“What are you doing?” Mom shouts. “I thought we were going to the garden.”
“I’m … Tillie heard … We’ll be right back,” I call over my shoulder at her.
Once I regain my balance, I know I could stop her—she’s not that big or strong—but I’m intrigued. When we get to the far north end of the ball fields, she stops again, all her senses on high alert. Just when I’m starting to think that whatever she’s chasing is a figment of her imagination, I faintly hear a girl’s voice shouting, “… leeeee … leeeee …”
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot a flash of black, as a fugitive dog, dragging its leash, races through the trees and away from the voice as fast as its long legs can carry it.
“Woof!” says Tillie—the first non-howling sound I’ve heard from her. “Woof woof woof.”
“Hey, girl. What’s the matter?” I ask, kneeling down to pet her. “It’s just another dog.” I finally get her to calm down, and we walk back to where Mom is waiting for us.
“What was that all about?” she asks.
“I’m not really sure,” I say. “There was a dog who had gotten away from his owner, and the girl was calling him. Tillie seemed very concerned; she actually barked a few times.”
“She’s an odd dog. I think maybe the life of an actor is not really suited to pet ownership. Speaking of which, have you heard from your actor friend? Do you know how much longer we’re—you’re—going to have Miss Tillie?”
“Not yet. I’ll text him later to find out. I guess I should also ask if she has any other bad habits I should be aware of.”
Like shopping online with Mom’s credit cards. On the other hand, maybe she can help me with my Spanish homework.
So, who wins in a fight between a crocodile and a unicorn?
Now that we’ve finished reading Great Expectations in Mr. Eliot’s English class, he has us tackling a bunch of short stories. And I’ll admit that at first I wasn’t too sure how I felt about short stories. No offense to short-story writers and fans, but I’m a book person. I just love novels, and the longer the better. Novels that I can get totally lost in—know what I mean? There’s nothing like that mixture of excitement and regret when I get to the end of a book and I almost can’t bear to turn that last page, just knowing that it’s actually going to be over.
But lately I’m starting to appreciate the art of the short story, too. Right after we officially opened the Red Blazer Girls Detective Agency, Margaret loaned me a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories—sort of a how-to book for wannabe detectives, if ever there was one. I’ve been plowing my way through it, solving the cases along with Holmes and Watson, and you know what? Some days a few pages are just right.
The stories Mr. Eliot is giving us are different, though. We spent a lot of time talking about the conflict and irony in classics like “The Most Dangerous Game” and “How Much Land Does a Man Need?” and today we’re continuing with a very short story called “The Interlopers.”
We’ve already had our discussion of the key elements of the story, so at the beginning of class, Mr. Eliot tells each of us to find a partner for an assignment related to the story—and warns us that we have to present our answer to the class before the end of the period. Rebecca’s not in English with us, so Margaret, Leigh Ann, and I look at one another, trying to figure out how to divide three evenly by two.
Finally, Leigh Ann, the newest of the Red Blazer Girls, says, “Go ahead, you guys. You’re used to working together. I’ll work with someone else.” She looks around the room, frowning. “Hmmm.”
I turn around, and there is Livvy, staring off into space; actually, she seems to be zeroed in on the very window where I first saw Elizabeth Harriman’s face—the time I screamed right in the middle of class. I’m guessing she hasn’t heard a word Mr. Eliot has said.
“No, Leigh Ann,” I say. “I always get to work with Margaret. It’s your turn. I’m going to ask Livvy.”
Whoa! Did I just say what I think I said? Out loud?
I guess so, because Margaret and Leigh Ann are staring at me as if I have a horn growing out of my forehead.
“Have you lost your mind?” Margaret whispers.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
I will be fine, right?
“Everybody have a partner?” Mr. Eliot asks as he hands me an index card with a single task: create a graph that illustrates all the conflicting emotions going through Georg’s head as he lies trapped beneath the fallen tree. “Miss St. Pierre? How about you?”
I spin around again to face Livvy, and this time she looks back at me.
“What?” she snarls. “Jeez, what did I do now?”
“Nothing. I, um, need a partner. For this assignment.” I hand her the card, and for a second she looks like an animal trying desperately to avoid a trap. She eyes Margaret and Leigh Ann suspiciously, but they’re already hard at work.
She sighs dramatically. “Fine.”
“Excellent,” says Mr. Eliot, who gives me a strange nod before retreating to his own desk.
“So, any ideas?” I ask cheerfully.
She just glares across the table at me. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she says, “Why?”
“Because we need to get this done before the end of the period, and I just wondered if you had any ideas on how to get started.”
“No, I mean, why me? I thought you and your friends hated me. You’re smart—lots of kids would be happy to be your partner.”
“I don’t hate you, Livvy. I mean, you haven’t exactly made it easy for any of us to like you, but … come on, let’s just do this one stupid assignment, all right?”
Another resigned sigh, this one not quite so dramatic. So she’s not thrilled to be working with me—but at least she doesn’t give me the eye roll of death.
And you know what? It’s not the most fun I ever had—in fact, it wasn’t fun at all—but our answer totally kicks butt. Together we create a bar graph showing all of Georg’s various internal battles in shades of blue and his external conflicts in shades of red.
The colors were Livvy’s idea, and she explains our choices to the class.
“Blue for internal conflict, because it all makes him, you know, sad inside, thinking about all the time he has wasted being enemies with Ulrich. And red because he’s angry at his predicament—the cold, the storm, the tree, and, uh, you know, what happens at the end.”
“Very impressive, girls,” Mr. Eliot says as we wrap up our presentation. On the way back to our seats—for just a fraction of a micro-mini-second—I get the feeling that Livvy’s going to high-five me, but the moment passes, and we sit without another look.
After the bell, though, she secretly drops a note on my desk before leaving to join the Klackettes for sandwiches, sodas, and sarcasm in the cafeteria. It reads: “Sorry about your nose.”
And there you have it: the cornerstone laid in a foundation.
A first step up an imposing mountain peak. The first chapter of an epic novel. A … well, go ahead—you choose an appropriate metaphor.
“What was that all about?” Margaret asks me as we’re putting books away in our shared locker.
I examine my nose in the mirror we have taped inside the locker door. “Hey, it’s looking better, don’t you think? You can hardly see the bruises.”
“Sophie Jeanette St. Pierre. Are you ignoring me?”
“What? Oh, you mean the thing with Livvy? No biggie. Just a little experiment.”
“Well, you’re lucky your little experiment didn’t just blow up in your face. Was the scientific method involved at all?”
“Sure. I had a hypothesis.”
“Which was?”
“That maybe Livvy’s not so bad.”
Leigh Ann, who’s down the hall at her own locker, hears me and slams her locker door shut. “Compared to what? A crocodile that eats its own babies? This is the same girl who totally stabbed us in the back on our last English project. And the girl who called us a bunch o
f losers, remember?”
“I didn’t say she’s a saint,” I say. “I just think there might be more to her than we think.”
“Yeah, well, I think there might be less,” Leigh Ann says with a snort.
“I have to hand it to you, Soph,” Margaret says. “You’re like the Gandhi of St. Veronica’s—a peacemaker. I’ll admit it—I couldn’t do what you did. No way.”
Leigh Ann’s curiosity gets the best of her. “So, did she say anything, you know, about us?”
I smile coyly. “You’re just dying to know, aren’t you? Well, the answer is no. Not a word. She was all business. I’d forgotten how smart she is. And she’s really pretty, too. You know, when she’s not scowling or being super-sarcastic.”
Leigh Ann scoffs. “In other words, about eight seconds a year.”
“I’m not surprised you think she’s pretty,” Margaret says. “Except for your noses, you two could almost pass for twins. You’re the same size, same cheekbones, same hair.”
“Our cheekbones? You’re crazy,” I say.
Leigh Ann nods. “ ’Fraid so, Soph. The other day, Livvy was walking down the hall away from me and I came this close to calling her Sophie.”
“That would have been good,” Margaret says.
“I know. My heart was pounding afterward,” Leigh Ann admits. “I even had a nightmare about it.”
Okay, let’s stop and think about this for a moment, shall we? My best friends are afraid of how Livvy would respond to being mistaken for me.
I think I’ve been insulted. Again.
Harrumph.
A visit with old friends, er, good friends who are old-ish
On Tuesday afternoon, we have a date with our old friends Malcolm Chance and Elizabeth Harriman at Elizabeth’s townhouse, which is just up the street from the school. These two have quite a history. Married. Divorced. And, thanks to the Red Blazer Girls and the search for a certain ring, reconnected many years later. Current relationship status: unknown—at least to us. (Yes, I’m aware that it’s a total cliché, but “It’s complicated” seems to sum it up.) Malcolm seems to be spending more and more time with his ex-wife, but he still has an apartment on the Upper West Side, near Columbia University, where he is a professor of archaeology.
We’re really hoping to pick Malcolm’s brain about the pictures in Father Julian’s shoe box, but first we need to spend some girls-only time with Elizabeth. So, after a pot of our favorite Flower Power tea, a plate or two of cookies (sadly, store-bought), and 237 questions (give or take a few) about our families, school, and every other aspect of our lives, she leans back on the couch, satisfied.
“Okay, Malcolm. Your turn.”
Malcolm returns from the kitchen with a dish towel in his hands. “Are you quite certain, precious?” he asks with a wink in my direction, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Don’t you ‘precious’ me,” Elizabeth says. “I’m merely trying to stay abreast of our young friends’ busy lives.”
“Yes, dear,” he says. “And I’d say you’re doing a fine job of it, too. That was quite a thorough cross-examination.”
Elizabeth squints at him. “If these lovely girls weren’t here, sweetness, I think I would conk you on the head with this teapot.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing you girls are here. All right, let’s get down to work. You mentioned that you’re working on a case. For Father Julian, is that right? He’s a nice young man.”
“Yep,” I say. “Kind of an archaeology project. You know how scientists can look at things and figure out how old they are? Well, you’re going to teach us how to do that.”
“I am? I mean, yes. Yes, I am.”
Margaret gives him a quick version of the story of the painting. At the first mention of the name Pommeroy, Elizabeth, whose walls are littered with paintings by modern masters such as Matisse, Picasso, and Warhol, sits up straight.
“Father Julian owns a Pommeroy? I would love to see it. I’ve been trying to add one to my collection for years. I met him once, with my father, at a downtown gallery—I forget the name. They had a show of his later work. Such a tragic story.”
“I’m sure Father Julian would be happy to show it to you,” I say. “It’s over in the rectory. And you know, speaking of art galleries, Becca and I had a strange experience Saturday morning. Tell them about it, Becca.”
“Why don’t you tell it?”
“Duh. Because I didn’t actually see anything.”
“Oh, fine.”
She finishes telling the story, then adds, “This Gus guy can really paint. Soph, remember all those still lifes we saw on the wall? They’re all his, and so are the big, dark, swirly ones. Elizabeth, I think one of those would look really good in here.”
“Well, thank you, Rebecca. I may just have to go have a look for myself,” she says. “I’m always in the market for things that make me feel good.”
Margaret opens the shoe box full of photos and sets it on the coffee table in front of Malcolm. “All right. Time to get to work.”
Malcolm pulls a pair of reading glasses out of a case and slips them on. “So your theory is that if you can accurately date one of these pictures that shows the painting, you’ll have proof that the painting was done prior to 1961, right?”
“Theoretically,” Margaret answers. “This is a picture of Father Julian’s great-grandparents in their house in the Bronx, near Yankee Stadium. If you look on the wall behind them, you can see the top right-hand corner of the painting.”
Malcolm sets the shoe box on his lap and starts to take a closer look at a few of the pictures. “Well, the good news is that most of these pictures were taken with a good camera—probably an old range finder. Look how clear the image is, all the way to the edges. Wait here a moment while I find a loupe,” Malcolm says, heading for the study that once belonged to Elizabeth’s father, himself a well-known archaeologist and professor.
“A what?” Leigh Ann asks.
“A loupe. Kind of a fancy magnifying glass—looks like a camera lens,” Margaret explains. “I guess archaeologists use them, too.”
He returns a few seconds later, polishing the lens with a cotton handkerchief. Then he moves a lamp from a side table to the coffee table. “There. Now let’s have a proper look.”
He sets the loupe on the corner of the painting in the photograph and squints into it. “Yep, it’s a painting all right.”
“Yay!” I say, getting into the spirit of things. “Let’s call Father Julian and tell him we cracked the case.”
“You’re cracked,” Rebecca says, poking me with a pointy elbow.
“What else do you see?” Margaret asks. “Anything on the table? On those bookshelves?”
“Some books, a glass vase, a decanter. A couple of picture frames—hard to see what’s in them because of the reflections. Some souvenirs and knickknacks. The usual suspects. Here, Margaret, you take a look. Your young eyes are much better suited to this kind of work than mine.”
Margaret takes the loupe from him and zeroes in on the bookcase. “I think I can make out some of the titles. Looks like Father Julian’s great-grandfather was a serious reader. There’s Plato and Socrates, and The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Ah, here’s some more modern stuff on the lower shelf. There’s a Hemingway, and a couple of Faulkners.”
“You know, this really is a fascinating problem,” Malcolm says, scratching his chin. “And, I fear, more difficult than I first thought. Not a typical archaeological problem at all.”
“That doesn’t sound encouraging,” Leigh Ann says.
“Let me explain,” Malcolm says, peering over his glasses at us. “Archaeologists are always trying to determine the age of things—bones, pieces of pottery, parchment, statues, you name it. But it’s usually a matter of approximately what year, or even what century, the thing came from. From a more modern perspective, photographs are generally fairly simple to date—to a certain degree. With just a quick glance at these pictures, most people cou
ld guess the time frame of the vast majority within fifteen or twenty years. A closer look—like the one we’re taking right now—can narrow it down considerably. For instance, let’s consider that copy of Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. I happen to know that it was published in 1952, so we now know this picture was taken in 1952 or later.”
“But … that’s great news, isn’t it?” I ask. “As long as it’s before 1961, it proves what we need it to prove, right?”
“Not really,” Malcolm says. “It’s the ‘or later’ part that complicates things. In pointing out the copy of the Hemingway book, all we did was prove the picture couldn’t have been taken before 1952. But it could have been taken yesterday for all we know.”
It takes a second, but the logic finally sinks into my chlorine-soaked brain. “Ohhhh. Now I see.”
“But now for the bad news. This particular picture, I’m sorry to say, was definitely taken after 1963.”
“How do you know that?” Margaret asks.
“Do you see this window? Now look closely at the car out in the driveway. I am a hundred percent positive that those are the grille and headlights of a 1964 Ford Thunderbird. The new models would have come out in September or October 1963—a couple of years too late to be useful to you.”
“So what can we do?” Leigh Ann asks.
Malcolm rubs his chin a little more, then smooths out his mustache with his fingers. “Well, here’s what I would do: go through these pictures and find every single one that shows either the painting or the spot on the wall where it was hung—even the ones that were obviously taken much earlier or much later than 1961. You never know how they might come in handy. Then put those sharp red blazers on and get down to some serious detective work.”
“What kinds of things should we be looking for?” Becca asks.
“At this point, anything. Everything. Combinations of things,” Malcolm says. “Clothing. Hairstyles. A pen sitting on the desk. A calendar. A pack of matches. A record album. You know what those are, right? It’s what we had in the days before CDs and iPods.”
The Mistaken Masterpiece Page 6
