The Mistaken Masterpiece

by Michael D. Beil

  Groan. “I’m moving,” I fib while trying to come up with a legitimate reason to stay in bed.

  But Tillie’s cold, wet nose takes care of that little fantasy, and I trudge off in the dark to the pool.

  After practice, I meet Margaret outside her building. She is standing there, arms crossed and tapping her foot.

  “What happened to you last night?” she asks. “I thought you were coming over to study Spanish.”

  “I know—I’m sorry about that. I just ended up talking to, um, Livvy for a while.” I intentionally mumble the key word in that sentence, but Margaret has the hearing of a hoot owl.

  “Did you say Livvy? Where did you—oh, right, that woman she knows lives in Prunella’s building. How did you know which apartment she was in?”

  “I observed,” I say proudly. “Just like you’re always telling me I need to. Her name was right there outside the lobby, with all the buzzers.”

  “Good work, Sophie! I’m impressed. And Livvy was there? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  And then the moment of truth.

  “Ohmigosh, Sophie. Are you and Livvy … friends?”

  Jeez. For once, couldn’t she just ask me something simple, like … what is the meaning of life?

  Malcolm and Elizabeth take the Pommeroy to their friend at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in the morning, and Malcolm sends Margaret an email asking to meet us after school at Perkatory for some very surprising news.

  He sets the painting on the table in front of us. “It’s a fake,” he blurts out, not even waiting for our drinks to arrive at the table.

  “What?” our voices cry out in perfect four-part harmony.

  “How is that even possible?” I ask. “I mean, we’re sure the one we just hung on Prunella’s wall is a fake, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Margaret says. “So, after all that running around, all we did was trade a fake for a fake?”

  “Which means—” Malcolm starts.

  “That somebody must have conned Phillip!” exclaims Margaret. “Phillip hired someone to make a copy that he could pass off to his sister so he could keep the original. But it sounds to me like the forger made two copies and then kept the original for himself. Or herself.”

  “Is this fake exactly like the other one?” I ask.

  “Yes and no,” Malcolm says. “According to the expert at the Met, the visible parts of the two paintings are very, very similar—probably done by the same hand. But while the other had no underpainting whatsoever, this one was painted over another artist’s work, completely unrelated to Pommeroy in style. My guess is that the forger simply recycled a canvas that was the size he needed—most likely something that he had done himself. Lots of gallery owners and employees are amateur artists.”

  Something about it just doesn’t add up.

  “But … we’re assuming that somebody from the Svindahl Gallery created that other forgery because they knew just where to look after Father Julian brought in that first fake, right? And that there just had to be some connection between Phillip and the Svindahls. Well, if one of the Svindahls was the forger, they would know that this is a fake, too. Right? So why are they willing to pay anything to get it back? It just doesn’t add up.”

  A moment of stunned silence, followed by several heavy sighs.

  “A truly excellent question,” says Malcolm.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Margaret admits. “It’s not very likely, but I suppose it’s possible that they’re trying to right a wrong. Maybe they’re afraid it will be discovered and ruin the gallery’s reputation.”

  “Then why didn’t they want the fake that Father Julian showed them?” I ask.

  Margaret pats me on the back. “Excellent logic, Soph. You really have been reading your Sherlock, haven’t you?”

  “Sophie, my dear, I’m afraid I don’t have a good answer for you, either,” Malcolm says. “But see what you girls can make of this; it was taped to the hidden side of the stretcher bar in the back.” He takes a folded envelope from a pocket inside his tweed blazer and sets it on the table.

  Margaret opens the envelope and removes an address book that’s no more than two inches square.

  “My, my,” she says, flipping through the gold-edged pages. “Phillip’s ‘little black book.’ So he kept some secrets from his beloved Prunella. Tsk, tsk. And look, some of the women’s names have stars by them. Malcolm, maybe you’d like to explain what those mean.”

  “Not in a million years!” Malcolm says with a hearty laugh. “But you never know what else you might find in there. Good luck—I’ll send you a message if I learn anything new.” He wraps up the painting and heads out the door.

  Maybe they just have trouble with algebra

  Margaret, convinced that the Svindahls hold the secret to whatever is going on and desperately searching for proof of the connection between them and Phillip, discovers an interesting detail in the picture where Phillip and Prunella are sitting on the couch, looking so pleased with each other. She sets it on a table in the school library and takes Malcolm’s loupe from her bag.

  “This photograph is important because it shows the painting clearly. And thanks to Becca noticing that little difference in those two squares, we know that this painting is definitely not the one that Father Julian had, nor the one that was hanging on Prunella’s wall. Based on what Father Julian’s cousin Debbie said, this picture must have been taken seven years ago—that’s when she met Cale Winokum. And we know that within a few weeks of this picture being taken, Phillip walked off with the painting until his ‘conscience’ made him bring it back. Now, take a close look at the three men in this picture. There’s Phillip, Cale Winokum, and this mystery man,” she says. “What do they have in common?”

  “Um … nothing,” I say. “Phillip is old and kind of sleazy-looking. Cale is cute, in a scruffy, artsy-geeky kind of way. And it’s hard to tell about the mystery guy. He looks pretty normal, I guess.”

  Fashion expert Leigh Ann zooms in on the clothes. “They’re all wearing dark blazers and light-colored pants.”

  “And … anything else?” Margaret prods.

  “Their ties!” Leigh Ann says. “The ties are all the same.”

  “Bingo!” Margaret says. “Now, what are the odds that three men would be wearing the exact same tie, unless—”

  “They’re school ties!” I say. “Stripes and crests. Definitely private school stuff.”

  “Precisely,” Margaret says. “The Bramwell School, to be exact.”

  Leigh Ann looks skeptical. “Um, aren’t they a little old to be wearing school uniforms?”

  “True,” says Margaret, “but Bramwell alumni are lifetime members of a very exclusive club. Haven’t you noticed that Malcolm wears that one maroon and gold bow tie a lot? Those are the colors from his old prep school.”

  “And that’s how these three know each other?” Becca asks.

  “Well, I know Phillip went there, and I had Father Julian ask Debbie about Cale. He graduated from there—before going to … art school.”

  “Ohmigosh! He could be the forger!” I say.

  “And I’ll bet you anything,” Becca says, “that this ‘mystery man’ is from the Svindahl Gallery. Look at him. He could be the father of the guy who yelled at us—the one who was at the diner with Prunehead.”

  “He’s Arthur Svindahl Sr.,” Leigh Ann says, looking up from the computer where she has pulled up the Svindahl Gallery website.

  She turns the screen so we can all see. Sure enough, there he is: a little grayer, a little heavier, but there’s no doubt it’s the same guy.

  “So … these three got together and hatched this little scheme,” I say.

  “But somebody got greedy,” Becca adds. “Instead of making one forgery for Phillip, I’ll bet you that Svindahl had Cale make two, and then he kept the original for himself.”

  “Not a bad plan,” Margaret says.

  “But it still doesn’t explain why they want it back,” I
point out.

  Margaret nods her agreement. “There’s a logical explanation. We just have to find it.”

  In which I dig up a “key” piece of evidence

  I’ve been assigned the job of returning the address book to Prunella, and I decide that I can kill two birds with one stone. Livvy’s parents are out of town—again—so she and Tillie are staying at Julia Demarest’s apartment for a few days. Now that we have switched dogs and I have the “right” Tillie, I miss the old one. I was really getting used to all of her strange habits—even her howling. Nate’s Tillie is a bit of a couch potato, I’m afraid. When I come home, I get a wag of the tail, but not that look of utter joy that makes me feel that all is right with the world. And she won’t even get up on the bed with me; she sleeps on the floor next to the bed—like a dog. On top of all that, I have to wake her up in the morning! It’s just not the same.

  My plan is to run up to the fifth floor, slide Phillip’s little black book under Prunella’s door, and then swing by Julia’s to say a quick hello to Tillie—and Livvy. As I’m approaching the fifth floor, however, I hear Prunella’s door close and two people arguing in the hallway as they wait for the elevator. I duck behind a column and prepare to snoop, ready to make a run for it if necessary.

  It’s Amelia Svindahl and her brother, Arthur.

  “This is just unbelievable,” she says in a high, whiny voice. “I don’t understand. It’s impossible. Inconceivable.”

  “You’re absolutely sure that’s a different painting from the one you and Dad saw last week?” Arthur asks.

  “Positive. Gus’s notes are very clear. You know how meticulous he is. He’s totally insane about details like that—leaving his little identification marks that only he understands on everything he paints, whether he’s doing his own thing or copying somebody else’s. I saw his marks on the Pommeroy copy that that nosy little hobbit of a priest brought in a few weeks ago, and I saw different ones on the copy that was on the wall here a week ago. Somehow—don’t ask me how or why—those two paintings have been switched.”

  “Well, we simply have to get that painting back, even if it means giving up the original Pommeroy,” Arthur says. “Of course, Dad will have an absolute fit about that. He just loves that godawful thing.”

  “Serves him right. He’s the one who got Gus involved in the first place. Painting over a Werkman. How could anyone be so stupid?”

  The elevator finally arrives, but before the door closes, they drop one more little gem for me to take home.

  “It wasn’t entirely Gus’s fault,” Amelia says. “Seven years ago, Werkman was a complete nobody. Who knew his stuff would end up worth more than the Pommeroy?”

  Did I say “little gem”?

  More like the crown jewel.

  When the Svindahls disappear behind the elevator door, I spend the next five minutes with my ear pressed to Prunella’s, listening to her sing along with a 1940s bigband record. She’s not bad, either—although it practically kills me to admit that. There’s a good half-inch gap at the bottom of her door, and when I give the address book a healthy kick, it slides well into her apartment. When she suddenly stops singing, I make a run for the stairs, stopping on the third floor for a nice visit with Livvy and a very exuberant Tillie.

  I stop by Margaret’s apartment on my way home and reenact the Svindahls’ conversation for her. Everything about her, from her toes, which are tapping like mad, to her oversize brain, vibrates with the energy of a genius on the verge of a major discovery.

  “Do you know what this means?” she asks. “This changes everything. We have the upper hand. I can’t wait to tell Father Julian.”

  “What are we going to do? Call the police?”

  Margaret shakes her head. “That won’t do any good. We can’t prove anything—and the Svindahls have had the Pommeroy for years. The cops would laugh at us. No, this is up to us. We need a really good plan … a ‘butt-kicking’ plan, I think you’d call it.”

  “RBGDA sleepover tomorrow at my place,” I say. “The Blazers have the week off because Aldo is trying out a poetry slam at Perk, whatever that is. I’ll get Dad to make us something good. I think better after a good meal.”

  “That sounds perfect. Can you call Becca and Leigh Ann to make sure they can do it?”

  “Got it. We will have a couple of other visitors—for a while, anyway.”

  “Visitors, plural?”

  “Nate’s coming to pick up Tillie.”

  “And? That’s one.”

  “Oh, right. Um … Livvy … is going to stop by,” I mumble without making eye contact with Margaret. “I promised she could meet Nate, you know, especially since she was the one actually taking care of his dog. I’m sure she won’t stay long.”

  “Okay. That’s, um, good.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Of course not. Sophie, you’re my best friend. I trust you. I’m even—I don’t know—proud of you for working things out with Livvy. I’m not sure I’m ready to take that step, but I promise not to go after her or anything like that. Of course, I can’t speak for Becca and Leigh Ann.”

  “Especially Leigh Ann,” I say. “I think she still fantasizes about slugging her. Let’s hope Livvy doesn’t say anything bad about Queens, eh?”

  • • •

  As I barge through the front door of our apartment building, Tony, the afternoon doorman, shouts at me to stop.

  “Gotsomethingforyou,” he says, digging through the pile of envelopes and papers that litter the lobby desk. “Ah! Hereyougo.”

  He hands me a white envelope, plain except for my name printed across the front. No stamps, no return address, not even an apartment number.

  “Who dropped this off?”

  Tony shrugs. “Dunno. Iwasawayfromthedeskforaminute. Camebackandthereitwas.”

  I rip open the envelope on the way to the elevator and find this inside, cut from a piece of poster board:

  “What the … Who is doing this?” I demand.

  The nervous-looking old man who is waiting for the elevator sidesteps away from me.

  I smile at him. “Sorry.”

  When the elevator comes, he doesn’t get in with me, which makes me smile. Call me evil if you want, but sometimes I get a little thrill from the sort-of superpower that we kids have to make grown-ups uncomfortable. It’s amazing how many adults suddenly become incapable of coherent speech when they’re trapped in an elevator with a kid.

  I line up on the floor of my bedroom the strange gifts I have received: a brass bowl, a flowerpot full of dirt, the almost-real robin, my long-lost copy of The Secret Garden, and finally, the cryptic handmade invitation that seems to be missing some key information. For starters, exactly where am I invited?

  And then I stare at them, waiting for an epiphany—some sudden understanding of what has been right in front of my eyes all along. When nothing comes after a few minutes of that, I stretch out on my bed with The Secret Garden, hoping that a few chapters of Mary and Dickon and Colin will help. As I flip through the pages, stopping to read some of my favorite parts, a receipt flutters out of the book and onto the bed. I can’t read the name of the store, but it’s for a flute that cost $4.99. I am quite certain that I have never bought a flute in my life, which means I was probably meant to find this receipt.

  “Okay, Tillie,” I say. “This has gone on long enough. And I call myself a detective.”

  Thinking aloud, I continue: “The robin and the flute are part of the story of The Secret Garden. Dickon plays the flute, and in chapter eight, it’s a robin that shows Mary the way to the secret garden. But first, he … digs up the key!”

  The dirt! I never even thought to dump it out; I’ve been watering it, waiting for something to start growing. I push aside a little at the top of the pot and immediately notice a bright green gummy worm. My fingers wrap around it and gently pull it free of the soil. A piece of thread is tied to the end, so I start pulling. Two feet, three, four, and … YES! The biggest skeleton
key I’ve ever seen plops out, bringing a handful of dirt with it. After I rub it clean and examine it with my trusty magnifying glass, I find the letter V—or is it the Roman numeral for five?—freshly engraved into the flat surface of the key. At the moment, the only place I can recall that might need a key like this one is the gate outside Prunella’s building. Somehow, I doubt that she’s the one sending me gifts, but now that I think about it, she’s not the only person I know in that building. Livvy spends a fair bit of time there, too. And she was in my class in the fifth grade, back when my copy of The Secret Garden disappeared. Could she have something to do with this?

  I pick up the invitation once again, running my finger around the curves of the handmade card. Something about that shape seems vaguely familiar, and suddenly the slide show in my brain is running at full speed as images flash into and out of my mind. A heavy iron gate. Lots of flowers. A boy with a flute. A bird. A girl with a bowl. My imagination, I’m afraid, is getting the best of me. I’ve read The Secret Garden so many times it’s starting to feel real to me. I honestly can’t separate what I’ve imagined from the places and things I’ve actually seen.

  I close my eyes for a second, and when I open them, the invitation in my hand is no longer merely a piece of poster board.

  It’s a map.

  “No. Way.” It can’t be this simple. I run to my computer and immediately search for the official Central Park site. I pull up the map of the park and there it is: the shape of the invitation matches the shape of the Conservatory Garden exactly.

  But as I keep reading, I realize there’s more. Much more.

  I know where I’m going on Saturday. The who and the why? Not so much—yet.

  Hey, I think I’d look good in red tights and that snazzy cape

  Father Julian meets us at Elizabeth’s on Friday afternoon and shares the details of a conversation that’s almost as interesting as the one I overheard between those sleazy Svindahl siblings.

  “Oddly enough,” he says with a coy smile, “the Svindahl Gallery has had a change of heart. Arthur Svindahl’s exact words were, ‘We’ve reconsidered our position on the Pommeroy you brought in, and we’d like to take another look.’ ”