by Linda Johns
I got an uneasy feeling about this guy even when I was only looking at him in 2-D.
CHAPTER 15
MOM WAVED HELLO but she was talking on her cell phone when I walked into M Coy Books. She fills in at this cool bookstore by the Pike Place Market when Michael and Michael, the owners, need extra help. I looked through a copy of Bad Cat near the cash register until she got off the phone.
“That was Mary Perez,” Mom said. “We were going to meet for a quick walk tonight, but she’s on a story. She’s at the Martin Lee Gallery in the U-district—and another Mimi Hansen was just stolen!”
“I hate the way people say that!” I exclaimed, completely glossing over the fact that Mom had said that another painting had been stolen.
“What?” Mom said.
“You know, they say ‘a Mimi Hansen’ instead of saying ‘a painting.’ Like, ‘a Mimi Hansen was stolen.’ You just said it that way. It drives me crazy,” I ranted.
“Somehow I don’t think that’s what’s really bothering you,” Mom said.
“I’m just so sick of Mimi Hansen. A week ago I’d never even heard her name. Now I hear it all the time,” I said.
A customer walked up to the counter. Mom gave me the “I’ll talk to you later” signal.
It took me this long to register exactly what Mom had said. A painting by Mimi Hansen had been stolen in the University district, where I’d just been. In fact, the Martin Lee Gallery was right across the street from where I’d transferred to the southbound bus.
I headed to the back where one of the Michaels was working behind the coffee bar. I sat down on a tall stool and he slid a Thomas Kemper Vanilla Crème Soda down the counter to me. I like sitting at the counter. It feels so grown up, like I’m a regular at a diner.
“Rough day, I take it?” Michael asked.
“Nah. Just an ordinary day in the life of a Seattle middle schooler on the go. I’ve taken four different buses to get here, and I’m still not home. Not that I even have a home. On top of that, a snotty art guy was extra-special snotty to me because I’m a kid,” I whined.
Michael handed me an Uncle Seth cookie. It was one of those huge round shortbread cookies with an inch of fluffy pink frosting on top. “Mmmm … sugar bomb,” I said, à la Homer Simpson. I gratefully bit into the cookie.
“What’s the Honcho auction?” I asked Michael.
“Do you mean Humans of Northwest Cultural and Harmony Organizations?” he asked.
“Huh?” I was paying attention, but this pink frosting was divine.
“It’s what Honcho stands for. It started off as a joke, making fun of the Poncho auction, where the superwealthy people buy things they don’t need for outlandish prices, and it all supports the arts,” he said.
“Poncho? What a dorky name for an auction,” I said.
“It’s an acronym, too. Patrons of Northwest Charitable something-or-other Organizations, or something like that,” Michael said.
“So why do they need a Honcho auction if there was already a Poncho auction?” I asked between cookie bites.
“A bunch of MegaComp millionaires started Honcho to raise money for the fringe theater groups and undiscovered arts organizations that they thought were overlooked by Poncho. Now the Honcho auction is the biggest arts fund-raiser in the city.”
“Who goes?” I asked.
“Anyone can go, as long as you guarantee that you’ll spend at least two thousand dollars while you’re there,” he said.
“Yikes!” I exclaimed.
“Two thousand is just a drop in the bucket,” Michael said. “Last year, a puppy was auctioned off for eight thousand dollars.”
“For a puppy? What kind of wonder dog was it?”
“A Cavalier King Charles spaniel,” Michael said.
“Those are pretty cute dogs,” I said. In addition to knowing Metro bus schedules, I’ve also memorized The Legacy of the Dog, a dog-breed book that I used to look at every time I went to M Coy Books. “Still, that’s a whole lot of money.”
“They’re predicting that some of those Mimi Hansen paintings will go for five to twenty thousand dollars apiece,” said Michael. “All the recent publicity hasn’t hurt, either.”
Just then, another customer came and sat at the coffee bar. What are people in Seattle doing drinking coffee at six o’clock in the evening? Obviously this woman needed a double-tall nonfat latte to have the energy to get her home.
Mom came down the steps toward the coffee counter.
“I was listening to KUOW, and I heard about another Mimi Hansen painting being stolen,” she said.
“The one from the U-district?” I asked.
“No. Another one. Just in the last few minutes. This last robbery was from a gallery on Eastlake.”
CHAPTER 16
MOM AND I were back at Belltown Towers by 6:25 P.M. Dorothy Powers left a message inviting us up for mu shu pork. By 6:28, we were at her door. By 6:29, Mom had told her about the robberies, giving us a full minute to gather in front of the tiny TV in Dorothy’s kitchen for the 6:30 news.
Mom’s friend Mary was on camera in front of the art gallery where I’d just encountered Mr. Snotty Art Guy. That’s right. The same gallery where I’d been less than an hour and a half ago.
“We reported earlier on the theft of a painting by Seattle artist Mimi Hansen. The painting was stolen from the Martin Lee Gallery of Local Art in the University district. Just one hour later, a second painting by artist Mimi Hansen was stolen from yet another gallery. This time the thief struck here, at the Hennings Boveng Gallery on Eastlake,” Mary said. The camera backed up to show the storefront of the gallery. Then it zoomed in on Mary again.
“Seattle police are puzzled about who could sneak so swiftly into a gallery during daylight hours, boldly take a piece of artwork off the wall, and disappear without anyone noticing. Traffic was at a standstill on Eastlake Avenue when the theft occurred at the Hennings Boveng Gallery, making it nearly impossible for a getaway car to be involved. Police add that they have no leads on the case, but they have set up a special toll-free hotline for anyone who may have information on the art thefts throughout the city.” An 800-number flashed on the screen.
“Hansen has taken the local art world by storm in the last few months. She is known for the wide range of her work. Many call her a prolific artist.”
I glanced at Mom and saw her smirk.
“I have artist Mimi Hansen here with me now,” Mary continued on TV. “Mimi, tell us a bit about your thoughts about these crimes. Why do you think someone would target your work?”
I was betting that Mary wasn’t happy about having to turn over the microphone to Mimi again. Last time Mimi had grabbed the microphone out of Mary’s hands and taken over the interview.
This time Mimi kept her hands off the microphone, but she clearly had a command over the camera. The camera got closer and closer as she talked.
“This is such a cruel, cruel crime,” Mimi said. She took off her sunglasses and dabbed a tissue at her eyes. “Art is a precious creative statement that has the ability to reach the soul of every person. Even if they don’t understand the complexity of my art, it still resonates with them on some emotional level.”
Geesh. Was she being insulting or what?
“I find it hard to believe that a common criminal would have the intellectual ability to appreciate fine art like mine. I think this thief must be a cut above the rest. Obviously I am a rising star, and my art will be worth more and more every year,” she continued.
“It will be worth even more now with all this publicity,” Mom muttered.
“I can only hope these paintings are returned soon. Some of my work will be featured at the Honcho auction next weekend. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that the Mimi Hansen paintings are the most important items at this year’s auction. If you are the thief and you are watching now, I beg you to return them. Do it for the arts. Do it for Honcho,” Mimi said. She put her sunglasses back on and choked back a sob.
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The camera turned back to Mary. “This is Mary Perez, live on Eastlake Avenue, reporting on the most recent art theft. Back to you, Kathy.”
“Oh dear,” said Dorothy. She clicked off the TV. “Mimi is such a powerful artist. I hope all this publicity doesn’t destroy her or weaken her artistic vision.”
I remembered what Michael had said earlier.
“I think she might like all the publicity,” I said. Dorothy gave me a surprised, almost dismayed look.
“She does seem to do well when all the cameras are on her, Dorothy,” Mom said softly.
“Surely you don’t think Mimi had anything to do with this?” Dorothy asked.
Mom and I looked at each other.
“I don’t think Mimi is behind the thefts,” I started to say. “I think—”
“I agree with you, Hannah,” Mom said, pointedly interrupting me. “Mimi isn’t stealing them. She certainly couldn’t make a quick getaway with those high-heeled shoes she wears.” I laughed a little. Mom realized she might have been too glib, so she quickly turned more serious. “I’m sorry. That just slipped out,” she said to Dorothy. “But she does seem quite comfortable in front of a camera.”
“Mimi seems to magically appear whenever there’s a theft—and a TV camera,” I said.
“Dear, I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Dorothy said.
“Maybe I am exaggerating,” I admitted. “Do you think Mimi used to work on TV? She seems totally into this camera thing. I don’t mean that as an insult or anything,” I quickly added.
Neither Mom nor Dorothy had any idea about Mimi’s past. It’s like six months ago an artist named Mimi Hansen didn’t exist. Now she was the talk of the town as well as the toast of the town. I wonder if that was how it worked. You had to get people talking about you before you could be highly regarded for something, for anything.
We thanked Dorothy for dinner. Then Mom headed back down to Owen’s apartment, and I took Ruff downstairs for a quick walk around the block. We’d just started down the street when a guy on a bike swerved wide on the sidewalk to miss us, then jumped off his bike while it was still moving, in a graceful style I now expected from bike messengers. This bike guy leaned his bike against a large blue-glazed planter near the Belltown Towers entrance. He straightened his messenger bag and a second bag that was like an artist’s portfolio case. He buzzed a number on the intercom security system.
“Yes?” a voice crackled over the intercom.
“Delivery for you, Mr. Chomsky.”
Bzzzzzzz.
The front door unlocked, and the same Swifty’s bike messenger I’d seen at least two times before headed into the Belltown Towers. After hours. At least an hour after the last delivery time listed on Swifty’s Web site. I know that because I checked. No weekend deliveries. No evening deliveries.
Except to Belltown Towers?
CHAPTER 17
I TOOK RUFF for a quick loop around the block. I went back up to thirteen and was just getting off the elevator when the door to PH-2 quickly closed. It hadn’t been open far. It was as if Mr. Chomsky was checking out the action, seeing who was getting off the elevator. That gave me an idea.
I knocked softly on Mr. Chomsky’s door. I stood back from the door and directly in line with the peephole so he could see me. I had a hunch he’d probably been looking through it the entire time anyway.
“Yes?” I heard his voice from the other side of the door.
“Mr. Chomsky? I’m a friend of Dorothy’s? Your neighbor across the hall?” Yee gads. My voice was going up at the end of each sentence, like I was asking questions. Time to change to a more assertive tone. “My name is Hannah. I’m her dog walker. I was wondering if I could ask you something.”
The door opened a crack. “Something about what? Please be more specific when making an information request,” he said.
“Well, I wanted to ask you about delivery services,” I said. “I’m working on a social-studies project on different service professions, and I thought I’d see if you ever used UPS, FedEx, or any other kind of services for deliveries … maybe even bike messengers?” I hoped I’d been smooth and subtle.
The door opened. “I don’t often get visitors,” he said. “I’ll leave the door open, and we can talk right here.” He didn’t say that in a cranky way like someone might if they didn’t want to invite you inside. Quite the opposite. I think he had impeccable manners, as he must have recognized that my mom would go absolutely ballistic if her daughter went into a stranger’s apartment.
And what an apartment! Even from the doorway I could tell it was the mirror image of Dorothy’s, but while Dorothy’s was full of old-world charm and art and cozy rugs and overstuffed chairs, Mr. Chomsky’s apartment was supertechy mixed with the decor of an overcrowded library. Books covered almost every inch of his walls, as well as every flat surface available, including the floor, where more books were precariously stacked into two-and three-foot piles. At least a half-dozen easels were scattered throughout the living room, some with paintings in their frames and some with unframed canvases. Even with the overabundance of books, the place seemed clean and organized. There seemed to be order to the chaos.
There was one spot on the wall where a large plasma screen replaced the books. It looked as if the bookcase had been custom-built to allow for the screen’s exact dimensions. Apparently the plasma screen was also his computer monitor, because instead of seeing a television show, the screen was full of a word-processing document. He must have noticed I noticed it, because he took a device out of the pocket of his shirt and whispered into it, “Change screen.” The screen switched to a crisp photograph of a tulip field.
I’d expected Mr. Chomsky to be one of two ways: a wild-haired Einstein kind of guy in a bathrobe or a stuffy-looking British guy who wears bow ties all the time, even when playing tennis, which of course he would never do because he never left his apartment. Both of my visions of Mr. Chomsky were wrong. He was dressed pretty normal, with Levi’s, a bright white cotton turtleneck with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and shiny cowboy boots. He had short gray hair and a clean-shaven face.
“This isn’t about social studies, is it?” he asked, and he smiled. It was a genuine smile that you could see was sincere because of the way his eyes seemed to be smiling, too. If I’d expected this hermit to be a deranged old man, I was wrong. Ruff seemed at ease here, too, and so far his instincts had been spot on. Still, I stayed in the doorway in case my own assessment was wrong.
“No, it isn’t about social studies. Unless you want to talk about the Byzantine Empire, which is what we’re studying right now,” I admitted.
“Interesting subject, the Byzantine Empire,” he said. “But I suspect that something else has piqued your curiosity.”
I was pretty curious about why this cowboy-boot-wearing man stayed in his apartment all the time, but I had enough basic manners under my belt to know I couldn’t just blurt out questions about that. “Actually, I want to know about bike messengers,” I said. “Dorothy said you have messengers deliver stuff to you.”
“That I do. Are you looking to supplement your dog-walking business?” he asked.
“Um, no. I’m just wondering. Did you have a messenger deliver something to you this past Sunday?”
“Sunday? No, no, no. I’ve tried every bike-messenger service in Seattle, and no one seems to want to work on Sundays. Not even on Saturdays. In this town, it’s strictly weekdays.”
“Even Swifty’s bike messengers?” I asked.
“Especially Swifty’s,” Mr. Chomsky said. “I used them for years, but they cut back their service hours. No deliveries after six P.M. and no deliveries on weekends.”
“Interesting,” I said, mulling this over, stalling for time like Columbo from that 1970s detective show. “I thought I just saw a Swifty’s bike messenger make a delivery here.”
“Oh no, my dear. I’m sure you didn’t see a messenger coming here after-hours,” Mr. Chomsky said with a w
ink. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to my research. If you decide you want to discuss the Byzantine Empire, please come back. It’s not my primary research focus these days, but I did devote a few years during the 1950s to it,” he said. His manner, although still friendly, turned abrupt.
“Research?” I must have looked dumbfounded.
“Yes. I need to get back to my research,” he said again.
“Well, thank you,” I said, bending down to scoop up Ruff. It was an artful ploy to give me a chance to stall and look one last time inside his apartment.
“Aaahhhh …” I started to gasp. “I mean, aaaah-choooo …” I faked a sneeze.
I’d just seen two large, flat packages wrapped in plain brown paper leaning against Mr. Chomsky’s worktable, right alongside a country landscape with the name Mimi Hansen scrawled in the lower right corner.
CHAPTER 18
AS SOON AS I got home, I called Lily to discuss this latest development in the case. It was pretty clear that Mr. Chomsky was hiding something with his off-hours messenger deliveries. And what was with those wrapped-up paintings? Did he have something to do with the thefts?
“And why do I keep seeing the same bike messenger all the time?” I asked Lily.
“Twice? You’ve seen this guy twice, and you call that all the time?” she asked.
“I think it’s been three times. And I think it’s significant. Three is always significant. Like that blue painting I saw in Nina’s studio. The one that I thought James painted, but the rest of the world says Mimi Hansen painted. I’ve seen that same painting three times now. Three times! That’s significant.”
“I’d say weird would be a better word choice than significant,” Lily said.
“It’s even weirder that it’s a Mimi Hansen painting,” I said. “Something isn’t quite right. It really seemed like it was part of James’s work at the studio. And why do I keep seeing bike messengers?”