The Mistaken Masterpiece (15 page)

And then, as Leigh Ann is telling me about the conversation she had with her dad, who just took a new job in Cleveland, Tillie disappears over a hill.

“Uh-oh,” I say. “Tillie!”

Nothing. I spin around and around, scanning the park for signs of her.

“Til-lie!” we shout together.

“Tillie!” I hear a voice in the distance say.

“Did you hear that?” Leigh Ann asks.

“Uh-huh. Weird.” I pull her in the direction of my last Tillie sighting. “Let’s go.”

We come over the top of the hill and I breathe a sigh of relief—Tillie is sitting up on a park bench with someone who is holding her leash.

“Is that … Cam?” Leigh Ann asks.

“Uh, yeah. And that Will guy. That’s
really
weird.”

Cam waves at us as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be sitting on a Central Park bench at six-thirty on a Saturday morning, holding the leash of the crazy dog that I’m responsible for.

“Hey, guys,” he says.

“What are
you
doing here?” I ask. “I mean—thanks for catching Tillie. Was that you calling her?”

The bewildered look on his face tells me he has no idea what I’m talking about. “Why would I be calling Tillie?”

“Well, someone definitely called her name,” Leigh Ann confirms. “Unless we’re both going crazy.”

“Maybe it was the wind,” he says.

I look up at the trees; not a twig is stirring. “What wind? I think you’re playing games with us,” I say.

“
Moi?
Why would I do something like that?”

I squint at him. “I don’t know. Yet. But I’ll figure it out.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot—you’re detectives.”

“You never did answer Sophie’s first question,” notes Leigh Ann. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you, I like to take walks in the park. And so does Will. Right, Will?”

Will, leaning back with eyes closed, can manage only a grunt in our direction.

“At six in the morning?” Leigh Ann retorts.

“I was up early, because I got a call from my agent, who’s in England. He was very excited and couldn’t wait to call and tell me that I got a part in a BBC production of
Nicholas Nickleby
.”

“No way!” I shout. “I’m reading that right now. I—we—won copies of it for this skit we did from
Great Expectations
, which Leigh Ann wrote and directed, by the way. Who are you going to be?”

“Smike—do you know who he is?”

“Ohmigosh, that’s perfect. I can totally see you as him.”

He smiles, nodding. “Thanks. That’s nice. Of course, it’s just a story by some nobody named Charles Dickens, not a great piece of literature like
No Reflections
,” he says with a telltale roll of his eyes. Then, clearly enjoying teasing us, he adds, “Oops, I forgot, you probably think that
is
a great work of art.”

“You know, I was starting to think you’re a nice kid,” I say, pretending my feelings have been hurt.

“Maybe he just can’t help himself,” Leigh Ann says. “You know how those Hollywood types are—it’s all about
them.
”

Cam falls to the cold, damp ground, moaning and acting as if he’s been stabbed in the heart.

We look on, unimpressed. “And I was starting to think,” Leigh Ann says, “that he could actually
act.
”

Will still doesn’t open his eyes, but he smiles at that.

On the way home, I almost lose Tillie again. We’re just walking along, and then
yank!
My arm almost comes out of its socket as she pulls me down the sidewalk. I finally get my other hand on the leash and bring her to a complete stop.

“What was
that
all about?” I ask. “Did you see a squirrel?”

Leigh Ann points at the sidewalk ahead of us. “Isn’t that Livvy?”

She is half a block ahead and has her back to us, pushing a wheelchair, but there’s no doubt in my mind that those fashionable jeans and that black TrueNorth jacket belong to Livvy Klack. Even her walk has a certain unmistakable attitude.

“C’mon, let’s follow her,” I say.

“You think we should?” Leigh Ann asks.

“Woof!” says Tillie. “Woof! Woof!”

“Quiet, Tillie!” I say. “I just want to see who she’s with—and what she’s doing. We won’t let her see us. Aren’t you curious?”

“Of course. I’m just, well, you know, a little afraid of her.”

“
Everyone’s
a little afraid of her,” I say. “And with good reason. She’s Livvy Klack, for cryin’ out loud.”

We pick up the pace, with Tillie enthusiastically leading the way, until we cut the distance between us and Livvy in half. When she gets to the next corner, though, she takes an abrupt left turn and we duck behind a car, concerned that she has spotted us. We wait a few seconds before peeking out, and get to the corner just in time to see her push the wheelchair into a diner.

“Whew. That was close,” Leigh Ann says. “I thought we were busted for sure.”

“Too bad we have Tillie with us, or we’d be going in that diner,” I say. “I wonder who that is? And why is Livvy, of all people, being nice to her?”

“I thought you said there was more to Livvy than we thought.”

“I did—I do think that. But it’s still surprising to actually see it.”

It’s kind of like seeing a rainbow for the first time. You can see pictures of them and hear people describe them your whole life, but until you see one with your own eyes, you don’t really believe it’s possible.

While Leigh Ann is showering and getting ready to head over toward Times Square for her dance class, I notice that I have a new voice message—and almost fall off my bed when I hear it.

Well now. This is certainly an interesting turn of events, don’t you think? Leigh Ann is blow-drying her hair, and it’s all I can do not to barge into the bathroom, yank the plug out of the wall, and shriek this incredible news at her. I mean, that’s what the old Sophie would have done, but the new, improved, self-controlled Sophie is above such vulgar displays of emotion, right?

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I barge. I yank. I shriek.

A petrified Leigh Ann finally pries the phone out of my hand and listens to the message for herself. And, bless her heart, she maintains her composure. Totally plays it cool.

“Huh,” she deadpans as she hands me back my phone. “Wonder what he wants.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

A look of utter innocence. “What?” Probably my favorite thing about Leigh Ann is her genuine lack of awareness of her own beauty.

I put my arms on her shoulders and spin her so she’s facing the mirror. “
That’s
what he wants.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Leigh Ann. He. Likes. You. I mean, come on. You don’t think it’s a little strange that he just
happened
to be walking in the park this morning? He heard us talking last night. He was there to see you.”

“You’re crazy. He’s famous. I’m nobody. He can’t like me.”

“One, you’re not a nobody. You’re a-flippin’-mazing. You dance. You sing. You’re beautiful. You solve crimes. Two, why
can’t
he like you? And three, I don’t care what you say—I am
so
giving him your number.”

“I don’t get it. If he wanted my number, why didn’t he just ask me?”

“Because he’s a boy. Nobody knows why they do
anything
they do. Why did Raf decide to start driving his uncle’s scooter all over the city? Or get all weird just because I’m taking care of Nate Etan’s dog? Just go with it.”

Ah yes. Say hello to daytime television’s newest sensation: Dr. Sophie, relationship guru.

With everything that’s been going on in our lives the past few days, the RBGDA—the Red Blazer Girls Detective Agency, that is—hasn’t made much progress with Father Julian’s case. The simple fact is, other than figuring out that the baseball that Tillie treated like a double cheeseburger was a fake, we’ve got nada. Zilch. Bupkis.

“It’s disgraceful, really,” Margaret tells me Saturday afternoon. “Father Julian is counting on us. We need to get everyone together tonight and get down to some serious detective work. No DVDs, no music, no talking about boys, movies, or movie
stars
. Just the four of us and that old shoe box full of pictures.”

Twenty-seven phone calls (at least) and three hours later, Margaret, Becca, and I converge on Leigh Ann’s house in Astoria, Queens, where we’re all going to spend the night. My mom, who grew up in Queens, rides over on the subway with us and, after dropping us off at Leigh
Ann’s, heads out to meet an old friend from school for dinner.

Leigh Ann is the only one of us who actually lives in a house rather than an apartment building. Her brother, Alejandro, who is a senior at St. Thomas Aquinas, where Raf goes, is on his way out the door as we arrive. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he seems even taller and better-looking than the last time I saw him, which was only a few weeks ago. Shockingly, he doesn’t seem at all disappointed that he’s going to miss spending time with his little sister and her three best friends. I mean, imagine someone
not
wanting to hang out with us!

So it’s just us and Leigh Ann’s mom, who cooks Dominican food for us. It’s very different from the French stuff I’m used to, but it is delicious, and Ms. Jaimes is in a state of shock after seeing what four twelve-year-old girls can do to a giant casserole dish of chicken, beans, and rice.

While we’re eating, Becca tells us the latest twist in the mystery surrounding Gus, the artist who’s locked away in the back room of that gallery. On her way home to babysit her younger siblings, Jonathan and Jennifer, on Thursday, she stopped in a diner and ordered two coffees and a tea to be delivered to the gallery. Then she waited across the street to watch as the curtain went up on her little drama.

“At first, the girl tries to send the delivery guy away,” Becca says. “I can see her shaking her head. And then
he must tell her that it’s already paid for, because she peeks into the bag. Which is when she sees what I wrote on the lid of the tea: ‘Please serve in a china cup.’ ”

“You didn’t,” I say.

“Oh yes I did,” she says with a maniacal laugh. “Just to mess with their heads. The girl starts looking around like she’s being watched—which she is—and totally freaking out. She follows the delivery guy out the door, asking him who ordered the stuff, but he just shrugs and rides off on his bike. When she goes back inside, she and the guy go to the back room and knock, but Gus doesn’t answer. Finally, they dig up a key and unlock the door.”

“Did they give him the tea, at least?” Leigh Ann asks.

“Yeah, because after that, I went around to the back window and knocked. He got a kick out of the message, so even though he might be a little paranoid, at least he has a sense of humor. I didn’t go in, because I had to go home to watch the twins, but we talked for a minute. Remember I told you he lives upstairs? Well, from some of the things he says, I get the sense that he never leaves the building. He has
everything
delivered, because he’s afraid of something—and I don’t think it’s the guy from the gallery who yelled at us. I think it’s something
much
scarier.”

At eight o’clock on the button, Margaret dumps the shoe box of pictures onto Leigh Ann’s bed.

“Yikes,” Becca says, eyeing the pile. “Is that some
kind of magical shoe box or something? There’s no way all those came out of that.”

“Everybody take a handful,” Margaret says.

“Tell me again what we’re looking for,” says Leigh Ann, staring at the black-and-white picture that Malcolm attached to the lid of the box with a paper clip. “I know there’s the painting, and something about a year.”

“Nineteen sixty-one. That’s the year Pommeroy died,” Becca reminds us. “And when his brothers and sister suddenly decided that
they
were great artists, too.”

Margaret has Malcolm’s loupe pressed to her eye, looking at the picture in Leigh Ann’s hand. “Right now, let’s just find every picture that has the painting in it, even if it’s just a little corner of it. Then we can worry about the
when
.”

I reach in for a fistful of pictures and then sit back on the floor to go through them. Most are your basic family snapshots—you know, the usual birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, vacations, and so on. And while Malcolm may have pointed out that many were obviously taken with a good camera, the photographer—in most cases, anyway—was no expert, believe me.

Out of focus? Check.

Overexposed? Check.

Underexposed? Check.

Grandma and Grandpa “decapitated”? Check. Check.

“Boy, somebody forgot to read the instruction manual for his shiny new camera,” I say.