Paint by Magic (18 page)

I was rescued from having to answer when Elsie, who had been standing there scowling, suddenly lit up with a huge grin.

"I know how to get him out of the studio."

"How?" we all asked.

"Just wait," she said. "It'll be foolproof."

"Mama's waiting for her fella. Mama's all dressed up in yella!" chanted Chester as Joanna came back to the table. Then he pointed a chubby finger at Joanna. "Hey, that's
Pammie's
dress!"

I recognized the dress as the one Mom was wearing in the
Elsie's Party
painting. Betty shot me a look.

"Is it, Connor? Do you recall it?" Betty's voice was tight. I knew she hated sensing things, yet not knowing what was going on. I'd hate it myself.

Joanna was shaking her head. "No, Chess, dear, the dress is actually mine. I just loaned it to Pamela because she didn't have anything of her own when she arrived."

"A lady of mystery," I said casually.

"Two of a kind," snapped Betty, and I knew for sure she wasn't going to let me off the hook—she was just going to wait till we were alone.

Joanna looked at me consideringly. "Betty's right. Pamela was very much of a mystery, dear, rather the way you are yourself. Appearing out of the blue to stay with us."

I looked down at my plate.

"Fitz found her out in the backyard, by the vegetable garden. Suddenly there she was, as if she'd just dropped in from the sky. She seemed to have been napping in the grass, and said she had no recollection of how she'd gotten there." Joanna pursed her lips. "Very odd."

"We think she must have been suffering from amnesia," Mrs. Cotton said. "So we let her stay with us while we made inquiries with the police. But no one had reported her missing."

"Amnesia," snorted Betty, pinching my leg hard under the table. "Must be catching."

I smacked her hand away and tried to stamp on her foot but couldn't find it.

"We were happy to have Pammie here," Joanna was saying. "We could tell she was someone of good character, even though she didn't seem to know who she was. We all liked her. But we feel bad for poor Fitzy now because he fell so madly in love. He wanted to marry her, you know."

"Poor Uncle Fitz," agreed Betty. "And now he's grumpier than ever. Always in a black mood." She tossed her brown bob. "I wish he'd find someone else to marry." Her gaze turned to rest on her mother for a moment. "Don't
you,
Mama?"

Joanna blushed. "Now, I want you children to get busy. Why not go out and have a game of ball in the yard?"

We children went out onto the porch. Elsie looked at us and puffed herself up importantly. "Ready for my plan? All right," she said. "I'll get Uncle Fitzy outside, and the rest of you rush in and find some red paint. Maybe red and a little yellow, too, so we can make our rashes look like they're oozing pus."

Betty grimaced. "You are a disgusting child, do you know that?"

"I still don't think you'll really be able to get Uncle Fitzy out of the room," said Homer. "He never comes out, not even for oozing pus."

"Ready?" Elsie grinned. "Now watch this." She took a deep breath, then ran into the house and up the stairs. We followed. In the upstairs hallway, she shoved us all into the girls' bedroom to wait, then we heard her footsteps pounding up the last flight of steps to the studio in the attic. "Uncle Fitzy! Uncle Fitzy!" we heard her cry breathlessly.

And we heard the studio door open, heard only a murmur of voices—and then there came an unearthly moan. And a shout.

"Are you sure, girl? Get out of my way!" Pounding feet coming downstairs. "Oh, my lord. Oh, yes, yes,
yes!
" Panting in the hallway as Fitzgerald Cotton stormed down the next flight as well. "My darling!" he shouted, and we heard the screen door slam.

"He's gasping like he's having a heart attack," said Chester, eyes wide.

"What in the world did she tell him?" said Betty.

"I can't imagine." Homer looked amazed.

I had a terrible suspicion I knew what Elsie had told her uncle. I peered out the window and sucked in my breath.

Homer and Chester pressed up next to me to look out, too. "He's actually outside in the garden!" said Chester. "Look at him lying there in the grass. Can you believe it?"

Then Elsie was in the doorway. "
Hurry!
" she cried. "Get upstairs and get the red and yellow paints before he comes back!"

"What did you tell him?" demanded Homer. "Why is he out there on his hands and knees?"

"Is he?" Elsie came to the window. "Oh dear. He's pounding the ground with his fists..." Her voice trailed off.

"You told him that Pamela had come back, didn't you?" I said. "You told him his muse had appeared again in the garden, just like the first time. You told him his fondest dream had come true!" I felt sort of sick.

Elsie looked abashed. "Well, yes, I did," she said. "I knew he'd run out to see her."

"But look at him!" cried Betty, her voice agonized. "I think you've practically killed him, Elsie! I think he's
crying!
"

Elsie started crying, too. "I didn't mean anything. I just wanted to get him out so we could get the red paint—"

"Look," I said, taking charge. I saw a way we might be able to put their plan
A
and my plan
B
into effect all at once—if we hurried. I didn't like to think what would happen if Fitzgerald Cotton came upstairs while we were all searching his studio. "You guys go down and see if he's okay. Elsie, you'll have to make something up ... Tell him you're so sorry—you really thought you saw Pammie. It was your mama's yellow dress that fooled you ... Whatever. Just hurry. And try to keep him down there, talking or something. Just go!"

They ran down the stairs. I jumped over to the girls' mirrored dressing table and searched hastily, looking into the little drawers, sifting through combs and brushes and hair ribbons until I found what I knew had to be there. Then I slid three hairpins into my hand. I ran up to the attic at top speed.

But I didn't need the hairpins—yet. The door to the studio stood open. I slipped inside and closed it behind me. I scanned the room. Little jars of paint stood on the table. I grabbed up one of red and one of yellow and stashed them in my pants pockets, then pivoted like some sort of superhero.

The room was warm and stuffy. Both the skylight and the single dormer window were open only a few inches to catch the breeze. The couch was covered in a rumpled pile of sheets and pillows. The big easel with the portrait of Mom had been moved to the corner and was once again covered by a sheet. I searched the room with my eyes. But there was no sign of the sketch, as expected. Just the big wardrobe, locked up tight. The perfect place to store sketches.

No problemo,
I thought.
Bring on the locked wardrobe.

I was like one of the coolest superheroes. Master criminals, beware! I knew there wasn't a lot of time. But if I hurried too much, I'd mess up. I wished Doug were with me. He'd appreciate the adventure. I was feeling sort of cocky—almost as if this were a game—until the breeze from the open windows lifted the sheet covering Mom's portrait on the big easel. I could see, briefly, her pink painted mouth, open in a silent scream. I fiddled with the hairpin in the lock, glancing back again at the painting.

The breeze ruffled the sheet again. Mom's mouth was stretched to the limit, straining against an unknown terror—had it been that wide a second ago?

Tears sprang to my eyes and I had to look away. Okay, so this wasn't a game.

Anyway, the first hairpin—I think it was one of those things called a bobby pin—was too thin. It had miles of room around it. It would never pick the lock. So I tried the second pin.

This one fit better. I could feel some resistance as I moved it back and forth and all around inside the lock. But there was no
click.
Nothing happened.

On to the third hairpin. I could tell this one was going to work—if only I had enough time to move it around carefully, gently, trying to sense how the lock worked—I could
feel
the sketch waiting for me inside. I thought I could feel something else waiting, too. A pulsing sort of something, waiting, wanting
out.

A very old evil, wanting out. I lifted the hairpin out of the lock, holding my breath. I could hear my own heartbeat inside my ears.

Then I could hear something else: footsteps on the attic stairs.

This
really
wasn't a game now. I felt sick to my stomach, the big breakfast churning around like cement in a cement mixer. I wished I were just watching this on TV after all—with the remote in my hand. Time to channel surf....

But I was stuck here and now. I jumped away from the still-locked wardrobe, my heart thumping hard. I guess the good news was that Fitzgerald Cotton hadn't died of a heart attack out there in the yard when he found his muse wasn't there after all. But the bad news was—now he was just outside the door. I heard him clear his throat. I needed to hide. But where? There was no place at all. Under the couch? The gap was too narrow; only a kitten could squeeze underneath. I heard the little rasp of the door handle turning, and without thinking, I threw open the window and vaulted straight out, dropping down onto the porch roof.

I held my breath and inched my way along the roof to the side wall of the dormer. If Fitzgerald Cotton looked outside now, would he see me? I pressed myself tight against the siding.

I had to get down off the roof without anybody seeing me—and without killing myself. It was too high to jump down from the porch roof. Then I remembered there was a big tree around the back of the house. Was it close enough to the roof that I could grab a branch? I inched along, up the steep incline of the roof toward the ridge.

I could hear voices down on the porch. "Where's Connor?" That was Betty.

"He's still up there! We'd better go find him." That was Homer.

"Did he get the paints?" asked Chester.

"Oh, shut up, Chess," wailed Elsie. "This is serious! Uncle Fitzy's mad as a rattlesnake! What will happen to Connor?"

That was a very good question.

"I'll go fetch him," Homer said bravely, and I heard the screen door slam.

I could hear the scrape of the rocking chairs on the porch as the other kids waited nervously. And then I could hear Homer knocking on the studio door. "Uncle Fitz?"

I heard Fitzgerald Cotton's growl. "Can't a man get any work done around here?"

"Um, sorry, sir," mumbled Homer. "And I'm really, really sorry that Elsie thought she saw Pammie. I'm just—really, really sorry about that. But we wanted Connor—"

"You want Connor? Well, so do I! Where is that no-account stray?"

"You mean he isn't in here? We thought—"

"Haven't seen the blasted boy since the middle of the blessed night."

"Sorry, Uncle Fitz," Homer said, and from the sound of things, he hightailed it out of there. The studio door slammed. Then I heard the screen porch door slam and Homer's voice from down on the porch: "He's not up there!"

Betty sounded surprised. "Well, where is he?"

"In the bathroom?" asked Chester. "Going pee?"

"Oh no!" wailed Elsie. "Don't tell me Connor's just going to disappear the same way Pammie did!"

"
Yoo-hoo!
Connor!" Homer yelled at the top of his lungs.

I gasped and nearly slid right back down the roof.

"Connor!" They were all yelling now. "Connor, where are you? Yoo-hoo!"

"Yoo-hoo yourselves," said a different voice, and I peered over the rooftop in time to see Mr. Riley turning in at the gate. "Is someone missing?"

I thought about tossing the paint jars in my pockets down onto the grass, but there really wasn't any way the kids would be able to mix them and paint on rashes in time to convince their mother not to go out with the guy. So I just sat tight.

The kids all jumped off the porch and tried to intercept him at the gate. Betty said, "We're just looking for Connor. Our visitor. Have you seen him?"

"What are you doing here so early, anyway?" demanded Homer. "It's not lunchtime."

"I need to make several deliveries later this afternoon," Mr. Riley said. He tilted his head to look up at the trees—anything so as not to have to look at the kids, I guessed. I just hoped he wouldn't look up and see
me.
"I thought your mother and I would take our outing a bit earlier. We are going for a walk by the water and then on to an early lunch—not that it's any of your business, I might add."

"She's
our
mama, I might add," said Elsie pertly.

"Anyway," moaned Chester, "I don't think I feel so good." He clutched his stomach. "I think I have a fever. Mama! Mama!" He was off at a run, back into the house. "I'm very ill, Mama!"

Betty and Elsie went after him, and Mr. Riley followed them.

Homer stood alone, scanning the yard, no doubt trying to think where I might have gone. Then something made him look up.

"Connor!" he shouted.

I shook my head wildly and pressed my finger to my lips. Fitzgerald Cotton would be able to hear him from inside his studio. It would take only a second for him to come to the window and lean out....

I fished out the two little jars of red and yellow paint and tossed them down to Homer. They landed in the bushes. He scooped them up and punched the air in victory. Then he ran into the house. I waited a minute, thinking he might have gone around the back to the tree, where they were building the fort—there was a ladder there that would come in pretty handy right about now—but he didn't come back. I figured I'd better try for the tree.

So I started edging up the roof toward the ridge. At the top of the roof was the skylight. I could see straight down into Fitzgerald Cotton's studio, and what I saw surprised me. I'd been imagining the artist furiously peering out the window—or collapsed on his couch with a heart attack—but no one was there at all. I could see the whole studio from my perch, and it was empty.

At least it was empty of the man. But the big easel had been pulled into the center of the room and the sheet was lying on the floor. One of the locked wardrobe doors now hung open, and the ancient wooden paint box was on the table directly in front of the big easel with Mom's portrait on it. He was using those special paints to paint my mom, and I could see now that her wide-stretched mouth had changed again.