“You know, I was starting to think you’re a nice kid,” I say, pretending my feelings have been hurt.
“Maybe he just can’t help himself,” Leigh Ann says. “You know how those Hollywood types are—it’s all about them.”
Cam falls to the cold, damp ground, moaning and acting as if he’s been stabbed in the heart.
We look on, unimpressed. “And I was starting to think,” Leigh Ann says, “that he could actually act.”
Will still doesn’t open his eyes, but he smiles at that.
On the way home, I almost lose Tillie again. We’re just walking along, and then yank! My arm almost comes out of its socket as she pulls me down the sidewalk. I finally get my other hand on the leash and bring her to a complete stop.
“What was that all about?” I ask. “Did you see a squirrel?”
Leigh Ann points at the sidewalk ahead of us. “Isn’t that Livvy?”
She is half a block ahead and has her back to us, pushing a wheelchair, but there’s no doubt in my mind that those fashionable jeans and that black TrueNorth jacket belong to Livvy Klack. Even her walk has a certain unmistakable attitude.
“C’mon, let’s follow her,” I say.
“You think we should?” Leigh Ann asks.
“Woof!” says Tillie. “Woof! Woof!”
“Quiet, Tillie!” I say. “I just want to see who she’s with—and what she’s doing. We won’t let her see us. Aren’t you curious?”
“Of course. I’m just, well, you know, a little afraid of her.”
“Everyone’s a little afraid of her,” I say. “And with good reason. She’s Livvy Klack, for cryin’ out loud.”
We pick up the pace, with Tillie enthusiastically leading the way, until we cut the distance between us and Livvy in half. When she gets to the next corner, though, she takes an abrupt left turn and we duck behind a car, concerned that she has spotted us. We wait a few seconds before peeking out, and get to the corner just in time to see her push the wheelchair into a diner.
“Whew. That was close,” Leigh Ann says. “I thought we were busted for sure.”
“Too bad we have Tillie with us, or we’d be going in that diner,” I say. “I wonder who that is? And why is Livvy, of all people, being nice to her?”
“I thought you said there was more to Livvy than we thought.”
“I did—I do think that. But it’s still surprising to actually see it.”
It’s kind of like seeing a rainbow for the first time. You can see pictures of them and hear people describe them your whole life, but until you see one with your own eyes, you don’t really believe it’s possible.
While Leigh Ann is showering and getting ready to head over toward Times Square for her dance class, I notice that I have a new voice message—and almost fall off my bed when I hear it.
Hi, Sophie, it’s Cam. Hope you don’t mind me calling—I got your number from Nate. I’m not a stalker, honest. I’m just calling to make sure you haven’t lost any more celebrities’ dogs today! And, um, I have a deal for you: I promise not to tell Nate that you lost Tillie if you give me Leigh Ann’s number. That’s a fair trade, isn’t it? Pretty please? I’ll even promise not to make any more cracks about New York pizza.
Well now. This is certainly an interesting turn of events, don’t you think? Leigh Ann is blow-drying her hair, and it’s all I can do not to barge into the bathroom, yank the plug out of the wall, and shriek this incredible news at her. I mean, that’s what the old Sophie would have done, but the new, improved, self-controlled Sophie is above such vulgar displays of emotion, right?
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
I barge. I yank. I shriek.
A petrified Leigh Ann finally pries the phone out of my hand and listens to the message for herself. And, bless her heart, she maintains her composure. Totally plays it cool.
“Huh,” she deadpans as she hands me back my phone. “Wonder what he wants.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
A look of utter innocence. “What?” Probably my favorite thing about Leigh Ann is her genuine lack of awareness of her own beauty.
I put my arms on her shoulders and spin her so she’s facing the mirror. “That’s what he wants.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Leigh Ann. He. Likes. You. I mean, come on. You don’t think it’s a little strange that he just happened to be walking in the park this morning? He heard us talking last night. He was there to see you.”
“You’re crazy. He’s famous. I’m nobody. He can’t like me.”
“One, you’re not a nobody. You’re a-flippin’-mazing. You dance. You sing. You’re beautiful. You solve crimes. Two, why can’t he like you? And three, I don’t care what you say—I am so giving him your number.”
“I don’t get it. If he wanted my number, why didn’t he just ask me?”
“Because he’s a boy. Nobody knows why they do anything they do. Why did Raf decide to start driving his uncle’s scooter all over the city? Or get all weird just because I’m taking care of Nate Etan’s dog? Just go with it.”
Ah yes. Say hello to daytime television’s newest sensation: Dr. Sophie, relationship guru.
Time for us to put on our detective hats. Let’s hope they’re fashionable
With everything that’s been going on in our lives the past few days, the RBGDA—the Red Blazer Girls Detective Agency, that is—hasn’t made much progress with Father Julian’s case. The simple fact is, other than figuring out that the baseball that Tillie treated like a double cheeseburger was a fake, we’ve got nada. Zilch. Bupkis.
“It’s disgraceful, really,” Margaret tells me Saturday afternoon. “Father Julian is counting on us. We need to get everyone together tonight and get down to some serious detective work. No DVDs, no music, no talking about boys, movies, or movie stars. Just the four of us and that old shoe box full of pictures.”
Twenty-seven phone calls (at least) and three hours later, Margaret, Becca, and I converge on Leigh Ann’s house in Astoria, Queens, where we’re all going to spend the night. My mom, who grew up in Queens, rides over on the subway with us and, after dropping us off at Leigh Ann’s, heads out to meet an old friend from school for dinner.
Leigh Ann is the only one of us who actually lives in a house rather than an apartment building. Her brother, Alejandro, who is a senior at St. Thomas Aquinas, where Raf goes, is on his way out the door as we arrive. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he seems even taller and better-looking than the last time I saw him, which was only a few weeks ago. Shockingly, he doesn’t seem at all disappointed that he’s going to miss spending time with his little sister and her three best friends. I mean, imagine someone not wanting to hang out with us!
So it’s just us and Leigh Ann’s mom, who cooks Dominican food for us. It’s very different from the French stuff I’m used to, but it is delicious, and Ms. Jaimes is in a state of shock after seeing what four twelve-year-old girls can do to a giant casserole dish of chicken, beans, and rice.
While we’re eating, Becca tells us the latest twist in the mystery surrounding Gus, the artist who’s locked away in the back room of that gallery. On her way home to babysit her younger siblings, Jonathan and Jennifer, on Thursday, she stopped in a diner and ordered two coffees and a tea to be delivered to the gallery. Then she waited across the street to watch as the curtain went up on her little drama.
“At first, the girl tries to send the delivery guy away,” Becca says. “I can see her shaking her head. And then he must tell her that it’s already paid for, because she peeks into the bag. Which is when she sees what I wrote on the lid of the tea: ‘Please serve in a china cup.’ ”
“You didn’t,” I say.
“Oh yes I did,” she says with a maniacal laugh. “Just to mess with their heads. The girl starts looking around like she’s being watched—which she is—and totally freaking out. She follows the delivery guy out the door, asking him who ordered the stuff, but he just shrugs and rides off on his bike
. When she goes back inside, she and the guy go to the back room and knock, but Gus doesn’t answer. Finally, they dig up a key and unlock the door.”
“Did they give him the tea, at least?” Leigh Ann asks.
“Yeah, because after that, I went around to the back window and knocked. He got a kick out of the message, so even though he might be a little paranoid, at least he has a sense of humor. I didn’t go in, because I had to go home to watch the twins, but we talked for a minute. Remember I told you he lives upstairs? Well, from some of the things he says, I get the sense that he never leaves the building. He has everything delivered, because he’s afraid of something—and I don’t think it’s the guy from the gallery who yelled at us. I think it’s something much scarier.”
At eight o’clock on the button, Margaret dumps the shoe box of pictures onto Leigh Ann’s bed.
“Yikes,” Becca says, eyeing the pile. “Is that some kind of magical shoe box or something? There’s no way all those came out of that.”
“Everybody take a handful,” Margaret says.
“Tell me again what we’re looking for,” says Leigh Ann, staring at the black-and-white picture that Malcolm attached to the lid of the box with a paper clip. “I know there’s the painting, and something about a year.”
“Nineteen sixty-one. That’s the year Pommeroy died,” Becca reminds us. “And when his brothers and sister suddenly decided that they were great artists, too.”
Margaret has Malcolm’s loupe pressed to her eye, looking at the picture in Leigh Ann’s hand. “Right now, let’s just find every picture that has the painting in it, even if it’s just a little corner of it. Then we can worry about the when.”
I reach in for a fistful of pictures and then sit back on the floor to go through them. Most are your basic family snapshots—you know, the usual birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, vacations, and so on. And while Malcolm may have pointed out that many were obviously taken with a good camera, the photographer—in most cases, anyway—was no expert, believe me.
Out of focus? Check.
Overexposed? Check.
Underexposed? Check.
Grandma and Grandpa “decapitated”? Check. Check.
“Boy, somebody forgot to read the instruction manual for his shiny new camera,” I say.
“I have a feeling that cameras in the fifties and sixties were a lot more complicated than the kind we use,” Margaret explains.
“Wait a minute,” Leigh Ann says. “Look at this one.” The picture in her hand is black and white, but it isn’t like the others. It’s about twice the size, printed on much heavier paper—there’s a professional look and feel to it. An elderly couple stands in a very formal pose in front of a fireplace. My eyes, however, go immediately to the wall behind them. Above the mantel, plain as the broken nose on my face, is the Pommeroy painting that Father Julian showed us.
“Hey, that’s it!” I shout.
Leigh Ann flips it over. “Huh. ‘Rosemont Studios, the Bronx.’ But no date. Those must be Father Julian’s grandparents.”
“Great-grandparents,” Margaret corrects.
“You know, if this Rosemont Studios is still around, they might have records,” says Becca. “I think those places keep the negatives forever.”
Margaret pats Becca on the back. “Good thinking. Leigh Ann, can I use your computer to check it out?”
“It’s all yours.”
That little bit of success really motivates us, and we attack the rest of the pictures while Margaret goes online to see if Rosemont Studios is still in business.
“Rosewood. Rosenberg. Rose and Rose. But no Rosemont.”
“That would have been too easy,” I say.
“I suppose they could have changed their name,” Margaret says.
“Got another one!” Leigh Ann exclaims, waving a snapshot above her head.
“Sheesh,” Becca grumbles.
We circle around Leigh Ann to get a good look.
“Yep. There it is again. This one’s a lot like that very first picture—the one with the car in the background,” Margaret says. “That’s the same room—the same furniture, even—and the painting’s in the same place on the wall. And look! All kinds of clues!”
“Magazines on the coffee table,” notes Becca.
“Bookshelves,” I say. “Looks like they’re full of little knickknacks—the kind of stuff you pick up on vacations.”
“And a dog!” says Leigh Ann. “It looks a lot like Tillie.”
I take a closer look at the dog, which does look like a slightly beefier Tillie. “Great. That crazy mutt probably ate the evidence. Look, there’s something sticking out of the side of her mouth.”
“Getting a little tired of Tillie, are we?” Becca teases. “I thought you loved her.”
“I do. She’s so sweet. She’s just … sometimes there’s just a lot of her.”
Leigh Ann points to a magazine on the coffee table in the picture. “Hey, this one is definitely Life—I don’t think it’s around anymore, but I know I’ve seen copies of it somewhere.”
“The school library,” says Margaret. “There’s a whole shelf of them behind Mrs. Overmeyer’s desk. And this one is a National Geographic. I’d recognize that anywhere.” She sets the picture on the table and begins a closer examination with the loupe.
“Anything?” I ask.
“Well, the titles are clear enough to make out, but everything else is too small to read.”
Becca leans over Margaret’s shoulder. “Yeah, but what about the pictures on the covers? That’s just as good, right?”
Margaret leans back, still holding the loupe to her eye. “Of course! Rebecca, you’re a genius.”
“Finally,” Becca says with a quick I-told-you-so glance in my direction. “Somebody noticed. Thank you, Margaret.”
“De rien,” says Margaret. “All we have to do is look at the covers of Life and National Geographic and match them to the ones in the picture.”
“And if they’re from, say, June 1960,” I say, “won’t that be proof?”
Margaret grins at me. “Nope.”
“Pourquoi, ma cherie?”
“Because it’s possible they just had a bunch of old magazines lying around. I’ve seen copies of Gourmet from the nineties on the coffee table at your house. On the other hand, two magazines from the same month definitely help our case.”
“Ah. Circumstantial evidence,” I say as it all starts to sink in.
“What’s that?” Leigh Ann asks.
“It’s like this,” I explain. “The police walk into a room, and you’re standing there with a gun in your hand and there’s a dead guy on the floor. Nobody actually saw you pull the trigger, but it seems obvious what happened, because of the circumstances.”
“Ohhh. So you’re saying … Wait, what are you saying?”
Margaret looks at me. “I think what Sophie’s trying to say is that we may not find one magical piece of evidence that solves the case, but there might be a bunch of little things that add up to one obvious conclusion. Well, at least we hope it’s obvious.”
Meanwhile, Rebecca continues to dig through her pile of pictures, determined, she says, to find “the one true ring.” I swear, if I hadn’t sat through nine hours of The Lord of the Rings with her—twice!—I wouldn’t know what she’s talking about half the time. Her persistence pays off; she leaps to her feet, holding up a picture triumphantly.
“Yessss!” she gloats. “In your face, St. Pierre.”
“You’re so competitive, Rebecca,” Leigh Ann says. “That’s really not healthy, you know, when it’s about everything.”
“It’s not everything,” I explain. “Just me, and I’m used to it. But it’s okay because I know she’s loony. All right, let’s see it.” I pull her arm and the picture down to my eye level. “I don’t see anything.”
“Me neither,” admits Leigh Ann.
Becca points at the top right-hand corner and hands the picture to Margaret. “It’s right there. In
the background.”
“Oh, I see it,” says Margaret. She holds it so Leigh Ann and I can get a clear look. “You can only see a little bit of it.” She peers through the loupe once again. “And I think it’s a reflection—like we’re seeing the painting in a mirror on the wall behind those people.”
“Mmmmm. Birthday cake,” I say. “Chocolate.”
“Wait a second. Now that’s an interesting clue,” Margaret says.
By the tone of her voice, I can tell that her brain is going into its don’t-bother-me-now-I’m-onto-something-big mode, and I back away from her. Hey, you never know. One of these days, that gray matter might just blow, and I don’t want to be too close.
She hands me the loupe. “Birthday cake. Whose name is on it? And candles. Quick, how many?”
Too much pressure!
“ ‘Happy Birthday … Cathy’ … I think. No, I’m sure. It’s Cathy.”
“Candles?”
“I’m counting! Ten, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. But these flowers on the table look like they’re blocking some.”
“She definitely looks older than fourteen,” Leigh Ann says. “She’s got to be seventeen or eighteen at least.”
“Aarrgghh,” Margaret says. “Stupid flowers. This picture would do it. If we knew when this Cathy was born, we would know what year the picture was taken.”
“Lemme see that,” Becca says, taking the picture out of my hand. “That guy is really cute. Something about him looks familiar.”
“Which guy?” I ask.
“The one in the mirror. He’s in the other room, standing by the painting.”
“I think he’d look a little different now,” I say.
“I know, but I’m tellin’ you—I’ve seen him somewhere. Where was it?” She pounds the heels of her hands against her head. “Think, Rebecca! I’m going to remember tonight, and when I do, I’m going to call you, St. Pierre.”
“Okay with me, Chen. And then I’ll call the loony bin for you.”
The Mistaken Masterpiece Page 9
