His mom looked at him over her glasses. “Serves you right for not reading every word,” she said, reaching across the table to ruffle his hair. He pulled back, leaving her hand hanging.
“Just tell me,” Tommy pleaded.
“Well, you know the building’s in bad shape. Leaks, a ton of repairs needed. Plus, it’s hard to get to, there’s hardly any parking, and it’s now only open a couple of days a week. The National Gallery of Art, in Washington, wants the collection and has offered to build a new wing. They’d make it a replica of the current Chicago building and name it after Sarah Chase Farmer. Yup, Mrs. Farmer’s collection is incredible — or was, horrible to have to say this, before the theft. The seven trustees have apparently been fighting like cats and dogs about whether or not to move. This has gone on for ages now, ever since the National Gallery made its offer. And then everyone’s nightmare: a robbery.”
Tommy nodded and looked over at his fish, who was whooshing one way and then the other, stirring up the gravel in his bowl. The break-in last year in their apartment sure had been traumatic, and he’d almost lost Goldman.
“Yeah,” Tommy murmured. “And what’ll happen if the old man dies?”
“The six remaining trustees will have to come to a decision, clearly. But meanwhile, you kids will be hard at work. I think it’s great that Mrs. Sharpe reached out to you. It’s nice for you to have something to do over spring break.”
Tommy bristled. “What, you think she called us in just to be nice? She’s never nice. She meant it when she told us we could help.”
Tommy’s mom was reading again and didn’t seem to notice his tone.
“I’m sure you guys will make an extraordinary team,” she said absently.
Tommy looked at Goldman and rolled his eyes. Wasn’t that what Mrs. Sharpe had said? Not so easy to be extraordinary when you look like us. I mean, Early doesn’t have zit issues or anything, but she has being-afraid issues. Anyone can see that. His goldfish now swam slowly toward the surface, pausing to roll his eyes in turn.
Goldman always got it.
* * *
Before school that morning, Tommy phoned Calder, who phoned Petra, who phoned Early. Then Tommy called Zoomy. There was something about that kid that he already knew he liked.
Everyone was sorry for Mr. Chase, and could imagine how doubly rotten he must have felt all this past week. First this robbery of his world-class family collection, then the unfriendly roar in the news — everyone in the world, it seemed, was now pointing fingers at the trustees. After all, was there any excuse for keeping priceless art in a run-down mansion? Was there any excuse for only having one night guard, someone both past retirement age and worn out from his St. Patrick’s Day partying? Irresponsible and careless were some of the words being used by the press to describe the management of the place. And then it came out that Mr. Chase had chosen the trustees himself, as his great-aunt’s relative, and had allowed the guard, a retired family chauffeur, to stay on at the museum. He was at fault all over again.
“Scaz, the old man must feel like what I stepped on the other day,” Tommy remarked to Calder.
“If he even knows,” Calder said. “My dad says a stroke is serious stuff.”
Tommy happened to walk by Ms. Hussey’s classroom at the end of the day and stuck his head in the door to say hello.
“Hey!” Ms. Hussey called. “Come here a sec, Tommy.” She plunked down the armload of notebooks she was carrying and sat on a desk. Her hair was in a loose braid, a bedraggled crimson ribbon clinging to the end of it.
“Oof! I’m tired.” Ms. Hussey sighed. “What a week it’s been. Just knowing that that heavenly Vermeer is in the wrong hands. It’s sickening.”
Tommy nodded. “Yup. I’ve been thinking about when Calder and Petra rescued A Lady Writing, and how she’s now safely back on the wall at the National Gallery. Too bad the people in Vermeer’s art can’t talk to each other, and that the Lady in the painting can’t ask some questions and then tell us where the people in The Concert are hidden, you know?” These were actually Petra’s thoughts, but Tommy thought he’d borrow them.
“Well put, Tommy.” Ms. Hussey’s voice was grim. “I got a call from Mrs. Sharpe just a few minutes ago. She shared some information with me, all pretty shocking. It’s funny how you think you know someone, but you actually never know all the pieces of their past.” Ms. Hussey paused and glanced at her old student. “I guess it’s okay to share some of this with you,” she said, swinging her legs.
Tommy sucked in his cheeks and blinked several times.
Ms. Hussey continued. “Mrs. Sharpe is an old, old friend of William Swift Chase. She and he were on opposite sides of the fence about what to do with the museum. He had wanted everything to stay right where it was, in the neighborhood his great-aunt, Mrs. Farmer, loved so much. He was in favor of accepting advisory help from some of the big museums who offered it — the Art Institute, which of course is right here; the Metropolitan, in New York City; the Getty, in Los Angeles — and then hiring professionals to organize a massive fund-raising campaign. So much is needed. They have to repair and tastefully modernize the building, plus buy a neighboring piece of land for surface and underground parking. We’re talking about many millions of dollars in improvements and even after all that, Kenwood isn’t a neighborhood that’s easy to reach by public transportation. Mrs. Sharpe, much as she loves Chicago, felt it was time to accept the National Gallery’s offer and know that the art was forever protected and accessible to the world.”
“So were they friends or enemies?” Tommy asked. It really wasn’t clear to him how you could be both.
“They were friends who disagreed about something important,” Ms. Hussey answered, “which is never an easy thing. Mrs. Sharpe went to visit Mr. Chase in the hospital today. His speech is very bad right now. She asked him if he had any ideas about the theft. He became visibly upset and frustrated, and kept saying, ‘F— F—’ but couldn’t seem to get the rest of the word out.”
“Huh!” Tommy said, imagining the worst.
“Mrs. Sharpe, being the resourceful soul that she is, grabbed a pen and paper and gave it to him, but he was unable to write. Then she wrote out the alphabet, and asked him to point to the next letter. He did. It was A. Then he said something garbled and closed his eyes, too tired to continue. He was instantly asleep, and Mrs. Sharpe, sitting by his side, said he still looked disturbed. Troubled even when unconscious, as if whatever he’d needed to say was urgent.”
“Awful,” Tommy agreed, in what he hoped was an adult tone.
“So we all need to think about F followed by A and what that could mean. A word? Someone’s initials? Something relevant to the stolen art or the Farmer Museum, which of course begins with Fa? Mrs. Sharpe didn’t know, nor do I, but I’m thinking.”
It occurred to Tommy that F followed by A could certainly spell something. Tommy tried it out in his mind, picturing a feeble old man in a hospital bed whispering a word that would make Mrs. Sharpe and the nurse both rock backward in embarrassment.
When his phone rang a moment later, he dove for it.
“Sure, Calder! Meet you outside,” Tommy said after his friend had told him where he was. “See you in a few.”
Ms. Hussey patted Tommy on the shoulder. “I want you to share this information with the others, as time is of the essence here. Do the grapevine thing by phone. And remember that prime numbers — like five — are only divisible by themselves and one.”
She grinned reassuringly, but when Tommy left, he turned back to wave good-bye and saw his old teacher scowling as she straightened her desk. Her hair ribbon had fallen off entirely, and Ms. Hussey, who rarely had untidy hair, didn’t seem to notice. She was muttering to herself.
Good grief, what next? Tommy thought as he stepped quietly down the hallway, not wanting his old teacher to know he’d lingered.
Who was Ms. Hussey mad at? And what hadn’t she told him?
“Even the best grown-ups can be
weird,” Tommy said as he and Calder trudged toward Harper Avenue. “Like Ms. Hussey just said, you think you know them and then you don’t. She was definitely acting funny.”
Calder nodded. “Sometimes my parents seem angry or unfriendly, and then I find out they’re just worried.”
“Yeah, exactly. So we have to tell the other three about the F-A business. I promised Ms. Hussey we would.” Even though he and Calder and Petra went to the same school, by eighth grade they had schedules that sometimes kept them apart all day.
Calder pulled out his phone and hit Petra’s number.
“Funny you called,” she said immediately, without even a hi first. Familiar with the extreme decibel level in Petra’s household, Calder held the phone away from his ear. “I’m about to meet Early at Powell’s Books. She’s walking over here with her little brother. She has him for the afternoon since her mom’s still at work. Hey, stop that! You can’t have a chocolate milk fight in here! If you spill on Dad’s computer, you’ll be in trouble for the rest of your lives!” Calder and Tommy then heard a muffled, “NO, you can’t come this time, we’re having a meeting.”
“Seems like Petra hates being the babysitter,” Tommy said, after Calder ended the call.
“Yeah, the other kids are even more of a handful, now that they’re big,” his friend said. “I used to envy her having all that company, but not so much lately.”
Tommy called Zoomy as they headed for Powell’s. He was back home, and said he was studying the envelope of pictures and reading about the museum. Both could picture him working his way through the art, his nose inches from the page. He’d be back in Hyde Park the day after tomorrow.
“He sounded kind of sad that he’s not here now,” Tommy remarked to Calder as they pulled open the door to Powell’s.
The store was a maze of narrow passageways between old, wooden bookshelves that reached to the ceiling. Ladders squeaked and leaned; footstools were dragged into corners for comfortable browsing or a subdued chat. Employees never glared at kids and left customers alone unless they asked for help. Aside from the rattle of old fans in the summer and the clank of radiators in the winter, the place was quiet — a treasure trove for those who liked hanging out with the printed word, which most people in Hyde Park did.
Both Tommy and Calder had delivered books for Powell’s in the past, but neither were big visitors. Petra, on the other hand, was always stopping by on her way to get groceries for her parents. It was her home away from home. Sometimes she started a book there, left a hidden bookmark, and returned again and again until she’d finished it.
Stepping inside, Tommy and Calder heard Petra before they found her.
“Here’s the book of Sarah Chase Farmer’s ideas, Early,” she was saying. “The one I found this morning. This has much more than the museum booklet Mrs. Sharpe gave us. You’ve gotta hear some of this.”
Then they heard a shrill, “Earl-ee! Earl-EEE!” Rounding a corner, the boys found Petra next to Early and her little brother, who looked like he was about six. Jubie wasn’t about to let the girls talk, at least not yet.
“Hi, guys.” Petra nodded in their direction. “Almost ready here.”
Scanning the shelves, Early crouched next to her brother. “We’re looking for picture books. Just for you, Jubie. Exciting ones, so you can be busy while we’re busy.”
“Yeah, I want crimes. Gangstahs. Pow!” he roared.
“Shhhh …” Early said. “You know Dash and Sum don’t like those books. How about books on digging machines?”
“Tough guys! Pow!” Jubie shouted.
Petra tried to help. “Hey, Jubie,” she said. “My brothers like these books over here. There’s a ton on people doing hard stuff, like climbing mountains, scuba diving, blasting dynamite holes in rock to build roads …”
“Boom!” Jubie appeared satisfied. “With weapons!”
Early sighed and shrugged. “This might not work,” she said to the other three.
“Who are Dash and Sum?” Tommy asked.
“Our parents,” Early said. “We say that instead of Dad and Mom. And hey, this is Jubie. Jubie, meet Calder and Tommy.”
“HI!” shouted Jubie. “Our family writes Dashsumearlyjubie inside our spesh-all books,” he said, bobbing his head like mad. “It’s looooong! And I can write my full name superfast, Ju-bi-la-TION!”
“Great,” Tommy said.
“Good for you,” Calder added.
“He thinks he likes scary stuff more than he really does,” Early said behind her hand.
“Gaangstahs! Now, Early! Not this construction book!” Jubie began to bounce.
Just then a man poked his head around from the Folklore section.
“I like tricky stories, too,” he said to Jubie.
The man’s face had sad lines but also a sparkly smile. Early noticed bluer-than-blue eyes and dark curls. He had a black leather jacket and a soft hat that looked familiar.
“I’ll read you something,” he offered. “How about, hmmm, oh look: The Real Mother Goose. Ever hear of that?”
Jubie shook his head violently. “That’s for babies!”
“Wait!” the man said quickly. “It’s really not. Ever thought about going to sea in a boat that’s too small or getting stuck on a shelf because you can’t spell? Running away from someone with a knife? Falling from a great height? Uh-oh, Humpty Dumpty looks terrified! I wouldn’t want to be on that wall, either.” The man was now on the floor, flipping through pages.
“Okay, let’s get to the dangerous part,” he said as Jubie leaned closer. “Now see, these guys look kind of like bad guys. And oh, boy, this kid is on his own! And the dogs are barking, which usually means trouble.”
“Uh-oh,” Jubie agreed. “But those guys won’t break stuff or hurt the doggies.” He popped one finger into his mouth.
“We’ll find out,” the man said.
Early watched them for a moment, hesitating, and then told Jubie she’d be over in the corner with her friends. Jubie nodded and the man looked up with a quick smile, as if to say, We’re fine.
“Look, something bad’s coming.” The man now seemed as absorbed as Jubie. “Animals are smart. See, they’re trying to get the right people to pay attention.”
The four older kids sat on the floor in the Art Criticism section, where they could keep an eye on Jubie. “Okay, tell us Ms. Hussey’s message first,” Petra said. “Then I’ve got something pretty cool here.” She waved a small red book in the air.
Tommy spilled what Ms. Hussey had said about Mr. Chase’s friendship with Mrs. Sharpe, the Farmer Museum’s choices, and the F-A puzzler.
“Yikes,” Petra said. “Poor man, that’s horrible. So frustrating.”
“Could be the name of the museum,” Calder suggested. “Or a person’s initials.”
“How about a publication like Farmer’s Almanac?” Early said. “I’ve seen that in libraries. Or Flying Aces — they were fighter pilots in World War Two. Oh … I don’t know.” Early broke off happily, just glad to be part of a group of kids her own age, kids who seemed to have had adventures that were as scary as hers and didn’t mind sharing doubts or strange ideas.
Calder was scrolling on his phone. “Functional Acknowledgement,” he read. “Means an electronic acceptance.”
“Whatever.” Tommy glared at his friend. “It could be a place. I have an aunt in Fayetteville.”
“There’s Fayyu¯m, in Egypt,” Petra added. “One of my grandmas lives near there.”
“Or maybe it’s part of a word. A not-polite one,” Tommy said, looking around. “You know, old people get nutty sometimes …”
Early said, “Maybe it was something personal that Mr. Chase needed to tell Mrs. Sharpe, especially since they were friends who’d had a squabble. I hope all the other trustees do show up tomorrow at the museum; it’ll be good to see what they look like, now we know they’ve been fighting.” She giggled. “Somehow, it’s funny to picture old, rich folks whacking each other with canes.”
In truth, the whole disagreement seemed silly to Early, who understood that having enough money made many problems go away. These were rich people fighting over rich things. There was something about Mrs. Sharpe, though — Early understood her determination, and knew that having a mission was important to keep you going, especially when things were hard. Mrs. Sharpe might be wealthy, but there was also a part of her life that was sad.
Tommy sucked in his cheeks, picturing the trustees fencing. I knew Early was awesome, he thought to himself.
“How about the old folks have a pillow fight?” he suggested. “Then they’d just get feathers stuck in the wrinkles.”
“Gross!” Early laughed. Tommy thought he’d never felt so happy.
“My dad said it’s been gruesome at the Farmer for ages now.” Petra’s voice was serious, bringing them back to business. “Some of the trustees were interviewed in the news. Each one is convinced he or she knows what’s best here, both for the city of Chicago and the art. My dad says they know what they’re doing when they talk to reporters, and have tried to use publicity to pressure each other. Those folks each want what they want and — my dad says this is a biggie — they don’t have all the time in the world. He says some old people don’t care what anyone thinks, not anymore. And in this case, they’re old people with lots of power over world-class art.”
“But less power over it once the art is stolen,” Early pointed out.
“You mean, they’re all suspects,” Calder said slowly.
Early frowned. “Not exactly. But I see what you mean: If you steal the art, that means someone else can’t move it.”
“Or else it gets very easy to move — only not in public,” Petra pointed out. “Either side could have done it.”
Calder scratched his head with the M pentomino. “My parents said old people with money can be very ruthless.”
Tommy suddenly remembered Mrs. Sharpe hitting the sofa with her fist. Ruthless … he’d thought of that word, too.
“Like Mrs. Sharpe,” Tommy blurted. “I can picture her stabbing someone, can’t you?”
Pieces and Players Page 4
