The Artsy Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  Dad goes back in the house and comes out with a blanket, which he throws over the back seat. We sit on top of it.

  Then Dad swings the Grape around to pick up Mrs. Kobai, the final clue that he could not persuade Renée’s dad to come and cheer on his son’s art entry. Trying has only made things worse, I think. Renée slumps down in her seat as her mom enters.

  Mrs. Kobai seems quiet and sad as she shuffles into her seat. “Thank you for the lift,” she says, sniffing a bit. “Thank you, also, for having Renée for the sleepovers.” You can just hear a hint of her Hungarian accent when she says the word also. She’s a pretty lady with brown hair and eyes, but she dresses in dark colours, with none of Renée’s flash or sparkle.

  “No worries. She’s been helping Stephen walk two of my clients so much that — I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered her her own uniform.”

  Gah, I think.

  But Renée lifts up in her seat and smiles again.

  “It’s good,” Mrs. Kobai answers. She sniffs and changes the subject. “My husband wanted always to be an architect, you know. Instead, he studied engineering. Because of his father.”

  Dad nods as he drives, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “Architecture is art. Our Attila should study architecture instead. It gives him such a big canvas.” She opens her hands wide.

  So does graffiti, I think. A high school wall sure provides a big space.

  “I walk dogs,” Dad tells her. “Lucky my father is dead; he wouldn’t have liked that. Used to do air traffic control but the stress was getting to me.”

  “So many airplanes in the sky at once. Would be stressful,” Mrs. Kobai agrees and then smiles. “I don’t mind if Attila paints.” She sighs and we ride the last few minutes to the art gallery in silence.

  The Art Gallery of Burlington is an oddly shaped building right across the street from Lake Ontario. Some wings are triangular, some rectangular with floor-to-ceiling windows and grey stone. A strange orange girder structure stands outside on the western corner. Rebecca, it’s called, after the sculptor’s daughter. I learned that on one of my many class trips here when we came to make clay pots.

  Today, we arrive fifteen minutes early and the parking lot already seems pretty full.

  “Mrs. Irwin can’t say no one is interested in art,” Renée says. “Look at this.”

  Dad drives up and down the rows till we find a small spot near the dumpster.

  Other cars seem to be cruising the streets for parking. We step out of the car and walk in through the back entrance.

  Immediately inside, we face a tall display case full of green-and-blue angel sculptures, but when we walk away, I notice small, grey stone statues on top of the case.

  “Wow, those are cool!” I point out the chubby boys riding tricycles to Renée.

  “Yeah! Oh, check this out.” She stops and reaches her hands up toward a gigantic white-and-red spider hanging above the door.

  Signs for the contest direct us to the community room in the front, which means we pretty much have to tour the entire building. Yay! Along the halls, we see more sculptures, dancing cows, teapots with aliens. In the centre of the gallery, there’s a garden courtyard of oversized ferns and rose-coloured blooms and sculptures. Across from it is my favourite piece: a shelf full of melting ceramic vegetables.

  Lots of the art makes me smile and some of it startles me, but nothing hits me quite as hard as the first thing we see when we step into the official art contest gallery. I can’t say a word, I can’t even breathe.

  A large screen shows Attila’s tank bursting through his high school’s wall.

  Mrs. Kobai gasps.

  The screen image pixelates and changes. Now it’s a railcar with a hand grenade exploding out of the side.

  Dad sucks in his breath sharply.

  Renée covers her mouth with her hands. Her eyes fill. The railcar transforms into the underside of an overpass where a machine gun stretches along the cement.

  Finally, the screen image changes into a large handgun painted on a water tower. “Oh, no!” Renée moans.

  Is she thinking the same thing as I am? This must be Mr. Rupert’s stolen handgun. Attila stole it and used it as his model.

  If mistake three of the day was announcing that we were inviting the police when Star could hear us, mistake five becomes that we invited them at all. Attila’s entire art collection has been illegally spray-painted on public property. Even if that gun in the painting isn’t the one stolen from Mr. Rupert’s house, Attila can be charged with public vandalism … again.

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE SIX

  Frozen, we stand watching Attila’s slide show run once, twice, three times. Like being shot in the stomach with art over and over. Weapons of Destruction, he calls it. “War is a crime against the environment,” his artist statement says. “All of these installations are located in Burlington.”

  “That’s quite something,” Dad murmurs.

  “Better my husband did not come,” Mrs. Kobai says.

  Renée can’t even talk, which is really weird for her. I have to snap her out of it, somehow. “Come on!” I tug her by the sleeve. “Let’s go check out some other art.”

  “Yes, go ahead, kids.” Dad and Mrs. Kobai wander in another direction.

  Renée’s feet move even though her mouth doesn’t answer. We push into a crowd of elegantly dressed people, most holding wine glasses and paper plates full of fruit or crackers.

  “Well, hello there!” Mrs. Ron calls. She’s dressed up today. Her floor-length muumuu is sea green with brightly coloured tropical fish all over it. She waves a piece of Swiss cheese at us and swings her plate in the direction of a huge brick inukshuk. Mr. Mason’s, of course. “Isn’t it inspiring?”

  “Very,” I agree. “It’s so straight … and red.” The title is Let History Guide Us. I read the rest of the artist’s statement about reclaiming the brick from a hundred-year-old farmhouse up in northern Burlington. Included at the end is a photo of the building.

  “Wow,” Renée says as she stares at the inukshuk. “That must have been so heavy to carry in.”

  Mrs. Ron nods and smiles as if calling it heavy was a compliment. “The boys are strong. Now, don’t forget to vote for your favourite piece of art!”

  “Sure, we will. Where are the ballots?” I ask.

  “Over in that corner.” She waves her cheese again.

  “We’ll just look at the others before we vote,” I tell her.

  “This one’s the best.” She winks at us. “Trust me.” She pops the rest of the cheese into her mouth and nods.

  On one wall, there’s a series of photos of sunrises over the pier. Beginnings in Burlington, the artist calls it.

  “Pretty,” I say out loud.

  A woman dressed all in black and wearing spikey tall boots turns around. “Why, thank you, Stephen!”

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Watier,” I answer our principal. She’s such a hurry-up-take-charge kind of person, who knew she could stand still long enough to take pictures?

  We continue along that wall to see a table covered with rocks and tiny green plants. Bonsai on the Escarpment the title reads.

  “Wow. Itsy-bitsy trees,” Renée says as she leans her head in.

  “Careful, not too close, please,” Mr. Jirad says. “Bonsai is to encourage contemplation. Not touching!”

  “That’s such an interesting take of a local landscape,” Mrs. Irwin says from behind us.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, Madam.” He nods his head in a mini bow. “I grafted from small trees actually growing on the site.”

  “Is that even legal?” Renée asks me. “Isn’t that a conservation area?”

  I elbow her. “He is conserving. Just look.”

  “Cheese, anyone?”

  We turn from the bonsai display to see Reuven holding ou
t a plate of Gouda and Swiss.

  “You stole the fish from our Stream of Dreams project, didn’t you?” Renée hisses at him.

  Reuven shakes his head.

  “We saw the ones you gave Mrs. Ron. She was using them as coasters.”

  Reuven pulls us aside and lowers his voice. “I found the fish in the wagon. I thought you stole them.”

  “Why would we steal the fish and then just leave them?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. All of them weren’t there.”

  Renée rolls her eyes at him. “Why didn’t you report us, then?”

  “I wasn’t sure … and I didn’t want to cause trouble.” He hesitates for a suspicious half-second, but then covers it up with anger. “Why would you just take my wagon and break it?”

  Mr. Jirad hears his son. And who doesn’t? Reuven accuses us loudly enough. His dad shakes a finger at him. “Don’t worry so much about that piece of junk.”

  “Yeah, but they took it without even asking!” Reuven gripes.

  “They did not break it!” Mr. Jirad scolds. “And we can find you another one next trash day.”

  One of Renée’s eyebrows twitches. Did she hear the same thing as I did? How does Mr. Jirad know that we didn’t make the dent in the middle of Reuvan’s wagon? And why was Reuven unsure about turning the wooden fish evidence in to the police? Was he protecting someone else?

  At that moment, Mrs. Whittingham’s little boy, August, reaches out to touch one of the tiny shrubs and Mr. Jirad calls out to him, “No, no, no!”

  We take that moment to drift away. “Great trees, anyway,” Renée calls back to Mr. Jirad.

  I hold up two thumbs in agreement. Then I whisper to her, “He ignores conservation law. And he knows we didn’t wreck Reuven’s wagon.”

  “Very suspicious,” she agrees.

  As we move down the wall, we bump into Star.

  “If it isn’t baby sister,” she says when she sees Renée. “You saw Attila’s art, I presume?”

  “Yes,” Renée answers miserably.

  “Oh, come on. It’s easily the best work in the room. Will you look at this wall hanging?”

  We all face a fabric picture of an old church I recognize from up on Highway 5.

  “God Lives Here in Burlington,” Star reads the title out loud and shakes her head. “Not sure she does.”

  “I like it,” I say, wanting to disagree with her.

  Renée stays quiet.

  “You can’t expect a talent like Attila to colour within the lines, can you?” Star asks.

  Renée shrugs and frowns.

  “And the police didn’t come, so all is good.” She smiles and sips from her wineglass.

  “The police didn’t come,” Renée repeats. “My father didn’t, either.” She brightens.

  “So go have some munchies and just enjoy!” Star swings her wineglass around.

  A small mistake. Could be number six of the day. At that moment, Mrs. Whittingham’s son, August, runs into us full speed. Renée gets shoved into me, I get pushed into Star, and her wineglass flies from her hand.

  It’s amazing just how far sparkling red cranberry juice can travel! The red liquid splashes all over us, of course, but much of it sprays over the wall hanging.

  The little church looks like it’s bleeding.

  Star and Renée and I rush to the snack area for napkins. That’s when we realize easily our biggest error of the day, the real sixth mistake: thinking Attila’s graffiti display would not be noticed by the law.

  Because at that moment, Constables Wilson and Jurgensen stroll in and stop. Both look up to the large screen. And in that exact moment, the slide of the gun on the water tower appears.

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE SEVEN

  Renée whimpers as she dabs away cranberry juice from her face and arms.

  “It’ll be okay, really it will.” I try to make her believe the words even as we both see Constable Jurgensen scowl and shake his head.

  “Do you think they’ll wait till the show’s over to take my brother away?”

  “Oh, for sure,” I lie. “Where is Attila, anyway? Maybe they won’t even see him.”

  “I don’t know. There’s a big crowd over there.” She points her chin at the other wall.

  “Yeah, there he is, all right. I see his mohawk sticking up over the crowd.” I shrug. “Maybe he’ll win the competition and the judge will go easy.”

  Renée groans. “In England, a judge sentenced Kristian Holmes to three and a half years.”

  “Who is Kristian Holmes?” I ask.

  “Another graffiti artist — has two little kids.”

  “Ohhhh.” I wipe at the cranberry juice on my own shirt. Doesn’t look like the stain is coming out.

  Then I notice Mr. Kowalski moving through the crowd. He stops at the wall hanging. In his hand he holds a can of club soda. I hear a pop as he removes the tab, then gasps all around as he pitches soda over the bleeding church.

  At his side, a muscular lady with lots of curls all over her head covers her face with her hands.

  Renée and I walk closer to watch.

  Mr. Kowalski stands back a moment, as if waiting, and then steps forward and dabs at the wall hanging with paper towel.

  Slowly, the red stain disappears. Within a couple of minutes, the wall hanging looks back to its old self.

  The lady throws her arms around Mr. Kowalski and hugs him.

  “Soda works,” I tell Renée. “I’m going to try some on my shirt.” I wait till the woman releases Mr. Kowalski. She looks familiar.

  “Mr. Kowalski, may I try some of that club soda on this stain?” I touch the wet patch on the front of my shirt.

  The woman turns toward me.

  Mr. Kowalski hands me the can. “Kids, this is Janet Lacey. The artist who created this wonderful wall hanging.”

  The Animal Control officer!

  “Hi,” I say as Renée takes the soda from me. She pitches some onto the red stain on my front.

  “Wait till it bubbles,” Mr. Kowalski advises, then hands her some paper towel. “Now try to soak it up. Don’t rub!” he cautions.

  Renée carefully dabs. The red becomes pink then, amazingly, my shirt turns white again.

  “Were they the ones who spilled their drink on my art?” Ms. Lacey asks.

  “No, it was her!” Renée points with the pop can toward Star, who weaves and dodges smoothly through the crowd like a dancer. Or, like someone who wants to hide.

  “The one with the hoop through her nose?” Ms. Lacey asks.

  Renée nods hard and grins.

  “Well, I guess I need to talk to her.”

  “It was an accident,” Mr. Kowalski calls to her back. She storms off without hearing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask Renée as we watch Ms. Lacey grab Star’s shoulder.

  “What do you think?” She grins at me and her eyebrows stretch up to smile, too. “Whose side will Animal Control be on if Ms. Lacey thinks Star trashed her wall hanging?”

  Star’s eyes drift our way and Renée waves.

  “She’ll just explain about August bumping into her and everything will be all right.”

  Ms. Lacey shakes a finger in Star’s face.

  “Maybe not,” Renée says.

  Star’s eyes narrow as she fixes her stare on me. I shrug my shoulders.

  For sure, everything Renée does makes Star dislike me more. Will that end badly for Ping?

  “Ignore her, Stephen. Come on, let’s look over there.” Renée points to a pedestal sitting in the centre of the room. We stroll over and wait for some people to move away. Finally, they leave and we can move in to see.

  “The ostrich egg!” Renée exclaims.

  The large egg shimmers from inside a glass case, specks of glitter on the shell catching the light. The
rainbow of fish painted across it looks exactly like the ones from our Stream of Dreams — well, minus the two larger ones Bruno and Tyson painted.

  “Doesn’t that prove she stole the fish?” I whisper to Renée. “At least Attila’s off the hook for that.”

  “I don’t know,” Renée grumbles. “Are the police anywhere?”

  We both look around. “Still staring at Attila’s slides,” I tell her. Someone bumps into me as I turn back. “Oh, Mrs. Filipowicz, hi!”

  Our crossing guard looks tiny without her bulky coat on. Her crow-wing black hair has been styled into corkscrews and she looks way softer. I wouldn’t recognize her if she hadn’t told us about her egg sculpture before.

  “Hello. You like it?” she asks us. She smiles at the egg like a mother ostrich.

  “You took the fish and told the police we did,” Renée snaps, charming as always.

  “Oh, no!” She turns. “I took the peecture on my phone.” She pantomimes holding up a cellphone and pressing down. “Then I look at it to paint my pisanka: School Children of Burlington.” She waves an imaginary paintbrush in the air.

  “But the painting is missing two fish,” I say. “Exactly the ones the dogs took from the recycling bin across from the school.”

  “You used your all-purpose screwdriver,” Renée suggests.

  “Ees very handy.” She holds up her hands. “Okay. Okay! You heve me over the barrel on those. The bass and the swordfeesh, yes, I took. So big and such sloppy painting! Ruin everything for me!”

  “But you didn’t steal the rest?” I ask.

  “No. I don’t steal! Just tidied a beet.” She smiles at her egg again. “Do you like my pisanka?”

  “Very much,” I say.

  “Lovely,” Renée growls.

  “You can vote for eet. Ballots are over there.” She points to the corner.

  “Thanks. Need to look at all the exhibits first, only fair,” I say as I steer Renée away. I glance back to the door and see Constables Wilson and Jurgensen still watching Attila’s slides. “You stay here,” I tell Renée. “I’m going to talk to the police.”

  “What? No. I’m coming. Attila’s my brother!”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way. But I don’t think you’ll help him. You have a way of irritating them.”