Claudia and the Mystery at the Museum

by Ann M. Martin

  We toured the Music Room next. Each of us picked up an instrument and started playing it, and soon the room was full of sound. I wouldn’t exactly call it music. It sounded like some kind of insane orchestra — without a conductor. The noise made us laugh so hard we could hardly stop.

  “Okay,” said Kristy, when we had caught our breath. “Time to get down to work.” She turned to me. “First of all, where’s the room the coins were stolen from? Let’s take a look at that.”

  I led my friends downstairs, hardly glancing at the displays of coins from other countries or the diorama showing how coins are made. I led them straight to the case that had been broken into. The glass had been fixed, but the case was empty. A sign on the case said, “This display is temporarily closed. We apologize for the inconvenience.” My friends and I examined the case from all angles.

  Suddenly a man in a uniform stepped into our circle. “Can I help you with something?” he asked.

  “Uh, no,” I said. “We were just curious about the robbery.”

  “The police are taking care of it,” said the guard. “Meanwhile, the museum is under heavy security. A twenty-four-hour guard has been posted in every room.”

  He sounded as if he were warning us not to snoop around too much. I felt like telling him what good detectives we could be. I probably cared about the museum ten times more than the police did. But I knew I should keep those thoughts to myself. “That’s good,” I said. “You can’t be too careful.” My friends and I backed out of the room.

  “Boy, we better watch out,” said Stacey. “We don’t want them to think we’re the robbers. I mean, if they see us hanging around acting nosy, they might get suspicious.”

  “No way,” argued Kristy. “A bunch of teenage girls?”

  “Well, anyway,” I said. “We have other stuff to do before we leave today. Like check out the gift shop.”

  “And the fountain,” added Jessi.

  “Right,” said Shannon. “I just wish we could find a way to check out that donation box.”

  “We’ll never be able to do that without looking suspicious,” I said. “But maybe, if we ask the right questions …” I was getting an idea. “Come on,” I said. I headed for the main lobby. A woman was at the information booth. “Excuse me,” I said. “We’re, uh, doing a class project on Stoneybrook’s feelings about the new museum. I was just wondering if you could tell me how much money you’re taking in with that donation box.” I pointed to the steel box.

  “People have been very generous,” said the woman. “Let’s see.” She checked a notebook that lay on her desk. “As of last night, we’ve taken in over six hundred dollars this week.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “So, you empty the box every night to count the money?”

  She gave me a funny look. “Yes, we do,” she said. “With an armed guard present, of course.”

  “Naturally,” I said. “Thanks so much for your time.” I scurried off, my friends close behind me. When we were far enough away, Kristy gave me a high five.

  “Great job, Claud,” she said. “That’s all we needed to know. If they empty the box every night, the thief couldn’t have put the coins in there. They’d have been discovered right away.”

  “Whew,” I said. “That was a little risky, but it was worth it. Ready to check out the gift shop?”

  “Do we have a plan?” asked Jessi.

  I shook my head. “No, but we’ll think of something. Come on!”

  When we reached the gift shop, we spread out and started browsing, trying to look casual. Stacey and I checked out the postcards. Kristy was looking at the toys, mostly educational games and models based on exhibits in the Discovery and Science rooms. Jessi looked over the calendars, and Shannon examined some fossils.

  Then, one by one, we drifted past the case where the coins were kept.

  “Gee, those look almost real,” I heard Jessi say innocently, to the man behind the counter.

  He nodded, bored. He was reading a magazine as he sat waiting for customers.

  “These must look exactly like the ones that were stolen,” Shannon said.

  “Just about,” said the man, yawning and turning a page in his magazine.

  “But they’re copies, right?” asked Stacey.

  “Uh-huh,” said the man.

  “Really good copies,” said Kristy. “I mean, how could you ever tell the difference?”

  Good question, I thought. Now he would have to explain how to tell the real ones from the fakes.

  “Oh, we have our ways,” he said.

  Darn!

  But then he put down his magazine and went on. “For one thing, the fakes are really just foil-covered chocolate coins,” he said. He unlocked the case and pulled one out. “See?” He showed it to us. We were all clustered around the case by that time.

  “Awesome,” said Kristy. “They look so real.”

  “Not once you know the difference,” the man said, sounding bored again.

  We leaned over the case, trying not to fog it with our breathing, and looked closely at each of the coins. Sure enough, every one had a little seam around the edge, where the two pieces of foil came together. We looked at each other, shrugged, and left the gift shop.

  “Well, that’s another theory down the drain,” said Kristy. “One more place to check. Who feels like taking a dip?”

  “You mean, in the fountain?” Jessi squealed. “We can’t jump into it! Somebody would notice.”

  “Just kidding,” said Kristy. “It didn’t look that deep when we went past it before. We can lean over the edge and feel around for coins.”

  And that’s what we did. We took turns. One of us watched for the guard, who walked by every few minutes. The others, trying to act natural so as not to draw attention, leaned over and fished around in the water. Fifteen minutes later, we were all soaked up to our elbows, and Shannon’s purse was damp from being splashed with water. We had found all kinds of coins: pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters, plus one Canadian penny and a subway token from New York City. But no ancient coins were to be found. We threw the money back in the fountain. “I’m going to make a wish,” said Jessi. “Even though these have been wished on once already, they might work again.”

  We all wished. And we probably all wished for the same thing: that we would be able to solve the case of the stolen coins. I know that’s what I wished for, anyway.

  We sat on the edge of the fountain, trying to figure out what to do next. “I guess we’re out of places to search for the coins,” I said. “I hate to give up, but as long as we’re here, does anybody want to see the Don Newman exhibit? I haven’t seen it yet, and I’m dying to.”

  “Why not?” asked Kristy. “Lead us to it.”

  I started off down a hall, eager to see the exhibit. But suddenly Jessi tugged on my arm. “Claud!” she said. “Did you see that man’s eyes?” I shook my head. I had barely noticed the man who had just passed us in the hall. “One was blue, and the other was green!” she said. We all turned in our tracks and hurried to catch up with the man.

  He headed upstairs and into the Music Room. “That’s him!” I hissed, as I watched him pick up a tambourine. “He’s not dressed the same, but it’s definitely him. What’s he doing here again?”

  “Maybe he just didn’t get a good look at the exhibits before,” said Kristy. “The robbery interrupted his visit, so he came back. Just like you.”

  “Maybe,” I said. But the man didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the exhibits. He wandered from instrument to instrument, and then he left the room. “Let’s tail him,” I said. “Something about him doesn’t seem right.”

  We followed that man all over the museum. After the Music Room, he checked out the Discovery Room. Again, he just seemed to be wandering around. He barely noticed the electronic quiz board, even though its lights were flashing like crazy. Then we followed him through the mole tunnel and into the Science Room. I saw him bump into the skeleton by mistake, and heard him sa
y, “Oh! Excuse me,” before he realized it wasn’t a person. I put my hand over my mouth to stifle my giggles, but he heard me anyway. He flashed me an irritated look.

  I wished he would go to the Don Newman exhibit, just so I would get a chance to see it, but he didn’t. He did go downstairs, but instead of heading for the sculptures he wandered into the room where the coins had been displayed and examined the empty case as if he found it fascinating. While we were in the room with him, Kristy stumbled into a display case and almost fell. “Whoops!” she said. The man glared at her.

  Finally, we shadowed the man right out into the parking lot and watched as he climbed into his car. I think he knew we were following him, because he kept turning to glance at us. Each time, he looked more annoyed.

  We watched him drive off. “Think he’s the robber?” Kristy asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But there’s definitely something weird about him, don’t you think?” Everyone agreed. But none of us could imagine any way to prove he had stolen the coins. Our investigation had come to a dead end.

  My friends and I sat on the steps of the museum, feeling glum. We had been so excited about working on the case of the missing coins, but so far all our leads had petered out. We didn’t know what else we could do, for the time being.

  Kristy checked her watch. “I better get home,” she said. “I told my mom I would help watch the kids this afternoon.”

  Shannon and Jessi said they had to leave, too.

  “Well, I’m going to stay and check out the Don Newman exhibit,” I said. “That was my original reason for coming to the museum, and I still haven’t even gotten near it.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Stacey. “You’ve talked about these sculptures so much that I’m curious about them. Besides, I don’t have any other plans.”

  I smiled at her. Stacey’s not really interested in art, and I knew she was just staying with me to be friendly. “You might be surprised,” I said. “I bet you’ll like this stuff.”

  We said good-bye to the others and headed back into the museum. As we approached the big glass doors of the main entrance, I caught a glimpse of our reflections. We looked as well-dressed and sophisticated as any big-city museum-goers. I smiled at Stacey as I opened the door and ushered her in. “After you, my dear,” I said.

  “Oh, no, no, no!” she said, smiling back. “After you!” We giggled as we squeezed through together.

  I led Stacey toward the gallery where Don Newman’s work was being shown. “His stuff isn’t very realistic,” I warned her. “I mean, a sculpture might not look like a person, or a certain animal or anything. He just suggests things by the way he uses form and line.”

  “Gotcha,” she said. “I’ll just follow you around and you can tell me about what we’re looking at.”

  By that time we had arrived at the entrance to the gallery. I went in, with Stacey behind me. “Wow!” I said. “Nice space.” In case you don’t know, “space” is very important when you’re showing artwork. It has to be open and bright and welcoming, and this room was all of those things. I began to fantasize about showing my own artwork there. Suppose, just suppose, I was introduced to the curator of the museum. “Did you say your name was Claudia Kishi?” he would ask, looking surprised. “I’ve heard about you. The word is that you are the most talented and promising student in the Stoneybrook schools. Could you — would you — consider showing in our modest gallery?”

  “I’d be delighted to,” I would say. “I feel it’s important to give something back to the community you’re from. Why don’t you call me to schedule a possible time? I’m sure I can fit you in between my upcoming shows at the Museum of Modern Art and the Guggenheim.”

  “Claudia!” Stacey was tugging on my arm. “Why are you grinning like that?”

  I came out of my daydream. “Oh, I guess I’m just happy to be here,” I said lamely. “Look!” I continued, changing the subject. “This is a wonderful piece.” We walked over to a grouping of three sculptures, two larger ones and one smaller one. They seemed to be in a kind of embrace.

  “It’s like a family,” said Stacey. “Mother, father, and child.”

  “You’re right,” I said, reaching out to stroke the “child’s” back.

  “Claud!” cried Stacey. “What are you doing? You can’t touch that!” She glanced nervously at the guard who stood nearby.

  “It’s okay,” I reassured her. “Look at the sign.” I pointed to the wall near the gallery door. On it was a sign like the one in the Discovery Room. “Please Touch,” it said. “Don Newman believes that art should be touchable,” I told Stacey. I smiled at her, and noticed that the guard was smiling, too. “He thinks art should involve more senses than just sight,” I went on. “When I saw his pieces in New York, the same sign was up, and everyone in the gallery was touching the sculptures.”

  I walked over to another piece, and went on talking. “He even builds in special features that you wouldn’t know about unless you touched the pieces,” I said, “See how this one moves when I push it a little?” We were standing near a sculpture that looked like an old boulder that had been lying in a riverbed for hundreds of years. It was rounded and worn, and kind of — well, kind of friendly. That may sound weird, but it’s really the only way to describe it. I touched it, and it shifted its weight just a little.

  “Awesome,” said Stacey, reaching out to give it a little push.

  “Let’s keep looking around,” I said. “I saw one in New York that I just loved, and it’s supposed to be here.” We strolled around, looking at everything. An amazing variety of artwork was in that one little gallery. We saw sculptures carved out of wood, and sculptures that had been cast in bronze. We saw pieces made out of what looked like old car parts, and pieces chiseled in marble. Some were brightly painted, and others were the natural color of aging metal or wood.

  We touched almost every sculpture. Some of them moved, tilting or rocking on their bases. Others stayed put, but it was still a pleasure to be able to feel the materials they were made of. I noticed a man and a little boy — his son, I guess — touching all the sculptures, too. You don’t have to be an art expert to love Don Newman’s sculptures.

  “I really do like this stuff,” said Stacey. “Not all of it — some of it’s a little weird for me, and I feel like I don’t understand it. But most of it is really cool.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” I said. “I thought you would.” We were walking as we talked. Suddenly, we turned a corner, and there it was. “Daphne!” I cried.

  “Who?” asked Stacey, looking around.

  “Daphne,” I repeated. “It’s a sculpture. The one I saw in New York.” I walked over to it. “I just love this one,” I said. “Somehow it makes me feel calm and peaceful.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Stacey. “It gives me the same feeling.” She reached out to touch it. “Oh, cool,” she said. “Look how it moves.”

  I ran my hand over it. It rocked gently on its base. I touched it again. Then I stood back from it, frowning.

  “What’s the matter?” Stacey asked.

  I paused for a second, and then shrugged. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe nothing. It just seems … different.”

  “Different from when you saw it in New York?” Stacey asked.

  “Uh-huh,” I answered. But I couldn’t really say how it was different. I looked at it more closely. Had it been damaged?

  “That was quite a while ago, wasn’t it?” asked Stacey.

  “Well, yes,” I said, thinking hard. “But — Stace, you’re going to think I’m crazy, but I have a feeling this statue is a fake!”

  “You’re right,” said Stacey.

  “I am?” I asked. “You think it’s a fake, too?”

  “No,” she replied, grinning at me. “I think you’re crazy.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, grinning back at her. “But really, Stacey, something’s wrong here. Not just with this piece, either. Something strange is going on
at this museum. I mean, first the robbery, and now this.”

  “I don’t know, Claud,” said Stacey. “I think you’re imagining things.”

  “I didn’t imagine the robbery,” I said stubbornly. “And I’m not imagining this, either.” I rocked the statue again. “Something is definitely weird about this sculpture.”

  “Okay, so what if something weird is going on?” asked Stacey. “What can we do about it?”

  “We can talk to the curator,” I replied promptly. “That’s what we’ll do, talk to the curator,” I added again, more firmly.

  “Claud, are you sure?” asked Stacey. But I wasn’t listening to her. I was walking quickly back through the gallery toward the museum offices, which are off the main lobby. Stacey followed behind me.

  “I need to see the curator,” I told the receptionist, when we arrived in the outer office.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, “Mr. Snipes is a very busy man, and he doesn’t usually see people on Saturdays.”

  “I’m sure he’s busy and I don’t have an appointment,” I said, “but this is a very important matter. I have to see him as soon as possible.” My voice was growing louder. Stacey stuck by my side, but she didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t think —” began the receptionist, but just then a door opened behind her and a man stuck his head out.

  “What’s going on, Ms. Hobbes?” asked the man. He was a skinny guy, dressed in a black suit. He looked more like an insurance agent than a curator. He had black hair and a thin black mustache and very pale skin.

  “These girls wanted to see you,” she said, “but I told them —”

  “What seems to be the problem?” Mr. Snipes asked, interrupting her. He looked at me intently, and I noticed his small, dark eyes.

  “If I could just speak to you for five minutes,” I began.

  “Yes?” he said impatiently. He gestured toward his office, and Stacey and I followed him in.

  He sat down behind his desk. Stacey and I stood in front of it. Suddenly I remembered my fantasy — Mr. Snipes asking me to show my art in his museum — and I blushed.