Stealing Magic

by Marianne Malone

  “It’s beautiful,” Ruthie said admiringly. She saw an elegant entry hall with a black-and-white marble floor and a curving staircase. On one side, the floor appeared to continue into another room, this one with a view of the Swiss Alps. Anyone standing there would be persuaded the majestic mountains could be seen out the window—from an apartment in the middle of Chicago!

  “The family is Swiss; they miss the Alps, so I painted them. And then they redecorated the whole apartment to feel like Switzerland. Dora Pommeroy was their decorator,” Lydia explained.

  “Weird,” Jack said, studying the computer screen. He walked over to his mother’s drawing table and picked something up. It was a photo of the room where she was planning her newest mural. Holding it next to the screen, he pointed first to a detail in the photograph, then to a detail in the computer image. “Why are there single green apples on tables in both of these pictures? Did you put them there, Mom?”

  “No, I didn’t. I actually didn’t even notice them when I was there.” Lydia looked back and forth from her computer screen to the printed photo. “What a funny coincidence.”

  But then Ruthie noticed something that made the tortilla soup roil horribly in her stomach. In the photo Jack held she saw not only a green apple—she saw a globe!

  When they went back into Jack’s room to collect her messenger bag, Ruthie quickly told Jack that the globe in the photo looked identical to the one missing from the Thorne Rooms, but they couldn’t really talk with his mom around. By the time Lydia and Jack dropped Ruthie off, Mrs. McVittie was already in her nightgown and dozing in her chair, so Ruthie couldn’t bring up the subject with her.

  She put on her pajamas and climbed into bed with Mrs. McVittie’s copy of the catalogue, hoping to see that the globe looked somehow different from the one in Lydia’s photo. She paged through the book, telling herself she must be mistaken. But there on the desk in room E6 sat the two old globes on their wooden tripod stands. There was no denying it: they were identical to the one in the photo, except, of course, they were much smaller.

  Ruthie tried to sleep, but what kept running through her mind was the awful notion that Dora might have something to do with the globe being in that apartment. All she knew for certain was what Lydia had told her: that the family had hired Dora to redecorate. Maybe it was just a standard type of antique globe, or a replica. Probably decorators had copies made all the time, she thought. And there were so many other people who also had access to the Thorne Rooms and could have taken the newly missing items. Ruthie knew from the archive curator that things had to be removed from the rooms to be repaired, such as when the old glue dried out or delicate threads broke because of age.

  Wasn’t assuming that Dora had taken the globe the sort of assumption that Mrs. McVittie had told her to question? Or was it the other way around: should she assume Dora was innocent? Ruthie was completely confused and beginning to feel guilty for having such negative thoughts about Dora. She had been so generous to find time to give Ruthie the drawing lessons. And, after all, Lydia said Dora had a great reputation.

  But the possibility snowballed in her head, crowding all other thoughts out of the way. Even though she was having a great time staying with Mrs. McVittie, and even though she couldn’t talk to them about this dilemma, right now she missed her mom and dad. Especially her dad; she would give anything for a hug from him right now. It was a horrible night, but sheer exhaustion eventually brought sleep.

  She was awakened by Mrs. McVittie, next to her bed, shaking her.

  “Ruthie, dear, wake up. Jack is here and he’s quite upset.”

  Ruthie cracked one eye to look at the clock. Seven forty-five. Impossible! But there was Jack, in the doorway, looking stressed out. He held his laptop.

  “What’s going on?” She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night. Something was bugging me. And then I remembered this. Look.” Jack sat down on her bed, flipped open his computer, and turned it on. He shoved a disk in the drive.

  The video image on the screen was of Jack’s room as seen from the tiny camera he had placed atop the door frame. On the video, a phone rang, and then Lydia’s voice could be heard taking the call. After a few seconds, Dora entered and surveyed the room. She scanned his bookshelf, opened and closed a desk drawer and then kneeled down to look under his couch. She pulled out the shoe box and rummaged through it. Then, clear as day, Dora slipped Christina’s key into her pocket. She was swift, assured and calm. The whole thing had taken less than three minutes.

  “It must have happened when we went to buy milk, remember?” Jack explained. “So much for being trustworthy.”

  Ruthie felt all the breath escape from her lungs. She tried to refill them, inhaling only marginally enough air. She couldn’t cry, since you need big gobs of oxygen for a good sob. Her throat had tightened like some invisible hand was choking her, and she felt the spot between her ribs caving in. Ruthie had never experienced this before, but she knew what it was: betrayal.

  Mrs. McVittie put her hand on Ruthie’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Ruthie. We can work this out. I’ll make some breakfast for us all.” She headed out of the room.

  Ruthie felt an uncontrollable rumble start from deep in her stomach, radiating to her arms and legs. She was shaking all over. “Jack—” she began.

  “Mrs. McVittie’s right,” he said, interrupting her. “Look, now we know for sure what happened to the key. We’ll just get it back.”

  “But I trusted her!”

  “Ruthie, it’s not like it was a real friend who did this,” Jack said.

  “I feel so gullible.”

  “You’re a kid. Grown-ups aren’t supposed to trick us,” he reasoned.

  She was grateful he had said “trick us,” like they were in it together.

  Jack left to help Mrs. McVittie. As Ruthie got dressed, she thought how she had always expected—assumed—that the adults in her life would be good to her, would be fair. Her parents, Ms. Biddle, Lydia, Mrs. McVittie—they would never do something like this. And then she thought about Louisa and Phoebe, and about how the worlds they lived in were filled with grown-ups doing the wrong thing. Her problem with Dora was minuscule in comparison. But what if the people in charge started breaking the rules, or stopped doing the right thing? In the midst of her quivering panic (which made her want to pull the covers back over her head and stay in bed until this all went away), Ruthie also felt the beginnings of a different impulse: people like this had to be stopped, and she might have to be the one to do it.

  They sat in the kitchen for a long time, Ruthie in dazed silence. Jack explained to Mrs. McVittie about the missing globe and Mayflower. He also remembered to tell her about the metal square they’d found inside the lining of the beaded bag.

  “I wonder what it is,” Mrs. McVittie said. “Where is it now?”

  “It’s in my backpack.” Jack went to get it while Ruthie still sat quietly.

  He returned with it in the palm of his hand and turned it over for Mrs. McVittie to see both sides. It wasn’t quite glowing, but it certainly had an odd sheen for something so beat up.

  “Hmmm. Curious indeed. I’ve no idea what it is.”

  “I thought for sure it was some kind of antique thingamajig that you could name,” Jack said.

  “I’m sure you two will figure it out eventually.” She turned back to flip the pancakes. “Do some research.”

  That was not what Ruthie wanted to hear; she wanted answers—now. But Jack and Mrs. McVittie talked over all the angles, all the possibilities of how to go forward.

  “At least they caught the art thief,” Jack said.

  “Yes,” Mrs. McVittie said. “I heard on the news last night.”

  Listening to their conversation and inhaling the smell of pancakes browning was soothing; Ruthie’s throat finally opened up and the shaking subsided.

  “What will you two do?” Mrs. McVittie asked eventually.

  “We can’t call the police,
that’s for sure,” Jack said. “They’d never believe us.”

  Ruthie swallowed hard. Then she remembered today’s scheduled drawing lesson. She really didn’t want to go, but knew she couldn’t avoid it. And her resolve was building: she couldn’t let Dora get away with what she’d done. “This is my fault. I’ll figure out how to get the key back.”

  Dora, wearing another fashionable outfit, greeted Ruthie and Jack with a friendly hello.

  “We’re going to Millennium Park after my lesson, so Jack came with,” Ruthie explained.

  “I hope you won’t be bored waiting,” Dora said.

  “Bored?” he asked. “I’m going to explore the new wing. Text me when you’re done.”

  Suddenly alone with Dora, Ruthie felt her chest tighten. She tried to calm herself, but as she walked down the stairs to Gallery 11, her legs threatened to buckle at any moment. So much had changed since her last lesson!

  They started drawing. I hope she doesn’t see that my lines are wobbly, Ruthie thought, attempting to steady her hand. Ironically, she was working on an American Shaker room, A18, which made it worse, because all the room’s lines were so straight and clean and spare. She should have chosen a different room with curves and patterns, where her nervous lines would be camouflaged.

  She considered various conversation openers—So, Dora, have you ever taken anything out of the Thorne Rooms? or, more directly, Dora, I have a big problem. The key is missing—but none of them felt right. What would Jack say?

  Her pencil lead gave under her tension and snapped down to the wood.

  “Your lead break?” Dora asked from two rooms down. “No problem. I have my sharpener. It’s in my bag, in the inside pocket. Go ahead.”

  The large leather tote bag Dora always carried sat on the floor between the two of them. Ruthie reached down to open it and locate the inner pocket. And then it dawned on her: the key might be in it!

  She peered into the deep darkness. The bag was full of the usual stuff—a phone, a small notepad, a magnifying glass, some pens, lipstick, a hairbrush—except … Ruthie nearly fell over when she saw what was in the very bottom of the bag: four green apples!

  She stared at them for several beats.

  Dora’s voice entered her consciousness, sounding distorted, like a slowed-down recording. “Find it? I’m sure it’s in there.”

  “Here it is.” Ruthie’s voice sounded strained even to herself.

  Dora looked over at her. “Are you okay, Ruthie?”

  “I don’t feel well,” Ruthie said, which was completely true. “I think I should find Jack and go home.”

  “You do look pale all of a sudden.”

  “Maybe I’m coming down with whatever he had,” Ruthie said weakly.

  “In that case, you should go home and get some rest. Let me know if you’re well enough for your Saturday lesson, all right?”

  “Okay, Dora. Bye.” Ruthie couldn’t get away from her fast enough. She left the gallery, her trembling hands trying to text Jack as she tore through the building.

  Ruthie found him coming down the staircase in the new wing of the museum.

  “It’s pretty cool,” he began, and then saw her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “She’s—she’s—the thief!” Ruthie could barely get the words out.

  “I know. Wait—what do you mean?”

  “Green apples … in her big bag.”

  Even though he wasn’t quite sure what had happened, he understood the significance of green apples. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They left the museum and crossed the street to Millennium Park, finding an empty bench near the Cloud Gate sculpture, which everyone called the Bean.

  “Tell me everything,” Jack said. “And breathe slowly.”

  Ruthie recounted how she had found the apples in the bottom of Dora’s bag. “Who walks around with that many apples?”

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “Looks like you’ve discovered the real art thief! And that means the police have the wrong guy in jail!”

  “I should’ve suspected she might be the art thief when I saw the globe in the photograph. I just never thought … but why? Why would she steal all that stuff from all those people? And why would she leave apples when she steals something?”

  “Beats me. And nobody noticed. Or at least none of the victims mentioned it to any of the others, so nobody put it together. It’s only because we saw the two photos, by chance. And then you saw the apples in her bag.”

  “And we saw from your video how good she is at stealing.”

  Ruthie and Jack sat looking at the city reflected on the curving surface of the massive silver sculpture in front of them, watching the crowds enjoying the stainless-steel Bean, endlessly fascinated by their distorted images. The rounded, mirrored surface pulled the sky so low you could touch it, and made you feel both on the ground and in the clouds. And it mirrored how Ruthie felt: unsure of what was up and what was down.

  Ruthie suddenly straightened. “I just thought of something—we know Dora takes things from the rooms. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And without the Mayflower in the room, the world outside is dead, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Jack—what if she takes something from Louisa’s room, the thing that animates it? What if we can’t get back to 1937 Paris to warn Louisa?”

  “That would be a disaster! She hasn’t done it—yet. And there are sixty-seven other rooms for her to steal from,” Jack replied.

  “But she might,” Ruthie said. “We have to get to Louisa first!”

  “Gracious! What’s the matter?” Mrs. McVittie asked as they tumbled into her shop. Their faces left little doubt something had happened at Ruthie’s drawing lesson. She turned the Open sign over to Closed.

  They were out of breath, but Jack managed to get out one phrase: “Dora’s the thief!”

  “I thought we already understood that,” Mrs. McVittie said.

  “Not just the key. She’s the art thief!” Jack declared.

  “How do you know? What happened?”

  “Oh, Mrs. McVittie, it was horrible,” Ruthie said, and recounted everything that had led them to that conclusion. “I saw the green apples in her big bag. I’m sure it’s her. But … why?” Ruthie paced back and forth.

  “That poor, innocent man sitting in jail,” Mrs. McVittie said, shaking her head. “But the issue at hand is what to do with this information.”

  “The apples alone won’t prove anything!” Jack asserted. “And we can’t tell the police we know she’s the thief because she stole Christina of Milan’s magic key, or that she took a tiny globe that grew to full size!”

  “Jack is right,” Mrs. McVittie agreed.

  The midday sunlight didn’t penetrate far into the shop; the yellow glow of the reading lamp encircled them instead. Ruthie felt safe in it. “We’ll have to catch her red-handed,” she said, not at all happy about the prospect of a confrontation. “And we have to do it fast, before she has the chance to steal something else, especially from E27!”

  Jack lit up. “I got it! My camera! We can record her stealing, just like we did in my room.”

  “But how? Where? It’s not like we know who she’s going to steal from next,” Ruthie said.

  “A minor detail.” He looked at Mrs. McVittie. “How about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t you hire her to redo your apartment? We can catch her stealing something.”

  Mrs. McVittie didn’t look thrilled with the idea. “I would do it to catch a criminal, if it were absolutely necessary.…”

  “I know!” Ruthie said suddenly. “Dr. Bell! I bet she’ll help us!” After all, she explained, Caroline Bell already believed in the magic of the Thorne Rooms. Dr. Bell understood that it had to be kept a secret and—once they filled her in—would want the rooms to be protected from Dora Pommeroy.

  “But what if she doesn’t have anything Dora wants to steal?” Jack asked.

&nbs
p; “I think she does,” Ruthie said with confidence.

  “COME IN!” DR. BELL GREETED them at her front door late Friday afternoon. “I just got home from work.” Dr. Bell had returned their phone call almost immediately when they’d called the day before and she’d eagerly agreed to help. So much rested on solving this problem and solving it fast, before Dora could steal anything else. And there was no room for error in their plan.

  It turned out that Dr. Bell’s house needed redecorating anyway. It reminded Ruthie of her own family’s apartment: comfortable but not a place where artists live. Dr. Bell was a very busy pediatrician who didn’t spend much time on her house. However, unlike Ruthie’s home, there were lots of interesting objects about. Dr. Bell’s father had given her works of art, but she’d never figured out how to display them properly. Her collection wasn’t nearly as extensive as his, but she had a few paintings and small sculptures, including some African art, and of course Edmund Bell’s photographs. They not only graced the walls but leaned up against them, waiting to be hung.

  “I can never decide on the best place for anything. I just don’t have the knack for it,” she explained to Ruthie and Jack as they looked around her living room. “And look at this,” she said, picking up a small bronze geometric sculpture from a shelf. “I know it’s a lovely piece, but I don’t have the faintest idea where to put it.” She held up another interesting object: a small African statue covered in petite white shells. “Or this. Should these two things stand next to each other like this?”

  “I like your house the way it is,” Ruthie offered. “It looks like you live here.”

  “Thank you. It does look that way, for sure.” She smiled. “So tell me how you’re going to work this.”

  Ruthie reached into her messenger bag and pulled out the silver box that Dr. Bell had given her earlier in the week, the one that belonged in room E10.

  Dr. Bell’s eyebrows rose when she saw it. “Is that what I think it is?”