Arts and Thefts

by Allison K. Hymas

  “It’s performance art,” Becca said. Yes! She’d caught on, just like I knew she would. “Since dreamscapes are always changing, we wanted our art to change too. The only way we could do that is if we dressed up and acted as the art.”

  “Exactly!” I said. “Why would we want to make static images of dreams when we could be the dreams? But, as a result of our creative endeavor, those morons who run the contest took their sweet time deciding what to do with us. Are we paintings? No. Photographs? Of course not, though people have been taking a few of us. We ought to charge them for that, actually,” I said over my shoulder at Becca, and she nodded half-heartedly. “They finally placed us in ‘sculpture,’ though that’s wrong,” I said, and sighed. “Business types, trying to narrow the field of art. I’m all about pushing boundaries.”

  “Ah, there’s the element of truth,” Becca muttered, and I elbowed her. Speaking of Becca, it was time for Good Cop to step in again.

  I glanced at her and she nodded. Turning to the flustered mother, she said, “Don’t listen to Gibson. He’s just annoyed because the contest officials wouldn’t issue him a name card, like they have all the other art. It’s a difficult day. I bet the memo got lost on the way to you. They probably only passed on our names by word of mouth.”

  The setup was perfect. Now it was time for the con to work.

  It didn’t. “I’m sorry, kids. I can’t let you in if you’re not on the list,” the mother said. “We’ve had too many people trying to sneak in here today.”

  “Really?” Becca said. “At an art show?” The mother nodded, and Becca nodded too, looking sympathetic by mirroring her actions (another trick I had no idea she knew). “We won’t be any trouble,” she said. “I promise Gibson will calm down once he gets some lemonade in him. These outfits are hot, and we’d like a chance to recover.”

  “I’m sorry. Why don’t you visit the museum? It’s air-conditioned.”

  Becca started to leave, but I grabbed her arm.

  “Come on, Gibson,” she hissed at me. “We aren’t welcome here.”

  “But we need to get inside,” I muttered back. “Remember?”

  Becca frowned and I could feel her tensing, getting ready to level me with some scathing comment that would flay open our disguises, when a voice behind us said, “It’s okay, Ms. Windling, they’re with me.”

  Becca and I turned to see a tall guy about our age. He had brown hair and wore a polo.

  The woman, Ms. Windling, raised an eyebrow at him. “Friends of yours, Aaron?”

  “Personal guests. I’m allowed them.”

  “Well, they’re not on the list.”

  Aaron shrugged. “I didn’t think they’d actually compete like this, so I didn’t request ahead. But it’s okay. I’ll keep an eye on them.”

  Ms. Windling looked at the list and then at Aaron, and she nodded. “Fine. It’s not like it really matters,” she said, and gestured at the tent’s opening. Aaron stepped forward and waved us behind him.

  “Thank you,” Becca said to our new friend once we were inside. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “It’s okay” he said. “It wasn’t cool for her to leave you out in the heat just because your art is a little different than most people’s.” He smiled. “If we don’t help each other, who will?” He waved and left us standing at the mouth of the tent.

  Becca grabbed me by the collar of my poncho. “Valkyrie Rainn O’Connor?” she growled as we looked around the tent. “Partner in crime?”

  “I knew you’d like that bit.” I scanned for Case and Hack and found them at a table, playing table football.

  Case loves football, but he’ll never play because he’s afraid he’d damage his hands, his “delicate instruments” of forgery. Hack must have gotten him into a game to distract him from the contest, because when Case is playing any form of football, he totally zones out. There is nothing but the game.

  Which means there is no traitor friend J working with the detective. I hoped the disguise would be enough to fool Hack.

  Becca punched my shoulder. “Thanks for throwing me into your bad cop/good cop scheme without telling me what you were planning, partner.”

  I smiled. “I knew you’d catch on. Besides, I didn’t think you’d agree to it. It was technically a con.”

  Becca looked stunned, like she couldn’t figure out what part of that to attack first. Finally she said, “Why did you try to con your way into the tent when you could have just used your name? It’s on the list.”

  “Case could get you in, but I couldn’t. Not as a guest myself. And it was fun.”

  “You’re so lucky that kid Aaron was there to let us in.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t tell me you didn’t have a little fun.”

  “Fine, I won’t tell you. And I was just trying to fix what you broke. Like always.” Becca simmered. Then her face softened to thoughtful. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “A couple of things. First, I think Aaron was Aaron Baxter.”

  “Who?”

  “The kid who got laughed out of the contest last year.”

  “So that’s what his name was.” It was nice to see him back at the easel, so to speak. “What was the other thing?”

  “What that woman said. ‘It’s not like it really matters.’ That means nothing is here that needs securing. No personal items. Wherever the stolen items are, they’re not here.”

  “Oh, right.” I should have mentioned that before we put on silly disguises to get inside. “The contestants and their families get free access to the museum lockers today. After we talk to suspects for a little while, let’s go crack those lockers and find the brushes and paints.” If I could get Becca out of here quickly, then Case and Hack would have less of a chance to see through my disguise.

  Becca laughed. “Safecrack? You really think I’d go for that?”

  “Why not? You did just take part in a con.” I smiled at her and she scowled.

  “Against my will. And anyway, that’s more like . . . undercover work. Safecracking is actual thieving. No, let’s focus our attention here. Talk to people.”

  I squirmed with frustration. Case and Hack wouldn’t be distracted or fooled for long. “Why? Isn’t your plan to find the stolen goods and return them?”

  “Through the proper channels and using the right methods. I don’t just go through people’s bags until I find what I’m looking for. That’s a breach of privacy. Of trust.” Becca’s face pressed up into my big sunglasses, her lip curled into a snarl. “I didn’t ask you to help me. You invited yourself. If you don’t like my methods, there’s the door.”

  I raised my hands and backed off. “Okay, calm down. I get it. This is your case. We’ll do things your way.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  “But if you stayed here and talked to people and I went to wherever they’re keeping everyone’s personal belongings—”

  “No. You’re not leaving my sight.”

  I sighed. “You’re inhibiting my basic human rights. I haven’t done anything; I deserve to be free to roam wherever the wind or a chance for free chocolate takes me.”

  But she wasn’t listening. As I moaned, Becca looked over the tent, seeing everything I had seen earlier. The level of tension had increased; before, everyone had been pale, but now the standard complexion was “green.” I listened to the subdued muttering in the tent as parents tried to comfort their children and as the contestants stared blankly into space and twitched occasionally. A small pile of shredded fingernails lay on the table beside me. I brushed it to the ground.

  “I may be wrong,” Becca said, “but I thought the prizes for the contest this year were fairly minimal. A photo shoot for the local paper and art supplies for each division.”

  “Yeah. That’s what Case told me.” A picture and art supplies, and a chance to “do it for the art,” was what Case actually told me. But I didn’t think so many kids were freaking out due to artistic sentiments. And if Becca comm
ented on the tension, then it was worth noticing. Something wasn’t right.

  “Best Overall also gets their art displayed in the museum, but you can see the physical prizes over there,” I added, pointing at a table toward the back of the tent. Cellophane-wrapped packets of prizes for the three judging divisions—brushes for Best Painting, film for Best Photograph, and sculpting tools for Best Sculpture—were laid out for the contestants to fawn over. They were high-quality; they always were. But were they really worth this level of anxiety?

  Becca looked at the meager display and nodded. “Something doesn’t add up, then. No money, and the art supplies and museum display are always part of the prize. You’d think the contestants would be ready for this.”

  “You’d think. What did the thief take from Heather this year?”

  “Some brushes and paints.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Case told me. But I need details if I’m going to interrogate people, and I don’t have them. I wasn’t involved, remember?”

  Becca smirked. “For once.” She reached up a sleeve and pulled out a wad of what looked like a napkin. “The brushes listed here, and two bottles, one each, of red and yellow tempera paint.”

  I looked over the notes written in Case’s handwriting on a napkin from Comet Cream. Six brushes. Fine wood and non-synthetic bristles, probably belonging to the set Heather had won from last year’s contest. Like Case had said, there were six different kinds of brushes stolen, each one with a different purpose. Together, they could do just about anything. Becca’s napkin had drawings of each brush, probably Case’s work. This would be helpful if I came across the brushes, though I wouldn’t if I was limited to searching this tent.

  I looked up to see Becca watching me. “Notice anything interesting?” she asked.

  I handed the notes back to her. “Your average thief wouldn’t have been this careful in selecting the brushes. This was deliberate and planned.”

  “Wow. With observations like that, it’s amazing the thief isn’t already in custody.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What’s amazing is that you haven’t seen why these contestants would be so panicked.”

  “They shouldn’t be panicked at all. A photo and some brushes aren’t worth stealing over.”

  “Good point, but look at the parents.”

  Becca did, watching a mom smile encouragingly at her asparagus-colored son before moving to a dad telling his daughter, “When you win, we’ll go get pizza to celebrate.”

  She nodded. “Helicopter much?”

  “The photo gives exposure, and a win looks good on a college application.” But that seemed too weak an explanation too. Sure, parental pressure might contribute, but I’ve seen parents fuss at school plays or spelling bees, and there wasn’t this level of anxiety. Had it been this bad last year?

  “Parents these days,” Becca said. “We’re in middle school, for crying out loud. But touché. Parental pressure has driven kids to desperation before.” She looked at all the people in the tent. “Anyone could be the culprit. We’re going to have to split up.”

  She waved a finger in my face. “If you leave the tent, I’ll notice. You’re as obvious as the Scooby-Doo van. But we’ll cover more ground apart. Walk around. Talk to people. Find out who would be capable of stealing.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “You’re a criminal. Birds of a feather. So, go flock.” Becca shoved me at a group of guys our age. They looked at me like I was nuts, so I smiled, adjusted my borrowed trilby, and said, “Sorry for tripping. Not used to this poncho yet.”

  When I looked over my shoulder, Becca was gone, out looking for her first suspect to terrorize.

  Perfect. I excused myself from the guys Becca wanted me to interrogate first and eased over to the refreshment table. I ducked under the tablecloth, which hung to the floor on all sides. An ideal place to hide. I stripped off the poncho, hat, and sunglasses, then rolled them into a ball and stuffed them next to the table’s legs. Next I poured the buttons out of my shoe.

  Then I pulled out the plaid button-down and baseball cap I’d borrowed from the museum’s Lost and Found and stowed under my poncho: the shirt around my waist and the cap in my pocket. Disguise Number Two. The Scooby-Doo van was now a rusty Chevy.

  I couldn’t be seen in the company of Becca Mills, but the truth was this: Jeremy Wilderson, retrieval specialist and best friend of Casey Kingston, contest entrant, could find suspects a lot faster than Gibson Malarkey could. Leaving Becca to wander the tent as the lone Technicolor dresser was just a bonus.

  Besides, I had some friends to check in with.

  CASE WAS “KICKING” HIS PAPER football just short of Hack’s fingers, missing a field goal, when I plopped into the chair next to Hack. “So, what did I miss?” I asked. The plaid shirt, buttoned up, covered my blue shirt and was big enough to alter my shape a little. The hat I kept pulled down low over my eyes.

  “Where were you?” Hack asked as he flicked the football back. Case didn’t acknowledge my presence (see what I mean about the football thing? Totally zoned out). “I thought you were going to look at the art and report back. And what are you wearing?”

  “Long story.” I had already come up with an excuse that hid the fact that I was on a job and that Becca and I had, once again, against our better judgment, joined forces. The best part was, I didn’t have to lie.

  I probably could have lied, a little. In the end, the job I was working was for them, and anything I did to stop a saboteur would justify the means, right? But Hack and Case knew when I was lying, and they’d call me out. Besides, they were my friends. I owed them as much truth as I could give.

  “Did you find a job?” Hack asked.

  “Not this time.” Technically, the job found me.

  “Oh.” Hack sounded disappointed. “Just thought you might. I’ve had three people ask me about finding glitches in their new video games so they can beat it.” He looked past me, waved, and nodded. “Make that four. Not like giving up a couple of tips will take me very long, if you have more interesting work to throw my way.” He smiled hopefully at me as Case returned the ball.

  “Keep hoping. And who knows, maybe one of your clients will have a really tricky glitch they want to . . .” I stopped. “Wait. Do they want you to fix the glitches in their games or teach them how to use glitches to win?”

  Hack grinned and flicked the paper football back at Case. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m making you talk before I ever play anything with you again.”

  At that moment, the paper football came flying between Hack’s thumbs. Case pumped his fists. “Yes!” His eyes focused on me. “Oh hey, J. What took you so long?”

  “Nice to see you again too.”

  “What are you wearing? Do you have a—”

  “He doesn’t have a job,” Hack cut in.

  Case groaned and banged his head against the table. “Can’t you go find one?”

  “Can’t you?”

  “A forger at an art show. Yeah, that would look good. Do you want me to self-destruct?” The desperation crept back into his eyes.

  “Okay, okay. No job, sorry.” Weird how my friends seemed so desperate to get out of the cushy tent, with its shade and food and comfortable seats, for a job in the midst of crowds and heat and melting snow cones. “All right, that’s it. What’s going on?”

  Case looked up at me. “What do you mean?” he asked miserably.

  “Well, for starters, why do you want a job so badly?”

  “Maybe for the same reason it took you so long to get back here. Maybe for the same reason you feel the need to hunch down, wearing a shirt and hat that make you look like you’re fixin’ to hunt some possums.”

  “Mountain lions, actually. Is Becca Mills pestering you, too?”

  Two disguises: one to hide from my friends, one to hide from Becca while I talked to my friends. Becca was looking for a guy wearing a stupid, brightly colored poncho. She wasn’t looking for pla
id.

  Sometimes I am that good.

  Case raised himself on one gloved hand. “So that’s why you’re wearing that.”

  “No, I just decided I’d do a little shopping at the museum’s Lost and Found. What do you think happened? Becca found me by the paintings and accused me of stealing Heather’s art supplies, just like you said she would. She’s been harassing me all day.”

  True story. At least I gave as good as I got.

  “Think she won’t see through that?” Hack asked, slapping my baseball hat down over my face. “She’s better than that.”

  “I know!” I fixed the hat. Oh boy, did I know it. “This getup’s just supposed to buy me a little time so I can escape before she gets too close.” I leaned forward. “Just so you know, I might have to disappear throughout the day.”

  “What? Why?” Case looked one step away from ranting. I held up my hands.

  “That gumshoe doesn’t know how to let it go. I’m sorry, man, but she took the map from me.”

  Case snorted. “She probably thought it was your master plan to steal all the art at the show.”

  He had no idea. “Something like that, probably. But it means I have to be distant today. It’s just better if she doesn’t see me again at all.”

  “So what if she does?” Hack tried to look tough. “We’re here. You’re our friend. You’re innocent. We’ll back you up.”

  Case didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. I knew he wanted me there. I knew that my job, as his friend, was to be there for him. I wasn’t doing my job if I kept ducking out to meet with Becca Mills.

  But then, I wasn’t doing my job if I worried him with sabotage threats and let him lose his painting to a criminal’s destructive handiwork.

  “Becca suspects Case as my partner in crime,” I said.

  “She what?” Hack yelled, making people stare. I ducked under the table until the attention faded.

  Sitting up again, I looked at Case, who had kept quiet but was shaking with pent-up anger. “If she catches up with me, she’ll attack you next,” I said, “and you don’t need that kind of publicity today.”