“Ohhh.” Immediately, everyone starts to talk in hushed tones so that it sounds like the buzz of bees on a hot summer day.
“Let’s see if we can get this off now,” Renée says to me, pointing to the smear of goat cheese on her shirt. We head for the family washroom together.
Inside, we tear off paper towel, wet it, and wipe at the cheese. The whiteness seems to roll off. “Wish we had some more club soda.”
Side by side, we stand and stare into the mirrors at the dark spots left behind — water or cheesy oil, only time will tell.
A toilet suddenly flushes and Ms. Lacey steps out.
“About that wound on Star’s nose …” I start to explain.
“It wasn’t Ping’s fault,” Renée finishes. “Star bent down and encouraged him to kiss her.”
“Who’s Ping?” Ms. Lacey asks as she lifts her shirt and dabs a piece of cotton against her belly button.
I grab Renée’s arm to stop her talking. “Ms. Lacey, can I ask, um … what you are doing?”
“Putting some Aspirin paste on my keloid. Caught my belly button ring on my jean snap …”
“Star showed you her nose on her phone,” I start again.
“And suggested this cure for keloids,” Ms. Lacey finishes. “I had some aspirin in my purse.”
I see the cotton has an aspirin in it. Not quite paste yet. I put my finger to my lips to signal to Renée that she shouldn’t say anything else about Ping. Clearly, Star did not report him. Yet.
“Good luck with that,” I say and we leave the bathroom. Through the open gallery door, I notice Mr. Kobai has moved up closer to the front. He’s standing next to Renée’s mom now.
“Does my father look the least bit pleased that Attila won the art prize?” Renée asks when she notices him.
“Well, honestly, no. But neither does Attila. They look a lot alike, don’t they?”
“Sort of,” Renée agrees.
“Do they act alike?”
“Sometimes.” Her mouth twists. “You’re right. This is hopeless. They’re never going to get along.” She droops her head.
“I didn’t say that. I just meant that maybe on the inside, they’re both doing the yay-yay-happy-art-prize dance. They just don’t show it on the outside.” I touch her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go see who won the People’s Choice.”
Just before we enter the gallery again, we pass some flying cow sculptures. “Look, Renée!”
She finally smiles again. The power of art.
We make it back just in time. Hanging with Dad is a woman in a navy skirt and jacket and a red vest. She’s leaning in to him a little too chummy, if you ask me.
“Mom!” I call.
She turns toward me, smiles, and opens her arms.
I rush to her, not caring who’s watching, and give her a big hug.
“Your attention, everyone,” Mrs. Irwin calls into the microphone. “We have counted twice. It’s official now. The tally of the votes for the People’s Choice Award shows a tie! We have decided to award two exhibits with our People’s Choice Award, this year … Stolen Art by the Burlington Group of Four and … Weapons of Destruction by Attila Kobai.”
Mrs. Irwin and Attila shake hands again as he accepts a second cheque and envelope.
Everyone claps, Mr. Kobai, too, even if he doesn’t smile.
“We’re about to find out who stole Mr. Rupert’s mailbox and Mrs. Whittingham’s Halloween decorations,” I whisper to Renée. “Would the Group of Four step forward?” Mrs. Irwin calls.
No one comes to the front. “I really want to emphasize that these artists taught me the value of art in our everyday households, both through their creation but also in the reactions of those who had their art stolen from them. I look forward to meeting them.” She taps her foot, looks around, sighs heavily. “Surely, someone knows who these four artists are,” Mrs. Irwin says. “Who registered the work?”
“This is my chance. I’m going to reveal the thieves’ identities,” Renée says to me. “Ping should be fine as long as the police take them to the station right away.”
Renée walks to the microphone, covers it with her hand, and talks to Mrs. Irwin.
“Mom, I’m going up there to be with Renée.”
“Sure. Go for it, Stephen.”
Renée adjusts the microphone so it’s way lower, at her height, then taps the microphone three times: pock, pock, pock.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Burlington Group of Four are Star Loughead, Mr. Jirad, Mr. Kowalski — he arranged everything — and, finally, my own brother, Attila Kobai.
“The real question is, who stole Mr. Rupert’s gun? It wasn’t Attila. I know that in my heart. I’m guessing it was one of you …”
I jump in. “I know who did it!”
Renée looks drop-dead amazed. She stares at me.
The answer seems obvious to me. It’s the only solution that makes sense. I step forward and adjust the microphone back up. “No one!”
“What do you mean ‘no one’?” she asks.
“Mr. Rupert dropped the gun in the school. By accident. He was checking out the building because Mrs. Klein heard a noise and called him again.”
“I thought I saw ninjas sneaking around the school,” Mrs. Klein pipes in.
Mr. Rupert turns to her, looking confused. “You didn’t tell me I dropped my revolver in the school.”
“I didn’t get a chance,” Mrs. Klein says.
The crowd murmurs, “Ohhhh.”
He turns and snarls at them, “Give me a break. It’s a non-firing replica!”
“Things happened so fast,” Mrs. Klein continues. “The librarian found the gun and called the police.”
Our principal, Mrs. Watier, pushes her way through the crowd. “But you let us continue the lockdown.”
“I’m so sorry. I thought the officers would know it was a fake. I didn’t want to get in trouble for having Mr. Rupert in the school with me.”
Mr. Rupert turns back to the crowd, his hands open wide. “I never intended to hurt anyone. Not even a ninja.”
“The lockdown scared all of us,” I tell Mrs. Klein. Her mistake, not stopping it right away, a bad one, I think. Adults make them all the time, too, not just kids. I wonder if it will cost Mrs. Klein her job and maybe even her new boyfriend.
“Mr. Rupert had my brother arrested,” Renée complains.
“Maybe he didn’t steal my gun but he did steal my wife’s mailbox,” he grumbles back.
“You never told the police it was a replica gun, either,” Renée adds.
“I told the desk sergeant it was a copy of my daddy’s World War Two Browning HP!” Mr. Rupert answers. “Thought that was a pretty accurate description.”
“He couldn’t have told the investigating officers,” Mrs. Klein says.
“Maybe they held back that detail to catch the criminal,” Renée suggests.
Mr. Rupert turns tomato-soup red. Looks like he wants to blast someone.
I change the subject to calm him down. “I guess you’ll be wanting that mailbox back now,” I say.
He shakes his head. “You know, I don’t. All her life, my wife wanted to be an artist and have an exhibit at this very building.” He looks around the room, nodding and smiling.
“Now she has her mailbox here,” I say.
“That’s right. I think she would have wanted it that way.”
“So I guess you have Attila Kobai to thank for that, seeing as he took the mailbox for this exhibit.”
Renée starts, “But I think —”
“Tst!” I put my finger to my lips. “Ping, remember?” I ask her softly.
But there’s never any stopping Renée when she has an idea.
She pushes me aside and lowers the microphone again. “I believe my brother was returning the mailbox. T
hat his girlfriend, his former girlfriend,” she emphasizes, “Star Loughead, took it and he’s just covering up for her.”
I sidle back into position and bend down over the microphone like a giraffe going in for a drink. “Is that how it really happened, Attila?”
Attila shakes his head, takes two strides, and also hip-checks me out of the way. He adjusts the microphone higher, ahem, ahems for a while, and then says, “It is true. I am one of the four.” He pauses as the audience settles back down. “And I would like to thank William Kowalski and my fellow artists Star Loughead and Mr. Jirad, the other three. Please join me in congratulating them with a round of applause.” To a thunder of handclapping, Mr. Kowalski and Mr. Jirad shuffle back to the front. Star takes a while longer to straggle up. Attila waits and smiles. “While Mr. Kowalski instructed us to take something that really means something to us, I take full responsibility for the stealing of Mr. Rupert’s mailbox. I have admired that piece of art on Mr. Rupert’s door from the time he hung it up. I deeply regret that Mrs. Rupert died before achieving the fame she justly deserves. I confess, I took that mailbox because it belonged in our exhibit! It completed it. I apologize for any hurt this theft may have caused Mr. Rupert.”
Mr. Rupert again honks his nose into a handkerchief. Mrs. Klein leans her head on his shoulder but he pulls away.
Even though Constables Wilson and Jurgensen said they weren’t going to take Attila away, they now part the crowd to march to the front.
Renée gasps.
None of the art owners seem unhappy with the fact that their pieces are part of a larger display of art. Especially since it won the grand prize. Even Mr. Rupert seems pleased. None of them are going to press charges, I’m sure of it.
But the constables don’t approach Attila or any of the other art burglars. Instead they surround Mr. Rupert.
“I am arresting you, Thomas Rupert, for carrying an imitation of a weapon for a purpose dangerous to public peace,” Constable Jurgensen says.
“What danger? I only showed it her,” Mr. Rupert sputters, pointing to Mrs. Klein.
“Tell it to the judge.” Constable Wilson reaches for Mr. Rupert’s hands and cuffs them. “You have the right to retain counsel …”
Mrs. Klein starts to cry.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Constable Jurgensen continues.
Just when I thought everything was going to end well for everyone. Mistake ten, the worst one for days, belongs to Mr. Rupert, who thought a replica gun couldn’t do any harm. It sure was dangerous to our school’s peace.
The constables lead Mr. Rupert outside, with Mrs. Klein following them.
the aftermath
The room stays quiet for a moment, the celebration feels over.
Then, grinning as wide as a keyboard, Dad steps up to congratulate Attila. He wraps Mrs. Kobai in a hug and reaches a hand toward Mr. Kobai, who hesitates, his lip twitching for a second. Finally he returns the handshake.
“Would you like to join us for dinner?” Dad asks the Kobais. He’s bringing some of the celebratory feeling back to the room.
“No.” Mr. Kobai bites off his words. “It is time for our daughter and son to return home. We need to discuss everything that occurred.” His r’s roll, a bit of a Hungarian burr.
I’m relieved, actually. Sorry for Renée. She has to go home with that angry man, maybe listen to him lecture her brother.
But I’m happy to not have to share Mom’s attention, ’cause let’s face it, Renée always demands that little extra with her sparkle and her cross-examinations. “See you tomorrow, Renée?” It’ll be Sunday and we don’t have any dog-walking duties at all together. What am I thinking?
“That would be great! Maybe we can play Ping-Pong at Brant Hills,” she answers brightly. “Seeing as we won’t be walking them.”
“I’ll probably be finished reading The Night Gardener by tomorrow, too. I can bring it for you.”
“Okay. See you.”
The Kobais leave and Dad suggests we cross the street to eat at Spencer’s Landing since we’re so dressed up.
“Mmm. You two are salted caramel for the eyes.” Mom sighs. “But I’m still in my uniform and feel grotty. Also, I would love some of your meat loaf,” she says to Dad. “Do you have any ready?”
“You’re in luck. I froze some leftovers.”
“Perfect. And your salad?” she says to me.
“Okay,” I agree. “I wouldn’t mind ditching these shoes, either. They’re killing me.”
So we head for home, just the three of us, and I inhale Momness all the way in the car. She smells like apple and cinnamon.
“So tell us how you figured out who stole all the art in the neighbourhood?” Mom asks as Dad drives.
“The key was Reuven’s wagon. It’s a low-sided red metal job. His dad found it on junk day.”
“Yes?” Dad says, as we pull up to a red light.
“How did the wagon help you pull all this together?” Mom asks.
“We saw some kids, Mrs. Klein’s ninjas, pulling it late at night in the schoolyard. I mean the same kind of wagon with the low sides.”
“Most people have those oversized plastic ones,” Dad says.
“Right. And next day, Reuven complained that someone had dented his. Later, he found some of our Stream of Dreams fish in it but didn’t report it.”
The light changes and we pull away.
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Mom says. “Why wouldn’t he when he knew the police were involved?”
I shrug my shoulders. “He claimed he thought it was us. I knew his dad drove Mr. Kowalski’s van. Knew that Mr. Kowalski coached Attila on his portfolio. Attila is applying to Mohawk College’s art program. A lot of unexplained connections.”
“All leading to Mohawk College,” Mom adds.
“You’re right. Star already attends Mohawk. She’s the one who lost that black cap in the schoolyard. Renée figured her for one of the kids stealing the art.”
“But Jirad and Kowalski aren’t kids,” Dad says.
“True enough. Small enough builds to be mistaken for teens, though. Let’s face it, any kind of theft or vandalism always gets blamed on kids. This time, that would only be partly correct. In the dark, dressed in black, who can tell?”
“Why would Kowalski do something so irresponsible?” Mom says.
Dad stops for another red light. “Does seem wrong for a teacher to behave that way.”
“He had a bet with Mrs. Irwin over the value of art. And man, he is a competitive kind of guy. Have you seen him play Ping-Pong. Or jog?”
“Did I hear her say she didn’t think the public valued art anymore?” Dad asks.
“Yes, she bet Mr. Kowalski that they didn’t need to insure the staff room art. That no one would steal art.”
“Wow, a dean of art who doesn’t believe in the value of art,” Mom says.
“She even put his painting out with the trash. That’s the one Dad scooped for the guest room. Wait till you see it, Mom. You’ll love it.”
“I know I will. The gun — how did you figure out that Mr. Rupert dropped it?” Mom asks.
“He had Attila charged for the theft of his gun the day of the lockdown. So we knew he had one. And he’s always checking the school grounds for Mrs. Klein.”
“Green light,” Mom calls at Dad and we pull away again.
“Ever since that VW drove into the building,” I continue explaining, “she’s been nervous there alone.”
“And then she met Mr. Rupert,” Dad suggests as he turns down our street.
“Yeah. He’s scary to us. He’s in the reserves. Walks the neighbourhood in his camouflage uniform.”
“But to her, he’s a strong man,” Mom says.
“The only thing I wasn’t sure of is whether Mr. Rupert deliberately pinned the gun theft on A
ttila or whether he really believed Attila took it because he caught him on the surveillance camera,” I add. “But Mrs. Klein solved that bit by confessing about not telling him.”
Dad pulls the car into the driveway and shuts the engine. “You don’t think he just wanted to blame Attila to get him in more trouble because of the mailbox?”
“At first I did. But he looked pretty surprised to hear Mrs. Klein’s confession,” I answer.
“You’d think the police would have questioned Mr. Rupert earlier about the gun found in the school,” Dad says.
“A mistake?” I suggest. “The desk sergeant didn’t tell the constables any details about the missing replica.”
“Okay, I want to hear the rest of this. But I really need to hit the bathroom,” Mom says as she dashes inside.
We follow her out of the Grape-mobile and into the house. Dad immediately takes the meat loaf from the freezer and sticks it in the microwave.
“Anyhow. All that figuring out is amazing. You don’t want to be a detective when you grow up, do you?” He opens the fridge and tosses me a head of lettuce.
I catch it. “No. Just wanted to help a friend.”
“Ha! You finally admit you can have a girl as a friend.” He pitches me tomatoes, one by one.
“Who’s got a girlfriend?” Mom returns from the bathroom. “What else have I missed?”
“Nobody, nothing, Mom. You heard the whole story.” Dad throws me an orange pepper, then an onion.
“Rushing for the bathroom reminded me of a tidbit I heard. You know that flight attendant I sometimes see who does the Toronto–New York run?”
“The one who was delayed because the kittens shut down the Manhattan subway?” I rinse the lettuce.
“Yes, that’s her. She says John F. Kennedy airport now has a bathroom for pets. Here, give me the vegetables. I can start chopping.”
“Really?” I ask. “What’s the bathroom like?” I rinse off the tomatoes and hand them and a cutting board to Mom. Then I begin tearing off leaves of lettuce.
“Very nice, apparently. Single-stall with artificial turf and a drain. They’ve added some cute artsy touches, too, like paw prints on the wall, a little red fire hydrant …” Mom chops the tomatoes twice as quickly as I can and they’re all in even quarters.
The Artsy Mistake Mystery Page 13
