Arts and Thefts

by Allison K. Hymas

  I couldn’t keep leading Becca forever. I’d have to get back to Case soon, or he’d suspect something was amiss. But first I had to get Becca chasing a lead long enough so I could go back to the tent, check in with my friends, and do a little snooping of my own.

  “So, master thief,” Becca said, “you think the art supplies are hidden in the Lost and Found?”

  “Not today. With the contest, the place is going to be full of people looking for their lost hat or glasses or baby bottle or whatever. The supplies would get noticed. But if you’d like to go in there and check—”

  “Maybe later. So where, then?”

  I led Becca past the Lost and Found, past the room with the museum’s rentable lockers (otherwise known as “a good place to practice safecracking, since most of them are empty”), and to the museum’s sweeping central staircase.

  Then I realized I should have sold the Lost and Found more. I could have left Becca neck-deep in people’s lost items while I hurried to the Contestants’ Tent, talked to Case and Hack, and drew up a suspect list. Then I could have returned, apologized for leaving Becca in a fruitless job, and introduced her to the suspects without having to go near the tent. But now I had to take Becca to my bird’s-eye view. I hate it when a good idea comes too late.

  “Up there,” I said, pointing at the stairs. “Overlook on the fourth floor.”

  “This museum has an overlook? Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Lead on.” She climbed the first staircase and tilted her head. “How do you know about the overlook? I never took you for an art guy. Unless . . . unless you’re planning something big.” She glared at me as we continued our climb.

  “By ‘big,’ you mean ‘thief-y.’ ” I laughed and shook my head. “Even if I was a thief, this would be above my pay grade. They have security devices on the art, you know.”

  “Then how do you know about the overlook?”

  “Case.” Becca raised an eyebrow at me, and I explained.

  “When you’re friends with an art nerd like Case, you learn things you never wanted to know. Like, how the park outside the museum is actually also a work of art. It was designed by Edgar T. Fitzsimmons, the man they named the park after, in the 1930s, and his family donated the plans and the money to make it happen after his death. And, as Case made sure I knew, you can see the whole thing from a special observation deck.” I grinned at Becca. “The whole park, easily visible.”

  We reached the fourth floor and I pointed down a hall at a pair of French doors leading to a balcony. Becca looked, then smirked at me. “If this was your case, the first thing you’d do is go see an art exhibit? Classy of you.”

  “It is an art show, after all.” Smooth as always. I wished I had a tie I could straighten. I settled for opening a door for Becca. Once again, she ignored me and opened the other. “That’s getting old, by the way,” I said.

  “Stop acting like a gentleman. I know what you are.” Becca walked to the balcony railing and leaned on it, peering out over the park. I joined her, careful not to stand where I could be seen from the ground. This bird’s-eye view thing had a catch: if Case and Hack saw me up here with Becca, I’d be dead. Dead, buried, with little white maggots crawling up my nose to eat my brain.

  Becca sighed, this time with pleasure, and I smiled. Mr. Fitzsimmons’s park was beautiful from above. Even the trees contributed to the design. It looked better when the temporary walls for the art exhibits were down, like it was the first time Case forced me up here. But the walls couldn’t hide how the paths curved in gentle arcs away from a center piazza, where the art show’s sculpture garden was. Paintings and photographs followed each path, each arm, all of which ended in a circle around a flower bed of a different color.

  “Kind of looks like an octopus juggling, right?” I said. “Anyway, from here you can see the whole park. And everyone in it.”

  “Including the thief.” Becca smiled. “Or anything out of the ordinary.”

  “You can watch for patterns. Most people are wandering from artwork to artwork—”

  “But the thief would be different,” Becca interrupted. “They’d be part of the flow, but they’d make mistakes. Act nervous. Stop too often. Glance around too much.” Becca looked at me. “You’d really come here first?”

  I shrugged, acting smooth. “Can’t do a job without intel. And few thieves are smooth after their job. They act guilty because they are.”

  “You don’t act guilty.”

  “That’s because I’m not a thief, and I’m the best at what I do.” Before you go critiquing my humility, I’m not bragging. It’s a statement of fact. I’m not a thief, and I am the best at what I do. The fact that I am the only retrieval specialist in Scottsville is irrelevant.

  “Thief.”

  “Retrieval specialist.”

  Becca groaned and turned her attention back to the park below. I pulled out the crumpled map of the park and handed it to her. “Here. The paintings are along these paths,” I said, pointing them out. “If your thief took painting supplies, this is where he’d be.”

  “Or she.”

  “Or she. It may take a few minutes, but I guarantee the guilty party will make their move.” I started to pull away, but Becca, without looking at me, hooked my arm and yanked me back. Getting away to go talk to Case and Hack wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d hoped.

  She looked over the map and then at the park. “What are these circles and Xs on the map for?” she asked. “Are these pieces you’re planning to hit, or lift, or whatever?”

  “You make retrieving sound like a day at the gym,” I said. “It’s something for Case. Ignore the marks.”

  Becca pointed at the paper. “These? Or those marks down below?”

  I snatched the map back. “If you’re going to mock retrieval jargon, at least use it correctly.”

  “People who you’re intending to con or steal from? That’s not the definition?”

  “It is, but I’m not planning anything, so no one is a mark.” Frustrated, I waved at the park. “Just keep looking for the odd one out. I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Bathroom. Keep looking. The thief will appear.”

  She sighed. “Sounds so easy. Why do I get the feeling it won’t be?”

  “Because it never is, especially when you’re involved.”

  Becca pointed. “Is that person acting guilty to you?”

  I glanced over the railing just enough to see, then stepped back before anyone could spot me. Then I noticed Becca had been watching me the whole time.

  She gave me her snake smile. “So, that’s why you have to go to the ‘bathroom.’ Because I’m the complication in your work. Can’t be seen with me, huh? Don’t want it to get out that Wilderson’s working with the fuzz?”

  “The fuzzy what? And do you want it to get out that Jeremy Wilderson and Becca Mills are an item?”

  She reddened. “Just remember Mark and who came to who for help with a job gone bad.”

  “Whom.”

  “What?”

  “Who came to whom.”

  “No one cares but you and your Language Arts–teacher mom. Just stay close from now on.”

  I sighed, trying to work out how to get away before Becca noticed the—

  “What’s that?”

  And that was the part where my brilliant plan to keep Becca away from Case and Hack blew up in my face. Becca was pointing at the Contestants’ Tent.

  “Nothing important. Just some tent.”

  “Really.” She held out her hand. “Give me the map.”

  “That’s not necessary. Let’s keep looking. We’ll see something suspicious if we keep looking.” I had to get out of there!

  “I see something suspicious now,” Becca said, narrowing her eyes at me. “Give me the map, or I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice.”

  “With what authority? School’s out; you’re not a peer mentor anymore.”

  Bec
ca jabbed a finger at my face. “You wanted an invite to this party, Wilderson. You fought to help me in this case. I wanted nothing to do with you. Still don’t. So, if you aren’t going to help me, get out of my way.”

  So that was the ultimatum. Next time, I’d like a job where I actually enjoy myself.

  Glaring at Becca, I tossed her the wadded-up map. “It’s the Contestants’ Tent,” I said. “Where the artists hang out when they’re not out admiring or ragging on one another’s art.”

  Becca gaped at me. “Why, why, why did we not go there first? All those suspects, witnesses . . . Why are we up here when we could be down there? Why would you come to a balcony when you could be there, finding your thief?”

  “What does it matter? You have your lead.” I felt kind of annoyed. Partially because I’d had to give up important, difficult information to Becca without hearing so much as a “please” and “thank you,” but also because I had possibly cost us valuable time in catching the thief by leading Becca here when we could have gotten some real intel at the tent. As much as I wanted to keep our collaboration a secret, if Case got sabotaged because of this detour, I’d wish I strutted into the tent, Becca on my arm, and let the chips fall wherever.

  (Okay, so Becca wouldn’t take my arm unless she was twisting it behind my head, but you get the picture.)

  Becca grabbed my arm and torqued it, hauling me away from the balcony’s railing in the most painful way possible (see what I mean?). “Come on, then. We’ve wasted enough time on your fool’s errand. Or is that what you wanted?” she asked, squinting at me.

  “And we’re back to ‘suspicious of Wilderson.’ ” I groaned. “I’m not involved.”

  “Really? Those marks on your map would be a convenient way to keep track of what you’d like to sabotage later.”

  “That’s insulting. I would never sabotage anything.”

  “But maybe your friend Casey would. You did say the marks on the map were for him.”

  “Case isn’t a saboteur or a thief.”

  “He could have hired someone to steal Heather’s stuff and tricked you into marking the good art for him.”

  “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Are you sure he tells you everything? Like you tell him everything?”

  She had me there. I fumed a little and shrugged hard, pulling my arm out of her grip. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t tell him everything. He probably doesn’t tell me everything. But I know Case, and he’d freak out if you hinted he’d sabotage anyone. Case is an honest artist.”

  “If he’s so honest, he should have no problem explaining himself to me.”

  Oh, sure. That would go well. Becca storms in, and then Case instantly goes on the defensive. Doesn’t matter that he’s innocent. It wouldn’t look good.

  “Why don’t you stay up here?” I said. “Look at the patterns and find clues. I can use my connections to identify suspects at the tent.”

  Becca snorted. “Like I’d let you out of my sight.”

  I raised my arms. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to. How about this? You search for clues around the paintings, and I talk up the artists in the tent. It won’t seem strange that I’m there because I’m listed under ‘friends and family.’ ”

  “I thought you wanted to be on this case.”

  “Stop playing that card. I want to help, but I can’t be seen with you.” How could I work with Becca but keep my friends from finding out? Splitting up was the only option.

  “You’re good at spotting clues other people don’t see, and you know what they prove,” I continued. “Do that and let me work my own angle.”

  “No, you don’t.” Becca grabbed my arm, right behind the elbow, like a real cop. “I don’t trust your angles. Next thing I know, you could have stolen half the art in this museum.”

  “Despite their security systems, and with no planning? I’m flattered. What else? Do you have a picture of me under your pillow?”

  “Sure do. I drew thick black bars over your face. It helps me sleep at night.” Becca tightened her grip on my arm and pulled me forward. “Come on. You’re just going to have to get used to the idea of having no friends.”

  “I thought that was your shtick.”

  At that, Becca dug her fingers into my arm, making me gasp. “Okay,” I said, trying to pull her nails out of my skin. “That was out of line. But I need to be the one in the tent, and I can’t be seen with you. I become less valuable to you if people know we’re working together. Some people are more willing to talk to someone . . . on the outside.”

  “On the underground, you mean.”

  I sighed. “Like it or not, I hear different things than you do because of who I am. That’s why you let me help, right?”

  That should sell it.

  Becca pursed her lips and let go of my arm. “So you can’t be seen with me and I won’t let you out of my sight. We may as well call the job now, tell Heather she’s not getting her stuff back. As for the contest, forget it. Sabotage galore.”

  “Not acceptable. I know.” I paced the balcony, massaging the little red crescents Becca’s nails had left in my flesh. What could I do? I couldn’t be seen with Becca. Wait: I couldn’t be seen with Becca. But if I was someone else . . .

  “I have an idea,” I said. “It’s a little radical, but it should work. We’ll be able to pass in and out of the Contestants’ Tent with no one, not even my friends, the wiser.”

  Becca nodded. “Lay it on me.”

  “I’ll tell you on the way,” I said.

  We went back to the balcony doors. I held one open for Becca because it annoyed her so much. She ignored it, but after she was inside the museum, she spun around and closed the door on me. She laughed through the glass and hurried away, leaving me to catch up.

  “I HATE YOUR PLAN,” BECCA grumbled. “A lot.”

  “Trust me. No one will look twice at us,” I said.

  “Oh yes, they will.”

  Becca and I had ransacked the museum’s Lost and Found and located a couple of disguises. She’d leaned toward dark jackets and hats, but I’d talked her into something more . . . colorful.

  Becca was wearing a bright blue muumuu and orange hat, along with some mismatched shoes we’d found to change her gait. I had buttons in my shoe for the same reason (it was her idea; I had no clue she knew that trick).

  “Okay, maybe they will.” I was wearing a gray trilby hat (a brimmed hat smaller than a fedora; thank my dad’s old movies for teaching me that) and a huge red, black, and green poncho that, judging by the crusty bits near the neck, someone had blown their nose on. “But that’s the point. They’ll notice the costume and not our faces. It’s like my Boy Scout uniform. Have you ever noticed that people in uniform don’t get seen? The uniform is seen and processed but not the face. People in uniform blend in to the background.”

  I’d tried to explain this to her in the Lost and Found, and I’d thought I’d succeeded. Dressing in a uniform gives you an identity based on that uniform. If I’m wearing my Boy Scout gear, people see a Boy Scout, not me. Weird costumes meant people would see and remember weird costumes, not our faces. I can be pretty brilliant sometimes.

  “That makes sense when there are other Boy Scouts in the world, but no one dresses like this, Wilderson,” she said.

  “We’re at an art show. If anyone does, they’d do it here. Come on, at least pretend you chose these clothes when you got up this morning.” Raising my chin and strutting, actually strutting, I took off the hat and spun it on my finger.

  “The hat doesn’t work if you’re not wearing it,” Becca muttered.

  “Doesn’t matter when I have this poncho,” I said.

  The poncho also hid the way my middle was somewhat bulgier than it should have been. I had to ditch Becca so I could get back to my friends somehow, and like I said, always have a Plan B in your pocket. In my case, literally.

  We arrived at the Contestants’ Tent. Game time. I put the hat back on and pulled
it low over my face. There was a parent outside the tent, checking names like before, but I breathed easier when I saw that the shift had changed. This parent, someone else’s mother, didn’t know me.

  “We’ll do bad cop/good cop,” I said to Becca. “I’m bad cop.”

  “Wait. I don’t know what you mean—”

  I ignored Becca—she’d figure it out—and stepped up to the parent, who was sitting in a foldable metal chair outside the tent. She glanced up from her phone and visibly flinched when she saw my getup. I suppressed a smile: her eyes kept being drawn back to the clothes any time they reached for my face.

  “Names?” she said.

  “Gibson Malarkey,” I said. “And that’s my partner in crime, Valkyrie Rainn O’Connor.” I smiled back at Becca and tried not to laugh when I saw how red her face had turned under that orange hat. She looked like a three-flavor snow cone.

  The mother checked the list and, of course, didn’t find the names. “You’re not on the list,” she said. “Either of you.” Her eyes narrowed but with exhaustion, not suspicion. “Kids, you can’t get inside unless you’re contestants or on the friends and family lists.”

  “But we are contestants!” I groaned and rolled my eyes. “I should have known this would happen. Everywhere we go, blocked.”

  Becca nudged me and I gently pushed her back. “Look,” I said. “I’m not on the list.” I jabbed my finger at the still-glowering Becca. “She’s not on the list. We’re not on the list. Anywhere. Neither of us is in any program, and why? Because we joined late. I sent my application in on time! It’s not my fault if my vision is beyond their scope. For crying out loud, I did as much work as any paint jockey at this show.”

  Yes, I sounded like a jerk. That’s the point. People don’t think straight when you fluster them. Once you put them on the defensive, they’re more likely to give you what you want, as long as what you want isn’t ludicrous. (Except for Becca. Push her and she pushes back.)

  “Oh.” The mother glanced over the list again. “So you two are artists?”

  “Yes,” I said, sounding totally exasperated. “But we’re also the art, and no one understands that! We are the sculptures.”