Deceiving Mr. Bevison

by Nanette Fynan

  ****

  Well, we lost the game, but it sure felt like a win. The crowd just about choked itself cheering us while we played “Scotland the Brave” and marched off the field. Word must have gotten around about Brother Matthew’s version of the events. Little ripples of pride were trickling down my spine. I was going to get an attitude from this if I didn’t watch it.

  Ms. Kent didn’t even stop to have us put away our pipes. We were marched, pipes and all, right smartly, straight to Father Dell’s office.

  The Head reached out to Ms. Kent and interrupted her before she could spill the beans about anything. I guess he sensed her dread about what we’d done.

  “Ms. Kent, I am so glad you’ve . . . come. Make yourselves comfortable, boys,” said Father Dell as he reassured her with a friendly handclasp. Ms. Kent smiled awkwardly as she fondly patted the old man’s plump little hand.

  We found ourselves places to perch on the arms of furniture and tables and floor.

  Officer Landers was looking sour as he was leaving, with Harley in tow. “We’ll be seeing you brothers later at the station when you come to complete your charges against Mr. Bevison,” said Officer Landers stiffly. He was avoiding eye contact with us and Ms. Kent. It must have been really hard for her to resist a parting shot at his arrogant backside.

  Father Dell quietly closed his office door and turned.

  “I think we can talk with you boys freely, now the police and their prisoner have gone.” He scratched at his scraggly off-white hair.

  “What were you doing in this office area during a football game?” asked Brother Matthew, beginning from the interrogation perspective. Father Dell interrupted to change the tack.

  “In a minute, Matthew. What I want to know is: Who made this interesting . . . ummm . . . creature that is on my desk?” he said, eyeing our wild and weird “Candidate.”

  “Well, Father . . . ,” began Brookie.

  Ian stepped forward. He was going to be our leader, no matter how badly it hurt. That had to take a lot of courage. I was impressed. He stood up straight and took a deep breath.

  “We were concerned about Ms. Kent and the presence of Harley Bevison on campus, Father Dell.”

  “My God, he’s going to tell the truth,” gagged Brookie, grabbing my arm and staggering against me.

  “It happens,” I whispered back.

  “We discovered Mr. Bevison was bothering Ms. Kent about a pre-Columbian work of art that was in your office area. We couldn’t have him hassling Ms. Kent and getting her in trouble, so we made a few . . . er . . . replacements in art class and decided to decoy him into thinking our statue was the one he was after.” He stepped back, with a sick look in his eyes as he looked around at the teachers in front of him.

  “We really didn’t plan to catch him in the act of stealing it, Ms. Kent, honest,” Brookie pleaded, looking at her horrified face. “We had no idea he was going to show up right when we made the switch.”

  Father Dell surprised us all. He started chuckling, and we started staring. And then we got seriously worried about his sanity as his laughing escalated and was close to a honking guffaw by the time it tapered off and he came back to himself.

  “Quite clever, boys. Great minds must think alike, but in ways you may not suspect.”

  Not only did we not get it, Father Dell had completely lost his stutter, even after laughing like a demented hyena.

  He choked back another laugh. “What you did is exactly what Brother Matthew and I had planned ourselves.” He gave a triumphant shout. “Oh my, we did put one over on our friend Bevison, didn’t we, boys!” We gaped as he went over to a safe behind the desk, opened it, and carefully pulled out yet another version of “The Candidate.” Was I seeing in triplicate? Three statuettes: Mordred, “The Candidate,” and one more!

  We got it. Father Dell had also made a decoy. Father Dell and Brother Matthew had gone one step further. They had actually tried to catch Harley in the act. Wow, did this headmaster have hidden serious cool. Talk about not judging a book by its cover!

  After everyone was done exclaiming over our trio of uglies on the desk, Brother Matthew cleared his throat apologetically.

  “Let me explain, everyone. My great-grandfather Obadiah Brown was the original owner of that atrocity,” he said, pointing to the statuette that Father Dell had just pulled from the safe. “To be honest, I can’t recommend my family as people of the highest principles. In fact, the best word to describe them is ‘bandits.’”

  “Which we all have trouble believing, knowing your scrupulous honesty, Matthew,” commented Father Dell. Brother Matthew blushed lightly. I guess he was remembering the lies he’d just told on the athletic field.

  “Is Brother Roger also related?” blurted Brookie.

  There was a blank look, and then Father Dell smiled. “No, boys. Brother Roger’s name is Brown, but that was only a coincidence. However, returning to Brother Matthew . . . ,” he said, looking pointedly at the speaker.

  Brother Matthew cleared his throat and thought a minute.

  “It was oral history within our family that our great-grandfather was a slick old speculator. He protected his fortune using an old trick: collecting art, which he then donated to the monastery the moment the financial crash came in 1929. He donated this statuette to prevent his private collection from being liquidated with the rest of his estate when he was hit with bankruptcy during the Depression. But Great-Grandfather died before he was able to retrieve his art when the economic situation improved.” He walked over and put his hand on the real pre-Columbian statuette.

  Prakash nodded and added in an undertone, “The excavations in South America were really heating up in the 1920s. It was very trendy to have pre-Columbian art in your collection.” I shushed him.

  “Well, it seems my cousins ran into some problems of their own when the stock market crashed again in 2008, but they hadn’t been as wily as old Obadiah. They needed to bail out the family company, which was already tottering on the edge of bankruptcy, in part because of some of their questionable practices. They were relying on the myth of the fortune of Obadiah’s statue to tide them over until things improved.

  “The problem was nobody in my family was quite sure what the art object was or what it looked like. So they asked me, figuring that I’d know where it was, since I was part of the museum staff. They sent Mr. Bevison to try to find out more information. It was not pleasant. That’s when I came to Father Dell with my doubts about what was going on.” Brother Matthew looked a little sick at the thought of the whole thing.

  “Apparently my cousins also asked Harley, as an art dealer, to handle the negotiations with Father Dell. What they didn’t count on was that Mr. Bevison was going to try to get it for himself.”

  Father Dell took over the tale. “But we are getting ahead of our story, Matthew. Harley Bevison did contact me about the statuette, to find out more about it and to try to purchase it, at first,” said the Head. “Something must have changed his mind after speaking to me. Perhaps when I told him it was priceless, he took that to mean it was valuable. That’s when he broke off negotiations.” Father Dell hitched up his robe and sat down in his desk chair.

  “So you knew Harley was going to steal it?” I asked.

  “No.” He smiled wisely, shaking his head. “But Matthew started getting suspicious after you boys spotted Harley roaming the halls in his monk disguise.”

  “So if Brother Matthew didn’t let him in the monastery when he was dressed as a monk, who did?” I asked.

  Father Dell looked surprised and shook his head. “Not Brother Matthew. He must have just walked in, dressed as he was.”

  “But when did Harley find out where the statuette was? Did we lead him right to it, with all the mistakes we made that night when we found the acquisitions book and left it open to the right page?” I asked, disgusted at myself for having made that goof.

  “Not only were you and Brother Matthew there that night, so was Mr
. Bevison. He was able to question the security guard about all the noises going on and convinced him, with a little bribery, to let him see if the museum was all right,” said Father Dell.

  “That was when Bevison found the information he needed and decided to steal the artwork for himself. It was quite a sight, seeing him pore over the acquisitions book that night,” said Brother Matthew with a sigh.

  “So that was you in the museum when we took the pictures?” Brookie groaned.

  “What a night! First, you gave me the fright of my life, boys. Then Harley showed up.” Brother Matthew wiped a hand over his face, remembering.

  “The compliment is mutual.” I grinned in total understanding.

  “I was only able to hide myself from Bevison in the nick of time. Thankfully I did and was able to prove his interest in the statuette was more, ah . . . personal.”

  “It was at this point that I decided to have this copy made,” said Father Dell, patting his Mordred, “and I let Harley know I’d be displaying it on my desk while giving him plenty of opportunities to snatch it when Brother Matthew was available with a camera and to act as witness.”

  “Whoa, you set up a sting?” gasped Brookie.

  “I believe that is the term, yes, Brookstone. Remember, Mr. Bevison had never seen the statuette. I was trying to protect the original and lure Harley into an act of theft. And I left Brother Matthew on constant watch, in case we could catch Harley in the act of stealing.”

  “So that is the story. Harley was nagging me about getting into the monastery museum so he could steal this, not buy it?” Ms. Kent said, touching the little statue in wonder. “The rat. He must have known I’d be considered an accomplice if he was caught. He could have ruined my life entirely!” she said indignantly.

  “I know that now, my dear. I didn’t realize it then. Until you came to me with those photos of Mr. Bevison trespassing, I thought he had contacted only me and Brother Matthew. I’m very sorry I wasn’t able to reassure you. You should have trusted me, told me what Mr. Bevison was looking for.”

  Ms. Kent didn’t know where to look, she was so embarrassed.

  “I realized when I saw those pictures why you boys were involved, not just as busybodies. You were worried about Ms. Kent. I’m sorry, dear, that I took so long to realize how distressed you were by that annoying ex-husband of yours. We are so grateful for the boys’ dedication and loyalty to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Father. And I guess I should have known you’d understand, too, Brother Matthew. But I was afraid—and stubborn enough to believe I could handle it myself. And I wasn’t at all sure that Brother Matthew would be sympathetic.”

  “So were you the ones who gave Harley the tickets to the Parents’ Weekend dinner?” I had to clear up the rest of my questions while I had the chance.

  “Yes, we hoped he would reveal more about himself, and we could keep our eye on him better if we had his confidence. We were quite shaken after the impersonation incident. I realized that this weekend was a perfect one for the sting. I didn’t want Harley to miss seeing the little thing,” Father Dell said in a bemused tone, turning the statue to give us a chance to look at it from all angles. He looked up briskly.

  “He really was remarkably difficult to lure into my office, for all his so-called cleverness. I even had to invite him to the football game and send him tickets and tell him I was putting the statuette on my desk while I was out of town.

  “Then I pretended to leave town, making sure the doors were all easily unlocked and Brother Matthew was poised to call the police. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think you boys would be ready to act so quickly. You quite surprised all of us this morning.”

  “And you guys walked right into it and further confused the issue, in a public and very dramatic fashion,” said a glaring Ms. Kent.

  We looked at the three statuettes lined up on the desk. I could see how amateur ours looked compared to the other two, but it had done its job well enough.

  “It’s hard to believe anybody would spend money on something this ugly, isn’t it, boys?” asked Father Dell as he walked behind his desk. He reached down to get something out of his desk drawer.

  “But you don’t know the half of it,” he said, suppressing a giggle. To our confusion, he was holding a wooden mallet poised over his head.

  “So, since I now have not one but two wonderful copies to remind me of how powerful the force of greed is, I’m going to sacrifice this one,” he said, pointing to the original original. Not Mordred, not “The Candidate.” There was a collective gasp as Father Dell brought the mallet down with a smack on the statuette’s head and it crumbled into large ceramic chunks.

  Had he lost his marbles? No, he was really the only one of us who knew what was going on. We watched in awe as he cleaned the clay off the core of the statue. Beneath the clay, we saw what it had all been about: Father Dell had revealed a solid gold statuette underneath the ugly clay ceramic. The once-hidden statuette gave off a golden burnished gleam as Father Dell held it high, rotating it in a beam of sunshine for us all to see.

  “Oh, my gosh. Will you look at that?” Eyes bugged out, Brookie for once in his life was bested as center of attention.

  “And just how many ounces is that?” asked Prakash, busy checking the current price of gold on his iPhone. Everyone laughed but strained closer to get a good look. Probably we’d never get to see that much pure gold in one place again.

  “I, of course, realized it was gold. It simply weighed too much to be a ceramic statue. But that was my secret,” whispered Father Dell.

  “I think, without doubt, Father, this is the most valuable thing in the whole monastery collection,” Brother Matthew spoke excitedly. “However, ethically speaking, it was just a loan from Obadiah, until he could come claim it again. He had no intention of permanently gifting St. Rupert’s Order with something this valuable, despite what he may have said to our former abbot.”

  “As tempting as it is to sell it and spend the proceeds for renovations to St. Rupert’s Academy, I think you are right, Matthew. And I also think that it is just too valuable to be kept in our museum.”

  “Shall we give this to a legitimate museum to remove any temptation?”

  “Absolutely. Obadiah’s relatives will have to deal publicly with the legal tangles involved if they want it back—and oh my, what a gnarled legal tangle it will be.” Father Dell turned to us, beaming with the glow of victory.

  “Thanks to you most devoutly for your help, boys.”

  “Even if you did have to lie to the cops?” Brookie said, with a wink to Brother Matthew.

  Father Dell shook his head sternly. He had to straighten us out on that one as quick as a blink.

  “No question about that, boys. The police will get the absolute truth. Brother Matthew’s story was just for the general public, to explain Brookstone’s dramatic interruption of the football game,” he said, looking over at the brother for confirmation. Their eyes met with a long look of understanding, and Brother Matthew nodded.

  ****

  As we were slowly walking away from the school offices, we grinned shyly at Ms. Kent. She smiled back at us a little skittishly, likely not knowing if she should trust us out of her sight again.

  “Why did you all stick your necks out for me like this—again?” asked Ms. Kent. “I mean, you could have gotten into real trouble, guys; even I am not worth that.”

  “We wanted you to be on your mettle. We felt like you were losing your edge as a coach,” Ian mumbled.

  Ms. Kent looked flummoxed by that.

  “And Mac and I just wanted to risk our lives for you, so we could win the Area Championships,” snarked Brookie.

  Ms. Kent opened her mouth and shut it again. She wasn’t sure how to take Ian and Brookie’s lame stabs at humor.

  “Anytime now. We can start practicing anytime now,” said Prakash, shaking his pipes in his hands like we were holding up his very important practice session.

  I
had a niggling feeling inside. Joshing the teacher was all well and good, but we hadn’t really said it. Simple truth: Besides being a great teacher and a really fabulous piper, she was a great person, and we all would have done anything for her. Should I, the very newest band member, be the one to say it? Out loud?

  So I did say it. Out loud. She turned pink and couldn’t look any of us in the eye. She looked really flustered and embarrassed.

  “Okay . . . well . . . I really appreciate your loyalty, band. But next time, don’t commit any felonies for me, please, guys?” She cringed a little, remembering.

  “Just practice your pipes, study hard, and show up on time for practice.” She threw up her hands. “Oh, what the heck, I like you guys, too.” Then she started crying and laughing at the same time and went around, reaching up on tiptoe to hug each of us. Bold, outrageous, and cool, every one of us. Cool enough to be pipers and bold enough to get hugged, we shouted outrageously all the way back to the bleachers to put our pipes away.

  ###

  Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment to leave a review at your favorite retailer?

  Thanks!

  Nanette Fynan

  About the Author

  Nanette lives in Northern California with her family. When she is not writing she plays the fiddle for the Celtic band Plaid Menagerie. She is currently working on a Celtic fantasy and a sequel to Deceiving Mr. Bevison. Read more about her work at www.plaidmenagerie.com.

  Connect with Nanette Fynan

  I really appreciate you reading my book! Here are my social media coordinates:

  Friend me on Facebook: www.facebook.com/deceiving.mr.bevison.

  Subscribe to my blog: https://nsfynan.wix.com/deceiving-mr-bevison#!blog/cjk5