Charlotte in Paris

by Annie Bryant

  My curiosity eventually got the better of me, and I tapped Sophie on the shoulder and showed her the picture. “Sophie, do you remember this picture from the museum?” I handed her the sketch.

  She took the picture and studied it. “Non, I don’t think I’ve seen this before. Where did you get it?”

  “It was stuck inside the Picasso coloring book that Isabel gave me before I left…you know, the one I was telling you about? It must be a little freebie or giveaway or something.”

  Sophie laughed. “C’est quoi ‘freebie’? That is a very funny word.”

  “Just like it sounds,” I replied. “Something that costs nothing, something you get for free. A freebie,” I pronounced, trying to imagine I was hearing the word for the first time. I guess it did sound kind of funny.

  “Hmm.” Sophie turned her attention back to the picture. “C’est bizarre, odd…this paper looks so old and faded, Charlotte. It doesn’t look new.”

  “It’s strange,” I agreed. “Maybe they were trying to make it look authentic. It looks familiar, though. It’s almost as if I’ve seen this same picture somewhere before. You’re sure you don’t remember it?”

  “It was the sketch of a woman, beautifully depicted in bright shapes and colors.”

  ~ pg. 130

  Sophie shook her head.

  “I’ll e-mail Isabel…maybe she’ll know more about it.”

  I signed on and wrote a quick e-mail while Sophie continued her homework.

  To: Isabel

  From: Charlotte

  Subject: Picasso Picture

  Isabel,

  I found a Picasso picture stuck inside the coloring book you gave me.

  Is it a special giveaway or something? Do all the coloring books have them? Just asking because this one is familiar and I can’t figure out why. It also looks old…

  like they were trying to make it look authentic.

  I love the coloring book…thanx again! can’t wait to tell u all about the Picasso Museum.

  it was really cool!

  XOXO

  Charlotte

  It had been so wet in Paris that I wondered what the weather was like back in Boston. I went to the Boston Globe website to check, and as I glanced at the homepage, again the word “Picasso” caught my eye.

  I clicked on the link to the article and a picture of the missing sketch popped onto the screen. Although I loved to write, sometimes I thought about becoming a detective when I grew up. Being a detective meant paying close attention to all the details and putting the pieces of the puzzle together…I’m good at that kind of thing. Maybe Katani could even design an investigator outfit for me—complete with a trench coat. For now, I just had to wonder…how would real detectives ever crack “The Case of the Stolen Picasso Sketch”?

  I scanned the article to see if there were any new developments and then looked more carefully at the image of the stolen sketch. A sketch of a lovely woman.

  I looked down at the picture in my hand.

  I looked back at the picture on the screen.

  I looked back and forth, back and forth between the picture in my hand and the picture on the screen.

  They were EXACTLY the same.

  I gasped and my hands began to tremble. Could it be that I was holding an original Picasso drawing that could be worth millions of dollars? And, if so, how did it get here? It all seemed too weird to be true. But then again…what if it were?

  12

  C’est Vrai?

  IS IT TRUE?

  Sophie and I studied the Boston Globe story that I’d printed out.

  “Let’s review the facts,” I said, getting into my investigative reporter state of mind. As a feature writer for The Sentinel, I was used to gathering information and making sense of it all so I could write my articles. “Number one: The sketch was stolen on Friday night. Number two: Isabel bought the coloring book Saturday morning—the morning AFTER the sketch was stolen. Perhaps it was in the coloring book when Isabel bought it.”

  Sophie picked up the sketch and stared at it. “A thief put a valuable Picasso sketch in a coloring book? Je ne comprends pas…”

  “I don’t understand either. Maybe someone else was supposed to buy it—a ‘fence’—you know, someone who deals stolen goods.” I’d read enough detective books to know the lingo. “Or maybe the thief was being followed and he needed to hide it quickly, and the book was the easiest place to stash it.”

  “Charlotte—quelle imagination! We do not know if this is a real Picasso—if it is the one in the newspaper article. You are probably right, mon amie. It is a free picture—how did you say—a costie?” Sophie asked.

  “A freebie. But this all seems too crazy to be just a coincidence. Like you said, it looks old. Besides…it says right here in the article that it was a ‘previously unknown, un-catalogued sketch.’ How could a copy have been made? This has to be the original,” I reasoned.

  “Oh, Charlotte. Ce n’est pas vrai—it can’t be true. I truly do not think a thief would put something so valuable in a coloring book,” Sophie declared. “It’s after school now back home, n’est-ce pas? Why don’t you check your e-mail? I’m sure Isabel will tell you it was a freebie.” Sophie emphasized the new English word I taught her.

  I logged on to my e-mail account and my heart thumped rapidly as I clicked on a reply from Isabel.

  To: Charlotte

  From: Isabel

  Subject: re: Picasso Picture

  Charlotte–

  I’m embarrassed to tell you this! but I bought the same Picasso coloring book for myself when I bought yours (I couldn’t resist!).

  I checked it.

  Not sure what u mean about a freebie…there isn’t anything in it at all. Hope that helps!!!!!!!!!!!!

  XOXO,

  Isabel

  P.S. Did you find your cat yet?

  I gulped. Not only had I not found my cat, but I apparently had a real live Picasso drawing in my hands. The e-mail clinched it. Sophie read over my shoulder, and her silence told me she too was finally convinced that something very strange was going on.

  I cleared my throat and tried to remain calm. “Okay. So most likely, the sketch wasn’t in the coloring book when Isabel bought it. The question is how did it get there?”

  “Where have you taken the book since you got it?” Sophie asked.

  “It was on my lap on the plane. Besides that, it was in my messenger bag until I took it out and left it in your room on Monday. Right before the bag was stolen.”

  “Did you ask anyone to carry your bag for you while you were traveling?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Think, Charlotte…it would have taken only a moment to slip the picture in the book.”

  “Well, I definitely carried it onto the plane myself. But Mr. Peckham—”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. “Oui! And what about this man, this Mr. Peckham?”

  “He helped me put it in the overhead bin. He’s the sweetest old man though, like a grandfather. He’s a friend of Madame Giroux’s. She goes out to dinner at his pub all the time. Mr. Peckham’s just a normal, regular guy. There’s no way he could be an art thief.”

  “Did he tell you why he was in Boston?”

  “He said he was on vacation…on holidays.”

  “I see,” Sophie said, and then paused for a moment to think. “But didn’t Mr. Peckham say he once met Picasso?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wasn’t he the one who said he saw Picasso sketching in a pub?”

  “Yes…”

  “Hmmm. Let me see the sketch again.” Sophie carefully slid the thin piece of paper from the protection of the mat and examined it.

  “Charlotte! Look at this!”

  I looked over her shoulder, and there, right on the back of the sketch, was a bar bill from the Churchill Pub.

  For the next hour, Sophie and I argued about Harold G. Peckham, Esquire.

  “You must tell someone! Don’t you see? He’s a thief! A scoundrel!”
Sophie insisted.

  I didn’t know what to think. Maybe Sophie was right. Mr. Peckham had to be involved with this mess, even if he wasn’t the thief. It was too much of a coincidence. He was in Boston when the sketch was stolen. He told me about watching Pablo Picasso sketch at the Churchill Pub, so I know he was familiar with this picture—a “previously unknown” work of art that almost no one else knew about. He had put my coloring book back in my messenger bag at the end of our flight. There would have been enough time for him to quickly slip the sketch into the book. But I couldn’t get over the fact that he seemed so nice, so sweet and genuine. Why would he do such a thing? And, if he was the crook, why did he tell me all about his connection to Picasso? Surely if he were an accomplished thief he wouldn’t want to leave a trail. It just didn’t add up.

  “There is something missing here,” I said.

  “Yes. The missing sketch! You must go à la gendarmerie—to the police!”

  “The police? No! What if they think I did it?”

  Sophie shook her head. “Not if you explain the whole story. Oh, Charlotte! It’s your only choice. You can’t take it back to Boston.”

  “I know. I don’t want to keep it any longer than I have to. What if someone steals my bag again?”

  “Your bag! That explains it! Mr. Peckham! He stole your bag.” Sophie was convinced.

  “What? No way! He wouldn’t do that to me. And he doesn’t know where you live, anyway…the person who stole my bag must have been following us around these past few days.”

  “And what makes you think Mr. Peckham wasn’t the man following us around? Didn’t you say that the suspicious man at Berthillon looked like Mr. Peckham? Charlotte, you are too soft-hearted. You must turn him in!” Sophie insisted.

  “He must have thought the coloring book with the sketch in it was still in the bag,” I said softly. “But it wasn’t…it was in your room the whole time. He brought the bag back with everything in it, though. He didn’t take a cent. Does that sound like a thief to you?” I asked.

  Neither Sophie nor I could answer that question. It was all so confusing, and it was really late and we were getting tired. We decided to wait until morning to decide what to do. Sophie fell asleep right away. I, on the other hand, was wide awake. I stared out the window at the full moon. My heart was racing. What was going on? All I’d wanted to do was come to Paris, find Orangina, and visit with Sophie, and now I was embroiled in an international art theft. This was too much! What was I going to do?

  I took out my flashlight and compared the Boston Globe article to some of my journal entries. The real owner of the sketch, Mr. Doyle, was originally from Staithes, England. Mr. Peckham had said he was from England—I looked back in my journal—Staithes. Mr. Peckham was from Staithes, too. He said that Staithes was a very small town. The two men must have known each other.

  I thought about Mr. Peckham and how kind he had been to me. I thought of his thick white hair and his neatly trimmed mustache. Something pinged inside of me. I knew all of the evidence added up to Mr. Peckham being the thief, but I wasn’t yet willing to believe that he was a criminal. But I knew one thing: There was a mystery to be solved.

  Charlotte’s Journal

  I have a real Picasso sketch—a famous work of art—lying right next to me in Sophie’s room at this moment. I’m sure of it. I think it’s been with me during this whole trip, and I didn’t even know it. It’s kind of funny, actually. We’ve spent the past few days searching everywhere for Orangina, and then out of the blue we found something HUGE that everyone else in the world is looking for. What if I hadn’t opened up the Picasso coloring book until I got back to Boston? What if I had been searched at the airport and they found the sketch and thought that I STOLE it? I could only imagine calling my dad from prison to tell him I was involved in an international scandal. So much for being careful and “staying out of trouble.” The BSG would have to visit me behind bars. And what about Marty…do they let dogs make jail visits?

  The biggest question of all…why did Mr. Peckham get involved in this? I just can’t believe that he’s a bad person. I know Sophie thinks it’s silly that I won’t immediately turn him in to the police. But first I need to get to the bottom of this. I want to know the truth…whatever that is.

  13

  Perdu et Trouvé

  LOST AND FOUND

  The next morning, I filled Sophie in on the connection between the owner of the sketch—Mr. Doyle—and Mr. Peckham. “But I still don’t believe he’s a cold-hearted criminal,” I told her.

  “What does it matter?” Sophie asked. “A thief is a thief is a thief.” Sophie was a no nonsense girl—just like Katani. They would probably be high-fiving each other right now.

  At least we agreed on one thing: We needed to return the painting before anything happened to it. I didn’t want to risk losing it—or, more important, be accused of stealing it myself! We were both afraid that the police might keep us captive all day long asking questions, so we decided it would be best to take the sketch directly to the Picasso Museum. After all, they were the experts—they would definitely know what to do.

  We packed up and rushed through the narrow, historic streets of the Marais until we were standing in front of the Picasso Museum. I stamped my foot in frustration—it was closed. I looked nervously around, hoping no one had followed us. We waited outside for what seemed like forever. When the doors finally opened at nine a.m. Sophie and I rushed to the information desk, where I asked to speak to the director. The woman behind the counter asked what it was regarding and Sophie replied authoritatively, “It’s a matter of extreme urgency, Madame.”

  The woman’s raised eyebrow and icy glare told us she didn’t believe a word we were saying. Nonetheless, she ushered us into the director’s office a few minutes later.

  “Excusez moi, I won’t take up much of your time,” I told the director, a man in a gray suit with a long, thin face, as my palms sweated and my heart thumped. I took the coloring book out of my messenger bag. “You know the missing Picasso sketch that was taken from Boston earlier in the week?” I purposely didn’t say the word “stolen.”

  “Oui, I have read the reports. C’est une tragédie! Such a tragedy in the art world.”

  “I believe that this might be the sketch,” I said, gingerly placing the sketch on the desk in front of the director. “I found it in a Picasso coloring book my friend bought for me on Saturday in Boston, the day after the robbery. I wanted to make sure it was returned to the rightful owner.”

  The museum director picked up the sketch and looked at it intently for a few seconds before hitting the buzzer on the desk.

  “Yes?” answered a voice from another room.

  “Ask DuBon to come here immediately,” the director said. Then he looked up at me suspiciously. “Tell me where you found this again?”

  Remembering how confident Sophie had been in the jewelry store, I gathered up all my courage and repeated in a very strong voice what I had just told him. Maybe too strong, as he raised his eyebrows at me when I spoke. “It was in a coloring book my friend bought for me at a store in Boston. The store is only a few miles from where the Picasso sketch was taken,” I added.

  Sophie nudged me with her elbow and I pushed her arm away. I knew what she was getting at. I made it seem like the sketch had been in the coloring book all along. I just couldn’t bring myself to get poor Mr. Peckham into trouble. After all, I wasn’t positive he was the one who stole the sketch. And the important thing was that the sketch was being returned to its rightful owner. I crossed my fingers and hoped that I wouldn’t get in trouble either. By the look on the director’s face, I wasn’t sure that I would be so lucky.

  Another very serious-looking man entered the room. The two museum experts examined the sketch carefully and whispered to each other.

  I nervously stood up to leave. “I just wanted to make sure it was safely returned—if it is the real missing sketch.”

  The director assured me he wo
uld take care of it and asked me to leave my name, U.S. address, and French address. Sophie wrote everything down in French for me.

  The day suddenly seemed so much brighter when we walked outside.

  I took a deep breath, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted. Still, I didn’t feel like it was over. There were too many unanswered questions.

  “Charlotte, you made it sound like the sketch was in the coloring book BEFORE you flew to Paris. Why did you do that?” Sophie asked.

  I didn’t answer, but Sophie could read my face.

  “Why are you protecting that man anyway?”

  I shrugged. The truth was I didn’t know why. I just felt that if Mr. Peckham did take the sketch…it was for reasons other people might not understand.

  “Charlotte! I’m très serieuse. Why are you protecting him?” a clearly exasperated Sophie asked again.

  “I’m not sure…,” I told her honestly. Maeve always said I was a softie. Was I too much of a softie? Was I protecting a dangerous criminal? “The important thing is that the sketch will be returned to its rightful owner.”

  I thought Sophie might be angry with me, but she just shrugged her shoulders and let the whole thing drop. That was why we were friends. Even if we didn’t always agree, we somehow understood each other.

  “Maybe you’re right, Charlotte. Now what?” she asked. I had forgotten how practical Sophie could be. It was a very reassuring quality in a friend.

  “Let’s forget about criminals. Time’s running out. We have only two days left to find Orangina. Let’s go!”

  14

  Pas Une Minute à Perdre

  THE CLOCK IS TICKING