes of inspiring the other trustees to do the same, I have suggested they each begin to raise money by selling some of their own collections.”

  A wave of ohs, ahs, and greats swept around the room, and Tommy suddenly understood why the statue of the naked man was missing.

  Eagle patted Mrs. Sharpe’s shoulder. “It was a winning idea, and I think it’ll start the process. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and Sally will stay!”

  He now turned toward the kids. “So. When we call the police shortly and announce the return of the art tonight, you five will need to come along. Sorry, another trip to the police station, but this time, they’ll be treating you like royalty.” He grinned. “Hanging on your every word.”

  The five sat quietly, but the two girls and three boys suddenly looked older, more collected, and as if they were preparing what to share, which they were.

  “Needless to say, you can choose your words,” Ms. Hussey chimed in. “And as you’re all discriminating thinkers, I don’t think that will be difficult. Not every dream, cold spot, or suspicion needs airing …”

  “Speaking of words, I have a question for you wordsmiths,” Mrs. Sharpe said. “I understand the principle behind the code you’ve been using, but what exactly is the meaning and derivation of scaz?”

  The kids told her, explaining carefully that it wasn’t really a bad word.

  “Feels good to say,” Zoomy added. “And no one gets their knickers in a twist.”

  Mrs. Sharpe paused for a moment, looking around at the candlelit faces in the group and then at the thirteen pieces of art that seemed to shine in their own light.

  Closing her eyes, she murmured happily, “Scazzz! What a sting!”

  Fresh, local ingredients are always good. All of the neighborhoods, buildings, institutions, and pieces of art in this mystery are real. Most can be found in Chicago. The Farmer Museum, however, wears a disguise. When writing about it, I imagined The Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum, in Boston, Massachusetts. The structure and art collection are just about identical; the thirteen stolen pieces are, sadly, the same. They can be seen on the FBI site, www.fbi.gov/about-us/investigate/vc_majorthefts/arttheft/isabella or on the Gardner Museum site, at www.gardnermuseum.org/resources/theft.

  The real crime occurred in the early hours of March 18, 1990; the art has now been missing for an astounding and tragic twenty-five years. My hope is that someone will read this book and lose their heart — perhaps all over again! — to the missing art. Who’s to say what magic or which dreams might help in recovering it?

  Sarah Chase Farmer and Isabella Stuart Gardner have much in common, but Mrs. Farmer’s book, The Truth About My Art, is her own. I have hijacked the marvelous 1894 Anders Zorn portrait, Isabella Stuart Gardner in Venice — it appears in Pieces and Players as a portrait of Sarah Chase Farmer in Chicago.

  Ulrich Boser’s excellent book, The Gardner Heist, provides a wealth of information about the unsolved Gardner Museum theft and the long, frustrating search for these missing treasures.

  There are elements of this story that might remind readers of the 1990s struggle surrounding the Barnes Foundation, in Philadelphia. The art world is never at a loss for drama and disagreement, which is part of its power and charm.

  The two volumes of Mother Goose rhymes that are referenced in this story are The Real Mother Goose (Scholastic, 1994) and The Annotated Mother Goose, William S. and Ceil Baring-Gould (Bramhall House, 1962).

  All characters in this story are fictitious; they do what they do, and I do my best to keep up.

  A set of pentominoes is a mathematical tool consisting of twelve pieces. Each piece is made up of five squares that share at least one side. Pentominoes are used by mathematicians around the world to explore ideas about geometry and numbers. The set looks like this:

  Pentomino pieces are named after letters in the alphabet, although they don’t all look exactly like their names. They appear as one of a number of game pieces in this story.

  My amazing editor and friend David Levithan is truly responsible for the existence of this book. He gave me the green light sign and a helpful nudge in the right direction at a number of confusing moments, and kept me company throughout the journey. David — thanks over and over for encouragement, advice, expertise and long-distance hugs. My friends at Scholastic are many, and I am grateful for all they do — Ellie Berger; Charisse Meloto; my wonderfully exacting production editor and copy editor, Starr Baer and Jody Revenson; my designer Elizabeth Parisi; and everyone on the Scholastic team who continues to work so hard to support my wild ideas and books.

  * * *

  Doe Coover, whizz-bang agent and friend, was enthusiastic from the start and gave me helpful feedback throughout. Thank you, Doe!

  * * *

  My sister, Julie Lyon Rose, and dear friends Lucy Bixby and Barbara Engel all took the time to read early drafts and cheer me on, which was more than kind. My mother, Elizabeth Balliett Platt, has followed each stage of Pieces and Players and been to the Gardner Museum with me countless times in the past few years. It is she who found the thirty-one lions. Each of our trips has included dessert and something funny; her input has been, as always, a valuable delight.

  * * *

  I can never thank my husband, Bill, and our family enough; he is always there for me, as are our three kids.

  BLUE BALLIETT is the author of several bestselling, acclaimed mystery novels. The five main characters in Pieces and Players have all appeared in Blue’s previ
ous works. Calder and Petra came onto the scene in Chasing Vermeer (a Book Sense Book of the Year and an Edgar Award winner), and were joined by Tommy for The Wright 3 and The Calder Game. Zoomy was introduced to readers in The Danger Box, and Early stepped onto the page in Hold Fast.

  Blue writes in the laundry room of her home in Chicago, Illinois, and you can find her online at www.blueballiettbooks.com.

  CHASING VERMEER

  THE WRIGHT 3

  THE1 CALDER GAME

  THE DANGER BOX

  HOLD FAST

  Text copyright © 2015 by Elizabeth Balliett Klein. Cover and interior illustration by Brett Helquist. All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2014947736

  First edition, April 2015

  Cover art © 2015 by Brett Helquist

  Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-74634-2

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.