The Mistaken Masterpiece (29 page)

“Nate’s coming to pick up Tillie.”

“And? That’s one.”

“Oh, right. Um … Livvy … is going to stop by,” I mumble without making eye contact with Margaret. “I promised she could meet Nate, you know, especially since she was the one actually taking care of his dog. I’m sure she won’t stay long.”

“Okay. That’s, um, good.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Of course not. Sophie, you’re my best friend. I trust you. I’m even—I don’t know—
proud
of you for working things out with Livvy. I’m not sure I’m ready to take that step, but I promise not to go after her or anything like that. Of course, I can’t speak for Becca and Leigh Ann.”

“Especially Leigh Ann,” I say. “I think she still fantasizes about slugging her. Let’s hope Livvy doesn’t say anything bad about Queens, eh?”

• • •

As I barge through the front door of our apartment building, Tony, the afternoon doorman, shouts at me to stop.

“Gotsomethingforyou,” he says, digging through the pile of envelopes and papers that litter the lobby desk. “Ah! Hereyougo.”

He hands me a white envelope, plain except for my name printed across the front. No stamps, no return address, not even an apartment number.

“Who dropped this off?”

Tony shrugs. “Dunno. Iwasawayfromthedeskforaminute. Camebackandthereitwas.”

I rip open the envelope on the way to the elevator and find this inside, cut from a piece of poster board:

“What the … Who is
doing
this?” I demand.

The nervous-looking old man who is waiting for the elevator sidesteps away from me.

I smile at him. “Sorry.”

When the elevator comes, he doesn’t get in with me, which makes me smile. Call me evil if you want, but sometimes I get a little thrill from the sort-of superpower that we kids have to make grown-ups uncomfortable. It’s amazing how many adults suddenly become incapable of coherent speech when they’re trapped in an elevator with a kid.

I line up on the floor of my bedroom the strange gifts I have received: a brass bowl, a flowerpot full of dirt, the almost-real robin, my long-lost copy of
The Secret Garden
, and finally, the cryptic handmade invitation that seems to be missing some key information. For starters, exactly
where
am I invited?

And then I stare at them, waiting for an epiphany—some sudden understanding of what has been right in front of my eyes all along. When nothing comes after a few minutes of that, I stretch out on my bed with
The Secret Garden
, hoping that a few chapters of Mary and Dickon and Colin will help. As I flip through the pages, stopping to read some of my favorite parts, a receipt flutters out of the book and onto the bed. I can’t read the name of the store, but it’s for a flute that cost $4.99. I am quite certain that I have never bought a flute in my life, which means I was probably
meant
to find this receipt.

“Okay, Tillie,” I say. “This has gone on long enough. And I call myself a detective.”

Thinking aloud, I continue: “The robin and the flute are part of the story of
The Secret Garden
. Dickon plays the flute, and in chapter eight, it’s a robin that shows
Mary the way to the secret garden. But first, he … digs up the key!”

The dirt! I never even thought to dump it out; I’ve been watering it, waiting for something to start growing. I push aside a little at the top of the pot and immediately notice a bright green gummy worm. My fingers wrap around it and gently pull it free of the soil. A piece of thread is tied to the end, so I start pulling. Two feet, three, four, and … YES! The biggest skeleton key I’ve ever seen plops out, bringing a handful of dirt with it. After I rub it clean and examine it with my trusty magnifying glass, I find the letter
V
—or is it the Roman numeral for five?—freshly engraved into the flat surface of the key. At the moment, the only place I can recall that might need a key like this one is the gate outside Prunella’s building. Somehow, I doubt that she’s the one sending me gifts, but now that I think about it, she’s not the only person I know in that building. Livvy spends a fair bit of time there, too. And
she
was in my class in the fifth grade, back when my copy of
The Secret Garden
disappeared. Could she have something to do with this?

I pick up the invitation once again, running my finger around the curves of the handmade card. Something about that shape seems vaguely familiar, and suddenly the slide show in my brain is running at full speed as images flash into and out of my mind. A heavy iron gate. Lots of flowers. A boy with a flute. A bird. A girl with a bowl. My imagination, I’m afraid, is getting the best of me. I’ve read
The Secret Garden
so many times it’s
starting to feel real to me. I honestly can’t separate what I’ve imagined from the places and things I’ve actually seen.

I close my eyes for a second, and when I open them, the invitation in my hand is no longer merely a piece of poster board.

It’s a
map
.

“No. Way.” It can’t be this simple. I run to my computer and immediately search for the official Central Park site. I pull up the map of the park and there it is: the shape of the invitation matches the shape of the Conservatory Garden exactly.

But as I keep reading, I realize there’s more. Much more.

I know where I’m going on Saturday. The who and the why? Not so much—yet.

Father Julian meets us at Elizabeth’s on Friday afternoon and shares the details of a conversation that’s
almost
as interesting as the one I overheard between those sleazy Svindahl siblings.

“Oddly enough,” he says with a coy smile, “the Svindahl Gallery has had a change of heart. Arthur Svindahl’s exact words were, ‘We’ve reconsidered our position on the Pommeroy you brought in, and we’d like to take another look.’ ”

“I’ll bet they would,” I say. “They must be going crazy, trying to figure out how your copy ended up in Prunella’s living room.”

“What did you tell them?” Margaret asks.

Father Julian sets the painting beside his chair and exhales loudly. “I said I’d think about it. It is quite a dilemma. Unless we’re misinterpreting the conversation that Sophie overheard, they have the original Pommeroy in their possession. I’d love to hear their explanation for
how they happen to have it, but ultimately, I just want that painting back in the family so Dad can decide what to do with it.”

“You’re not thinking about making a trade, are you?” Leigh Ann asks. “Don’t do it. They’re crooks. They’ll cheat you.”

The front door swings open and Malcolm glides in as if on skates, doffing his tweed cap to us before flinging it perfectly onto a hook on the foyer wall ten feet away. He turns back to us with his steeliest gaze. “The name’s Chance. Malcolm Chance.”

“I don’t care if you’re Henry the Eighth,” Elizabeth scolds. “Wipe your feet. And take off that coat. You’re dripping all over the foyer.”

“Lovely to see you, too, dear,” he says. He then catches us all by surprise when he scoops Elizabeth into his arms and kisses her.

She pretends to push him away for our benefit, but she’s enjoying it. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

“Because I just got back from the Met, where I got some absolutely astounding news. News that is worthy of a celebration.” He holds up the Pommeroy from Prunella’s apartment. “Remember when I told you that this is a fake? Well, I was only half right.”

“Nothing unusual about
that
,” Elizabeth chides. I give her a high five.

Malcolm chooses to ignore us. “As I was saying, beneath this lovely forgery is—”

“A painting by Paul Werkman,” I say.

Malcolm’s chin bounces off the plush Oriental rug. “Wh—what? How can you possibly know that?”

“X-ray vision,” I say. “After thirteen years on your planet, my superpowers are finally beginning to develop. I’ll be flying soon.”

I don’t think he’s buying the Supergirl story.

“All right, the truth is that, for once, I happened to be in the right place at the right time, and I overheard the Svindahls talking about it. But thanks for confirming the story. And, for the record, I
didn’t
get caught. Or leave anything behind.”

“Astonishing,” he says. “The CIA doesn’t know what it’s missing, not hiring you girls right now.”

“Well, if it’s worth what they say, it certainly explains why the Svindahls were willing to pay to get a ‘worthless’ forgery back,” Margaret says.

“Oh, it explains it and then some,” Elizabeth remarks. “A Werkman is worth at least four or five Pommeroys in today’s market.”

Father Julian buries his head in his hands. “It just gets better and better. What am I going to do?”

“The preservationist I’ve been working with at the Met tells me that it is possible to remove the top layer of paint without damaging the Werkman,” Malcolm says. “It will take some time, and it won’t be cheap, but it can be done. All you have to do is give the word, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I don’t understand why someone would have
painted over the Werkman in the first place,” Elizabeth says. “If it was in a gallery, certainly they would have known its value.”

“From what I heard,” I say, “the Svindahls totally blame Rebecca’s buddy Gus—the guy who works in the back.”

“I know you guys are going to think this is terrible,” Leigh Ann says, “but I can
totally
see how it happened. After Sophie told me what she overheard, I went online and looked up this Paul Werkman. Do you know what his paintings look like? One that I saw was all white, with a circle of not-quite-as-white white painted in the middle. You can barely even see the circle. And even if you could see it—I mean, so what? I’m sorry, but I just don’t get modern art.”

“Don’t feel bad, Leigh Ann,” says Malcolm, leaning in her direction. “Most of it is a mystery to me, too. Give me a nice Rembrandt or a Vermeer any day.”

Before Rebecca and Elizabeth have a chance to defend modern art, however, Margaret holds up her hand to call a truce.

“Father Julian, you trust us, right?” she says. “Give me twenty-four hours to come up with a plan.”

“To do what, exactly?” he asks.

“I’m not sure yet, but I may have a way to get your family’s painting back without handing the Werkman over to that family of felons. And then you can do whatever you want with it. Heck, you can even hand it over to Prunella if you want.”

“Ewww. Don’t do that!” Leigh Ann says. “Donate it to charity or something. I mean, as far as she knows, she still has the same painting. It’s like my dad says: what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“I do trust you girls,” says Father Julian. “I promise not to make a decision until I hear your plan.”

“Oh, how exciting,” Elizabeth says. “I do love a good caper.”

Don’t we all?

Dad’s coat is on and he is on his way out the apartment door as the four of us barge in, chattering away about the Svindahls and how much we’re going to enjoy sticking it to them.

“Ah—
bonjour, Monsieur St. Pierre
,” says Margaret.
“Comment allez-vous?”

“Ça va, merci,”
Dad replies.

Leigh Ann’s eyes open wide when she sees him. “Ohmigosh. Did you cook for us? Please, please, tell me you made that killer macaroni and cheese.”

I’ve begun to suspect that Leigh Ann is friends with me for one reason: my dad’s cooking.

Dad pulls the corners of his mouth down, forming an exaggerated frown. “So sorry, mademoiselle. No
fromage
today. Monsieur Etan is coming and he asked for his favorite:
poulet au vinaigre.
”

Leigh Ann’s nose crinkles up—just a teensy bit. “What’s
that
?”

“Chicken with vinegar,” I say. “Don’t worry. You’re going to love it.
Au revoir, Papa!
”

“Be good,” he says.

As if we need to be told.

After considering Nate’s past record of tardiness, we decide not to wait for him, and dig into the first of the two enormous dishes of Dad’s
poulet
. Moments after Leigh Ann threatens to lick her plate clean, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Nate, and he has brought a special surprise guest: Cam Peterson. Leigh Ann, who had been so nonchalant about Cam asking for her number, suddenly sits up straight in her chair and checks her teeth for bits of fresh parsley in the reflection of her knife while Becca teases her mercilessly.