“I want to see Neville first.” But I heard a soft sneeze coming from his direction. Connie’s sneeze. Good ol’ Connie.
“Look, Bertie. The jig is up. Soon, a hundred different cops are going to be swarming all over this place. Either they take you or they take Neville. Which is it going to be?”
“You lied to me!”
“C’mon, Bertie. They’re gonna be here any second now. They see Neville sitting alone in that parking lot, and they’re all over him like white on rice. Give up Connie and you can go grab Neville before they arrive. You’re wasting time, Bertie. You could be on your way …”
I heard a soft grunt and a splat like someone falling, and for a second my heart jumped into my stomach because I thought maybe he’d—I don’t even want to say what I thought. But before I could go too far down that heartbreak road, I saw Connie running toward me from out of the shadows.
Toward me and right into me, to be precise. We both toppled to the floor in a painful heap.
“Hey!” I said.
“I couldn’t see you in the dark!” she said.
It didn’t matter. I was so glad to see her, even her shadow, that I could have hugged her. But I restrained myself. In the distance, we heard Witherspoon’s footsteps.
“Let’s follow him!” I said to Connie after we’d righted ourselves.
“Bianca! What’s going on?” Sarah whispered from behind a pillar.
“It’s okay! Connie’s safe. You can come out!” In a second, the whole crew was out and I was leading the charge toward where Bertrand Witherspoon had disappeared.
“He parked near the dumpster!” Connie said.
“But he’ll head to the parking lot—he thinks Neville is there,” I said.
We clomped and clicked our way downstairs. It’s amazing the noise even the softest shoe makes in an echoey museum with marble floors and walls. As we sprinted toward the doors, it sounded like the racetrack at Pimlico.
Too late. Bertrand Witherspoon was outside, looking bewilderingly at an array of flashing blue and red lights. For a second, I almost felt sorry for him. He’d been looking forward to seeing his son, and instead he was met by a sea of cops. My sympathy lasted about an eighth of a second, though. Bertrand Witherspoon was a jerk of the first order.
I learned something that night—I love my sister. Imagine that!
Actually, I learned more than that. Remember how I said this was a story about false assumptions? Boy, was it ever! First, everyone assumed Hector was the culprit because of his background and, let’s face it, his ethnicity, which was probably a factor, too. Even I thought he was a good suspect from the get-go without so much as a smidgeon of solid supporting evidence.
And then, when Hector was cleared, and Neville was cornered, we all nodded our heads sagely. Of course it was him, we all smugly thought. If not the poor Latino with a record, then surely the obnoxious Brit with an attitude problem. Who would have thought it was his father—upstanding, no record, congenial, well-liked? Yet, underneath it all, he was a roiling sea of resentment, and, according to Kerrie, with money problems to boot.
He had Neville’s upcoming college bills to pay, and his bank account had been cleaned out because of some poor investments. But no one knew, least of all his family. He was “keeping up appearances,” fooling everyone, including himself.
He’d tried to sell off some of his art and found out it wasn’t worth much. And at a meeting of the museum board, some folks got to talking about how publicity, good or bad, really jacks up the price of pieces by these new artists—just as Hector had explained to Sarah. So Witherspoon had hatched an idea—steal a painting by one of the artists whose paintings he already owned, and create a public controversy. The papers and TV get the story, and voila! The artist’s a hot item. And he can get some good cash for his own little painting. As a private joke, he’d hung, at the museum, a fake painting in place of the one he’d stolen. He thought it would add to the story.
He had a pretty good technique, too. Grab the painting, stick up the fake one, then take the real one to the janitor’s bin and throw it in. All he had to do then was grab the painting from the dumpster after the museum trash was dumped in. And, so no one notices, switch the security tapes—security tapes he had access to because he’d stolen Fawn Dexter’s keys.
The only time he came close to slipping up was the night of the reception—he’d nabbed a Bargenstahler, replaced it with a fake, and was almost caught when the dumpster was overflowing, and he had no choice but throw the painting into Sarah’s trunk. He hadn’t known it was Sarah’s car, of course—he’d spent a frantic evening trying to figure out whose car it was when he lit on the idea of calling Fawn Dexter to complain about the “old wreck” he’d seen parked by the dumpster at the museum and to ask her if they should have it towed. Fawn revealed its owner, and from there Witherspoon tracked down Sarah to get the painting back.
Poor Witherspoon—he hadn’t counted on the fact that the museum wouldn’t notice right away that paintings were being replaced. Or on the fact that they’d want to keep the thefts hushed up for awhile. He was the one who ended up “leaking” the story to the press to get attention for the artist.
And poor Neville—he’s the one I feel most sorry for. He was just a lonely guy to begin with. Now, he’s a lonely guy with a creep for a father. Kerrie and Sarah both told me they’d heard from him, and he still plans on attending Hopkins now that he’s been cleared of the crime. But he’s pretty shaken up by the whole mess.
As for me, I had one last mystery to solve and that, too, proved to be a case of false assumptions. At breakfast on Sunday, when I complained once again about my poetry magnets being changed, I hit big-time on Connie because it was my way of showing her how much I really loved her.
Mom looked at me like I needed Sanity Pills.
“Why are you screaming at her, Bianca? They’re just magnets. I didn’t realize they were your magnets! I thought they were fun.” So the last person I’d have suspected—my mom—turned out to be the guilty party there, too.
At least I know what else to get her for Christmas this year, in addition to the gift certificate card from Hecht’s. In fact, I’ve already bought and wrapped it—a book of “The World’s Most Beloved Poetry,” complete with her own set of poetry magnets.
Acknowledgements
MY HEARTFELT THANKS go to all the “usual suspects” in my circle of friends and family, but especially to my husband Matthew, whose encouragement is unflagging, and to my writing friends Jerri Corgiat and Karen Brichoux, who are never too busy to share advice and to provide the occasional, and much-needed, pep talk.
I’d also like to thank the Mystery Writers of America for choosing my first book, Uncovering Sadie’s Secrets, as an Edgar finalist. Writing is a lonely and sometimes discouraging business. Being acknowledged for your efforts is a gift beyond measure.
Thanks, too, go to the many readers who’ve written to tell me how much they enjoyed Sadie and how eagerly they looked forward to reading Forger, and to the teens (and adults) who took the time to read Sadie and Forger before publication to offer feedback and praise.
Finally, I’d like to thank my first teachers, the Sisters of St Francis, especially those at the Catholic High School of Baltimore, whose motto—Lux tua luceat—has become ever more meaningful as the years go by.
About the Author
Libby Sternberg is a writer whose social and political commentary regularly airs on Vermont Public Radio. Her articles have appeared in numerous publications, including The Baltimore Sun, the Indianapolis Star, Insight, and The Weekly Standard.
She holds bachelor’s and master’s degrees from the Peabody Conservatory of the Johns Hopkins University.
A Baltimore native, she now lives in Rutland, Vermont, is married, and has three children.
Uncovering Sadie’s Secrets, her first published novel, was an Edgar finalist for best YA mystery published in 2003, a rare honor for a small press novel. It was also chosen by
Brodart as a “small press gem,” and selected as among the Top 40 YA novels of 2003 by the Pennsylvania School Librarians Association.
Beginning in early 2005, both Uncovering Sadie’s Secrets, and its sequel in the Bianca Balducci mystery series, Finding the Forger, will appear as mass market paperbacks under the imprint of Dorchester Publishing’s new and popular YA line, Smooch.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Finding the Forger Page 17
