Stealing Magic

by Marianne Malone

“Yes. We haven’t had a chance to put it back yet.” In fact, the last time Ruthie and Jack had visited the museum, they hadn’t brought it because without Christina’s key they weren’t even sure they’d be able to shrink. “I think this box will be useful now,” Ruthie answered.

  “Try it next to those two statues,” Jack suggested.

  “Exactly what I was thinking.” Ruthie set the three objects on a small table next to the sofa. She arranged them a few times, and stood back to look at their appearance until she was satisfied with the placement.

  In the meantime Jack had pulled a bunch of electronics equipment out of his backpack and was busy sorting through it all. “Let’s see,” he said, walking to a bookcase just across from the sofa. “This will be a good spot.” From the pile of gear he picked up the small camera that had been set up over the doorway of his bedroom. He placed it with precision and removed every enticing object nearby, leaving it surrounded by paperback novels. “Let’s put all your art on that side of the room.”

  Dr. Bell and Ruthie followed his directions while he returned to his backpack, took out his laptop and let it boot up. They finished their task and then looked on with him. He tapped a few keys on the keyboard, and a view of the room appeared on the screen.

  “Voilà!” he said.

  “Very impressive,” Dr. Bell said.

  “Let me make a few adjustments.” Jack got up to change the tilt of the camera and typed a few more commands to affect the width of the angle so that the camera’s view would incorporate as much of the room as possible. “There. That should do it!”

  “But what about the computer?” Dr. Bell asked.

  “Where’s the nearest closet?” he asked.

  “There’s the closet in my office, right through there.” Dr. Bell pointed to a room off the living room.

  “That should be good.” Jack carried his laptop through the doorway, disappearing into her office closet and closing the door. In less than a minute he called out, “It works! I’ve got a strong signal. Wave or something. Walk around.”

  Ruthie and Dr. Bell moved about the living room, posing for the camera from different corners. Jack reappeared. “It’s all good. I can pretty much get the entire room.”

  “What time did she say she’d be here?”

  “Around ten,” Dr. Bell answered.

  “Okay. We’ll get here by nine.” Ruthie wondered how her frayed nerves would make it till then.

  That night Ruthie lay in bed attempting to focus on positive things and trying to picture everything going right tomorrow. She thought about tomorrow night’s gala and what she would wear. Then she rehearsed what she and Jack could say to Louisa when they had the chance. Ruthie didn’t allow herself to think it wouldn’t happen. It had to happen!

  She put on the French tapes and luxuriated in being alone in Mrs. McVittie’s guest room as she repeated the words aloud: enchanté (enchanted), s’il vous plaît (please), la maison (the house), le chien (the dog), une pomme (an apple). She drifted off to sleep.

  Ruthie slept fitfully, dreaming that she was tiny, her five-inch self stumbling over something she couldn’t quite make out. Huge but indistinct shapes loomed around her. The atmosphere was foggy and out of focus. The ground beneath her was lumpy and soft, but not a nice kind of soft. She came to an edge and jumped, hoping to land on a stable surface. But just as her feet hit firmer ground the thing she had been traversing suddenly came alive and opened up as if to swallow her, like the mouth of a big black whale. And then the dark cavity came into focus; she could see it was a huge leather handbag opening menacingly in front of her. She wanted to run, but her legs felt as if they were filled with lead and wouldn’t lift an inch. All at once, she heard a rumble and saw an avalanche of giant apples tumbling out of the sack, about to bury her where she stood. She raised her hands to her face in a futile attempt at self-defense.

  But then, as the first apple was nearly on top of her, it shrank—they all shrank! Pounds and pounds of apples spilled out at her feet until she was standing in the middle of the pile. She picked one up, but it disappeared into thin air. She tried another, and it too vanished. These apples were not for eating, she surmised.

  Ruthie wasn’t sure what to do next, but the question was answered for her by a bell-like sound. It was quite faint at first but then grew loud enough for her to realize it was coming from the depths of the enormous bag. With her legs now able to move, she took a step into its blackness, the magical sound making her brave. The sound led her to Christina’s key, which lay deep inside, emitting its silver-gold beacon of light. Ruthie picked it up and walked backward until she was out again. And then the gaping bag closed itself, deflating right in front of her until it was nothing but a harmless carryall.

  The foggy haze that surrounded her began to clear. She still couldn’t recognize much, but finally something appeared in front of her and she reached out to touch it. It was a bed—her own bed, actually, soft and comforting. It smelled of freshly washed linen. She climbed onto it and went to sleep, this time peacefully, the key safely in her hand.

  Ruthie and Jack rode the bus to Dr. Bell’s house in the morning, nervously checking the time because the traffic was unusually bad. They arrived at her house a little after nine, enough time to get set up. By nine forty-five they were crouched in the closet of Dr. Bell’s home office, waiting to hear the doorbell ring. Ruthie could feel the cold moistness of her palms even though the closet felt airless and warm. Her muscles tightened in odd places, like her throat and her temples. She was sure her thumping heart could be heard throughout the house. And why is it, she thought, that when the last thing you should do is sneeze or cough, that’s exactly what you feel like doing?

  “I bet you she’ll be here at ten on the dot,” Ruthie predicted. She was right. The moment the clock on the computer displayed ten o’clock, the doorbell rang.

  They heard Dr. Bell’s footsteps across the floor, and then her voice saying, “Ms. Pommeroy! Thank you so much for coming.”

  “Please, call me Dora.” Dora’s buoyant voice sounded through the closet door. “I’m so pleased you asked me. It’s not every day that the daughter of Edmund Bell calls for advice.”

  “Come this way, to the living room. I think this is where I need help the most,” Dr. Bell began.

  The light from Jack’s computer screen glowed in their faces as they watched the two women entering the camera shot. They talked mostly about the furniture in the room, the artwork, the color of the walls. Dora wanted to look at every Edmund Bell photograph and Dr. Bell seemed to enjoy telling her about them. Ruthie couldn’t get over how relaxed and poised Dr. Bell appeared—Dora would never suspect that she was setting a trap!

  To describe different color schemes, Dora pulled from her tote bag swatches of fabrics and samples of tile and wood. She held them up to the light and compared them to pieces of furniture in the room. Then she pulled a green apple from the bag! Dr. Bell didn’t flinch, but Ruthie did. They heard her say something about the color of accent pillows on the sofa. But then the apple went back into her bag. Had they been terribly wrong about Dora? Of course an interior decorator might use apples simply for their color—that was a logical explanation. Ruthie had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  After ten minutes, Jack nodded to Ruthie, who lifted her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed. Seconds later, Dr. Bell’s office phone rang.

  “Forgive me,” Dr. Bell said to Dora, “I’m on call this weekend; I’ll have to take this.” She walked into her office to take the call. Dr. Bell talked into her phone, asking questions about fever and swelling.

  Ruthie and Jack listened and silently watched the computer screen. Dora walked around the room, picking up objects, taking notes, and snapping digital pictures. A couple of times she held something in her hands for an extra-long moment, and Ruthie was sure she would put the item in her bag. But she didn’t. Then she walked to the other side of the room, coming closer to the camera—really close—reading book t
itles. Ruthie squelched a gasp and instead whispered into the phone for Dr. Bell to hang up now and go back into the room. Just as she seemed to be about to look directly into the camera, Dr. Bell ended her pretend conversation and reentered the living room. Dora turned to face her, just in time.

  “I’m sorry for the interruption,” Dr. Bell said.

  “No problem. I see we have similar taste in books.”

  “She didn’t take anything!” Ruthie whispered.

  “I know. And I’m worried she saw the camera.”

  The two women talked for a while about some of their favorite books, Dr. Bell having no idea whether or not Dora had pocketed anything. Dora glided around the room as she spoke, moving objects here and there, showing Dr. Bell different possible combinations.

  “I’m going to call again,” Ruthie whispered as she pushed the redial button. Dr. Bell’s office phone rang.

  “Excuse me once more,” Dr. Bell apologized, and went into her office to take the call.

  Ruthie whispered into her phone, “She didn’t take anything yet. Stay on the phone longer.”

  “Yes, of course,” Dr. Bell replied, playing along.

  “I’ll let you know when to hang up,” Ruthie said softly.

  They listened to Dr. Bell faking a consultation and watched Dora roaming the room again. Her expression looked just as it had when she’d stolen the key from Jack’s room: supremely confident. She came to the table next to the sofa, where Ruthie had placed the three objects she thought most likely to tempt her.

  Dora picked up the little bronze geometric sculpture, inspected it, and made some notes on her pad. She then picked up the African statue, looked at it with her head tilted slightly, and put it down. Last, she picked up the silver box. She held it in her palm, lifting it to eye level. Then she turned it over, carefully examining the markings.

  Ruthie held her breath as Dora walked calmly to her leather bag, slipped the box in, and pulled out a green apple. She put the apple on the table. It looked just like it belonged there. Then she took out a measuring tape and began measuring the room.

  Stunned but relieved, Ruthie whispered into the phone, “Okay, Dr. Bell.” Dr. Bell pretended to wrap up the conversation and then rejoined Dora in the living room. “I hope it won’t be like this all day!” she said. “So what do you think? Can I count on you to work your magic?”

  “That’s why people call me,” Dora said.

  As soon as they heard the front door close behind Dora, they spilled out of the closet. Dr. Bell hurried into her office.

  “We got her!” Jack whooped, waving the disk that had recorded everything. “I’m just going to burn a couple of copies now.”

  “What did she steal?” Dr. Bell asked.

  “The silver box,” Ruthie said. “Just what I had a hunch she’d take.”

  “Do you think she knew it was from the rooms?” Dr. Bell wanted to know.

  “I don’t think so,” Ruthie answered. “It’s been missing from the rooms for such a long time that I don’t think it’s in the catalogue photos. But she looked at the markings, so she knows it’s really old.”

  Ruthie and Dr. Bell walked into the living room. “And look,” Ruthie added, pointing to the table where the box had been. “A green apple.”

  “Better not touch it,” Dr. Bell suggested. “The police might want to dust it for fingerprints.”

  “Why do you think she does this—leaves green apples?” Ruthie asked.

  “In the psychology classes I took in med school, I learned that some criminals are so proud of their cleverness that they want to own the crime. The apple is sort of like her signature, but without giving herself away.”

  “I’m amazed no one noticed the apples in place of the missing objects,” Ruthie said.

  “I see how that could happen,” Dr. Bell began. “She comes into your home and starts to pick things up and rearrange them, like a con artist’s shell game. It confuses you a bit; nothing is in the same place as when she started. And she counts on the fact that most people aren’t actually very observant. Then she shows you the apple as part of her color samples, and you assume she has left it inadvertently. But leaving it gives her some perverse satisfaction. Sometimes thieves even have a secret desire to get caught, because deep down they feel guilty.”

  “But why apples?” Ruthie said.

  “That, I can’t answer.”

  Jack, who could hear them from the office, came back into the living room. “The police won’t care about her motives when we show them the disk.”

  “Do you want me to come with you to the police?” Dr. Bell offered.

  “We can’t do that yet,” Ruthie said. “We have to get the key back first.”

  “And all the stuff she stole from the rooms,” Jack added.

  “How will you do that?” she asked.

  “We’re still working on it,” Jack admitted.

  “But we’ll get it all back, don’t worry,” Ruthie assured her.

  AT THE GALA THAT EVENING, the museum was filled with people in all sorts of outfits: long ball gowns, tuxedos, artists wearing whatever the spirit moved them to wear. Ruthie and Jack, decked out in vintage clothes from Mrs. McVittie’s closet, had different reactions: Ruthie loved the compliments on her retro look, while Jack seemed mostly uncomfortable.

  “Let’s go up there,” Jack said, pointing to the stairway. From the second-floor landing they looked down at the panorama: waiters carrying trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres, gowns in shimmering fabrics, a small jazz band in the corner enlivening the atmosphere. Ruthie was more interested in the spectacle than Jack, but then she remembered why she was wearing clothes from the 1930s: a young girl’s future depended on her action. If Louisa was going to live past that decade, she and Jack had to get busy.

  “So this is what people do at a gala?” Jack asked. “Wander around and talk?”

  “I guess so.”

  They watched from the landing for a few more minutes. They heard snippets of conversation from people walking up and down the stairs. Lots of them were talking about the art thefts, saying how glad they were that the thief had been apprehended. For Ruthie and Jack, knowing the truth and being unable to say anything about it magnified the pressure: the man behind bars was innocent and the real thief was still on the loose!

  Then Ruthie spotted Dora’s unmistakable, nearly colorless blond hair amid the crowd. She was wearing a red dress. “Look—she’s down there!”

  “Let’s go before she sees us,” Jack said.

  “Should we tell your mom we’re going downstairs?” Ruthie wondered.

  “Nah. She said earlier that she’d text me if she can’t find me when she’s ready to leave.” They hurried down the stairs and left the main hall, heading into the old wing of the building. It was fun to be in the museum after hours. Most of the museum was open for the event, with only a few galleries off-limits, but almost everyone stayed in the main hall for the gala.

  Without the sound of people talking in the galleries they passed through, it was somewhat eerie. Ruthie almost expected the paintings and sculptures to come alive and speak to them. Downstairs, Gallery 11 was empty.

  “This is great!” Jack said. “It will make things so much easier.”

  “You ready?” Ruthie asked.

  “Ready.” Jack reached into his pocket and handed the metal square to Ruthie. In seconds they were slipping under the door. Inside, Ruthie dropped the square, they grew back to full size in the corridor and Jack picked up the square—the whole process like the steps of a dance they could do without a thought. The two of them raced down the corridor to E27, the French library that led them to Paris and, with luck, to Louisa. Jack took the climbing ladder from his other pocket and secured it to the ledge. They shrank again for the long climb.

  “I really hope her family is there today,” Ruthie said, stepping off the last rung of the ladder and onto the ledge.

  “We’ll find her this time,” Jack promised.

 
; Without so much as a glance through the viewing window to watch out for people, they entered the beautiful room. And even though they were in a hurry to find Louisa, they couldn’t resist lingering a bit in the room, knowing there was no one who could see them through the glass.

  Jack picked up a red leather book with gold decoration from the circular coffee table and opened it. “Hey, look at this!”

  “What is it?”

  He held it open for her to see: an album filled with black-and-white photos of people in a city that did not look like the Paris of today. The clothing styles were of the period of the room and maybe earlier. It looked like a typical collection of family photos. Then Ruthie came across a photo with a face she recognized.

  “Louisa!”

  They turned the pages and saw more photos of Louisa and her family.

  “I bet this album is what is making this room alive,” Ruthie said. “See what the last pictures are of.” Ruthie remembered Sophie’s journal and the empty pages at the end, pages that had magically been filled in after they had changed the course of Sophie’s life.

  The last photos showed the family in Paris; the final one was of the Meyer family standing in front of 7, rue Le Tasse. Louisa looked no older than the day they had met her. All the pages after that were blank.

  “That’s the last picture … we’ve got to find her!” Ruthie exclaimed.

  Jack placed the album down exactly as he had found it and they headed out to the balcony. Ruthie led the way down the spiral staircase.

  The courtyard garden was unchanged, with the fragrant roses still in full bloom. They lifted the latchkey from the hook on the wall, opened the gate and walked out onto the sidewalks of Paris.

  They wasted no time and went directly to rue Le Tasse, but when they neared the corner Ruthie stopped and pointed to the street sign.

  “Look,” she said. “Rue Benjamin Franklin. Remember how Sophie said they all thought he was so interesting?”

  “So they named a street after him. That’s kinda cool,” Jack said.

  They turned onto rue Le Tasse and walked the short distance to number 7, at the end of the block. Ruthie took a deep breath and pushed the buzzer.