“I can’t give you tea, but you can have these. They’re all I could get hold of.” Mrs. Sharpe handed them each a large chocolate lollipop and pushed some buttons that made the head of her bed go up. “I wanted to thank you for mailing my letter.”
The three of them sat for a moment in silence.
“I suppose you’re wondering what that letter was about.”
Calder looked down at his lollipop. Petra swallowed loudly.
Mrs. Sharpe’s eyes narrowed. “Children! Was that letter mailed? There is something you’re not telling me.”
Calder decided to come clean. “Well, you see … we noticed the letter was to Ms. Hussey … and she’s our teacher, you know … and we’ve been following the thief’s letters and advertisements in the Chicago Tribune … and we’re working together on trying to find the Lady … and Petra had a dream about the Lady … and so we wanted to read the letter … we were just curious to see if you were worried about Ms. Hussey, too —”
“STOP! Did you open my letter?” Mrs. Sharpe’s voice was frightening.
“No,” Petra whispered. “It was my fault, too. We thought that because you’re smart and you like Vermeer, you might know something about the theft, and — that you might have some good ideas. We were curious about why you wrote to Ms. Hussey. We were going to read your letter and then put it in a new envelope and mail it for you, but we didn’t end up opening it. That’s the truth. I’m really sorry, Mrs. Sharpe, I don’t know what got into us.” Petra was almost in tears.
There was a long, unbearable silence. Neither Calder nor Petra dared look up. Then a strange creaking sound came from the bed. Mrs. Sharpe was laughing. It sounded as though she was a little out of practice.
The children looked at her in amazement. “You’re not angry?” Calder asked.
“Oh, not really.” Mrs. Sharpe was drying her eyes with a tissue. “I see myself in the two of you. I’ve done many things in my life out of curiosity, and have regretted very few of them. The important thing here is that you stopped yourselves before you did something wrong.” Her face straightened. “Very wrong. The point is that you must never read someone else’s correspondence.” After allowing the children to feel uncomfortable for another few moments, she continued in a brusque tone, “My maiden name, Coffin, is from Nantucket Island, in Massachusetts, and when I read in the papers that Ms. Hussey was from there, I just thought I’d share the coincidence with her. Now. What is this about a dream?”
Grateful that Mrs. Sharpe didn’t seem to be too furious about the letter, Petra started talking. She described in detail her dream about the painting, confiding that no one but Calder knew about it. She mentioned that Vermeer’s Lady sometimes seemed to communicate with her. Mrs. Sharpe studied Petra intensely as she spoke. The old woman’s eyes narrowed until they were almost slits in her face.
“Yes, she’s speaking to you.”
“Excuse me?” Petra’s voice was almost a whisper.
“Well, there are many things about life, many experiences, that we don’t have an explanation for, as Mr. Fort said. But what interests me is the idea that much of what we humans take to be a lie is true, and much of what we think is true is a lie.”
Mrs. Sharpe was speaking slowly, looking at her hands. “Charles Fort would have said something to you like, ‘Who’s to say that art isn’t alive, anyway? Who’s to say what’s real? If frogs can fall from the sky, why can’t paintings communicate?’”
Calder had hopped up from his chair. “Petra! Remember the Picasso quote that Ms. Hussey told us about art being a lie that tells us the truth?”
“Sit down, boy. You’re making my leg nervous.” Mrs. Sharpe’s frigid tone sent Calder back to his seat. Her face settled into an unreadable expression. “Truth … perhaps … you think you two could succeed where the FBI has failed?”
“Well, nothing happens in life unless you try. And we’re pretty smart kids, you know.” Calder had pulled out his pentominoes and was quietly making rectangles on the table next to Mrs. Sharpe’s bed. “We haven’t even told you about these.”
“Smart, you think so?” Mrs. Sharpe watched Calder for a moment in silence. “What are those, boy? Some kind of new toy?”
“They’re pentominoes,” Calder responded with dignity. He told Mrs. Sharpe the letter name for each of the twelve pieces. Then he explained that you could make many, many rectangles out of them, but that it took practice.
“Push that table over here.” Mrs. Sharpe tried putting the pieces together for a few minutes, mumbling “twelve pieces” under her breath again and again. Everyone was quiet. No rectangles appeared.
“It’s hard at first. It takes time,” said Calder kindly.
“Pah!” Mrs. Sharpe was looking frustrated. “I can think of something else you could do with these. How many, oh, five-letter words, say, could you make using at least three of these twelve letters in each word? Ever done that?”
“No.” Both children were leaning toward the table now. Mrs. Sharpe was saying, “Let’s see, the letters are F, I, L, N, P, T, U, V, W or M, X, Y, and Z. I love word challenges like these. Finds, flute, lines, filmy, tails …”
“Hey! That’s thirteen letters. Who said the W could be an M?” asked Calder.
“I did.” Mrs. Sharpe was busily pushing around the pieces.
“Wilts and tilts!” added Petra.
“Melts!” shouted Calder.
“Lower your voice, boy! We don’t want one of those policemen outside the door to start bothering us. Now if you could add another letter, you could have monkey, and then there’s panel … and vines!” Mrs. Sharpe was looking very pleased with herself, muttering, “Finds … fruit …”
At that moment, a nurse bustled into the room. “Time for your medication, Mrs. Sharpe.”
“Oh, go away!” she snapped.
The nurse refused, and Calder and Petra stood up to go. As Calder picked up his pentominoes, Mrs. Sharpe nodded at them. “Wonderful tools. Could be put to many uses.”
“Yes, I even like to —” began Calder eagerly.
But Petra was pulling on his arm. “We’ve gotta go, Calder.”
Mrs. Sharpe thanked them for visiting and waved one hand in dismissal. As they walked away, they could hear her arguing with the nurse.
That night Calder got a phone call from Tommy with the terrific news that he and his mom were moving back to Hyde Park. Tommy didn’t know exactly when this would happen, but he said that the Dewey Avenue Rescue Fund, the money Calder and Petra had collected by selling brownies, was a definite help. Old Fred hadn’t left much behind.
Then Tommy told Calder more news: Frog had been found. His parents had gone on a long trip and left him in Washington, D.C., with a relative. No one in Tommy’s New York neighborhood had been willing to tell the “new kid,” in Tommy’s words, what was going on — either that, or they were all so unfriendly that they didn’t know or care where Frog and his family were. Tommy said he’d just gotten a postcard from the National Gallery of Art, “one of those Vermeer pictures, the stolen one,” from Frog. Calder couldn’t wait to tell Tommy what was going on, but knew he and Petra had to keep quiet for the moment.
He called Petra immediately. She was thrilled to hear about Tommy.
Calder went on, “Remember the N for National Gallery, that day we were trying to get the pentominoes to say something about where Frog was? That day with the frog napkins and the rain?”
“Uh-huh.”
Calder filled Petra in on the rest of the story. “Makes me think of a Charles Fort thing. Frog disappears to the National Gallery, then a picture of the Lady travels back to Tommy. It’s not teleportation, but some kind of strange symmetry —” Calder was quiet for a moment.
“Or some kind of weird joke,” Petra finished. “Things going together that don’t seem like they should.”
“Things with a scary sense of humor,” added Calder.
After their visit with Mrs. Sharpe and the news about Frog, Petra and Calder
couldn’t wait to get back to the search.
The only remaining part of the University School compound that had paneling was King Hall. The middle school and the high school buildings were too new, and Poppyfield Hall had been carved up into studio and theater spaces.
Used only for college classes and offices, King Hall was practically empty after school. Starting on the first floor, Petra and Calder worked their way upstairs.
There seemed to be miles of dark wood. Leaving the lights out, they ran their hands along square wall panels in lecture rooms, tapping softly and looking for hidden compartments. They opened closets and cupboards, but all were empty. They leaned on grates and rattled bulletin boards. The building seemed discouragingly solid.
“This place is dead compared with Delia Dell,” Calder said, looking out at the bright building across the street. Completed in 1916, Delia Dell Hall boasted countless gargoyles and faces half-hidden in decades of ivy. There were stone turrets, an assortment of chimneys, and casement windows. In addition to the original rooms, it had a pool, a pub, and a modern movie theater. Parties and performances were held there. The building cast a warm yellow glow on the snow, a glow that sent fingers of light into the dark classrooms of King.
“So much for my U for the U. School pentomino idea,” Petra said, standing next to Calder at the window. “Guess she’s not here. How about a quick look in Delia Dell before we go home?”
“Sure — plus, we can get M&M’s there, and I’m starving.”
Their voices faded into the early darkness as they headed across the street, leaving the quiet of King Hall to resettle behind them.
Calder and Petra sat on a long bench on the first floor in Delia Dell, sharing blue ones and a bag of potato chips. Snow was falling, magically softening and erasing the university world beneath it. They piled jackets and hats and gloves into a damp mound beside them.
Several college students on the other side of the room were talking about a Latin class. A man with heavy eyebrows sat reading a newspaper. A professor with a head like a pink bowling ball hurried in the direction of the pool, towel under his arm. A woman carrying a giant ring of keys passed their bench and headed up the stairs. Calder could hear the sharp click of a door opening, and the thunk of a lock sliding into place from inside.
Petra didn’t seem to notice any of this. She was eating steadily, looking straight ahead of her with a sleepy expression.
Calder was feeling talkative. “Wow, this whole place is wood. Look at that staircase. I’ve never really noticed it before. It looks like something from an old movie — you know, like Bette Davis should be standing at the top.”
“Right.” Petra stood up and stretched. “Come on, it’s getting late.”
Away from the entrance hall, they wandered through room after empty room of paneled wood, stone fireplaces, tiled floors. They stayed in the older parts of the building.
Neither had realized how big the original part of Delia Dell Hall was. It twisted and turned gracefully, a rectangular dance with surprises in scale and mood. One moment it was grand, the next cozy. There was a huge ballroom space on the first floor, with a tai chi class going on in one corner. Across the way was a miniature reception room followed by what looked like a dining room. Plaster grapevines covered the heavy beams overhead, and the walls, paneled in rectangles of varying sizes, were interrupted here and there by almost-invisible doors. A small wooden knob and a keyhole were the only indications that something might be up. One door led to an old-fashioned kitchen, one to a back staircase, and three or four others were simply locked.
The dining area opened into a sunny library with a generous fireplace. Over the mantel, a wooden scroll read: DEDICATED TO THE LIFE OF WOMEN AT THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO. Carved lions and horses flanked the dedication.
Petra stood in front of it, admiring the elaborate Gothic letters. “Cool. I wonder what that means?”
“My mom told me this was the first place at the university where women students could hang out. Anyway,” Calder said, “let’s keep going.”
On the second floor there were some offices and three empty lecture rooms, all with rows of wooden chairs, old oil paintings on the walls, and elaborate leaded glass windows.
The third floor had a miniature theater. The walls of the room facing the theater were covered with a parade of young people in medieval costumes dancing, playing, and talking with one another in an idyllic country setting. The north wall had vaulted windows with French doors that opened onto a roof terrace. Petra and Calder stood, awed, at the entrance to the room. A red velvet curtain covered the stage, and on either side was a small wooden door.
Propelled by the same urge, they walked slowly toward the stage. There was no one in sight. Without a word, Calder tried the door on the right-hand side. It opened. Three short steps led up to a tiny backstage area.
They crept inside, stepping over frayed curtain ropes, a lute with no strings, a plastic pitcher, and an old broom.
“These look like props for a goofy Vermeer,” Calder said.
He thought Petra would smile, but she didn’t seem to be listening. “Not much place to hide,” was all she said.
Petra suddenly felt as though she had forgotten something important, or as if she was supposed to be someplace but couldn’t quite remember where. Or maybe it was that she didn’t feel well. It was an effort to talk.
Back on the second floor, she wandered over to a window seat and sat down. Being next to the casement window felt oddly comforting.
Calder was down on all fours looking up into the fireplace. “I’m just checking for hidden shelves. This building could be filled with secrets we haven’t even imagined, you know?”
Hearing no response, he peered around at her. “What’s the matter? You look like you’re half asleep.”
“Calder. These windows.”
Calder sat up. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Kind of like Vermeer windows.”
Petra looked around the room. “And the paneled wood. I mean, millions of old buildings have paneled wood, but these rectangles …” Petra’s voice trailed off, and she stared at her reflection in the darkening glass.
Calder came over and sat down quietly next to her. “Do you want to look around some more?” he asked, sounding like his parents when they were trying to get him to do something but didn’t want to be too obvious.
Petra looked steadily at him. “Calder. What are you thinking?”
“That you sound like we might be getting warm.”
Petra was suddenly feeling horribly warm. “I might just be getting sick. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
They headed back to the first floor. They passed the weasels that became brass door handles, the carved flute player overhead, the stone lions mounted high above the landing. Petra, resting her hand on the railing as they walked slowly down the sweeping staircase, stopped with a jolt. Calder kept going.
The railings were a delicate tangle of iron grapevines and creatures. There were birds, mice, and lizards. Instead of newel posts at the bottom of the staircase, an intricately carved oak monkey clung to either end of the railing. Monkey, panel, vines, flute, finds … She could feel the blood beating wildly in her temples: monkey, vines … monkey, vines … panel, flute, finds … FINDS! Mrs. Sharpe’s words: Petra stood frozen, one hand gripping the railing.
She saw Calder pawing obliviously through their soggy clothing for his jacket. She hoped her face wasn’t revealing her wild, screaming thoughts. Walk, just walk normally…. A man looked up at her as she passed, putting down his paper. Was the world able to feel her heart pounding, her thoughts on fire? She grabbed her things and burst out the door into the merciful dusk.
“Petra? What’s up?”
“Come on!”
Calder could hardly keep up with his friend as she half-ran, half-stumbled through the new snow. She hurried a block east on Fifty-ninth Street and glanced back. Calder looked back, too, suddenly frightened.
“Let’s go home through
backyards. We need to disappear, okay?”
Calder walked quickly next to Petra, their shoulders touching. He thought of the P for prey — or was it pray? The blue shadows of late afternoon were menacing now. Bushes between houses seemed filled with pools of darkness, and people hunched against the cold looked dangerous.
When she was satisfied that they weren’t being followed, Petra stopped. “Calder. This is it.”
He looked around at the deserted alleyway and shivered. “This is what?”
“I think we’ve found her.”
As Petra brushed her teeth that night, she went over what had happened in Delia Dell Hall. There had been a clear zap in her mind. It reminded her of the time she’d been plugging a frayed lamp cord into the wall and her finger had landed on bare wire.
Had Mrs. Sharpe let something slip? Was she hoping they’d pick up on her clues? Petra thought of what Ms. Hussey had once said about criminals wanting to be discovered. If Mrs. Sharpe and Ms. Hussey had been collaborating —
And then, as if someone had changed the prescription on her glasses, she suddenly saw how wild her ideas had gotten. Were she and Calder crazy to think those two women could be mixed up in the theft? Their suspicions about their neighbor and their teacher suddenly seemed overwrought and childish. How could this staircase experience be anything but a huge, strange coincidence?
First of all, she and Calder and Mrs. Sharpe had been playing a game with pentominoes. Mrs. Sharpe obviously had never seen a pentomino before. The words she had made up that afternoon were not something she had planned.
Second, she was an old lady. She was the widow of a murder victim. She had gotten a letter from the thief. After weeks of worrying, she had turned it in. She had asked for police protection. And Ms. Hussey was a young teacher, and a dedicated one. Why would she ever get mixed up in a major art theft?
Petra tapped her toothbrush on the sink in a businesslike way. Her imagination had run away with her in Delia Dell. Hoping to get the mystery solved, she had jumped to some ridiculous conclusions. All this looking was making her crazy. The zap was probably from not feeling well, and Mrs. Sharpe’s pentomino words were nothing more than a magnificent Charles Fort incident. The stolen painting was probably in Switzerland or Brazil or Japan. She’d apologize to Calder in the morning for scaring him.
Chasing Vermeer Page 10
