Framed!

by James Ponti

  “If so, it’s an amazingly good one,” she said. “I can’t tell just by looking at it. I’d have to take it down, put it under the microscope, and run some tests.”

  Agent Rivers thought about this for a moment and said, “No. I need you to figure it out without moving the painting.”

  My mother gave him a quizzical look. “Why?”

  “Because we think there’s an employee involved,” he said.

  Margaret and I shared a look and a nod.

  “If it’s true and if this is a copy, they think they’ve gotten away with it. The moment it comes off the wall, we warn them that we’re on to them.”

  Mom considered all of this for a moment and said, “I only need a tiny flake of paint to run a cesium test.”

  “Brilliant,” he said. “How do you order a test like that?”

  “It’s a lot of paperwork,” she answered. “And I have to allocate the expense to a certain budget.”

  He shook his head. “That’s way too many people involved. Get me a flake and I’ll have the test run. We have labs too.”

  He smiled at us and nodded before walking in the opposite direction. Mom looked at the painting for a few more moments, and then we headed for the door.

  “What’s a cesium test?” I asked once we were outside.

  “It’s a way to see if a painting is old or modern,” she said. “There’s cesium in all the paint made after 1945 and none in the paint made before. So if you test a painting that was supposedly done in the 1800s and find any cesium in it, then . . .”

  “You know it’s a fake,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “What happened in 1945?” asked Margaret.

  “That’s when the first nuclear explosion took place,” Mom explained. “Cesium was part of the radioactive fallout.”

  “And that spread everywhere?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yep. All over the world including into all the dirt and plants used for making paint.”

  “And that can be determined just by testing a single flake?”

  “You’ve got to love science,” she said.

  Margaret shook her head and added, “Nerds really do make the world go round.”

  14.

  The Hornet’s Nest

  SINCE IT WAS GOING TO take a few days to get the results of the cesium test, Margaret and I had time to work on our other case: the search for her birth parents. This one didn’t involve any Eastern European crime syndicates or million-dollar art thefts, but I knew solving it would be just as tricky. Maybe more.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” I asked as we rode the Metro.

  Her answer was soft but firm. “I’m positive.”

  She had a determined look so I didn’t suggest we play the game where we try to guess who’s getting off at which stop. Instead we rode without talking much until we reached the Howard University station.

  “This is our stop,” I said as I stood, not that she needed to be reminded.

  Even though it wasn’t quite noon, the temperature was already in the nineties and rising. As we walked along the campus, the large shade trees that lined Georgia Avenue offered us a little relief from the heat.

  “I understand that your adoption is a sensitive issue,” I said. “But we’re going to have to be able to talk about it in order for me to solve it.”

  “I know,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” I answered. “Tell me whatever you know.”

  “Not much,” she replied. “On the night of August sixth somebody dropped me off at Engine House Four.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Nobody ever told me.”

  “Did they leave you in a crib, a stroller, or something like that?”

  “The only thing I know is that I was wrapped in a blanket,” she said, her eyes looking forward and not at me. “We still have it. I can show it to you later. It’s yellow and has my name embroidered on it in big block letters, ‘MARGARET A.’ ”

  “A?” I said, curious. “What’s the A? A middle initial? The first letter of your birth parents’ last name?”

  She stopped and looked at me. “I just told you everything I know. I was left at the firehouse with a blanket that said ‘Margaret A’ on August sixth. That’s it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, worrying that I had upset her. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t be sorry,” she replied. “I’m not mad that you’re asking the questions. I’m just frustrated that I don’t know the answers. That’s why we’re doing this.”

  “Have you talked to your parents about what they know?”

  “Not much,” she said. “I always worry that if I ask them anything, they’ll think I’m unhappy about them being my mom and dad. And I’m not. I love them. I don’t want to upset them, so I never bring it up.”

  “Well, we’ve got some solid clues to go on,” I said, trying to sound positive. “Let’s see where they lead us.”

  The firehouse was a squat two-story building made of dark brown bricks. ENG4INE was painted on one wall and there were three red barn doors for the garage. One of them was open and we could see a red-and-white fire truck inside. Written on the front of the truck was THE HORNET’S NEST.

  “What’s the Hornet’s Nest?” asked Margaret.

  I shrugged. “Let’s poke it and find out.”

  We were heading for the office when a firefighter saw us through the open garage door.

  “Are you here about CPR training?” he asked. He was young and wore dark blue pants and a matching button-up shirt with a DCFD patch on the left shoulder.

  “No,” I said, unsure how best to explain exactly why we were there. “We just want to find out—”

  “We’re looking for information,” Margaret said, taking charge. “About something that happened at this station twelve years ago.”

  He looked us over for a moment and said, “Then you’ll want to talk to the captain. He’s the only one who’s been here that long.”

  “Is he in the office?” I asked, pointing toward the door.

  “No,” he answered. “He’s in the kitchen . . . God help us.”

  We followed him through the garage door and alongside the fire truck. There were hoses, lockers, and even a pole to slide down from upstairs. On the wall were rows of pictures—one taken each year of the firefighters at the station. Someone had also painted a logo of a giant hornet wearing a fire helmet and jacket holding a hose and ax. Beneath it again was written THE HORNET’S NEST.

  “It’s our symbol,” he said, noticing me looking at it. “Don’t mess with the hive.”

  “Cool,” I answered.

  The kitchen was in the back, and there a man was frying something on the stove. He was older, but fit, his blue T-shirt tight on his biceps. He had a thin white mustache and goatee.

  “Twenty-six years in the department and he can still only cook three things,” joked the firefighter. “What are you making today?”

  “Fish sandwiches,” he said. “And if you say anything more about my cooking, you’re going to go without.” He looked at Margaret and me and asked, “Who do we have here?”

  “These two are looking for information about something that happened here twelve years ago,” he said. “I told them they needed to talk to someone old like you.”

  He flipped a pair of fish patties with a spatula, causing a sudden sizzle.

  “What could you two possibly want to know about from twelve years ago?” he asked. “Were you even born yet?”

  “I was,” said Margaret. “About a week earlier. That’s why I’m here.”

  There was something about what she said and the way she said it that caught his attention. He looked at her more intently, and slowly a smile came over his face. “Are you her? What was her name again? Mary? Mallory?”

  “Margaret,” she said.

  “That’s it!” he replied, his face lighting up. “You’re Margaret, aren’t
you?”

  “You remember me?” she asked, small tears suddenly welling up in her eyes.

  “I don’t remember you,” he said with a laugh. “I remember a baby about this big.” He held up his hands like he was cupping a small baby. “Look how much you’ve grown.”

  They stood there frozen by the moment. Everything about it was perfect. Except for the smell.

  “Cap,” said the firefighter. “Cap. Your fish. It’s burning!”

  The captain snapped out of it and looked down at the pan, a plume of dark smoke suddenly rising from the patties.

  “Well, you’re a firefighter,” he said. “Do something about it. I’m going to talk to my old friend.”

  He handed the younger man the spatula and walked over to Margaret. The two of them looked at each other for a moment, and he introduced himself.

  “Captain Joseph Abraham, DC Fire Department,” he said.

  “Margaret Campbell,” she replied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.” They shook hands, and he never broke eye contact and never stopped smiling. “What can I do for you?”

  “I want to find out where I come from,” she said. “I want to find out who my parents are.”

  His smile suddenly disappeared. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. And even if it was, I don’t know that I could help you.”

  “Can you at least tell me about that night?” she asked hopefully. “I was here in the firehouse until the next morning, right?”

  He thought about this for a second and nodded. “You were. I can tell you about that.”

  Margaret flashed a huge grin. The captain went to say something else, but then he turned and looked at me as though it was the first time he’d noticed I was there.

  “Who’s this?” he asked her.

  “My best friend,” she answered.

  “Florian,” I said.

  “Nice to meet you, Florian,” he replied. “Why don’t you two come with me?”

  He led us upstairs. Most of the second story was the dormitory where everyone sleeps, but there were two big rooms, one marked LOUNGE that had a big-screen TV and seven matching recliners, and one marked LIBRARY that had a pair of couches and a bookcase. That’s where he took us.

  “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to one couch while he sat down on the other.

  “So you were actually here that night?” Margaret asked. “The night I was”—she paused for a moment looking for the right word—“left.”

  “Yes, I was,” he replied.

  “What can you remember about it?”

  “It was summer, about this time, right?”

  “Right,” she said. “August sixth.”

  “Most of us were in the TV room watching a baseball game—I don’t remember who was playing—and the bell rang. The doorbell, not the fire alarm. So we sent a probie to answer it.”

  “What’s a probie?” I asked.

  “A probationary firefighter,” he said. “A trainee. Probies usually get stuck with all the errands. His name was Munson, Tom Munson. So he goes down there and we keep expecting him to come back, but he doesn’t. Eventually the inning ends and a couple of us go downstairs to see what’s what. Imagine our surprise when we find Tom holding a baby and talking to a young man, African-American, around twenty years old.”

  “Was it my father?” asked Margaret anxiously.

  “I don’t think so. But you have to realize the sanctuary law is designed to protect the baby. And one of the ways the law protects the baby is that it doesn’t allow us to ask questions. The firehouse is a safe haven, and if you can’t take care of your baby, you can bring her here without getting in trouble. So we didn’t ask him if he was your father. That said, I think he mentioned something about being a friend of your mother’s.”

  All of this was new information to Margaret, and I could tell it was a little overwhelming.

  “Do you remember anything about him?” I asked.

  “Not really,” he answered. “It was late and I was only down there with him for about a minute. But, like I said, our concern wasn’t him, it was her.”

  He looked right at Margaret and smiled.

  “You know this is where you slept that night?” he added.

  “Here?” she said, looking around the library.

  “Yeah, we took turns all night long,” he told her. “Let me show you something.”

  Two bookshelves were filled with photo albums. He went over, picked one out, and started flipping through it. The pages were filled with images ranging from firefighters in action to goofy shots around the firehouse. He stopped when he found what he was looking for and turned the book around so that we could see it.

  “That’s you that night,” he said.

  He pointed to a picture of a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket being held by one firefighter and surrounded by another five. He peeled back the plastic cover, took the picture out of the album, and handed it to Margaret.

  “Tom Munson is the one holding you; he’s the probie who answered the door,” he said.

  “And is this you?” Margaret asked, pointing at a younger version of the man sitting across from us.

  “Yes, it is. It’s funny because back then you were the one who was bald and I was the one who had hair. That’s all changed now.”

  She looked at the blanket and read the embroidery out loud. “MARGARET A.”

  “I wish we knew what the A stood for,” I said.

  Captain Abraham smiled. “We decided it stood for Angel. That’s what we called you, Margaret Angel.”

  15.

  Not a Buffalo

  WE STAYED AND TALKED TO captain Abraham for another fifteen minutes, but most of the conversation was Margaret filling him in on her life. It was as if she’d discovered a long-lost uncle who wanted to know about everything from soccer to school. He was excited to hear her team was playing for the city championship and said that Deal was one of the best schools in the District. I just sat back and kept my mouth shut, trying to stay out of the way of the conversation but making sure to pay attention for anything that might help us find her birth parents. With regard to potential clues, we were left with two:

  1. The names of everyone who was on duty that night.

  2. A copy of the photo of Margaret with all the firefighters. This one was a little tricky because Abraham didn’t want to let us take it for fear that the original might never come back. He promised to have a copy made and send it to her, but just to be safe, when he got up to introduce her to one of his coworkers, I secretly snapped a picture of it with my phone.

  When it was time to leave, he gave her an Engine 4 shoulder patch with the Hornet’s Nest logo. He also gave her some advice: “Don’t look any further than this,” he warned. “I know you think you want to know who your birth parents are, and that’s understandable. But your life started here, that night, when Tom took you in his arms. That’s when you were born. There’s no need to look any earlier than that.”

  Whether or not she intended to follow this advice, she respected him enough to say, “I’ll think about it.”

  I could tell he was about to make another argument, but instead he stopped himself and said, “Don’t forget to give me your address, so I can send you a copy of that picture.”

  He pulled a business card out of his wallet and turned it over so that she could write it on the back.

  “And stop by for lunch sometime,” he added.

  “Let me guess,” she replied. “You’ll make fish sandwiches.”

  He laughed. “I promise not to burn yours.”

  He walked us to the door, and just as we were about to leave, he leaned over and whispered into my ear, “You take care of our girl, okay?”

  I looked back at him and nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  He winked and replied, “Good answer.”

  Margaret and I walked for nearly a block before either of us said a word. I wanted to give her a chance to th
ink through everything that’d just happened. Finally she simply said, “Wow.”

  “You’re not kidding,” I replied. “I was completely wrong about coming here. I thought it was a bad idea, but that was awesome.”

  “It’s weird because I’ve always known this story,” she said. “But now, seeing the place, talking to someone who was there, for the first time it seems real.”

  “I’m guessing your promise to ‘think about it’ doesn’t include you actually thinking about it,” I added.

  “No way,” she replied. “I still want to keep looking. I’m more determined than ever.”

  “That’s what I figured,” I said.

  We were walking alongside the Howard University campus again and I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “I’ve got a little surprise for you,” I told her as I opened it to the picture of Margaret with the firefighters.

  “Sneaky,” she said as she took the phone. “When’d you get this?”

  “When he introduced you to the paramedic,” I said. “It’s just a picture of a picture, so the quality’s not great. But it should do until he sends you a better one.”

  “Thanks. It’s a great picture, isn’t it?”

  “Actually, it’s even better than you think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I zoomed in past the firefighters so that only the image of Margaret filled the screen.

  “What do you see?” I asked.

  “A baby . . . in a blanket . . . surrounded by firefighters,” she answered, unsure what I was getting at.

  “And what’s the baby wearing?”

  She looked at the picture more closely. Even though the blanket covered most of her, you could still make out a little bit of what she was wearing.

  “Looks like a onesie,” she said. “With a little buffalo on it.”

  “That’s not a buffalo,” I replied. “Technically it’s a bison.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, so technically it’s a bison. Why is that important?”

  I looked up to draw her attention to the banners that hung from the streetlight we were standing near. They matched the ones on all the streetlights along Georgia Avenue. On one side was a picture of a Howard University student. On the other it said I BLEED BISON BLUE!