Arts and Thefts

by Allison K. Hymas

  Hack’s head snapped up. “They have those?”

  “We passed one on the way in, just past the park gate.” I waved. “See you later.”

  I escaped out into the sunshine. The aura of anxiety in the tent was suffocating. Had it been that bad last year, when Case wasn’t in the competition? I mean, I understood that people were nervous about their art being judged; the contest officials hadn’t let the judges see the art until today, so no one knew how they’d react. But why worry when there was nothing more you could do?

  Outside, I could breathe freely. I wandered through the sculpture “garden,” an empty area at the center of the park where the sculptor contestants’ pieces stood on pedestals. They were made of everything from paper to clay, wax to metal. I didn’t understand the point of most of them and some looked hastily made, but a few were exquisite (love that word). I peered at a wax statue of a woman that was hollow on the back side. On the inside, the artist had carved many tiny pictures of people, animals, cities, and landscapes. The name card read, “A World Within by Sandra Lynn, 8th grade.” I liked it, so I circled that piece on the map for Case.

  From there I moved to the paintings. While the sculptures had their own little garden in the center of the park, the photographs and paintings hung on temporary walls, bulletin board–like things that folded like accordions, along the paths of the park. Each wall was assigned a letter.

  Maybe the paintings were just more accessible to me, or maybe I’d picked up more about painting because Case was, first and foremost, a painter, but I had an easier time spotting the really good paintings. On Wall E, I found a painting of a girl dressed as a superhero that was so realistic I thought I’d strayed into the photographs. I made a note on the map. But another on Wall A looked like someone had microwaved a cat (not a fluffy one) and painted the results, so I put an X over that one. Another looked like something I’d find hanging outside a kindergarten room, but much more intricate. I didn’t know how to respond to that one, so I put a question mark on the map next to it.

  I found Case’s work on Wall C: a black-and-white painting of a moonlit beach that ran more impressionist than realist (what? Sometimes I actually listen to Case when he talks), which meant I had to stand back from it to get the full effect. The only color was in the places where light would shine. The moon, the light on the waves, and the fire were all painted in a spectrum of vibrant colors. He’d titled it Visible Light. I admired it for a while, and moved on down the paved path.

  As I was looking at a well-crafted but somewhat strange painting of an army of demon zombie hamsters on Wall B, I heard loud footsteps approaching me from behind. My neck prickled. I knew those footsteps.

  I whirled around to find Becca Mills, in a pink blouse and a skirt with blue flowers on it, coming at me like a runaway train. Her grin was the smile a mouse sees right before the cobra strikes.

  THE TRICK TO DEALING WITH warpath Becca Mills is to never let her smell fear. Despite my shock, I just rolled my eyes and plastered myself to the temporary wall, between the hamster painting and vivid picture of a sunrise. Or sunset. Whatever.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Becca hissed, her face close to mine.

  “Assuming the position,” I said. “You know, so you don’t have to slam me against the wall. Between you and me, I don’t think these things are structurally sound. Shall we test it?” I leaned back, making the wall wobble.

  Becca’s eyes bugged and she reached out to stabilize the wall. Before she touched it, the rocking stopped. I laughed, and she recoiled like I had thrown boiling water at her face.

  Scowling, Becca said, “I mean, what are you doing here? Aren’t thieves supposed to lay low after the job is done?”

  “Ah.” Leave it to her to forget even after I’d explained it a hundred times. I raised a finger. “Maybe they are. But I am not a thief. I’m a—”

  “Retrieval specialist, I know. I could call a duck a grizzly bear, but that doesn’t mean I’ll play dead when it goes quacking by.”

  “You should. It would be fun to watch.” I nodded, like we’d just made a plan, and fixed my eyes on hers. I kept mine soft, like chocolate warmed by a toasted marshmallow.

  Her own gray ones blazed like dry beach sand in August. “You know what else would be fun to watch? You, handing over six brushes and two bottles of tempera paint.”

  Cocking my head, I said, “Wait, I’m confused. Are you robbing me? Am I still the thief?”

  “Absolutely.” Becca placed her arm against my neck, not choking me but barring me from moving away from the wall. “Don’t play dumb. I know you and Casey came up with some plan after he ran to your house, but this is just sad. Time to come clean about the burglary. Heather Caballero? Wouldn’t have been hard, with all those people. Just walk in, walk out . . . So, what are they going to be used for? Is Casey working on something behind the scenes?”

  Not good. Time to tell her the truth and send her packing. “No, and neither am I. Sure, I know about the theft. After you grilled him, Case told me that Heather’s art supplies were stolen. That’s what friends do. But that’s all I know. Why didn’t Heather call me if she had something stolen from her? I thought she appreciated my work.”

  Becca rolled her eyes. “Of course you’ve worked for her in the past. If you must know, a friend told her that I was the right person to call to solve this crime.”

  “And that friend would be?”

  “Look, Wilderson, you’re not the only show in town. A lot of people prefer getting help from an honest professional, instead of someone who steals art supplies to help his crooked friend.”

  “Case has more paintbrushes than a pizza place has pepperoni. Why would he steal art supplies?”

  “The pool party must have made things convenient. You could slip in and out with the stolen brushes and paints, and no one would see you.”

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Casey attended Heather’s party. The same Casey that has an entry in this very art contest. Sounds like means and motive to me.”

  I laughed. “That’s where you’re wrong. Case was invited, but he didn’t attend. He was with me Saturday. Hack got a new game, and Case and I were trying to figure out the cheat codes so there would be at least some competition when we played him on Sunday. No one was at any party.”

  Becca smiled. “Liar.”

  “Not this time. I think you need to check your facts before you make wild accusations. You know me. Am I lying about this?”

  Becca’s eyes were like a laser scan, reading me up and down and turning my guilt levels into decodable numbers. That girl knows lies better than anyone; she can usually see through mine even if she can’t find hard evidence.

  Finally her gaze dropped. “You didn’t steal from Heather.” I shook my head and she sighed. She really wanted it to be me. “I guess I’ll have to double-check my sources,” she said.

  “You can check our alibis with our moms, if you want. Also, you haven’t thought through this theory of yours. How would stealing Heather’s art supplies help Case? He, and the rest of the contestants, turned in their art weeks ago. Why take supplies now?”

  Becca glared at me. “I’ve thought it through, Wilderson. First off, the brushes were high-quality. The prizes at the competition are the best of the best. Polished wood handles, natural bristles—Heather says they were expensive and any artist would want them.”

  “Then why only take a few different brushes and not the whole set? If the thief envied Heather’s prize brushes, they’d take all of them, not just some.”

  “Yes, Wilderson, I thought of that too,” Becca said with mock patience. “It made sense to me when your friend told me the brushes can make any kind of stroke. You see, the art may be in, but the judges haven’t seen it yet, and final judging isn’t until four this afternoon. The art is just hanging out where everyone can access it. That opens a nice window for sabotage, using stolen brushes that can make any kind of mark, don’t you think?” />
  “Okay, listen, I know you think I’m a creep, but I would never in a million years stoop to something as low as sabotage—” I stopped as the word caught in my mouth. “Wait. You think the brushes and paints were stolen to be used for sabotage?” Case was in the contest. Sabotage . . .

  My heart raced on behalf of my high-strung friend. Becca was a good PI. If she thought someone had stolen those brushes and paints to damage the best pieces of art before the judges could see them, then Case might be in trouble. For all his worry, he was a good artist. He might even be a favorite.

  A group of high school kids walked past, and one guy gave us an odd look. Becca and I both glanced at her arm, still pressed against my neck. She dropped it and stepped back.

  Freed, I made a show of straightening up. I ran my hand through my hair, making it stick up. It probably looked cool; I’d keep it.

  “Seriously, sabotage?” I asked.

  Becca rolled her eyes. “You’re not the thief this time. My thoughts on my case are none of your business. By the way, your hair looks like a dead hedgehog.” She walked away without another word. It felt weird, not being the one she was chasing.

  So I patted my hair flat and followed Becca. She turned left and so did I, keeping a reasonable tailing distance between us. If she wouldn’t work with me, I’d have to catch the thief myself. Her leads could be a start.

  When we’d reached the sculpture garden, Becca stopped and turned around. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you following me?”

  “Do you think sabotage is a real possibility? Tell me the truth, and I swear, I’ll leave you alone.”

  Becca rolled her eyes again. “It’s a possibility I can’t rule out. The art show is the only reason someone would steal Heather’s paints and just a few brushes, but it’s too late to use them to make something to submit. So, another motive would be to tamper with the art that’s here. Still only one possibility of many, but serious enough that I wanted to be here to stop it.”

  I nodded. Becca was a good detective, and she had a point. Sabotage was serious, and I couldn’t let it slide. But what was I going to do about it? I was a retrieval specialist, not a detective. My skills lay in finding stolen objects and returning them, not putting clues together to catch a criminal. For that, I needed a detective. I needed Becca.

  I stuck my thumbs in my pockets, letting my hands hang free. “I want in.”

  “Oh no. Not again.” She turned and sped into a crowd.

  So I hurried after her, dodging passersby as she tried to lose me. It wasn’t hard to keep up; I just had to follow the aura of ice-cold fury wafting through the summer day. Didn’t hurt that I was also a sprinter on the school’s track team. “Hear me out,” I said, running beside her. “You’re after a stolen set of brushes and paints, right? And you want to get them back? It’s a retrieval job. That’s what I do. You know I’m good at it.”

  She aimed a shove at me, which I dodged. “You said you’d leave me alone if I answered your question. Go find your friends and stay out of my way.”

  I thought about doing just that; Case and Hack were probably wondering where I was, and I had sworn to both of them that the next time I worked a job, they’d know every detail. Getting into this one meant that not only could I not tell them that Becca and I were teaming up again, but I couldn’t tell them I was working a job, period. Not easy to do, especially when I’d promised to support Case today.

  But that word haunted me like yesterday’s bean burrito. Sabotage. No one deserved that, especially not Case. Speeding up, I passed Becca and turned on my heel, literally getting in her way. I spread my arms out, blocking her as thoroughly as I could. “I’m not taking no for an answer on this one, not when you think the thief may use those brushes for sabotage.”

  “What does it matter to you? You’re innocent. This time.”

  “Case is entered in the competition. His painting is hanging on one of these walls.”

  Her eyes widened slightly and she bit her lip. “You think the saboteur could attack him.”

  I nodded. “I’m here for my friend. If you let me, I could help you. You know I could.”

  She hunched her shoulders and glared at me. “I hate you.”

  “I know.” I waited with bated breath. (Another expression I don’t understand. It’s not spelled like bait, so that’s not related.)

  Becca opened her mouth, and for a moment I thought she’d say yes, that I could help her, but then she shook her head. “Nope. Not this. Not again.”

  Oh, come on! “Why not? We got our man last time.”

  “Remember what happened after, though?”

  “Uh, you hated me again?”

  “Yeah. That.”

  I shrugged. I still wasn’t sure what the big deal was. I’d deleted some pictures on her camera because they incriminated Case, and suddenly it was like I was the thief who stole the master key and perpetrated the worst crime wave Scottsville Middle had seen during my sixth-grade year.

  “That was then. This is now. And you need my help. There are too many people here, too many suspects.”

  Becca scoffed but then looked around the park, those laser eyes trying to read the guilt of the people walking around. Her shoulders tightened. Too many people to interrogate, no clear place to start.

  What if I offered a gimme? “I could take you where I’d start first, if this were my job.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No. Show only.” I had to get on this job somehow.

  Becca glared at me. I knew what she saw: a thief, a common criminal. But I hoped she understood me enough to know that I would do whatever it took to keep Case safe.

  “This is my world,” I reminded her. “I know thieves. I know what they do, how they act, and where they’d go first.”

  “Takes one to know one.” She sighed. “Fine. But that doesn’t mean we’re working together on this.”

  Whatever floats your boat. Didn’t matter what she called it—in was in. “Sounds great. Follow me.”

  I LED BECCA THROUGH THE park, grinning like I was in a toothpaste commercial. I’d won. I mean, I had put myself in a position where, once again, my every move would be scrutinized by the wickedly observant Becca Mills, not to mention my best friend might be in danger of sabotage, but I’d won. I’d gotten Becca to do something she didn’t want to do. Now I could take her to the tent and show her all those lovely high-strung suspects and . . . oh.

  I couldn’t take her to the tent. Case and Hack were in the tent, and Case was already upset. If I came in with Becca Mills—without her dragging me against my will— forget upset. Forget angry. They’d be rabid-dog, exploding-Vesuvius, school-janitor-after-a-food-fight furious. Worse than Case’s outburst on Thursday. Especially after I promised to tell them everything about every job from now on.

  “What?” Becca was scowling at me. I realized I’d stopped walking.

  I couldn’t go in that tent with her. As soon as I showed my face, Case and Hack would see me. With her. I’d never be able to explain to them why, when I heard of potential danger, I went to her and not them. I could hardly explain it to myself. Why did I join up with the girl who wanted me locked in in-school suspension until I graduated high school, the girl who harassed my friends, instead of the guys who always had my back?

  “Well?” Becca said, her frown deepening.

  Come on, Wilderson, think fast. There had to be somewhere else I could take her. I pulled out the map of the park, hoping the map’s bird’s-eye view would give me an idea.

  Bird’s-eye view. That was it! “This way,” I said, grabbing Becca’s hand and pulling her toward the art museum.

  She yanked it out of my grasp. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

  The touch had done the trick. Becca was so annoyed at my sticky fingers touching her long arm of the law that she focused on that and not on my hesitation. She followed me toward the museum without asking questions.

  Which was all for the best, anyway. Going to the tent, like I planned, wo
uld make my friends mad. My second step, going and, uh, taking a tour of those suspects’ personal belongings, wasn’t likely to thrill my new partner. She already didn’t trust me any farther than she could throw me. (Though, to be fair, she could probably throw me farther than most people could, despite her short height. Being on the Scottsville Middle field team for shot put has to count for something.)

  But I digress. The point is, if Plan A was a bust, have a Plan B. That’s the secret to good retrieving.

  As I led the way, Becca eyed all the sheds, pavilions, and Dumpsters we passed. She thinks I’m taking her to where I believe the thief hid the stolen goods, I thought. But I was no amateur. This early in the job, with such a small, easily hidden payload, I had no idea where the thief was keeping the art supplies. On most jobs, I know who did it and where they stashed it; my clients tell me. It’s the retrieval they pay me for. I don’t solve mysteries, like a certain tiny, scary snitch I could name.

  “This way,” I said, beckoning the tiny, scary snitch over to the museum.

  Becca stopped and looked up at the white marble building. “You’re kidding. You think the thief stashed the stuff in here?”

  “Here?” I asked as we climbed the stairs to the front doors. “Among the Van Goghs and Picassos? This is a museum for paintings, not painting supplies. Well, except for the gift shop. But I think a store may be a little insecure, don’t you?” When we reached the doors, I opened one and held it for her. Mom raised a gentleman, after all. Without looking at me, Becca opened the other one and let herself inside. So I shrugged and followed her in.

  “Although,” I said as we walked into the atrium, “hiding something in the Lost and Found here isn’t that bad an idea.”

  Becca raised an eyebrow at me. “Not like you’ve ever done that.”

  “Of course not. That would be underhanded.” I grinned at her. She responded by scrunching up her face at me. I could feel her desire to punch me in the face like . . . well, a punch in the face. Then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded for me to keep showing her the way.