by Linda Johns
The police had already interviewed Dorothy before Mom and I got up to the penthouse, but clearly I’d brought up some excellent points. Then Officer Romano told me my services could be put to better use if I did my job as a dog walker.
The important thing was that Dorothy was okay. And that Ruff got some time outside.
Click, click, click.
I heard a clicking sound on the sidewalk. It sounded like someone was wearing baseball cleats and walking really fast. Almost like a horse trotting.
“Come on, boy, let’s go this way,” I said, leading Ruff around a corner.
Wham! All of a sudden I was on the ground. And someone or something had plowed into me. But what? I looked up.
“Watch where you’re going!” I snapped from my sprawled position on the sidewalk. Ruff was squished under my right leg.
“Are you okay?” A guy in his twenties in full cycling gear—helmet, gloves, Lycra bike shorts—was looking down at me. He held out a hand to help me up. Ruff started to growl, but then stopped.
“If you move that fast without a bike, I’d hate to run into you when you were on a bike… .” I said, standing up and brushing off the seat of my shorts.
My voice trailed off. Mr. Bike Guy did a one-eighty and headed back the way he came before I could finish talking.
Click, click, click.
So that’s what was making that noise. Bike Guy had those kind of cycling shoes that snap right into bike pedals. Lily’s dad said they were great for riding a bike, but totally obnoxious and awkward when it came to trying to walk without looking like a dork. Bike Guy looked a little dorky as he sped up into race-walking mode. He darted around the corner at Battery Street, but not before I read the word Swifty’s on his purple-and-black T-shirt.
“That was weird,” I said to Ruff. Weird that Mom had just said something about Swifty’s. And definitely weird that in my first hour in my new neighborhood I’d already got up close and personal with the concrete.
A car horn honked. I leaped back from the curb, pulling Ruff with me. I didn’t need to add a car accident to my list of mishaps today. A little white convertible pulled up to the curb right in front of Belltown Towers. A woman with blond hair and big dark incognito movie-star sunglasses jumped out and ran to the front of the building. She pressed one of the buttons that calls up to the apartments.
“Officer Romano,” I heard over the intercom.
She must be calling the penthouse. I moved a little closer.
“I’m here to see Dorothy Powers,” the woman said. She spoke as if the police officer upstairs were a maid. And how come she didn’t wonder why a cop had answered the intercom? Maybe this woman was an investigator. She sure didn’t look the part, but maybe she was working undercover or something.
“Your name, please?” Officer Romano’s voice cackled over the intercom.
The woman sighed a bit impatiently. “Mimi Hansen,” she announced.
Mimi Hansen! Wow. She didn’t look at all how I expected an artist to look. She looked more like a TV talk-show host or something. She wore a short leopard-print skirt and a tight button jacket that matched it. On top of her head was a leopard-print hat, kind of like a beret you’d wear on Halloween if you were pretending to be a French artist. Her feet were strapped into the highest-heeled and pointiest-toed shoes I’d ever seen. Aren’t artists supposed to look funky and poor, even if they aren’t poor? Not this one. That’s for sure.
I heard some garbled noise coming back over the intercom, and then the front door buzzed open. “Hold the door, please!” I called, pulling Ruff with me as I high-tailed it toward the open door. Mimi Hansen looked me up and down, stopping at my bony knees that were now scuffed up thanks to my run-in with the sidewalk. No matter what she thought of me and my bare legs, she still let me in. Sometimes being a kid has its advantages.
I smiled my most innocent smile.
“Hi. I’m just taking Ruff back up to his owner. You know, Dorothy Powers,” I said.
“Oh, right. I thought that mutt looked familiar,” she said, pushing the elevator “up” button.
Mutt?
“Actually, Ruff is a cairn terrier. A purebred. Not a mutt,” I said importantly. I don’t know why I felt I had to talk to her. There’s just something so uncomfortable about standing around waiting for an elevator with someone.
“Of course it is,” she said. She started jabbing the “up” button again, as if that would make the elevator come any faster.
Ruff crouched down. A low little growl came out of him.
She reached down to pet him. “Muff and I are old friends, aren’t we, Muff?” she said.
Muff?
Ruff sprang up and started yipping. He jumped from side to side. He crouched down and growled again. Then he nipped at her hand.
“What’s with that dog? Get it away from me!” she screamed.
The elevator doors opened. Ruff jumped inside and assumed his tough-guy crouch-and-growl position again. Mimi took a hesitant step forward. Ruff’s growl got louder.
“You go on ahead,” she said as she backed up. “I think I left something in the car.” She cleared her throat. “Tell Dorothy that Mimi Hansen is on her way.” It sounded like an order. Geesh. How many times did this woman need to announce herself?
CHAPTER 5
“IS EVERY DAY at Belltown Towers this eventuful, puppy?” Ruff didn’t answer me, but he seemed to be settling down again. By the time the elevator reached the penthouse floor, Ruff was full of sloppy kisses and contented tail wags.
Dorothy and Mom were still sitting at the kitchen table.
“I think we’re done for the day, Ms. Powers,” Officer Romano said. “Please call us directly if you hear or see anything suspicious. Or if you think of anyone who might have wanted to do something like this to you.”
“Oh, I’m supposed to tell you that Mimi Hansen is on her way here,” I said. Mom looked at me curiously. “What?” I said to Mom. “I met her downstairs.” I’m not sure, but I think my mom looked slightly impressed that I’d already met this artist person. I decided not to add that she’d been bossing me around.
“Oh, thank you, Hannah. And thank you, Officer Romano, for being so kind,” Dorothy said.
“I hope you can relax with your guests now,” Officer Romano said. “I’ll certainly keep you informed as we investigate your case.” She bent down to scratch Ruff behind his ears. He licked her hand happily. She was just out the door when a human whirlwind made her entrance.
“Oh, Dorothy! I was so worried about you! Are you all right, darling?” Mimi Hansen rushed into the apartment, teetering on her ridiculously high-heeled shoes. She said “darling” so it sounded like “dahling.”
Ruff started growling again.
“I’m fine, Mimi. But someone stole your painting on its way here!”
“What?” Mimi gasped.
“It’s true. I’m just so sick about it. I was so excited to see The Blue Principle again before the Honcho auction, but when I opened the package, I saw this … this … this …” Dorothy gestured toward the empty canvas.
“What?” Mimi practically shrieked. She appeared to have an extremely limited vocabulary.
“Weird, huh?” I interjected. “You’ve got to wonder how someone even knew what was inside the package, since it was wrapped in plain brown paper and all.”
“No one even knows about that painting but you and me,” Mimi said, speaking directly to Dorothy, as if I hadn’t uttered a word. “Why would someone target it?”
“It seems this thief has a good eye,” Dorothy said.
“Yes, I see your point,” Mimi said, suddenly composed. “That particular painting is exquisite in its play of light. It is a fine example of the quality of my work. Your thief has impeccable taste.” She actually tried to chuckle. It didn’t work.
“Yeah, but how did the thief know what painting was inside the package?” I said. “The switch must have been made before the bike messenger picked it up to bring over
to Dorothy.”
“I believe my young friend Hannah is correct,” Dorothy said. “Oh! Forgive my bad manners! Mimi, these are my new neighbors, Maggie West and her delightful daughter, Hannah West. Maggie and Hannah, this is Mimi Hansen, one of the most promising artists on the West Coast.”
“I’ve heard so much about your work,” Mom said, holding out her hand. Mimi hesitated and then extended her hand for a limp nanosecond handshake. It seemed she was about to dismiss us when Mom added, “I write for Art Voice.”
Mimi turned on a high-beam smile for Mom. At least I think it was a smile. The corners of her mouth were turned up, but it didn’t reach the rest of her face. “Maggie, perhaps you already know that Dorothy is donating one of my creations to the Honcho auction. What you might not know yet is that Dorothy’s generous spirit inspired me to create a second piece for the auction, the painting that was stolen. It’s called The Blue Principle. It’s part of a series I’m doing. One of the other pieces, Principally Blue, is right there,” Mimi said, gesturing like a game-show model toward a big blue painting hanging on Dorothy’s dining-room wall. I hadn’t paid much attention before, but now it drew me into its swirls of blue. It was a painting of nothing, and a painting of everything. I stared at it. I felt like I could fly and swim at the same time. It truly was beautiful. Extraordinary, really.
“I didn’t realize that was yours, Mimi,” Mom said. “I didn’t see your signature on it.”
“I haven’t signed it yet,” Mimi murmured.
“I thought artists signed their work as soon as they finished,” I piped up.
“Not always,” Mimi said quickly, with a pointed glare toward me. At least she’d acknowledged that I was in the room.
“That’s one of the many things that makes both Principally Blue and The Blue Principle so special!” Dorothy said. “It’s such a clever idea that Mimi had for the Honcho auction.”
“What’s Honcho?” I asked, having heard about this auction twice in just the past few seconds.
“It’s an auction that raises money for the arts in Seattle,” Mom said. “Many arts groups couldn’t survive without money from the Honcho auction.”
“Exactly!” Dorothy said. “It was such a surprise when Principally Blue was delivered to my apartment. After I’d admired it for a few minutes, I noticed it didn’t have that characteristic Mimi Hansen signature that she’s so well known for. I thought that was puzzling, so I called Mimi right away.”
Mimi shifted in her chair. She recrossed her legs. I flinched reflexively, afraid that one of those high-heeled shoes would spear me.
“Mimi pretended it was an oversight at first.” Dorothy laughed. “As if she would actually forget to put her signature on a painting like this.”
“Well, I can get forgetful while in the throes of my creative energy, you know… .” Mimi trailed off.
“That’s when Mimi told me her big surprise! She hadn’t signed it on purpose. That way, we can create excitement at the auction because Mimi will be there to sign this painting in front of a crowd of some of the wealthiest people in the city.”
“How unusual,” Mom muttered.
“It’s actually quite a brilliant idea I had,” Mimi said, attempting once again to chuckle. It sounded more like an evil vampire’s laugh. “In fact, it was such a good idea that I decided to create the other painting. Of course, I didn’t sign that one, either.”
“Maybe that’s why someone wanted to steal it,” I said.
“Because the thief didn’t want the auction to make money?” Dorothy asked.
“Because of my brilliant idea?” Mimi asked.
“No. Because if it didn’t have a signature, how could you prove it was a Mimi Hansen? If it’s such a good painting, and I’m sure it is,” I hurriedly added, “then someone else could take credit for it and sell it.”
Dorothy and Mom stared at me.
Ruff licked my hand.
Mimi glared at me again. She was getting good at it.
CHAPTER 6
BY TWO O’CLOCK on Sunday, I’d moved into a new apartment, got a job as a dog walker, met a famous artist, almost witnessed an art heist, and started a new investigation. I was hungry.
I grabbed my sketch pad, and Mom and I headed out to explore our temporary neighborhood. Belltown is part of downtown Seattle, but it’s just north of the big businesses and tall glass skyscrapers. Condos, coffee shops, restaurants, bakeries, coffee shops, apartments, art galleries, coffee shops, and bars line the streets of Belltown. Did I mention coffee shops? Seattle is a bit coffee crazed, and it’s not just because Starbucks HQ is here. Anyway, Belltown is the kind of neighborhood where you can eat your way around the world, with Japanese, Cuban, Vietnamese, Spanish, Chinese, Greek, Mexican, Italian, and French restaurants—but no fast-food joints—all within an easy walk.
“Is there some kind of zoning law here? Like, ‘There must be one art gallery, one restaurant from each continent, and two coffee shops per city block,’” I said.
“Make that each side of the street for each block, and I think you’ve summarized Belltown pretty well,” Mom said. “So, what will it be, the Noodle Ranch or the Noodle House?” We were right in front of the Noodle Ranch, and we would have had to go all the way across the street to get to the other Thai noodle restaurant. The Noodle Ranch it was.
When you’re technically homeless and your mom is a waitress, spending money at restaurants isn’t exactly high on the list of things to do. I never knew noodles could taste as good as they did at the Noodle Ranch. And talk about affordable! I suggested doing a taste test and heading to the Noodle House for dinner, but Mom said we still needed to watch our budget. “Besides, there’s lots to do back at our apartment,” she added.
It feels weird to call it “our” apartment because it’s really Owen’s. That night I curled up on Owen’s eggplant-colored leather couch and looked over the sketches I’d started earlier that day. I’m what’s known in my family as an OCS (obsessive-compulsive sketcher), which Mom says is an artistically accepted cousin to OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder). She also says it might work well with my crime investigation, since OCD doesn’t deter San Francisco detective Adrian Monk on the TV show Monk. He can’t pass a lamppost without touching it. I can’t pass a lamppost without sketching it. Compulsive sketching pays off, though. I have lots of material to shape into my newest graphic novel venture, starring a brilliant young girl of Chinese descent on the trail of a mysterious art thief.
“Hannah,” Mom interrupted me from my drawing state. “I just got a call from Wired.” She sat down on the couch next to me, clutching her cup of herbal tea. I could smell Monkey Jasmine. Mom may work at a coffee shop called Wired Café, but she never drinks coffee. Just tea. “I can do an extra shift tomorrow, but I’ll need to be there by five-thirty.”
“In the morning?” I whined.
“Yep. I’m really sorry, but you know we—”
“—need the money,” I finished for her.
She hugged me, spending a little extra time, like she was going to say more. Then efficient Mom Mode took over, and she spread out three Metro bus schedules on the coffee table. “I think you know all the north-end routes, but here are schedules for the 72, 42, and 7.”
Mom went over my bus options while I tried to turn off the continuous recording in my head: I hate being homeless … I hate being homeless … I hate being homeless …
I know, I know, I know: I’m not truly homeless. Technically homeless, yes. But out on the streets? No. Sleeping in a car? No. Living under a bridge? No. And yet it’s so close.
Every once in a while I like to have a little pity party with yours truly as the guest of honor. That’s what I did our first night in Belltown Towers. Not even a million-dollar view (or an $850,000 view, in this case) could get me past feeling sorry for myself. But cable TV is the perfect guest at the Hannah West Pity Party.
I put my sketch pad away and started flipping channels. Total score. Owen had more cable channels than
our last house-sitting job had offered. I flipped quickly from Channel 2 all the way into the eighties. “Come on, come on … Yes!” Channel 85 was TCN, The Crime Network, twenty-four hours of crime right in your home. I loved this channel. The Crime Network had the real-life investigative shows with detectives and scientists. It also had lots of police dramas like CSI and Law & Order, funny ones like Monk, plus super old detective shows like Columbo.
“Now, this is educational television,” I said, settling in to rewatch the end of a Monk episode. Aside from building my logic and deduction skills, my crime-TV watching keeps my math skills sharp. According to my calculations, I currently have a 92 percent success rate solving crimes. On television, that is.
I watched another episode of Monk, one that I hadn’t seen yet, and actually forgot to keep feeling sorry for myself.
Nothing like solving a mystery to cheer me right up.
Hannah West’s TV Crime Solving Success Rate: 94 percent.
CHAPTER 7
“GET UP AND SHAKE YOUR BOOTY! SHAKE YOUR BOOTY!”
Ever notice how hard it is to get up on a Monday morning? That’s why I, Hannah J. West, employ a little obnoxious disco helper.
“I said: GET UP and shake your booty!” I hit the “snooze” button on my disco alarm. I knew I’d pay for it later.
Five minutes later: “Did you not hear me? I said: GET UP AND SHAKE YOUR BOOTY!” The disco queen was louder and screechier, accompanied by a mini-disco light show and rotating silver mirrored ball. I’ve really got to move that thing across the room so that I absolutely have to get out of bed the first time it tells me to shake my booty. Especially when it’s my first day in a new place and my mom is already at work.
I hit the street at 7:20, heading to Third and Pine to catch the number 72 bus. Perfect timing.
Mom was right. I really was a pro at this. Ever since I was little, she and I had gone all over the city of Seattle on Metrobuses, from the Alki lighthouse in West Seattle (number 66 downtown, then transfer to the number 56 or 37; total trip time fifty-two minutes from our old house) to the swimming beaches at Lake Washington (number 2 from downtown for twenty-one minutes), and just about everywhere in between. She didn’t let me go by myself until sixth grade, and even then she made absolutely sure that I knew what I was doing. I did. Of course. And now it was totally worth it. Being able to get around the city on Metro meant I could keep going to Cesar Chavez Middle School, no matter where we were house-sitting.