Arts and Thefts

by Allison K. Hymas

  But this meant Case was possibly the next to fall.

  “Who else could know this?” I asked. “We have to assume the saboteur has access to these e-mails too.”

  “Not necessarily,” Case said. He had managed to clean his glove and was straightening it. “Everyone knows who the front-runners are. I mean, Justin was a bit of a surprise, but everyone thought Diana would be walking home with the prize. Before this happened, of course.”

  “What about Henry and Sandra?”

  “Sandra is a shoe-in. Henry, though, I wasn’t sure about.”

  “How could the saboteurs be sure, then?”

  “Maybe they hacked the system,” Case said. “Or maybe they know one of the judges.”

  “Who are the judges?”

  “Let’s see. There’s our school’s art teacher, Ms. Grant, and a couple art teachers from other schools in the area,” Case said. “And one museum docent. Remember Larissa?”

  Her again? “What about her?”

  “The docent judge is her mom.”

  Oh, that was interesting. Larissa and Quinn’s mother was a judge. Talk about conflict of interest, but I guess they wouldn’t put her on the judging committee if it were a problem to have a daughter in the competition. Either way, it wouldn’t take much for Quinn to get the list of favorites out of her own mother, by careful questioning or by a more Hack-esque method.

  Also, as the vice president of the Art Club, maybe Quinn had other methods of getting that information. Maybe she knew Ms. Grant’s e-mail password. It’s not like teachers were good at hiding them.

  And then there was Lee. Ethan’s dad was a judge; if Lee bullied Ethan enough, he might get access to the list of the judges’ favorites. I smiled. It would feel fantastic to bring that creep down.

  The judges hadn’t seen Diana’s painting before the sabotage. I’d be willing to bet they hadn’t seen Justin’s, either. Something didn’t add up. The sabotage would have been meaningless if they hadn’t seen the art yet. That meant . . .

  “When did the judges start their rounds?” I asked.

  “About ten thirty,” Case said. “They talked to us, told us what the prize for Best Overall was this year, and left.”

  “Where did they go?”

  My friends glanced at each other. “To judge the art, I guess.”

  “So, neither of you knows where each judge goes first? No buzz online, no texts or e-mails from the judges?”

  Hack shook his head, and Case said, “Why would the judges talk about it? They already know where they’re supposed to go. It’s for the best. If the contestants knew, they might hang around when the judges were looking at their work.”

  If the contestants knew, they might know when to attack a painting before the judges get a chance to see it.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  Hack ducked. “Is Becca around?”

  Case waved. “Go. We’ll call you with any new developments.”

  I ran off, my thoughts swirling. The saboteurs knew the judges’ schedules. They knew where they’d be, when they’d be there. They had knowledge they shouldn’t have.

  The saboteurs have inside knowledge.

  I HAD TO FIND BECCA and tell her what I knew. She wouldn’t like that I hadn’t gotten the paint sample yet. But she needed to know who might be attacked next, and she really needed to know that the saboteurs had inside knowledge.

  My first thought was to call her, but even though we’d worked together before, I’d only ever called her on her family’s home phone, and for so long the idea of having Becca’s personal number was like begging my parents to hang out with me at school: totally unimaginable. I had to physically look for her. But where would she be?

  First I stopped by the tent. Becca might be there, interviewing contestants or looking for contest officials.

  But I found nothing but lunch. Well, it made no sense to work on an empty stomach. As I got a turkey sandwich and a bag of chips, I asked a parent volunteer, “Hey, I’m looking for a friend of mine named Lee Moffat. Light hair, bow tie, gray vest. Have you seen him?”

  The dad leaned back and gazed up as I waited to hear if Quinn’s alibi for Lee was true.

  “You know what,” he said, “I do remember him. He came through for lunch not long ago, but he’s gone now.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll find him. When was he here, though?”

  “He came in about half an hour ago. I remember because he tried to take two sandwiches. Said one of them was for his friend. I said no. Then he sat over there”—the man pointed to a table—“and ate his lunch. He probably left about ten or fifteen minutes ago.”

  My heart sank. Quinn’s word was true; Lee was here when the sabotage happened. He might have been out near Diana’s painting during her sabotage, but Diana hadn’t seen him there, and for sure he wouldn’t have been around for Justin’s. It had happened during that window of time the man said Lee had been at this tent. Not at one location nor at the other. That meant he couldn’t have been either one of our saboteurs.

  I had so wanted it to be Lee.

  “Thanks,” I said to the dad. I ate my sandwich and chips so fast the dad looked like he was mentally prepping to give me the Heimlich maneuver.

  After that, I speed-walked through the maze of walls, searching for Becca. Once I found her, I’d stow the disguise somewhere nearby. I halted near the place at Wall B where Becca had found me earlier that day, back when she still thought I’d been the thief who’d stolen

  Heather’s painting supplies. I could still remember the fear and annoyance I’d felt when I’d seen her coming toward me, her eyes blazing with the desire to put me in a headlock and read me my rights.

  Or throw me to the wall, right between the painting of the hamster army—wait.

  The painting of the evil hamsters was gone. Well, not gone, as in nothing but a blank spot left on the wall. I mean gone, as in the painting now showed a flame-colored monster with fiery eyes. But earlier it had been a bunch of mangy rat-things, I was sure of it.

  I thought back, remembering the unsettling feeling the painting had given me. Yep. Hamsters, not a monster. And the hamster painting had been better. Maybe not the best painting in the contest (Diana’s was amazing, and I was loyal to Case), but solid. This one wasn’t bad, but it lacked a certain finesse, a level of skill and technique. Okay, maybe I do listen when Case talks about art. Though I couldn’t name the father of Cubism either.

  Why switch the paintings? Who would have done it? Had yet another painting been sabotaged and carried off, and had the park officials hung another one in its place?

  No. With Diana and Justin, the guards had taken the ruined paintings and left a blank space behind, like a memorial to the fallen. Every artist had a designated space. It wouldn’t make sense to just slot someone else in.

  But why would anyone switch the painting for one that was worse? To sabotage their chances? That was the only motive that made any sense, but we already had a saboteur running around, and this didn’t fit the pattern. It was too well planned, too complicated. The saboteur would have to plan this out in advance, prepare the alternate painting. Why do that for this one painting but slather red all over the others?

  The tag beside the painting read, “Terror by Quinn Eccles.” Oh, this just got better and better.

  More questions to answer. Why would Quinn switch out her own painting, if she was the saboteur? That would only make sense if—

  If she and her partner had a falling-out. If Quinn, worried that her partner (whoever it was—Becca and I would have to figure that out) would sabotage her in his drive to win Best Overall, prepared a dummy painting to take the heat if he chose to attack her. With the inside knowledge from her mother about when the judges would be near her painting, she could easily switch it back for the judging after the threat was gone.

  Suddenly it all made sense! No wonder she wasn’t scared of losing or of the saboteur! Quinn had it all planned out.

  I had to tell Becca.
Now, if only I could find her.

  “Back off !” My head spun to the sound, and the rest of me followed. Down the next path, I found quite a scene.

  Becca’s arms were folded, her feet spread in a firm stance. Across from her, leaning forward with gloved hands clenched, was Case. Hack hung back a few paces.

  Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

  I slid behind a stationary family and watched the scene. What else could I do? Getting involved would only make things worse.

  Becca was grinning. Of course she was. Angry and forceful was exactly the state in which she liked to live, work, and attend Fourth of July parades.

  I scanned the crowd, and my skin prickled. Not far from Becca and Case were the Sisters Eccles, Quinn and Larissa. They were watching Becca, and they looked kind of freaked out. Larissa was so pale that the blue raspberry syrup from her snow cone looked black on her lips, and Quinn, I was pleased to see, kept fidgeting with her bag.

  Yeah, you should be worried. I’ve got your number. “I bet you’d want me to back off,” Becca said to Case as Quinn and Larissa and me and, now, a whole bunch of other kids watched. “Leave you to commit your ugly sabotage.”

  Gasps and murmuring at Becca’s accusation.

  “You think I’m the saboteur? Not very bright for a detective, are you?”

  Becca reddened. “It’s not my fault if it all adds up. You’re a competitor, you’re panicking—”

  “So is everyone.”

  “Wouldn’t it be great if you didn’t have to worry anymore? If you knew you would win?”

  Case scowled. “Winning is no good if you don’t have any competition.”

  Becca rolled her eyes. “Don’t try to act all noble. I talked to judges and contest officials, and guess what I found out?”

  Case’s nerve flickered. “What?” Despite his anger, he was still afraid of Becca. I could see Hack’s eyes widen and he shook his head.

  “These sabotages are moving you up the leader board. Pretty far up, from what I understand. Only paintings have been attacked, and now you’re a favorite. That sounds like motive to me.”

  Case was shaking at the news that he was a favorite. He glanced back at Hack with a pleading look, but Hack had already put his face in his hand. That was all the answer Case needed. “That’s a coincidence,” he said to Becca, but his voice had lost its strength.

  It didn’t look good; it looked like Case was cracking. I had to get in there and help, but what could I do that wouldn’t aggravate the situation? I couldn’t step out there, or both Becca and Case would turn on me, then back on each other with renewed venom.

  It wasn’t fair of Becca to do this. She had less evidence that Case was the saboteur than I did that Quinn was. She had accused Case because she hated me, and that was coloring her perceptions. And to do it publically like this . . . it was ugly.

  “A coincidence?” Becca said. “Really? You still believe in those. I thought you and your crook friends believed in taking matters into your own hands. It wouldn’t be hard for you, right? Your computer guy finds out who the front-runners are, and then you get busy. Everyone knows how . . . creative you can be with a brush, Casey.”

  “Hey!” Hack rushed forward, but Case pushed him back.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong. We’re finished here.” Case turned to leave.

  “Oh, nothing wrong? So, what you’re saying is that if I looked in your locker, I wouldn’t find paints that look just like Heather’s stolen tempera paints?”

  Case stiffened and turned back around. “Those aren’t Heather’s. They’re a friend’s.”

  “That sounds believable.”

  “How do you know what’s in my locker?”

  Becca ignored the question. “Can anyone account for your actions at Heather’s party?”

  Hack looked at Case. “You went to Heather’s party?”

  “I made an appearance. I was coming back from lunch, and I saw people there, so I went in and said hi. Five minutes, tops.” Case glared at Becca. “Ask Heather.”

  “Sure. You were there for a few minutes, but that’s all it takes, right? I can see how it happened. You took Heather’s paints and brushes so you could commit sabotage without getting caught. But when you got here, you realized you didn’t have enough paint to adequately destroy all the great art you found here, so you stowed the stolen temperas and found yourself another kind of paint to use. Where did you get it?”

  But then Case stepped toward Becca. “Listen, you self-righteous, stuck-up, little snot—”

  Becca raised her hands. “Back off.”

  “Why don’t you make me?” Case got closer and Becca backed away. It looked like Case was the one menacing Becca.

  “You don’t ever insinuate that my friends or I would do something as cruel and horrible as sabotage someone else’s art,” Case said. “Never again. Do you hear me? Or we’re going to have problems.”

  “I think we already have problems. I know what you do. I know what Wilderson does. You can’t get away with it forever.”

  “With what? We didn’t do anything.”

  “Oh? So where were you when Diana’s painting was sabotaged?”

  “With my parents. You can ask them. We heard the screams and ran over. And, before you get any ideas, I was talking to Diana when Justin’s art was attacked. You can ask her, too. You see? I have an alibi.”

  Becca frowned. “You’re up to something and I will find out what.”

  “Is it painful, having that much suspicion running through you all the time? No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

  Her lips tightened. “My friends don’t lie to me.”

  Whoa. This wasn’t going to end well. I started to move forward, ready to break up the fight and deal with the fallout later.

  But before I could, a contest official stepped between them. “That’s enough,” he said.

  Case and Becca glared at each other. I could almost see flames flying between them.

  “This isn’t over,” Becca said.

  “Yeah, it is. Just as soon as you check my alibi. Then you’ll feel stupid, won’t you?”

  “I said, that’s enough,” the official said. A second man led Case and Hack away, and the first took Becca aside.

  I was still breathing hard. Oh man. That wasn’t good. There was a reason I never wanted Case and Becca to get too close. I knew that would happen. Accusations on one side and anger on the other. Good thing the grown-up had stepped in to stop it.

  But why had he taken Case and Hack away?

  Quietly I followed my friends to a calm area of the park and hid behind a tree. Now was not the time to get involved, not when the contest official was with them. As I watched, the man talked quietly with Case, who still looked mad.

  “. . . You understand, with everything that was said, we need to check,” the man was saying. “I need you to give me your parents’ phone number so we can ask them where you were when the sabotage happened.”

  Case fumed. “I didn’t sabotage anyone. Becca just has it out for me.”

  “I believe you, but sabotage is serious. It will be better for you if we can clear this up now.”

  Hack nudged Case, and Case, still steaming, gave the man his mom’s number. The man called Mrs. Kingston, had a short conversation with her, and then smiled at Case. “Your mom says you were with her when you heard the scream. You both were.”

  “Darn right we were,” Case muttered as I leaned against the tree, relieved.

  “Go cool down,” the man said. “I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re not the saboteur.”

  And I’ll go make sure Becca knows. I turned and crept back to the scene of the ruckus.

  As I was walking, a voice called out, “Hey! Gibson, right?”

  Oh, right. That was my name. I stopped and saw Aaron kneeling on the ground with a paintbrush in his left hand and a sandwich in his right. He was wearing a bright orange vest over his shirt. A box full to the brim with paints, brushes, and markers of all kinds was
next to him, and a half-completed poster with the word “SNOW” painted in green lay in front.

  I smiled. “Hey.”

  “Good thing you’re wearing the same shoes. It took me a moment to recognize you without the poncho.”

  Gotta love an artist’s eye. I’d have to be more careful with creating disguises in the future. “Yeah, I had to ditch it. It was getting hot. But,” I said, remembering my character, “that doesn’t mean I’m giving up! I won’t rest until I get the same rights as every artist here.”

  Aaron grinned. “Good. Someone needs to stick up for the little man.”

  I looked at the poster and the vest. “You’re a contest volunteer?”

  Aaron shrugged. “I like art. Thought I’d participate this year in a different way.”

  “Huh.” Aaron was a volunteer, not a contestant. That explained how he was able to get Becca and me into the tent.

  That’s when Lee and Ethan came around the path. Lee must have also decided extra layers weren’t comfortable; he’d ditched his vest.

  Lee saw Aaron and his face lit up. “Hey, Aaron,” he said. “Good to see you using a brush.”

  Aaron sighed, still painting. “Go away, Lee. I’m working here.”

  Interesting how Lee and Aaron seemed to know each other.

  “I can see that,” Lee said. “I’m so happy that even after everything that happened, they still let you use the extent of your talents.” He nodded at me. “Nice to see you hanging out with your artistic equals.”

  Aaron clenched the brush tightly and looked up, scowling at Lee. Lee just laughed. “Come on, it’s not like you’re a real artist.” He looked at me. “This is what I mean by an artist who can’t cut it. This kid here? He’s a finger painter. Like a kindergartner.”