The Mistaken Masterpiece (16 page)

“I have a feeling that cameras in the fifties and sixties were a lot more complicated than the kind we use,” Margaret explains.

“Wait a minute,” Leigh Ann says. “Look at this one.” The picture in her hand is black and white, but it isn’t like the others. It’s about twice the size, printed on much heavier paper—there’s a professional look and feel to it. An elderly couple stands in a very formal pose in front of a fireplace. My eyes, however, go immediately to the wall behind them. Above the mantel, plain as the broken nose on my face, is the Pommeroy painting that Father Julian showed us.

“Hey, that’s it!” I shout.

Leigh Ann flips it over. “Huh. ‘Rosemont Studios, the Bronx.’ But no date. Those must be Father Julian’s grandparents.”

“Great-grandparents,” Margaret corrects.

“You know, if this Rosemont Studios is still around, they might have records,” says Becca. “I think those places keep the negatives forever.”

Margaret pats Becca on the back. “Good thinking. Leigh Ann, can I use your computer to check it out?”

“It’s all yours.”

That little bit of success really motivates us, and we attack the rest of the pictures while Margaret goes online to see if Rosemont Studios is still in business.

“Rosewood. Rosenberg. Rose and Rose. But no Rosemont.”

“That would have been too easy,” I say.

“I suppose they could have changed their name,” Margaret says.

“Got another one!” Leigh Ann exclaims, waving a snapshot above her head.

“Sheesh,” Becca grumbles.

We circle around Leigh Ann to get a good look.

“Yep. There it is again. This one’s a lot like that very first picture—the one with the car in the background,” Margaret says. “That’s the same room—the same furniture, even—and the painting’s in the same place on the wall. And look! All kinds of clues!”

“Magazines on the coffee table,” notes Becca.

“Bookshelves,” I say. “Looks like they’re full of little knickknacks—the kind of stuff you pick up on vacations.”

“And a dog!” says Leigh Ann. “It looks a lot like Tillie.”

I take a closer look at the dog, which
does
look like a slightly beefier Tillie. “Great. That crazy mutt probably ate the evidence. Look, there’s something sticking out of the side of her mouth.”

“Getting a little tired of Tillie, are we?” Becca teases. “I thought you
loved
her.”

“I
do
. She’s so sweet. She’s just … sometimes there’s just a lot of her.”

Leigh Ann points to a magazine on the coffee table in the picture. “Hey, this one is definitely
Life
—I don’t think it’s around anymore, but I know I’ve seen copies of it somewhere.”

“The school library,” says Margaret. “There’s a whole shelf of them behind Mrs. Overmeyer’s desk. And
this
one is a
National Geographic
. I’d recognize that anywhere.” She sets the picture on the table and begins a closer examination with the loupe.

“Anything?” I ask.

“Well, the titles are clear enough to make out, but everything else is too small to read.”

Becca leans over Margaret’s shoulder. “Yeah, but what about the
pictures
on the covers? That’s just as good, right?”

Margaret leans back, still holding the loupe to her eye. “Of course! Rebecca, you’re a genius.”

“Finally,” Becca says with a quick I-told-you-so glance in my direction. “Somebody noticed. Thank you, Margaret.”

“De rien,”
says Margaret. “All we have to do is look at the covers of
Life
and
National Geographic
and match them to the ones in the picture.”

“And if they’re from, say, June 1960,” I say, “won’t that be proof?”

Margaret grins at me. “Nope.”

“Pourquoi, ma cherie?”

“Because it’s possible they just had a bunch of old magazines lying around. I’ve seen copies of
Gourmet
from the
nineties
on the coffee table at your house. On the other hand, two magazines from the same month definitely help our case.”

“Ah. Circumstantial evidence,” I say as it all starts to sink in.

“What’s that?” Leigh Ann asks.

“It’s like this,” I explain. “The police walk into a room, and you’re standing there with a gun in your hand and there’s a dead guy on the floor. Nobody actually saw you pull the trigger, but it seems obvious what happened, because of the circumstances.”

“Ohhh. So you’re saying … Wait, what are you saying?”

Margaret looks at me. “I think what Sophie’s trying to say is that we may not find one magical piece of evidence that solves the case, but there might be a bunch of little things that add up to one obvious conclusion. Well, at least we
hope
it’s obvious.”

Meanwhile, Rebecca continues to dig through her pile of pictures, determined, she says, to find “the one true ring.” I swear, if I hadn’t sat through nine hours of
The Lord of the Rings
with her—twice!—I wouldn’t know what she’s talking about half the time. Her persistence pays off; she leaps to her feet, holding up a picture triumphantly.

“Yessss!” she gloats. “In your face, St. Pierre.”

“You’re so competitive, Rebecca,” Leigh Ann says. “That’s really not healthy, you know, when it’s about everything.”

“It’s not everything,” I explain. “Just me, and I’m used to it. But it’s okay because I
know
she’s loony. All right, let’s see it.” I pull her arm and the picture down to my eye level. “I don’t see anything.”

“Me neither,” admits Leigh Ann.

Becca points at the top right-hand corner and hands the picture to Margaret. “It’s right
there
. In the background.”

“Oh, I see it,” says Margaret. She holds it so Leigh Ann and I can get a clear look. “You can only see a little bit of it.” She peers through the loupe once again. “And I think it’s a reflection—like we’re seeing the painting in a mirror on the wall behind those people.”

“Mmmmm. Birthday cake,” I say. “Chocolate.”

“Wait a second. Now
that’s
an interesting clue,” Margaret says.

By the tone of her voice, I can tell that her brain is going into its don’t-bother-me-now-I’m-onto-something-big mode, and I back away from her. Hey, you never know. One of these days, that gray matter might just blow, and I don’t want to be too close.

She hands me the loupe. “Birthday cake. Whose name is on it? And candles. Quick, how many?”

Too much pressure!

“ ‘Happy Birthday … Cathy’ … I think. No, I’m sure. It’s Cathy.”

“Candles?”

“I’m counting! Ten, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. But these flowers on the table look like they’re blocking some.”

“She
definitely
looks older than fourteen,” Leigh Ann says. “She’s got to be seventeen or eighteen at least.”

“Aarrgghh,” Margaret says. “Stupid flowers. This picture would do it. If we knew when this Cathy was born, we would know what year the picture was taken.”

“Lemme see that,” Becca says, taking the picture out of my hand. “That guy is really cute. Something about him looks familiar.”

“Which guy?” I ask.

“The one in the mirror. He’s in the other room, standing by the painting.”

“I think he’d look a little different now,” I say.

“I know, but I’m tellin’ you—I’ve seen him somewhere. Where was it?” She pounds the heels of her hands against her head. “Think, Rebecca! I’m going to remember tonight, and when I do, I’m going to call you, St. Pierre.”

“Okay with me, Chen. And then I’ll call the loony bin for you.”

“For now, let’s look for more pictures of the cake,” Margaret suggests. “I’ll take you both to the loony bin later.”

But we turn up no more pictures of the birthday cake, or ones that show the painting, either.

Margaret sits cross-legged on the floor, deep in thought. “All right. We have to expand our search target. From the pictures we have, we know what the living room looks like—the wallpaper, the furniture, everything. So let’s go through the pictures one more time, and this time save anything that shows even a
sliver
of that room.”

“And then we can do something fun, right?” Becca asks.

“We’ll see,” Margaret answers.

Leigh Ann nudges me gently. “That’s just what my dad always says. I finally figured out that it was his way of saying no without actually having to say that word to me.”

Margaret, who still has that silly loupe stuck in her eye, doesn’t look up, but I catch a quick glimpse of a sly
grin. A few seconds later, she motions for us to look at another photo that she has set on Leigh Ann’s bed.

“This is the same room, right? Same rug, same coffee table.”

“Looks like it to me,” I say. “Just taken from the other side. The fireplace is here.” I point to a spot on the quilt that is about an inch past the right edge of the picture. “And the painting would be here.”

The loupe reveals that the magazines on the coffee table are a
Life
and a
National Geographic
, just like in the second picture we found, but they’re arranged
differently. And it’s hard to be certain, but it doesn’t seem to be the same issue of
Life
.

“Look at the two people sitting on that bench. It’s the same couple from the birthday cake picture.”

Leigh Ann looks at the young couple. “This was taken on the same day as the birthday cake picture. Same blouse and skirt on her, same shirt and tie on the guy, same hairstyle—although, to be honest,
all
the women in these pictures seem to have their hair done in exactly the same way.”

“Yeah,
lots
of hair spray,” I note.

“Check out the TV,” Becca says. “It looks just like the one Father Julian showed us in the rectory.”

Margaret squints through the loupe. “Ohmigosh—look! You can see what’s on TV, too—it’s a baseball game.”

“Let me see,” I say, pushing Margaret aside. “Oh yeah. That’s a Yankee uniform. A little baggier than they wear now, but I’d know those pinstripes anywhere.”

What can I say? Some girls know designer shoes; I know baseball uniforms.