by Annie Bryant
“Hold on, Sophie. I just need a few minutes to think about what I’m going to say to Mr. Peckham,” I explained to Sophie, who already had her coat on.
I plopped down on the floor of Sophie’s room with all the evidence spread out around me—the coloring book, my journal, the printed news article, the picture of the sketch from the Boston Globe website. I twirled my pen around in my hand and rested my head against Sophie’s bed for a few seconds, reliving my conversations with Mr. Peckham. I opened up to a blank page in my journal and made a list of the facts about the man in question. He owns the Churchill Pub. He’s lived in Paris for years and years. He is not married but he loved a woman named Agnes once.
I snatched up the news article and scanned it again. The owner of the Picasso sketch, Mr. Doyle, said that Picasso had sketched his wife, who had died earlier in the year. I paged through my journal until I found where I had written it down that Agnes, whose picture Mr. Peckham carried, had died last June.
I shut my eyes and tried to remember the picture in Mr. Peckham’s wallet. Agnes had dark hair, a simple, flowing dress, and hypnotic eyes that turned down at the ends, which made her look sad and happy at the same time. I looked at the printout of the stolen Picasso sketch. There was something about the woman’s eyes…they had the same hypnotic quality I remembered from the photo of Agnes.
“Sophie!” I snapped my fingers. “Allons-y—let’s go!!”
16
Face à Face
FACE-TO-FACE
To save time, we took a taxi to the Churchill Pub. I didn’t breathe a word to Sophie about what I thought I’d just figured out—I wanted to hear the whole truth from Mr. Peckham first.
When we pushed through the door, the first thing I saw was a man with thick, white hair standing behind the bar. Sophie hung behind at the door while I marched up to the bar.
“Excuse me, Mr. Peckham. I was wondering if I could talk to you,” I said assertively.
Mr. Peckham turned toward me and jumped when he realized who it was. “Wh-why Charlotte! What a surprise! Whatever are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to you about the sketch.”
His eyes widened. “Sketch? Uh…um,” he stuttered, obviously flustered. “What sketch?”
“The Picasso. The one you slipped into my coloring book on the plane.”
“I am so sorry. I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, nervously looking toward the door.
“I know you took the sketch, Mr. Peckham. I already returned it to the museum. It’s the sketch you talked about, isn’t it? The one you saw Picasso draw right here at the Churchill Pub?”
Mr. Peckham’s eyes darted around the pub as if he was expecting the police to jump out and arrest him any second.
“Mr. Peckham,” I said. “I haven’t told anyone yet that it was you. I let the museum director think it was in the coloring book when my friend bought it.”
Mr. Peckham pulled a handkerchief out of his front pocket and mopped his forehead, which was suddenly beaded with sweat.
“Perhaps we should talk over here,” he said, pointing toward an empty table.
“My friend Sophie is here too,” I told him and pointed to Sophie. “You know, the one I told you about.” I motioned for Sophie to sit down with us at the table.
“Would you young ladies like a soft drink? An Orangina?” Mr. Peckham asked. He really was a very polite man.
I nodded. Mr. Peckham motioned to a waitress and ordered two Orangina sodas for the both of us.
“You say the sketch has been returned?” he asked when the waitress left.
I nodded.
“And there were…uh…no questions…about me?”
I shook my head no.
“I don’t know how to thank you. I…once I took it, I…well…ever since, I’ve been a nervous wreck.”
“You were so nice to me on the plane, but still…you stole something. And you brought me into this mess by hiding the sketch in my coloring book, putting me in potential danger. It wasn’t until this afternoon that I put all the pieces together. That sketch…it’s Agnes, isn’t it?”
Both Mr. Peckham and Sophie looked at me in complete and total amazement.
“Why…yes. But Charlotte, my dear…how ever did you know?”
“Remember, you showed me the picture of Agnes. The newspaper article said that the Picasso sketch was of Mr. Doyle’s wife, who died earlier this year. You told me that Agnes died this year. I knew that you and Mr. Doyle were from the same town in England…Staithes. On the plane you got so angry when you were talking about the man who stole Agnes from you. And there’s something about Agnes’s eyes…I noticed how beautiful they were when you showed me her picture. Picasso captured them perfectly in his sketch. Am I right?” I asked him.
“Charlotte, you are quite right…a most perceptive young lady. A regular sleuth, I’d say. Quite impressive.”
“So, you didn’t take it for money. You took it because it was a memory of the woman you loved,” I concluded.
Mr. Peckham continued in a low tone. “Yes. Doyle was going to sell the sketch. That picture was her very essence and he was going to sell it. He never knew a good thing when he had it. Agnes and I were friends for many years, but I could never summon the courage to tell her I loved her. Then it was too late—she married that despicable Doyle character.
“When I read in the news that a rare Picasso sketch was going on the auction block, well, I couldn’t think clearly after that. Before I knew it, I was on a plane to Boston. I found Doyle’s address in the phone book. It was really quite easy…I crawled into his home through an open window. It felt so satisfying to take something from him since he had taken Agnes away from me all those years ago. It wasn’t until I was on the plane back to Paris that I came to my senses and realized that what I had done was terribly wrong. My emotions had gotten the better of me. Not only was I wrong, but I could get caught and go to jail for the rest of my life. I declare, whatever was I thinking? I’ve never done anything even remotely like this in all my years, but my love for her got the better of me. Oh, I’m so ashamed of myself!”
I took a sip of my drink as Mr. Peckham pulled himself together. He was clearly completely distraught over what he had done.
“That’s why I hid it in your coloring book. It was the only thing I could think to do at the time. I knew the police would never suspect you. I hoped to get it back from you before you discovered it. When I took your bag and didn’t find the coloring book inside…I panicked. I’ve been waiting for the police to come take me away ever since. Imagine prison at my age. I’m afraid it would undo me!”
I glanced over at Sophie, who was sitting there with her mouth pursed. “Are you the man in the different-colored raincoats who was following us all over Paris?” she asked.
Mr. Peckham blushed. “I’m afraid so.”
“You really shouldn’t do things like that. It wasn’t very nice.” Sophie spoke calmly but seemed a little less confident than usual.
“Really, Mr. Peckham,” I added, “it was kind of creepy.”
Mr. Peckham looked mortified. “Please accept my deepest apologies, Mesdemoiselles Sophie and Charlotte. I never meant to do anyone any harm. I can only tell you that the death of my beloved Agnes unhinged me.”
Sophie shrugged her shoulders. She was French, after all, and understood the ways du coeur—of the heart.
“You have done me a great service, my dear, by returning the sketch without implicating me. I will be forever grateful to you. And I am astonished that you unraveled this mystery. You want to be a writer someday, am I correct? Perhaps you are a budding Agatha Christie?” Mr. Peckham suggested.
I smiled. Mysteries would be fun to write.
“I’m really sorry about the sketch,” I told him. “I know how much it meant to you.”
“I’m sorry, too, Mr. Peckham,” Sophie spoke up. “When Charlotte insisted you were not a criminal, I didn’t believe her. But still, it doesn’t see
m right that you should get away with this.”
I stared at Sophie. Maybe she had a future career in criminal justice.
“You are of course right, Mademoiselle Sophie. Would it satisfy your sense of justice if I made a substantial contribution to le Musée Picasso—one that would help the museum to buy the sketch?” Mr. Peckham asked.
Sophie was silent for a moment and then answered, “C’est bien—that’s good.”
Mr. Peckham’s shoulders relaxed and he continued. “As much as it meant to me, I am better off without the sketch. I would have been looking over my shoulder all my life and living with a guilty conscience. Although it hurts me to know that Agnes won’t be with me…I have to come to terms with the fact that the sketch will not bring her back. It is just one way to remember my dear love.”
We talked for a while longer about the events of the week. Mr. Peckham was very amused by the story of seeing Orangina on the barge. “By jove!” he said. “That is a good one.”
“I have one more question for you, Mr. Peckham. Did you by any chance take a picture with my disposable camera?” I pulled the strange picture out of my bag.
“Oh, dear.” Mr. Peckham took the picture from my hand and looked at it carefully. “When I was searching for the sketch in your bag, I accidentally pressed the camera button. I’m afraid my clumsiness got the better of me yet again. I suppose I wouldn’t make a very good criminal after all.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s okay, Mr. Peckham. I think you’re better off being the very nice man you are.”
When we finished our Oranginas, Mr. Peckham walked us to the door.
“I hope someday our paths cross again,” he said.
“I do too,” I agreed.
“And if not, I hope to find your books on the bookshelves in a few years. Somehow I think I will. I sense you have a brilliant future…as a writer…or a detective.”
Mr. Peckham dug into his pocket and pulled out his keys. He unhooked his favorite key chain and held it out to me. “I would like for you to have my mother’s four-leaf clover. I hope it brings you luck in love and life. You brought me luck by doing the right thing with the sketch. Now, the luck will be all yours. You are a bright young woman with a great and generous heart. You will go far.”
I took the key chain from his outstretched hand. “Thank you, Mr. Peckham. This is the perfect souvenir from my trip to Paris. Au revoir.”
17
La Soirée
THE PARTY
We took a taxi back to Sophie’s apartment, hoping that Madame Morel wasn’t too worried about us.
“Charlotte…I can’t believe you figured out about Mr. Peckham and Agnes and the sketch…you are a wonderful detective!” Sophie exclaimed as we rode home.
“When I put all the facts together, it all made sense. I didn’t want to say anything until I heard the truth from Mr. Peckham though. I’m glad he’s not mad that we returned the sketch to the museum.”
“It was the right thing to do,” Sophie said. “Even Mr. Peckham said that.”
The elevator in Sophie’s building was on the top floor, so we decided to take the stairs instead of waiting for it. Some of the older apartment buildings in Paris had little buttons called la minuterie that switched on a timed light on the landings and in the hallways. They were made of stuff that glowed a greenish-yellow in the dark. When you pushed the button, the light in the hall or stairwell came on for one minute—that was why they were called la minuterie. I swear les minuteries in the Morels’ apartment house were off by about forty-five seconds. I used to have the worst time with them when I lived in Paris—every time I pushed one, I would only get halfway up the stairwell before the light would go out and I would have to feel my way along the staircase until I found the next one. Luckily, Sophie had lots of practice. She expertly pressed the buttons and rushed up the stairs to get to the next before the light went off.
Madame Morel opened the door to the apartment before we had the chance. She must have been listening for us.
“Girls! You are back. I was starting to worry that something had happened to you. Did you have any luck with your search?”
Sophie and I exchanged relieved glances. Neither of us knew what Madame Morel would say if she found out what we’d really been doing for the past couple of hours.
“Yes, we saw Orangina!” Sophie recounted the story of Orangina perched on top of the barge.
“Formidable! I’m so glad you girls had a successful day. Somehow, I think that Orangina has, how do you say, nine lives. What a perfect end to your visit,” Madame observed.
I nodded. Madame Morel didn’t know how right she was, considering the other significant events of the day.
“We must get ready for your party now, Charlotte. You don’t want to keep Philippe waiting,” Sophie teased.
I decided to wear my chocolate brown corduroy pants and my light blue sweater. Sophie said the blue sweater made my eyes seem turquoise green. The scarf Madame Morel had bought for me was a perfect match.
“Will you help me with the scarf?” I asked Sophie.
“I think you should wear it in your hair,” Sophie decided, holding up the scarf against my head.
“My hair?”
“Brush your hair upside down,” Sophie said as she handed me the hairbrush.
I hung my head down and brushed my hair until it was smooth and full. Sophie folded the scarf into a thin strip and positioned it headband-style on my head. She tied an expert knot at the nape of my neck and smoothed my hair back in place.
“Oh, Charlotte, it is just the color for you, n’est-ce pas? The brown brings out the highlights in your hair and the blue makes your green eyes shine.”
“Your mother said the same thing.”
“Oh no! Look at the time. We must hurry!”
We didn’t wait for the elevator, but stumbled down the dark staircase. Sophie hit each minuterie as she passed. We pushed through the front door into the cool evening air. Up the hill we ran, dodging puddles as we climbed, arriving at Pizza Pino only a few minutes later than we planned.
I was surprised to find the pizza place packed with former classmates, including kids I didn’t even think knew I existed. I was most surprised to see Céleste and Chantal—the Whisperers—there. They probably came because they didn’t want to be left out, not because they wanted to spend any time with me or wish me bon voyage. I noticed how they checked out my outfit. Before we even sat down for pizza, they were whispering to each other. I wondered what would happen if Anna and Joline ever met Céleste and Chantal.
“Come, Charlotte, sit. We are about to order,” Philippe said, scooting over in his booth to make room for me.
I froze right in my tracks…Philippe wanted me to sit next to him?
Thankfully, Sophie gave me little push from behind, or I might have stood there forever.
“We plan on ordering an American special for our table. One cheese and one pepperoni. Is that all right with you?” Philippe asked.
I nodded, looking at all the people around me. It was nice being with practically the whole class, but kind of strange as well. I don’t remember hanging out with everyone at once when I actually lived in Paris.
When the pizza came, we all dug in. After eating amazing French food all week, I was surprised at how deliciously refreshing the pizza tasted…almost as good as Village Fare at home. I smiled. It was nice to know for once where home was.
The kids asked more questions about the United States, and then Alain asked me what I missed most about France.
I didn’t even have to think about it. “The Seine,” I replied. It sounded silly to miss a river, but it was true. “And of course, my friends.” I glanced sideways at Sophie. She smiled back.
As we finished eating, Philippe asked if I would do him a favor and buy him a Yankees baseball cap when I returned to the United States.
“The Yankees?”
“It is America’s favorite baseball team, no?”
“No!
Absolutely not. I live in Boston. We’re Red Sox fans. Buying a Yankees cap would be…well, betraying my home team!”
Philippe gave me a quizzical look and I knew that I’d never be able to explain the fierce rivalry between the Red Sox and the Yankees to him. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have understood it either.
“I’ll take a Red Sox cap then.” Philippe lifted his arms in surrender.
“You got it.” I grinned.
It was getting late and things were winding down. Sophie scooted out of the booth first. “Oh, Charlotte, I almost forgot. Maman asked me to pick up something from the drugstore down the street. Could you meet me at the corner in ten minutes?”
Before I had a chance to reply, she was gone.
“I’ll walk you to the corner,” Philippe offered.
He helped me put on my new purple coat. I said good-bye to the others and thanked them for coming. I promised to keep in touch and invited them all to visit me in Boston.
The night air was cool. Philippe put his arm around me to keep me warm. I blushed, but I had to remember that I was in France, and here people were much more casual about putting their arms around each other. It was an act of friendship. Philippe asked me what kids were like in America. I couldn’t help but giggle. Philippe looked quizzically at me. But how could anyone ever describe the Yurtmeister or Billy Trentini or Maeve and her dramatic ways? I told Philippe that he would have to visit someday and find out for himself.
Sophie, of course, wasn’t waiting at the corner when we got there.
“I will wait with you until Sophie arrives so you won’t be alone,” Philippe said.
“Merci, Philippe. That’d be nice.” I would miss speaking French when I got back to Boston.
He took a piece of paper from his pocket. “This is my address and e-mail. You will write, no? And send me that cap? Also, to help me practice my English.” Then he smiled, and I understood that “practicing English” was just his excuse to keep in touch with me.
“Of course,” I stammered, taking the paper from his hand. My fingers brushed against his and my breath caught in my throat.
