Pieces and Players

by Blue Balliett

  They almost look like they’re hugging now, Mrs. Sharpe is so small between them, Tommy thought.

  He peered around Eagle to see Mrs. Sharpe’s eye open the tiniest crack and then shut.

  Was that a wink?

  “I’m coming with you,” Ms. Hussey announced. “I’ll drive and you slide into the back with her. And kids — you can bring those cookies on the kitchen table up to your meeting room. Just be careful about mess. I’ll call with news. Lock the front door behind us.”

  “And don’t touch anything on the way up,” Eagle added. “Rat-ty’s lis-ten-ing,” he murmured in a singsong voice.

  “Of course not,” Calder said stiffly.

  As the van pulled away, the five stood inside the door for a moment, looking at one another.

  “Told you,” Zoomy whispered. “The cat’s his spy. We’d better put him outside.”

  They glanced around, but Ratty had already vanished.

  “Let’s split up and find him. Then we can speak freely,” Early suggested.

  “I’m kind of glad we have an excuse to check this place out,” Petra whispered. “I mean, who’s to say what we might find? But be careful not to knock over tippy art or flowers — this has to be an expert, silent search, for either a cat or stolen art.”

  “Or both,” Zoomy prompted.

  Calder headed for the top of the house and the rear of the second floor; Petra and Early explored the bedrooms; and Zoomy and Tommy tackled the first floor, which had the greatest number of objects. Because of possible grabbers, Zoomy stayed on all fours and crawled from one side of the living room to the other, feeling around under tables and sofas. Tommy moved with extra care, peering into cupboards and behind art.

  Half an hour later, there was still no cat. The five met in the kitchen. “Whew, this is a large house!” Calder sighed. “We’d better hurry. They may not be gone too long.”

  “She has a lot of nice bedrooms,” Early said softly. “I’m jealous. All this space and just one old lady.”

  “Plus her mysterious son, at least right now,” Petra added.

  “I know!” Zoomy said suddenly. “Ratty’s just like us — he needs a treat. Let’s find one, do the kitty-kitty thing, and then grab him when he shows up.”

  The kids opened cabinets and pulled out a bag of crunchy cat food. They rattled it, hoping for a response. Nothing.

  “Ooh, a can of sardines.” Early pointed. “Now we’re talkin’.”

  “Watch out,” Petra cautioned. “Sardines are super stinky. We can’t spill any of this oil! Seriously. Mrs. Sharpe would chop off our heads.”

  At the sound of the sardine tin being opened, Ratty streaked out of his hiding place and into the kitchen. He reared up, pawing at the edge of the counter.

  “Whoa, man,” mumbled Tommy. “He’s like one of the lions on the napkins. I’m glad Goldman doesn’t have to see me feeding a cat dead fish. How do we do this, guys?”

  “Here,” Calder said, reaching for the can. A second later, Ratty rocketed onto the counter. Tommy jumped back, Calder lost his grip, and the can landed upside down on the kitchen floor.

  Scazzes buzzed through the kitchen as Ratty grabbed a fish from the mess, flipped it into the air like a circus lion, and swallowed it in one gulp.

  “We’d better get him outside before we run out of bait,” Calder croaked as Ratty plunged back into the fishy mess. He started to pick up the cat, who whipped around and snapped at his arm.

  “Yeow!” Calder jerked back his elbow and jabbed Zoomy, who then stumbled directly into the pool of fish oil.

  “We need a lure, quick!” Petra said. Crouching in front of what was left, she stuffed the remaining sardines into the can and headed for the front door. Ratty rushed after her, and as soon as the door was opened, leaped at Petra’s hand, baring his teeth. She shrieked and flung the can across the porch and into the bushes, leaving a greasy trail. Ratty raced after it.

  Once they’d slammed the front door, the five whooped, fist-bumped, and then looked around. It was a horror scene. Fat drops of oil glistened on Mrs. Sharpe’s living room carpet. A nasty puddle complete with ragged guts and tails was sinking into the wood on her kitchen floor. Zoomy had taken off his sneaker and dropped it into the kitchen sink.

  Early was the first to recover. “Okay, she must have some good cleaning supplies,” she said, “and baking soda. Baking soda is a miracle worker on nasty smells. I know, because we’ve used it a million times at home.”

  Soon Petra was crawling along the carpet with a sponge and a bowl of soapy water, the three boys were working on the kitchen floor, and Early had ducked outside to wash off the oil that snaked across the porch. Ratty lay on the sidewalk out front, cleaning his whiskers and grinning pleasantly as if nothing much had happened.

  The five took a break fifteen minutes later. “I hope it smells okay in here,” Petra said, wrinkling her nose.

  “Whew, we’d make a good oil spill clean-up team, anyway,” Tommy said, spread-eagled on the living room rug.

  “Yeah, us five,” Zoomy said happily, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  “So now that we’re finally alone in here,” Petra said, “did anyone run across anything suspicious anyplace else in the house? Boy, what a shock, seeing that copy of The Concert! I thought for a moment that we’d found the real Vermeer — a terrible moment, actually. But you know what? It kind of jolted me into a suspicion that’s been slowly coming together in my mind. What if this Eagle Devlin guy is Mrs. Sharpe’s son but also — well, somehow seriously bad? You know Mrs. Sharpe didn’t want Ms. Hussey to meet him, or she would’ve mentioned him. Maybe Mrs. Sharpe does love him like a mother, but knows he’s a truly dangerous kind of person. And you know the way he’s kind of prickly, as if he wants to keep us all on our toes.”

  “We know he’s in the art storage business,” Calder said. “Which means he probably knows places to hide paintings and sculptures. And Ms. Hussey told us he didn’t want the Farmer art to go to Washington, but Mrs. Sharpe did. She thought it would be safer there, and he believed it was wrong to move it from its home.”

  “I wonder why Mrs. Sharpe had a basement dehumidifier put in, right when Eagle came back,” Early said. “Do you think something needed to be stashed down there?”

  “Just what I was thinking,” Petra said.

  “But stolen art?” Zoomy said, sniffing his wet sneaker dubiously. “I read that it needs to stay not too damp or too dry.”

  “Maybe that’s Mrs. Sharpe’s ‘sting’ thing,” Early murmured. “She didn’t want to, but she’s helping to cover up for her son. It’s what families do. Maybe he got into something bad and pulled her into it.”

  “Yeah.” Calder nodded. “Like what just happened with the sardines.”

  “What if Eagle murdered his adoptive father years ago, in order to get closer to Mrs. Sharpe’s money?” Petra asked.

  “Seriously?” Early squeaked.

  Petra shrugged. “Not really, but investigators need everything to feel possible.”

  “Right. Let’s go down to the basement.” Tommy was already on his feet and looking around for the door. “We owe it to Vermeer, Rembrandt, and all the other artists.” He paused. “We owe it to the world,” he added, flinging one arm out in a dramatic pose.

  “And if we five solve the mystery,” Zoomy added, “we’ll be superheroes.”

  Petra had her doubts about what they’d find, but she didn’t want to ruin Zoomy’s enthusiasm. “Fine, it’s worth a look,” she said, then stuck out her tongue. “I hate basements. So many creepy-crawlies.”

  “I’ll guard the stairs and bang on the wall if I hear anyone outside the front door,” Zoomy offered. “You know I’ve got hound dog ears. Who wants to stay up here with me?”

  When no one answered, he sighed and held out his fist for bumps as the others shuffled past him toward the basement.

  * * *

  The light switch was broken, but there were four flashlights neatly lined up on a shelf in
side the basement door. Amazingly, they all seemed to work.

  “Almost like the basement is expecting us,” Tommy said. “Spooky.”

  The kids did a round of rock-paper-scissors to see who would go down the basement stairs first. Calder was the scissors and lost to three rocks.

  “Scaz,” he muttered. “Been nice knowing you guys,” he added as he stepped down onto the first stair.

  Screee went the wood. The next step was no better. Creeeeeep! it moaned.

  The other three followed.

  The basement was cold and looked huge and shadowy when seen only by flashlight. Petra stumbled into a stack of heavy metal pails. They tipped and rolled, spilling sponges. The clatter on the concrete floor was deafening.

  “Scaz!” she shrieked, and just at that moment a clothes rack in the corner trembled. Small black shapes with wings boomeranged around the room, first one way and then the other. Shrunken blackbirds? The three kids dropped to a crouch. Early pulled the back of her sweatshirt over her head.

  “Must be bats!” Tommy shouted. “They’re more frightened than we are,” he said into his armpit. “At least, that’s what a grown-up would say.”

  “Can’t we cover our faces and heads with something solid?” Early squeaked. “See any football helmets?”

  “Yeah, right,” Calder muttered.

  Tommy was the first to lift his head. “How about the pails?”

  “Good thing no one can see us,” Petra said as she grabbed for a pail and plopped it on her head, the handle under her chin. The other three did the same, keeping one hand up to prevent the pail-helmet from sinking down to their necks.

  “It’ll be good protection for almost anything,” Early pointed out.

  “Pah!” Petra spat. “Dirty junk, right in my mouth! Well, at least we won’t break our crowns if we fall down.”

  “Reassuring,” Tommy said under his breath. Why was she thinking about Jack and Jill, anyway? he wondered. Jack was the one who broke his crown.

  They crept into the next room. It had nothing in it but old packing boxes, a broken chair, and the furnace. A door in the far wall, cracked and peeling, stood open.

  “Dracula would love this,” Petra said. “Who’d want all these rooms down here? It’s like a dungeon.”

  The last room had a dusty pile of suitcases, an old croquet set, and a stack of lawn furniture. Just as the kids crept forward, there was a terrific thump! from behind the pile, causing the four to drop to the floor. Next came a distant bang! from upstairs. Petra’s hand slipped off her pail and it slammed down on the top of her head, covering her face entirely.

  “Wah, help!” she shouted as Tommy lifted it up.

  Calder was already creeping forward, saying, “It’s just the dehumidifier and Zoomy bumping into something upstairs, guys.” Then he stopped moving. “Come here,” he whispered.

  The three gathered around a huge metal box. On the side were the words SAFE ART. Attached was a device that had one needle measuring humidity and another tracking temperature. It fed into a square unit that plugged into a wall socket.

  “Whoa!” Petra gasped, whipping off her pail. The others did the same. Calder was already running his fingers along the smooth metal surface, looking for a way to open the box.

  A huge buckle that stretched the length of one side was clipped shut but didn’t look locked. Calder pushed. It began to give, then flipped back with a gentle thud.

  The four leaned forward, lifting the heavy lid as if it were made of glass.

  The basement door was shut. Zoomy had left it open.

  Through the door, the four kids could hear Ms. Hussey’s voice.

  “What did you think … How could you … What if burbledy-burble …” She sounded scary.

  “I haven’t heard Ms. Hussey sound like that since nasty Denise poured glue in her purse in sixth grade,” Calder muttered.

  “We’d better help Zoomy,” Petra whispered.

  As they peeked around the door, Ms. Hussey whipped it open. “I ought to leave you guys down there for a while!” she snapped.

  Eagle had picked up Ratty and was cradling him in one arm. “Guess there’s more than a little distrust around here,” he murmured. “Distrust and fish oil. Did you get the box open? There are more on the other side of the room.”

  He’s frighteningly calm, Tommy thought. Like a cat who’s just caught his mouse.

  “What are you saying?” Ms. Hussey whirled on Eagle now. “This is partly your fault. For — for — turning up! Poor Mrs. Sharpe, not feeling well, and now the stress of balancing everything and then the kids sneaking around her house.” She paused. “What box? I mean, boxes?”

  “I thought you knew,” Eagle said mildly. “We’re trying out some of my storage systems in the basement here, in case I want to use the space for business overflow. But they’re empty. Isn’t that right, kids?”

  Reluctantly, the four who’d gone into the basement nodded. They looked disappointed — and so did Zoomy when he heard the news.

  Ms. Hussey sank down on the sofa next to Zoomy, who bent over his notebook. “I give up,” she said. “I thought this was about finding the art stolen from the Farmer.”

  “Life sometimes pulls together things that don’t look like they should fit.” Eagle’s voice was soothing. “All is not always what it seems.”

  “Great, thanks for the news,” Ms. Hussey said under her breath.

  “Sorry we went down there,” Petra said.

  “Just being good investigators,” Calder added.

  Ms. Hussey nodded and sighed. “And sorry I shouted at you, Zoomy. It’s been a hard few days.”

  “Hodilly-hum,” Zoomy replied, staring straight ahead, his notebook open on his lap. He’d written, ~stinky spill, Rat-a-tat attack, empty boxes. On the next line, ~Mrs. Sharpe gone. Like sardines.

  “Is Mrs. Sharpe okay?” Tommy asked. Suddenly he had a flash of her dying like Mr. Chase, and Ms. Hussey living in this house.

  As if reading his mind, Ms. Hussey said evenly, “She’s fine, nothing to worry about. They’ll release her in an hour or so. For whatever reason, she insisted on being alone until the doctors say it’s okay for her to leave. In the meantime, you guys should get going. We have a whole lot to do before the trustees arrive, including getting more of that sardine smell out of here. Couldn’t you guys find the cookies?”

  This was her first joke since coming back to the house, and the five were relieved.

  “Sorry — we fed Ratty. We didn’t mean to make a mess. And I left some notes in the attic, next to the box of photographs,” Early said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Should I get them?”

  “Another time,” Ms. Hussey said firmly.

  “We’ll leave that box undisturbed,” Eagle added, as if talking to the cat’s collar.

  “And you, my man, are quite a wordsmith. I like that Ratty entry,” Ms. Hussey said to Zoomy, who grinned.

  As they left the house, Calder said, “I think Ratty’s name fits Eagle better.”

  Tommy was busy thinking about the way Eagle and Ms. Hussey talked. “We, we, we,” he muttered. “One minute it seems the two of them are friends, and the next minute they’re not. Same with Mrs. Sharpe, so it’s really a triangle. You can’t always tell who likes who.”

  “They’re an uncomfortable threesome who’re stuck together,” Early said. “Mrs. Sharpe thinks she’s in control, but so does Eagle and so does Ms. Hussey. It’s obvious that everyone wants someone to find the stolen art, but the three grown-ups aren’t sure whether to trust each other.”

  “Or us,” Zoomy added.

  Petra suddenly stopped dead. “For art, this building — Mrs. Sharpe’s words in my dream, you know? Maybe she’s talking about the art going into her basement, into that storage box! But why? Why on earth would she ever get the art from a thief and put it in her basement?”

  “If her son is the thief, she might be willing to take the art and then pretend she stole it. So he could go free!” Tom
my blurted. Suddenly he felt taller and smarter. “That would be the sting she talked about when we were first at her house! A move that fooled other people, right in front of their faces!”

  “Yeah! Maybe she’s ready to be sacrificed, like a sardine,” Zoomy said.

  “I think you guys are nuts,” Calder said. “But I do think the art is trying to get us to do something. Like my pentominoes talk to me, you know?”

  They walked several yards in silence, each wrestling with his or her own confusions.

  It was Tommy who next stopped the group. “I was about to ask you guys something when Mrs. Sharpe fainted.” He kicked at the sidewalk. “Did — ah — anyone else think Mrs. Farmer was sort of there with us, in the museum?”

  “Sure,” Zoomy said immediately. “I saw her shoe. And she showed me some lions. My grandma has seen ghosts before — she thinks it’s pretty normal.”

  Early stuffed both hands in her jacket pockets. “After we left the Dutch Room, I looked back. Someone in a long dress whisked around a chair; it was just the fastest whish, like a skirt moving if someone was playing hide-and-seek. But I knew the room was empty, so — well, I didn’t say anything.”

  “We’re sure she likes kids,” Petra said slowly. “And that she didn’t care for the guard too much.”

  “That cold touch …” Calder murmured. “And the tweaks!”

  “She’s waiting for us to go back,” Petra said. “I’m not sure I want to, but — I can feel the pull. She’s waiting, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Calder said. “Hate to say it, but I feel the same thing. Like all those guys on the boat are yelling their heads off all this time, waiting to be rescued.”

  “What if we asked Eagle to take us?” Zoomy said. “I’ll bet you a million bucks he has a key. And if he tries to do anything bad in there, Mrs. Farmer will protect us.”

  “Scaz,” Tommy said mournfully. “I was hoping you guys would tell me you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

  * * *

  The five kids spent a long, uncomfortable hour in the alleyway behind Mrs. Sharpe’s house, sandwiched between a splintery cedar fence and the trashcans. Peering through knotholes one eye at a time, they saw Eagle and Ms. Hussey’s heads move around in the kitchen. The two seemed to be talking, and at one point Ms. Hussey looked straight up, her hand over her mouth, and then Eagle moved behind her, arms raised — what! Now Ms. Hussey spun around and they were nose to nose. Yikes, what next? Were they about to kiss? Then Ms. Hussey disappeared from sight and came up wearing yellow rubber gloves.