by Linda Johns
“If you’re hearing this message, it means you should leave a message right after this … beep.”
“Hey, Lily. Hannah here. If you want to call me, you can reach me in my downtown, totally happenin’ condo. Later.”
Lily had said she was envious of Mom and me being part of some schmaltzy Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous type of TV show, getting to stay in fancy houses and downtown high-rises. But I know she was just saying that to make me feel better, because the truth is I’d give anything to be back in our old house in the Maple Leaf neighborhood with my best friend just down the street, instead of six miles up the freeway.
And the rest of the truth is that I wasn’t lying when I said we were technically homeless. I know, I know—it could be a lot worse. A LOT worse.
Here’s the sixteen-word Reader’s Digest version of what happened: Mom got laid off. We ran out of money. We started house-sitting instead of paying rent.
Here’s the one-hundred-sixty-four-word version, for those who like a little more detail: Mom got laid off from her job at MegaComp. She tried to find a job at another dot-com company, but everyone was cutting back.
Someone with Mom’s background—art history major, art critic, and writer—wasn’t exactly in demand in Seattle’s job market. She took a part-time job at Wired coffee shop and started freelance writing, but neither pays much. We had to make some serious cuts in how much money we spent. First we cut back on pizza deliveries. Then we canceled cable. We rented out a bedroom in our house to a college student. We had three yard sales. We held on as long as we could. Finally, we sold everything that wouldn’t fit in our 1999 Honda Civic. One of Mom’s old bosses at MegaComp let us stay at her house while she went on a four-week vacation. That was when Mom got the great idea of being professional house sitters, which is a lot better than being amateur homeless people.
Luckily, Mom is one of those people who knows a lot of people, including people who happen to be rich. Luckily, those rich people travel a lot—and they all like Maggie West. So it was natural for them to hire West House-Sitting Services to take care of their houses and pets while they bicycled around Scotland or went to cooking school in the south of France or climbed Mount Kilimanjaro or did whatever it is rich people do on their vacations. They head out to see the world; we get to stay in Seattle rent-free.
The best house-sitting gigs are the ones that last at least four weeks. This time, we’d totally scored. We’d be at Belltown Towers, complete with a view of the water, for nearly six weeks.
I took a look around Owen’s apartment. I mean OUR apartment. It was a small one-bedroom with a million-dollar view (actually an $850,000 view, according to Mom, who said that’s what Owen paid for this apartment, er, I mean condo, three years ago). I couldn’t wait to tell Lily all about it. Living-room and dining-room windows looked out over Seattle’s Elliott Bay and to Bainbridge Island. Even in the late spring there was some snow left on the peaks of the Olympic Mountains so that jagged white triangles towered beyond the water, making a backdrop that seemed almost fake because it was so postcard perfect. I headed out on the balcony and looked out at the water. I counted thirty-seven sailboats. A ferry belched its low horn, announcing it was on the move.
“That must be the Bainbridge Island ferry,” Mom said. “We are going to have amazing sunsets. I think we’re really going to like living here. Just look at all this!” She twirled around on the balcony and then leaned way over to look down. I felt like tossing my cookies.
“Um, where’s the Space Needle?” I asked, trying to sound calm and perfectly at home on a tiny slab of concrete that jutted out nearly a hundred feet over the street.
“It’s north and a bit behind us,” Mom said. “You can’t see it from here, not even if you lean way, waaaaay out.” She swung her torso out and over the side. I shuddered. “Hmm … ,” Mom said. “I feel like I can see everything so clearly from here.”
I opened my eyes and made sure she wasn’t talking about my intense fear of heights. She was looking straight down to First Avenue, eleven stories below. I held on to the balcony railing, took a deep breath, and looked down. I gripped the railing even tighter. I felt a little dizzy. I stepped back, took another deep breath, and tried again. Nothing too remarkable, from my trying-not-to-barf-or-fall-off-the-balcony perspective. Just people walking on the sidewalks, a few people on bikes, and then a blur of purple and black as someone on a bike ripped around the corner and almost rammed into a jogger.
“That drives me crazy. Fast cyclists shouldn’t be on the sidewalk, especially not someone from Swifty’s,” Mom said, heading back inside.
“Uh-huh,” I replied. I had no idea what she meant, other than that speed-demon cyclists should ride on the street. I peered over the balcony railing again, just to prove I could. The purple-and-black-clad cyclist slowed down directly below us, hopping off his bike before he came to a stop. The large, flat package sticking out of the messenger bag that he had slung loosely across his back must have thrown him off balance a little, because his bike toppled to the curb against a parking meter. He didn’t stop to pick up his bike or to lock it. It was like he was in perpetual motion. I had to stop looking down, or I’d be in perpetual throw-up mode. I settled into a deck chair on the balcony and refocused my energy on drawing the Olympic Mountains.
Sirens whined off in the distance. Then the sound got louder and louder, but I tried—unsuccessfully—to tune them out.
“Of course, we’re going to have to get used to all the noise of living downtown.” Mom came back out onto the balcony.
“It seems like they’re coming right toward us,” I said. I stood at the balcony’s edge and dared myself to look down. A police car pulled up in front of Belltown Towers, and two uniformed officers got out. Another police car double-parked next to it, and then a solid blue car with a red light on top pulled in right behind the first one.
“What the heck is going on?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” I said.
“Hannah, please don’t get in their way,” Mom said, following me out the apartment and down the hallway.
“I won’t if you won’t,” I said. I stopped in front of the elevator and watched the numbers above the doors. Each floor number lit up as the elevator passed it: 7, 8 … the elevator was heading toward our floor and then right past it … 11, 12. Then it stopped at PH.
CHAPTER 3
“SOMETHING MUST BE wrong at the penthouse,” I called to Mom.
“We can take the emergency stairs at the end of the hall,” Mom said. She tries to be the rational adult, but she’s just as nosy as I am.
I raced toward the door that said EXIT in glowing green letters. I bounded up the stairs, two steps at a time, counting each landing as I went. If we were on eleven, the penthouse apartments were just two flights up. “Twelve … thirteen,” I said out loud. There was an unmarked door at the landing, but there was still another flight of stairs.
“I thought thirteen was the top floor.”
“Let’s try that door,” Mom said, right at the heels of my purple high-tops. “I bet that last flight goes up to a roof garden or something.”
I hurled the steel fire door open and was ready to bolt down the hall, but I stopped myself. It seemed like I’d entered a new world. Or at least a new building. Let me tell you, this top-floor hallway was nothing like the white-walled, blue-carpeted hallway down on eleven. Deep-piled, cushy carpet in a hunter green ran the length of the hallway, with a skinny red-and-gold plush Persian rug on top. The walls were painted a golden yellow orange, with gleaming dark wood trim. Oil paintings of landscapes and stuffy old-fashioned people hung on the walls in thick, ornate gold frames. I felt like I’d stepped into the den of an English lord’s manor.
I shook myself out of my momentary awe and remembered why I’d raced up the stairs.
“Dorothy!” Mom rushed past me and toward heavy wood French doors that had PH-I and D. POWERS etched onto a gold oval nameplate. A uniform
ed police officer at the door put a hand up as if to say Halt. So we did. Dorothy came to the doorway, her facing looking paler and older than it had just a half hour earlier.
“Maggie, Hannah, please come in,” she said. “It will be good to have some friends for support right now.”
The police officer stepped aside and mumbled, “Go on in,” to us.
Mom grabbed Dorothy’s hand and walked her to a chair at the kitchen table. My mom is one of those people who can make anyone feel at ease, even during a crisis. Personally, I think she’s a bit neurotic, but the rest of the world seems to find her amazingly calming.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Follow Mom inside? Wait? Swap stories with the cop at the door? I stalled for time by looking down the corridor and checking out the scene. Right across the hall from ph-1 was its mirror image of double doors and a gold nameplate. Only this one said PH-II and M. CHOMSKY on the gold nameplate. The door to PH-2 opened a crack, then quickly closed. Weird. Did someone know that I was watching? Or did I know that someone was watching? I decided to head into Dorothy’s kitchen.
“I’m fine, Maggie. Really. But I did have quite a scare,” Dorothy said.
“What happened?” I blurted out. Mom gave me a quick glare. What? I mouthed back to her. I mean, I can’t be expected to be the most patient person in the world when a crime has just been committed. I have a high need to know EVERYTHING. Okay, so no one actually said there’d been a crime. But why else would three cars with sirens and lights be parked in front of Belltown Towers?
Dorothy looked up and smiled wanly at me, then turned her attention back to my mother. “The odd thing is that it seemed like Ruff knew something was wrong,” she said. “I’ve never seen him react to any delivery person that way before.”
“Delivery? What delivery?” I asked. Mom glared at me again. I wanted to put a fast-forward on this scene and find out what happened.
“It was like any other delivery, except for the way that Ruff was acting,” Dorothy went on. “I’m sure the Swifty’s messenger had no idea what he was delivering.” She stopped to take a sip of water.
What was he delivering? I wanted to blurt out, but I held it inside of me.
“This must have been quite the surprise, then,” Mom said. She was looking across the table to what at first glance looked like a framed painting. I did a double take. The canvas was blank.
“That’s so weird,” I said, avoiding Mom’s glare. Geesh. How many times could Mom glare at me in five minutes?
“What does it mean?” I asked Dorothy, ignoring my mother’s nonverbal admonishments.
“I have no idea,” she said. “All I know is that when Ruff and I got back from our walk, there was a voicemail message from Mimi Hansen saying she had a Swifty’s bike messenger bringing me the painting I’d commissioned for the Honcho auction. No sooner had I heard her message than there was a knock on my door. I answered it thinking it might be you, Hannah, ready to take Ruff for a walk already.”
“Someone knocked on your door? Isn’t this a secure building, with an intercom and everything?” I asked.
“I’m not sure how the messenger got in, but that’s not important,” she said.
“I didn’t know bike messengers worked on Sundays,” Mom said.
“Oh, bike messengers work all kinds of hours,” Dorothy said. “I run into them all the time making deliveries right across the hall.”
“So, what happened to the painting that was supposed to be delivered to you?” I asked, trying to get this conversation back on track.
“It must have been stolen, although we don’t know where or when,” Dorothy said. “That’s why I called the police.”
“Um, Ms. Powers?” a police officer asked, as if on cue. “We have almost everything we need, but we’ll need to interview your neighbor, a Mister …”
“Mr. Chomsky,” Dorothy said. “Marvin Chomsky.”
“Yes, Mr. Chomsky was the one who called it in,” the officer said.
“I asked him to call. I was so shaken up when I un-wrapped my painting. I was thrilled to finally have the new Hansen in my hands, but then I found this!” Dorothy said, gesturing toward the nonpainting. “But I doubt Mr. Chomsky can tell you anything. He never leaves his apartment. Messenger services bring him everything he needs.”
“There’s something else, Ms. Powers, if you don’t mind,” the officer continued. “Your dog. He seems to be in some sort of distress.”
“Ruff? Distress? What’s wrong?” I demanded.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said ‘distress,’” the officer said, a bit flustered. “He’s under the bed and I can’t coax him out.”
“My reaction must have terrified him, especially once all the police arrived. Hannah, dear.” Dorothy turned to me. “Would you go with Officer …”
“Officer Romano, ma’am,” she said.
“Would you go with Officer Romano and see if you could bring Ruff out here? I think he’ll come to you,” Dorothy said. “Especially with this.” She reached into her jacket pocket and gave me a little dog biscuit. “Dried liver,” she whispered. “Just in case he needs added incentive.”
I followed Officer Romano down a hallway.
“The dog’s this way,” Officer Romano said. “Did you say your name was Hannah?”
“Yes. I’m Ruff’s dog walker,” I said, trying to sound responsible. I didn’t want to admit that I’d met the pooch less than an hour ago. “So, what kind of MO do you have on this case?” I asked. That’s modus operandi in cop talk. I was a bit impressed with how effortlessly I rattled it off, especially since it’s Latin. Roughly translated, it means “mode of operation,” referring in criminal situations to how a perpetrator works.
“It’s definitely not a standard case. And not just a prank, either. The substitute canvas suggests that someone knew exactly what was supposed to be in that package. Someone somewhere in this city has a valuable painting in their possession that they don’t deserve to have,” Officer Romano said.
“You’ve got to wonder how someone would have known what was being delivered to Dorothy, though,” I said. I didn’t pursue it because we were in the bedroom.
At least I think it was a bedroom. There was a large bed (my first clue), but there was also a sitting area with a table and stacks of books. Another part of the room had a yoga mat, a big blue exercise ball, and a bar for stretching.
I could hear Ruff whimpering under the bed. I crouched down to look. He started to growl, but then he relaxed.
“Hey, Ruff. Come here, little guy,” I cooed. Nothing. I pulled out the liver treat and reached far under the bed to wave it as enticement. Ruff bolted toward me (or toward the liver), dragging his leash along the wood floor until he nipped the liver right off my open palm. I scooped up the little terrier. He was trembling like he was cold or scared—or both. I sat down on the floor and cradled him in my arms. “It’s going to be okay, little guy. I’ll stick with you,” I said as I petted him. He seemed to relax in my arms. I set him on the ground, but he started to whimper as soon as I let go of him. “So it’s going to be that way, is it? You want me to carry you?” I scooped Ruff up into my arms again. “This is Ruff,” I said to Officer Romano. She gave him a scratch behind the ears. I had a good feeling about this cop, a feeling that was confirmed when I felt Ruff relax even more. “I’d better get him back to his human,” I said, heading out to the hallway.
“… no one but Mimi Hansen knew just how valuable this painting was,” Dorothy was saying to my mom.
“Why would she let something so valuable out of her sight, then?” I prodded.
“Hannah …” My mom seemed to be warning me. Hey, we needed to keep Dorothy talking while details were still fresh, right?
Officer Romano tried to fight off a smile.
“Does this count as a burglary or a robbery?” I asked her. “I mean, I know it’s a burglary if no one is there. And it’s a robbery if people are on the premises when something is stolen. So, since we can’t know exa
ctly when the real painting was stolen, would you officially call this a robbery or a burglary? OUCH!” I cried as Mom reached out with her foot and kicked me.
“We haven’t released an official statement from the Seattle Police Department yet, but I think we’re safe to call this an art theft,” Officer Romano said.
“Right. It’s a definite theft. Maybe even a heist,” I offered.
Mom grimaced. “Hannah,” she said, with more than just a smidgen of warning in her voice. It was sort of like she was saying “Don’t be so dramatic.” If she were an icky mom on a TV show, she would have said something like “You read too much” or “No more Crime Network for you.”
Officer Romano had gone out into the main hallway for a phone call. She came back and looked extremely serious. “I need to tell you that there was a theft at the Mafune Gallery around the corner yesterday,” she told Dorothy. “I’m not saying that the two cases are connected, but I thought you should know before the newspapers get ahold of this, since paintings by this same artist …” Officer Romano flipped through her notebook. “Yes, since both paintings were by this Mimi Hansen, I’m sure the media will blow this all out of proportion.”
“Oh dear,” Dorothy said. “Why on earth would someone target Mimi Hansen?”
Then she collapsed.
CHAPTER 4
I TOOK RUFF downstairs and outside. He had totally freaked out when Dorothy collapsed, and he started barking like crazy. I held Ruff while Mom helped Dorothy until we knew she was okay. She’d blacked out, something she said happens every once in a while because of some kind of blood-pressure something or other. I wasn’t really paying attention. My mind buzzed with thoughts of this strange art heist. I had lots more questions, but the adults had dismissed me and the dog to another walk.