Arts and Thefts

by Allison K. Hymas

  “No one ever said you had to paint with a brush,” Aaron said in an even tone. “And as far as I understand, my painting was good enough to please the judges.” He glared at Lee.

  Lee crouched beside Aaron. “Maybe for a little while, but even they couldn’t deny that everyone was right: finger painting is not real art, and you are not a real artist. You’re just a joke.”

  So Aaron was laughed out of last year’s contest because he finger painted his entry? And Lee, being Lee, didn’t seem ready to let him forget it.

  I looked at Ethan. His face twisted with discomfort. “Come on, man. Leave him alone.”

  “Yeah, Lee,” Aaron said. “You should go. Let me work.”

  “Sure. But maybe I should take the brush. It’s not like you need it.”

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to do something. “Shouldn’t you go check on your sculpture? With the saboteur still out there, your sculpture might be next.”

  Aaron grinned. “Yeah. And wouldn’t that be a tragedy. All that clay, or cement, and then you paint the sculptures? Must cost a lot.”

  Lee’s composure cracked. “Not as much as you might think. I recycle things.”

  “So you make your art out of garbage?” Aaron said, and I decided I liked him.

  Lee turned red. “It’s not garbage. It’s my art.”

  “So is mine. I deserve just as much respect as you. And with all I’m learning, I’m going to get that respect.”

  Ethan pulled on Lee’s arm. “We really should check. You don’t want your sculpture attacked.”

  “The saboteur wouldn’t dare attack my sculpture,” Lee said. He glared at Aaron but let Ethan tug him away.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of what I’d just seen, except that Lee was a jerk. I really wished he was the saboteur, but no. He had an alibi. That was no fun.

  “Sorry about that,” Aaron said.

  “Not your fault. How do you know that guy, anyway?”

  Aaron shook his head. “Friend of a friend. I do one favor for the guy and he thinks he owns me.”

  A spiky-haired guy about Aaron’s age appeared, wearing the same orange vest as him and carrying a bunch of finished posters under his arm. “Aaron, you done?”

  “Not yet.” Aaron looked at me. “I should get back to work. See you around.”

  “See you around.” I left Aaron to his work and returned to where Becca and Case had had their meltdown.

  On the way, I ran into Quinn Eccles. She was alone; Larissa must have left. Quinn seemed flustered. I wondered what effect Becca’s public accusation had had on her.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Quinn jumped. She hadn’t noticed I was there. “Oh, hey,” she said. “Still on the case?”

  “Looks like I’m not the only one. Becca’s intense, huh?” Let no one say I don’t know how to use what I’m given. “I’d hate to be the saboteur, with her on the trail. So, got anything to tell me?”

  Quinn shook her head. “No, nothing. I’ll . . . keep you posted.” Then she merged with a passing clump of people and was gone.

  So, after removing my disguise and tucking it behind a garbage can, I approached Becca, my current employer (ha!). She was still where she had come to verbal blows with Case, talking to an adult, probably laying out my best friend’s guilt. So I didn’t feel bad at all pulling her away.

  “Hey, I was just—” she began.

  “I know what you were doing. Case is innocent.”

  “I know.” Becca sighed. “His alibi checks out. That man just told me Case’s mom confirmed that he was with her when it happened. He’s not the saboteur, him or Hack.”

  “Well, good.” I licked my lips. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? You were harsh with Case, even by your standards.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You have to admit, it looked suspicious. I’m still not convinced he’s not Heather’s thief.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Of course you would say that. So, how’d the job go? Did you get the sample?”

  “Uh, not yet.”

  “Wilderson! What did I specifically ask you to do?” “Getting around your mom is going to take a little more time and planning. I’ll get the sample. I promise.”

  “I need more than empty promises. I need evidence.” Becca’s cheeks blazed red.

  “We’ll get it.”

  “Another promise. I can’t go to my mom with promises.” Becca looked furious for a moment, then threw her hands in the air. “Don’t you get it? Mom is chasing the wrong people. She’s cutting me out of the investigation because she thinks I don’t know what I’m talking about. If we don’t find some evidence, if we don’t catch someone, my mom’s not going to take me seriously and the saboteurs are going to get away.”

  Becca looked about one unwise comment away from snapping. Wow, there was a lot more riding on this case for Becca than I thought. It kind of explained her attack on Case; she needed a win.

  “Good thing I didn’t come back empty-handed,” I said.

  “Yeah?” Becca looked annoyed but no longer stressed.

  “I know who the next potential targets are. According to my sources, Diana and Justin were the judge’s favorites for the painting division. Maybe could have won Best Overall. The others are a boy named Henry, in photography, and—”

  “Wait.” Becca pulled out her notebook. “Okay, keep going.”

  “Henry,” I repeated. “And a sculptor named—”

  “Sandra Lynn,” Becca and I said at the same time. Becca looked at me. “I found small black marks on their work. Not enough to show Mom, but enough to worry me. We’re running out of time.”

  “Case?” I asked, my heart racing.

  “Nothing on his. It’s one of the reasons I thought he might be, you know . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as the saboteurs will be if they do anything to his painting,” I said. “But get this. Lee Moffat is one of the second-stringers, just under Sandra in the sculpture division.”

  “Hmm,” Becca said, perking up. “His sculpture wasn’t marked, I don’t think. But there were so many colors that I might have missed something. I’ll go check it again.”

  “Don’t bother. Lee has an alibi. He wasn’t around when Diana was sabotaged, and I confirmed he was at the tent during Justin’s sabotage. He wasn’t the one with the sponge or the brush.”

  Becca deflated. “So Lee’s not a saboteur.”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Do we have any other suspects?”

  “We still have one.”

  Becca’s gaze grew steely. “I thought we decided to drop this subject.”

  “Lee doesn’t have enough evidence or motive supporting him as our saboteur. He’s a jerk, yes, but that’s all we can get him on. You’ve proved Case is innocent. It’s time to start seriously considering Quinn as a suspect.”

  “Not yet.”

  “You need to listen to me. The saboteurs know the judges’ routes. They know when the judges will look at the art, and they’re attacking them before the judges can see them. This is inside information.”

  Becca didn’t look impressed, so I continued. “The favorites might not be a secret, but this is. Only the judges and the contest officials know which art gets viewed when. Did you know Quinn’s mom is a contest judge? Add to that the fact that Quinn’s VP of the Art Club and you have a girl with information she shouldn’t have.”

  “Any contest employee could know the judges’ routes. It’s not Quinn.”

  I grabbed at my hair. “Why do you keep insisting that she’s innocent?”

  “Why do you keep insisting she’s guilty?” Becca rammed a fist into her hip. “I’ve been around the block too, Wilderson. I know guilt when I see it too. Quinn is not guilty.”

  I hated to shatter whatever illusions she had, but truth was truth. “Quinn’s painting has changed. It’s not what it was before. The proof is on Lee’s camera. Remember that
picture of them with their contest entries? Go look at Quinn’s painting now. It’s not the same. Something very weird is going on. It’s time to seriously investigate her.”

  Becca was silent for a while. “Go get the paint sample.”

  “But I can show you. We can go look at Quinn’s painting now.”

  “I’m the detective. You’re the thief.” Becca’s voice was low and hoarse. “You will go get the sample of paint, and you will not get caught. I will investigate Quinn. I will find out who had access to the judges’ routes. You’re right. It is time.” With that, Becca whirled around and hurried off.

  Great. I knew I was right. It was time for Becca to wake up and see all the strangeness surrounding Quinn. Becca needed a win, and investigating Quinn would give her that win—I knew it.

  We had to get evidence. Time was running out, and I had a paint sample to retrieve.

  NORMALLY WHEN I START a job, I like to know where I’m looking. Normally this isn’t a problem. Normally the client tells me, “Ms. Browning put my cell phone in her desk drawer,” or “My money’s in Mitch’s pocket.” That takes care of half the problem and I can set my mind to figuring out when Ms. Browning’s at lunch or how to rig a milk explosion at the perfect time to send Mitch for a change of clothes. Normally, after that the job is easy, just a quick grab and go.

  But let’s be honest. What part of this day was normal?

  I stood outside the park help office, back in my plaid disguise, licking a red-white-and-blue snow cone that was more prop than anything. Outside the help office, men and women in park uniforms were buzzing around like anxious bees. No police blue yet, but somewhere in there was Becca’s mother, suddenly on duty. Did knights feel this way standing outside the dragon’s cave?

  How was I going to pull this off ? I couldn’t be seen, but there were too many people around to just sneak in and out. If I got caught, it wouldn’t just be a slap on the wrist. Best-case scenario, I’d be tossed out without a chance of getting what I needed. Worst case, they’d think I was the criminal and question me, maybe punish me.

  But I had to do something, and soon. Becca was waiting for me to deliver the paint sample. Then I had to help her stop the saboteur before he attacked again. Or, rather, she struck again.

  Hmm. I tossed my sticky cone, half-full of ice, in a trash bin. I didn’t see Detective Mills anywhere. This could be a good thing. Maybe I wouldn’t need to sneak. Maybe I could use the adults’ busyness to my advantage.

  I shrugged my shoulders twice, clenched and unclenched my hands, and started walking to the office. Stand tall, I told myself. You’re supposed to be here. Believe it and they will too.

  I chose my path carefully, weaving behind one guard standing outside the office and to the side of another, just out of their line of sight. Another, posted next to the door, was on the phone. I slid by easily.

  Stay quiet, I reminded myself. Don’t draw attention to yourself. The door creaked as I opened it, making me wince, but no one glanced at me as I entered the office. It was a small building; the main room was just a counter with a table behind it. Adults sat at the table, talking. Some leaned against the counter, on phones or looking over papers, or both. No other kids were present, not even possible suspects. No one to blend in with.

  I felt like a piece of broccoli on a chocolate cake platter.

  Straightening my back, I walked with purpose, like I was supposed to be there. A couple guards glanced at me and frowned. But when I smiled at them, they returned to what they were doing. You’d be amazed how much you can get away with if you act like you’re supposed to be doing it.

  My confidence protected me like a shield. Just as long as I looked like I was supposed to belong, I could go unnoticed by the guards. The effect wouldn’t last long, but I didn’t need it to. I just needed to find Diana’s painting and get out with the sample.

  I strode past the desk. There were no paintings on the table, or on any counter I could see. What if Detective Mills had already sent the paintings away to the police station?

  I glanced around the room. There were two doors. One of them was open and led to an eating area. I couldn’t tell if the paintings were in there. Still, it was a good place to try. I headed for the door.

  “Who are you looking for, kid?”

  I flinched. Crap. Just like that, my invisibility was broken. I turned to see a man in a brown park uniform.

  “No one,” I answered. Not my greatest moment, but I had to say something.

  “Then what are you doing here?” The man tilted his head. He was built like a walrus, large of body and bushy of face.

  My mind raced. I had to give the impression that I had a reason to be there, one that wouldn’t win me unnecessary attention.

  “I was told to come here and grab some mops. Someone spilled a lot of snow-cone syrup. Where can I find them?”

  The guard smiled. “Probably in the storage room where we keep all the recreational equipment,” he said. “You can’t get to it from here. You’ll need to go around.”

  “Thanks, sir.” But that wasn’t going to help me. I needed a reason to stay inside. In a flash of brilliance, I changed tactics. Widening my eyes, I said, “What’s going on here? There are so many cops.” I let my jaw drop, as if in realization. “This is because of the sabotage, isn’t it?”

  “Terrible thing to happen on such a nice day,” the guard said. He took out a ring of keys and added, “Let’s go get you those mops.”

  Oh, that wouldn’t do. If I was taken to the mops, that was it. Disguise or no disguise, they’d know my face. I wouldn’t get a second try. I grabbed the man’s arm. “Can I see the ruined paintings?”

  The guard stopped and gave me a look that made me let go, quickly. “I won’t be any trouble,” I said. “I just wanna get a look at them!” I smiled, looking as innocent and eager as I could manage. “My friends would never believe me.”

  The man sagged, hesitating. Just a little more, just another push. I toyed with my baseball cap, ready to lace my enthusiasm with promises to behave, with hints that this was part of boyhood hijinks (grown-ups love that), with all the signs that this would just make my day, and it wasn’t like anyone had to know—

  The closed door opened, revealing a back office with a desk and computer. Out stepped a short woman with dark hair. She smiled at me from behind the guard, and my eager grin slipped. I knew that smile. Like mother, like daughter.

  The woman approached us. “Hello, James. Who is this?”

  The guard gestured at me. “This kid came here looking for mops, Detective.”

  No wonder I hadn’t seen her from my post; she’d been in the back office. This is why it’s important to be thorough when you case a building.

  Detective Madeleine Mills looked like her daughter: same small frame, same firm jaw, same raised eyebrow when she looked at me. I met the detective’s eyes and looked away. They were dark brown, almost black, and felt like a pair of black holes trying to pull my secrets from my skin.

  I understood why Scottsville’s adults committed so little crime.

  “I believe the mops are kept in the restroom closets,” Detective Mills said. She looked at me, lips pressed tightly together, and I felt a shiver race down my spine. “It’s all right, James, I can take it from here.”

  The guard, James, shrugged and left me with the Fear of God herself. She folded her arms. “You’re the boy who lives across the street, am I right? The Wilderson kid.”

  I swallowed and nodded, mentally pleading that she knew my name because she knew the neighborhood, not because she had heard Becca talking about me.

  If Detective Mills had heard stories about me, she didn’t comment. She just nodded and said, “Did your friends dare you to come here?”

  “No, I just need . . .” My words died on my lips as Detective Mills’s mouth curved into the family smile. There was no point. She knew I wasn’t as innocent as I looked.

  The smart thing to do would be to leave. Apologize, and sca
rper (great word, right? It means “escape”). But next thing I knew, my mouth was running. “My friend’s in the competition. I don’t want him to be attacked next. Maybe if I see the paintings, I could help.”

  Detective Mills grabbed my shoulder with a grip like iron. Any tighter and it would hurt.

  “We have it well in hand,” she said, “as long as we are not distracted from our work by children who mean well. Go be a kid and let us do our jobs. If you come back here, I will have to call your parents and tell them to keep an eye on you. They wouldn’t like that.”

  No, I was sure they wouldn’t. Especially since they were visiting colleges with Rick.

  “And while I’m talking to your parents,” Detective Mills said, “I might mention some rumors I’ve heard about your extracurricular activities that have nothing to do with your position on the track team.”

  It was like someone had slipped an ice cube down my shirt. I looked at Becca’s mom and she gave me the cold, calculating family smile.

  No. She didn’t know about that. Becca had never told her. Detective Mills was bluffing. If she knew about my retrieving, I would have already gotten in trouble, right?

  Detective Mills gave me a little shove and I was back on the path. “Please escort this young man to the restroom,” she said to a nearby officer. “He’s looking for mops.”

  I left with the officer, feeling like I’d just come off a super-scrambler ride at an amusement park. Becca was scary, but she was nothing next to her mother, who was quieter, calmer, but somehow so much worse. I was glad I’d gotten out alive.

  The officer escorted me to a bathroom, where he watched as I grabbed a mop and bucket. Playing my role, I carried them deeper into the park, toward the snow-cone stand closest to the Contestants’ Tent (and the farthest from the help office).

  Just forget the sample, I thought as I walked, arms full. It can’t possibly be worth going back and getting caught by Detective Mills a second time.

  But then I thought about Becca, who needed that sample to identify the kind of paint used in the sabotage. It could be the key to solving the whole mystery! It could save Sandra and Henry and all the other artists who deserved to at least be able to take their work home so their parents could show it off.