The Artful Goddaughter

by Melodie Campbell

“Don’t!” I said to Nico. “Don’t even go there.”

  “How about we sing a song?” Nico said in a rush. “What would you all like to sing?”

  “How about ‘Barnacle Bill the Sailor’?” said Mrs. Bari.

  “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer,” started Nico frantically.

  The chorus took over after that.

  With relief, I finally pulled into the lane at the side of the art gallery.

  “So we’re all clear on the plan, everyone?”

  Nico preened. “Yup. Gina will park the van. I’ll lead the troops around and manufacture a good distraction. Jimmy can do his thing. We meet back here in twenty minutes. Piece of cake.”

  “Do we get cake?” Wally said.

  We got them out of the van. One by one, with walkers and canes, they shuffled into the glass atrium of the art gallery.

  As I watched them go, I felt strange. I wasn’t used to waiting on the sidelines. But Nico figured I should stay out of sight. This was because of another incident that involved the police and the art gallery earlier this year. My second cousin Tony (meaning my distant cousin, not one of the other Tonys) had been shot by some guys from New York. Unfortunately, I had also been on the spot.

  So Nico was supervising the actual heist, and I was driving the getaway car. At least, that’s what we told Jimmy and the old dears. Best that they think this was a real job. It would bring back the good ol’ days. Might as well give everyone a thrill since they were missing their speed-dating night.

  When all bodies were clear, I steered the van into a disabled-parking spot in the parkade. Then I picked up my tablet and spent a little time reading.

  Next thing I knew, Nico texted my cell phone. “All done. We’re here.”

  I paid for parking and drove out to meet them in the lane.

  We loaded the stealth seven on board. Walkers got folded and canes put to rest. I pulled away from the curb.

  “How did it go?” I asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” said Nico. He plopped down on the seat opposite me and groaned. “Really, you don’t want to know.”

  “But I’m gonna tell her anyway,” said Mrs. Bari. She was bouncing up and down on her seat.

  “Put your seat belt on,” I commanded. “Nico, can you get them all to sit down and buckle up?”

  “My seat belt won’t fit over my big—”

  “Enough of that, Wally!” Nico sounded harsh—especially for Nico.

  “Wow, Nico. What gives?” He was never short like this.

  “Wally flashed them.” Mrs. Bari giggled.

  Nico groaned again. “That wasn’t the sort of distraction I was planning on.”

  “Flashed who?”

  “One elderly docent and the entire grade-eight art class from St. Bonaventure.”

  Oops.

  “Everyone screamed,” another old dear added excitedly. “Some even laughed.”

  “I did,” said Mrs. Bari.

  “They aren’t even going to press charges,” said Jimmy.

  “I had to promise that Uncle Vince would make a big donation to the school sports program,” said Nico. His tone was only slightly hysterical.

  “But it worked,” I said philosophically. “All’s well that ends well.” Honestly, I was relieved. The art gallery had the real painting. I had the forgery. Nobody had died. Nobody was even in jail. That made the operation a success, in my books.

  I was a happy camper. I wouldn’t be humiliated in front of the family after all. I turned left out of the parking lot.

  Nico opened the sack to look at the painting.

  Gasp. Cough. Mutter.

  “What is it? Spit it out, Nico.” Jeesh. I didn’t need all these dramatics.

  “Uh, Gina? We have a problem.”

  “What?” I was already speeding down King.

  “Um…really, I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  “Tell me.”

  Nico sighed. “It’s the wrong painting.”

  “WHAT?” I veered to the curb and slammed on the brakes. “Show me.”

  I slammed the transmission into Park.

  Nico held up the painting.

  “CRAP!” I screeched. “Crappity crap.”

  It was a really nice painting. She was quite beautiful, in fact. Rather Rubenesque, but in a good way. I could see why a man like Jimmy might like this painting.

  But it wasn’t the right one.

  “Jimmy, I am speechless. Honestly, I don’t know what to say.” Nico’s voice was starting to squeak.

  “Whaddaya mean?” Jimmy said. “You tole me to steal dat.” He pointed a bony finger at the lady’s…unmentionables.

  I held my breath for five seconds. Then I tried not to yell.

  “Jimmy, what did I tell you to steal?” Nico said.

  “The lady wit the big boobies.”

  I pounded my hand on the steering wheel. “No, Jimmy! The lady with the three boobies.”

  Silence.

  “Oh fiddle, Gina. I think we had a communication failure.” Nico shook his head.

  “Jimmy, are you wearing your hearing aid?” I asked.

  “Lost it,” he mumbled. “Fell in the can.”

  Nico was moaning like he was in serious pain.

  “Don’t know what you’re all upset about,” Jimmy said. “I like this painting way better. Who needs three boobies? That’s just weird.”

  Nico started to hyperventilate. “Oh my God, Gina. Do you suppose the art gallery will notice?”

  “That their ‘lady with the big boobies’ is missing?” Of course they will. Could this get any worse?

  “I mean, that they have TWO ladies with three boobies. Two of the same painting by Kugel. Don’t forget what Jimmy was supposed to do.”

  CRAP. It got worse. “Jimmy, did you replace this painting with the one I gave you?”

  He shuffled his feet, then nodded.

  The fake Kugel was still hanging in the art gallery. And now the original Kugel was hanging in the same gallery, somewhere else. Plus, I had an original, priceless Old Masters painting on my hands. Recently stolen.

  The gods hated me.

  “Oh bloody hell. What are we going to DO?”

  Nico pointed out that we couldn’t do much of anything because the art gallery was now closed. “We can’t do anything tonight, Gina. Chances are, no one will notice right away.”

  I tried to take deep breaths.

  “And besides,” said Nico, “we have to get all these seniors home. Most of them are already asleep.”

  I started the van to take the old dears home. But my mind was on other things.

  How many days would it be before the cops showed up? I had to act fast.

  TEN

  I was alone in the store the next morning.

  It was Sunday, so we didn’t open until noon. This gave me time to think.

  And think I did. Plans rolled around in my head like a series of movie trailers. I considered some. Dismissed others immediately. It took a few hours to get the right one. Finally, the script was coming together. Individual players fell into roles. The whole moving picture became clear.

  We would have to get this done fast, before the funeral the next day. And before the art gallery discovered the switch.

  It was time to call in the troops.

  Nico was my first call.

  “I have a cunning plan,” I said.

  He listened without saying a word.

  “Inspired,” he said when I was done. “Really first-rate, Gina. Like an old-time movie.”

  “You’ll pick up Jimmy?”

  “Count on it.”

  “Don’t forget the bird,” I reminded him.

  We hung up.

  Next, I called Lainy.

  “I need your help,” I said. Then I explained.

  “You got it, sugar,” she said. “See you there at three.”

  Bingo! I had Lainy. The plan was a go.

  Then I called Pete. This was
trickier.

  “I need your help,” I said cautiously. Then I told him what I needed him to do.

  “Are you going to explain why?” he asked.

  “Em…probably you don’t want to know.”

  Silence.

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with counterfeiting, right?”

  “Nope. Not a thing,” I said with relief. Forgery isn’t the same as counterfeiting, right?

  “No funny money from China?”

  “China doesn’t even come into it. I’m simply doing a favor for Great-Uncle Seb.”

  Pause.

  “Seb is dead,” said Pete. “Why’s he asking for favors? Not to mention, how?”

  This was getting squirrely. “Look, I’m sort of in a hurry. Can I tell you all about it after? Not over this phone. I’m not on a burner, see?”

  Pete got it. And he agreed to do the deed. What a good man. I really did love this guy.

  Next, I called Jimmy.

  “Did Nico talk to you?” I said.

  “Yeah. This time, we’ll get it right. I got an accomplice casing the joint to find out the exact location of the target.”

  “Call me back with that info,” I said. “Here’s the plan.”

  He listened intently. Then he chortled and hung up.

  Next, I called Tiff.

  “Here’s what I need you to do,” I said.

  Then I told her.

  “Cool,” she said. “Mission Impossible. I’ll get Stoner to help.”

  I could hear her texting as I hung up.

  ELEVEN

  It was nearly three when I arrived at the art gallery. A camera crew was just unpacking. While they gathered their equipment, I looked around for my accomplices in the atrium. It was tricky because the place was crowded.

  Nico, check. Tiff, check. Jimmy caught my eye and winked. I could see Pete through the second-floor glass bannister, standing with his big arms crossed.

  Toker the standard poodle was sitting patiently outside the gallery entrance. Good thing it wasn’t a cold day for the poor beastie. That meant Stoner was already inside. Check and check.

  My heart started to pound. This could work, I told myself. It had freaking well better work, or I was out a small fortune. And, possibly, my freedom.

  I dashed up the stairs to the great hall. The circus had already started.

  Lainy was decked out in her western best. Red blouse straining at the buttons, suede skirt, cowboy boots and a million-dollar smile.

  The art-gallery manager was standing beside all six feet of her. He looked like he had won the lottery.

  Time to get this show rolling. I cried, “Oh. My. God. It’s Lainy McSwain!”

  Right on cue, Tiff and a dozen of her friends rushed up, squealing and giggling. They joined the crowd of at least twenty already around Lainy. She was happily signing autographs.

  A good-looking young reporter managed to part the crowd to get through. A cameraman followed him, filming all the while.

  The reporter stuck a mic in front of her. Lainy gave him a big smile.

  “Thank y’all so much for this unexpected welcome!” She just beamed at the gallery manager. “How did you know I was gonna be here? You sure are one smart fella. Handsome too. Ain’t he handsome, gals?”

  A cheer went up from the crowd.

  “What brings you to Hamilton, Miss McSwain?”

  Lainy turned to the camera. “I’m in town to help my gal-pal Gina hunt down a wedding dress. She already bagged the man. Now she’s gotta git the duds. Ain’t that a happy story?”

  Laughter trilled through the crowd.

  “Also, I’m here to get some inspiration for a new album I’m puttin’ together. I like to come home every once in a while, Kyle. Grounds me.”

  I saw Nico sneak up behind me. He was carrying a large sack. Stoner was right behind him. He was also carrying a bag. Jimmy trailed them both, pushing a walker. It had a large sack balancing on the basket, and something else.

  The first two shuffled up behind me. Jimmy carried right on through to the art gallery.

  Usually, you are not supposed to carry big bags of things into the art gallery. They don’t like it, for some reason.

  But this didn’t seem to matter right now, as all eyes were glued on Lainy across the room. The young security guard was transfixed, watching her every move. The ticket lady had come out of her kiosk.

  The good-looking reporter said something funny. Lainy gave the gallery manager a big lipstick smack on the cheek.

  Cell-phone cameras flashed. Lots of people giggled.

  Pete snuck up beside me. He gestured to the cameraman and the reporter. “I called in a few favors at the paper. Pleased?”

  I smiled. “Delirious.”

  I had my distraction. Now, just let the other stuff go according to plan…

  People emptied out of the gallery rooms into the foyer, following the noise. At least, it was partly the noise. I had a backup plan going on, of course. And a backup to the backup plan sitting outside, if needed. Hopefully, Jimmy would keep everything straight at his end.

  “Hey, Gina.”

  What the hell? My head swerved at the voice.

  “Joey! What are you doing here?” Jeesh, that’s just what I needed.

  “Tiff called La Paloma. Said you needed people to show. I happened to be there, so Vera sent me.”

  I looked around. No Carmine or Bertoni that I could see.

  “Where are the others?” I said.

  Joey shrugged. “AWOL.”

  “Everyone says you’re a shoo-in for a Country Music Award this year,” said Kyle, the reporter.

  “Why, aren’t you sweet!” said Lainy. Her hips swung in time with her hair.

  “What’s your favorite song?” one girl called from the audience.

  Lainy grabbed the hand mic. With a big smile, she addressed the girl.

  “I’m partial to ‘You Done Me Wrong, So I Done You In.” But others seem to like my new one, ‘You’re Roadkill on My Highway of Life.’” She turned to Kyle. “What do you think, darlin’? Should I sing a few bars for these good people?”

  “Sing ‘Roadkill’!” yelled Joey. He started to clap and whoop.

  The crowd went wild. Even the gallery manager clapped his hands. No kidding. Paintings by dead people never got this kind of press.

  Lainy’s big country voice swelled through the hall, clear and gorgeous.

  “You ran me aroun’

  So I’m runnin’ ya down

  You’re roadkill

  Stinkin’ roadkill

  On my highway of life…”

  Someone whooped. The crowd went wild with clapping.

  And that’s when Stoner let the cat out of the bag.

  TWELVE

  No, really. He let a cat out of a bag.

  At about the same time, Nico opened his sack.

  SCREECH!

  “What the hell was THAT?” Pete yelled beside me.

  For one second, the room was eerily silent.

  Then something flapped. It flapped again, big-time.

  SQUAWK!

  “Is that a pigeon?” said one of the girls.

  “That was no pigeon,” muttered Pete.

  “It’s a pterodactyl!” cried another girl.

  “Don’t be silly, Ang,” said another. “This is an art gallery, not a zoo.”

  The black cat went to full alert. His back arched and his fur stood on end. Then he pounced.

  “Fuck!” screamed Joey, who ducked just in time.

  Pauly shot up to the ceiling. But there was nowhere for him to land, so he just hovered there, screeching and screeching.

  “Who’s a horny bird! Who’s a horny bird! Squawk!”

  “That bird just talked!” said the reporter. He was really excited. “Get the bird on tape, Randy!”

  “Did that parrot just say what I think it did?” Pete asked.

  It was the perfect distraction. More people raced from the back rooms to see what the commotion wa
s about. But my plan had a slight fault. I had failed to anticipate something.

  “Back in a sec. Keep the cat away from that bird!” I pleaded to Pete. It wasn’t my intention for Pauly to become cat food.

  Pete whipped his gaze to me. “Was this part of your plan?”

  I put a finger to my lips, signaling ssshhhhh. Then I sashayed back to the shadows.

  The cat hissed. It began stalking the outer circle of the floor like a small feral leopard. Then it leaped.

  Tiff screamed. That set the tone for the rest of the girls, who joined in.

  “Hoser, hoser, hoser! SQUAWK!” screeched Pauly, in response.

  Now the bird was going mental. This was not a good thing. Little known fact (at least, I didn’t know it): parrots, when frightened, poop a lot.

  “CRAP,” yelled the gallery manager, unable to avoid a direct hit.

  “Crap! Crap! SQUAWK!”

  Everyone scrambled. More girls screamed as Pauly flapped madly just above their heads. Iridescent green feathers floated to the ground.

  I looked at my watch. Countdown now.

  In ten seconds, I was through the double doors. Another twenty, and I was in the west gallery.

  It kind of…didn’t smell good in there. Evidence of the backup plan.

  Jimmy had just taken the real Kugel off the wall. The one he had put there by mistake the last time we tried this.

  “Hand me the one in the sack,” he said.

  I pulled the genuine “three boobies” painting out of the bag and passed it to him.

  He got busy hanging it. “Now take that one down to Mad Magda.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Mrs. Bari,” explained Jimmy. “She’s my accomplice.”

  I gasped. “Mrs. Bari is Mad Magda? Our Mrs. Bari?”

  “Get goin’, toots. She’s waiting.”

  I picked up the other painting and ran.

  No one was in the hallway. As I passed through it, I could hear yelling and screaming and, okay, cackling coming from the great hall.

  Two turns and I was in the room where the twentieth-century paintings were displayed. Mad Magda—Mrs. Bari to me—had the other painting down when I got there.

  “Hand me that,” she said gruffly. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an elderly woman move so fast.

  Mad Magda. Who’da thunk it? I used to hear tales of her pulling heists when I was a kid. Mad Magda was a legend in The Hammer. Watching her work, I could see why.