The Statue Walks at Night (5 page)

“But he's the security guard,” Sean said.

“Exactly,” said Brian. “Who better to steal priceless works of art than the one person who controls the security system.”

Sean let out a big sigh. “That's 
seven
suspects.”

The back door banged, and Mrs. Quinn called out, “Sean! Brian! I'm home!”

Brian and Sean hurried to the kitchen. Mrs. Quinn had already tossed her jacket on a chair and was rummaging through the refrigerator.

“I bought some barbecued chicken,” she said, “and I've got some potatoes to bake in the microwave. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” Sean said, and hugged her.

“Who wants to set the table for me?” she asked.

Brian sprinted toward the door. “Sean will,” he said. “I've got to get my history book back from Sam.”

“You've got ten minutes,” Mrs. Quinn said. “Don't stay next door talking and make me have to call you.”

Sean followed Brian out to the backyard. “Dad's computer search turned up a lot of information,” he said.

“But not enough,” Brian answered.

“He'll come up with more.”

Brian lowered his voice. “All that takes time, and time is what we haven't got. The exhibit is supposed to open in less than a week. I think we can help Dad if we—”

He stopped.

“If we what?” Sean asked.

“I have a plan,” Brian said. “This is what I want you to do. Tomorrow, bring your camera to the museum and take pictures of everything you can. Try to get pictures of the employees we haven't met. On your way home stop off at the one-hour photo place to get the film developed.”

“What will the pictures show us?”

“We won't know until we see them,” Brian answered. “But we might discover something that will help us.” He frowned. “The way things are going, we need all the help we can get!”

A
S BRIAN ENTERED SAM MIYAKO'S
kitchen, something slapped him across the shoulders.

“Hiya!” yelled Sam's little brother, Charlie. He raised a long cardboard tube and aimed it at Brian. But Sam stepped in with a tube of his own, sending Charlie's tube flying.

“Mom's wrapping Charlie's birthday presents,” Sam said as Charlie snatched up both tubes and ran from the room. “We were playing sword fight with the cardboard tubes inside the gift wrap.”

“That reminds me,” Brian said. “At the museum today I saw this weird sword that fits inside a hollow cane. It was supposed to be a hundred years old.”

Sam put on a spooky accent. “Ze sword vas mebbe carried by a crazed vampire looking for victims caught in ze fog.”

Brian grinned. “Vampires don't need swords. They have teeth.”

“Eet vas an old, toothless vampire needing help.”

“Bad guess.”

“Eet vas a young vampire who kept hiz lunch money in ze cane and used ze sword to try to cut hiz school cafeteria food?”

“Funny, but hopeless,” Brian said.

Sam shrugged. “Would your parents like to adopt me?” he suddenly asked.

“Don't tell me you're in trouble again,” Brian said.

“Nobody in this house appreciates a good sense of humor,” Sam said.

Brian groaned. “That means you scared your little brother again. Right?”

“I didn't think he'd get really scared. I mean, not enough to have nightmares. I just asked him if he knew that monsters live inside the walls of houses and ooze through the cracks at night and climb under beds to get warm.”

“All I can say is, if you tell Sean that story, you won't get adopted, you won't get dinner, and you probably won't even get a friendly look from Mom or Dad.”

“As I said, nobody appreciates a good sense of humor,” Sam complained.

Brian laughed. “Hey, Sam,” he said. “I need my history book back.”

“No problem,” Sam said. “I'll be right back.” As Sam went to get the book, Brian wished Mrs. Gomez hadn't told his dad to keep the situation as quiet as possible. He would have liked to have told Sam about the museum thefts. Sam was his best friend and sometimes came up with very good ideas.

Later that evening, as Brian passed by Sean's bedroom, he poked his head inside and saw Sean sitting up in bed. He was reading the pamphlet he'd picked up at the museum and was laughing out loud to himself.

“You're weird,” Brian said.

“Thank you,” Sean said. “Debbie Jean Parker's going to think so, too.”

“Don't forget your camera tomorrow,” Brian said. “I'm eager to see if anything turns up in your photos.”

The next morning, when Sean's class arrived at the museum for its tour, George Potts made an announcement.

“You may take pictures in the exhibit rooms,” he explained, “but we don't allow flash pictures in the art galleries.”

Debbie Jean saw the camera that was hanging around Sean's neck and smiled smugly. “All museums have this rule. The flash can damage paintings.”

“Everybody knows that,” Sean said, even though he hadn't. Just you wait, Debbie Jean Parker, he was thinking. Sean was so eager for the tour to begin, he could hardly hold still.

Mrs. Gomez greeted Mrs. Jackson and her class with a big smile, but Sean quickly noticed that Mrs. Gomez's eyelids drooped. Sean figured that she hadn't had much sleep.

Mrs. Gomez led them to the special exhibit area in the main gallery. “The paintings you're about to see are called American primitive art,” she said. “Do any of you know what is meant by American primitive art?”

Sean's hand shot up. His was the only one.

Mrs. Jackson looked surprised, then pleased.

“Sean?” Mrs. Gomez asked.

Sean stood as tall as he could and tried to look wise. “American primitive art,” he began, “is a type of folk art made by artists without formal training. While it includes paintings by early American painters, such as Edward Hicks, and later primitive painters, such as Grandma Moses, American folk art also includes quilt making, sculpture of figureheads on boats, and other types of regional crafts.”

“Very good, Sean!” Mrs. Gomez exclaimed. Mrs. Jackson beamed at him.

Sean tried not to burst out laughing when he saw Debbie Jean's openmouthed stare.

Debbie Jean struggled to regain control of herself. “Oh yeah?” she said. “Who's Sean calling Grandma Moses? I know she's not
his
grandma.”

Everyone looked at Sean. Mrs. Gomez waited for him to say something. Sean searched his memory for what was written in that art pamphlet.

“Grandma Moses,” he said, “was a farm wife who didn't start painting until she was in her seventies. Her real name was Anna Mary Robertson Moses.”

Sean could tell from the smile on Mrs. Gomez's face that she had begun to catch on. That was OK with Sean. At least Debbie Jean hadn't. Her nose and cheeks were splotched an angry red, and she scowled at Sean as though she couldn't figure out what to do or say next.

“Suppose we take a look at one of Grandma Moses's paintings right now,” Mrs. Gomez said. She winked at Sean. “And after our tour of the exhibit, I hope you'll all take one of the pamphlets about the exhibit, which you'll find on a table near the front door.”

Now that the fun with Debbie Jean was over, Sean didn't care if she found out that he'd memorized parts of the pamphlet. And Mrs. Jackson would be pleased that Sean had learned something on his own. Cheerfully he walked with his class through the exhibit, listening to what Mrs. Gomez said and making notes.

As soon as the tour was over, however, and the class was allowed to examine the rest of the museum on its own, Sean began taking pictures.

“What are you doing?” Debbie Jean asked him. “Why are you taking a picture of that crossbow? What are you doing in the weapons room, anyway, when we're supposed to be studying art?”

Sean tried to ignore her and aimed his camera at one of the cases.

Debbie Jean smoothed down her shirt and skirt and brushed back her hair with one hand as she stepped in front of the case. “I'll pose for you,” she said. “Pictures are always more interesting with people in them.”

Sean groaned. “Debbie Jean, get out of the way!” he grumbled. He moved around her, then took the picture.

When Sean tried taking pictures inside the early California history room and in the Egyptian room, however, Debbie Jean kept getting in his way. She even followed Sean when he walked through the door to the business offices.

“Why are you going in there?” she demanded. “You're not supposed to be in there. You'd better get out of there. You're going to get in trouble.”

“Be quiet,” Sean whispered. Inside the office, Sean was relieved to see that Hilda Brown wasn't at her desk. Probably her lunch hour, Sean thought. He snapped pictures as quickly as he could in every direction.

“Let's 
go,
” Debbie Jean whined.

“Not yet,” Sean said. He carefully opened the doors to the other offices.

The first two were empty. They belonged to Mr. Brandon and Mr. Wang. Mrs. Gomez's office was empty, too. Sean took pictures of everything.

Sean was feeling lucky until he opened the door to Mr. Vanstedder's office. Thinking it was empty, too, Sean calmly raised his camera and snapped a picture.

“What do you think you're doing?” boomed an angry voice.

Debbie Jean screamed and ran.

Sean stumbled sideways, accidentally knocking down Mr. Vanstedder's cane, which was leaning against the wall.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Vanstedder,” Sean said as he picked up the cane. “I'm taking pictures of everything in the museum for a report I'm going to do.”

Mr. Vanstedder, who was seated behind his desk, glanced from the cane to Sean. “You don't belong in the office area! Get out of here! Immediately!” he demanded.

Sean turned so fast that he collided with a tall young man, who grabbed him by his shoulders.

“What's this kid doing back here?” the man asked.

“Let him go, Dave,” Mr. Vanstedder grumbled. “He belongs back with his class.”

Dave Brandon, Sean thought.

He stared down at Sean. “I've been watching this kid take pictures of some pretty strange things,” he said, “like the locks on the exhibit cabinets and the emergency exits. Do you know him, James?”

“I believe his name is Sean,” Mr. Vanstedder said.

Sean spoke up. “It's Sean Quinn.”

“Quinn?” Mr. Vanstedder said. “The private investigator Maggie hired is named Quinn.”

“He's my dad,” Sean said.

Both men reacted with surprise. Then Mr. Brandon quickly released Sean, and it was hard for Sean not to stare. The palm of Mr. Brandon's left hand was covered with a gauze bandage!

D
EBBIE JEAN WAS WAITING
for Sean just outside. “What took you so long?” she asked, but she didn't wait for an answer. “Mrs. Jackson told us to line up and get ready to go back to school.”

“OK, OK,” Sean said. They hurried back to the main gallery, where the class was already assembled in two neat rows.

“OK, class,” Mrs. Jackson announced after she took roll call, “I want you to begin walking
in an orderly fashion
to the museum exit. The bus is waiting out front.”

On the bus back to school, Debbie Jean let out a shriek. Sean chuckled.

“Mrs. Jackson!” Debbie Jean complained loudly. “I just read the museum's art pamphlet! That's where Sean got all that information!”

Sean grinned and leaned back against the seat. True, he thought, he hadn't come across any clues yet that might solve the case of the stolen sketches, and he had been caught taking pictures in the wrong place. But all in all, it had been a very good day.

After school, Sean took his film to be developed and raced home without taking time to look at the photos. He found Brian in the kitchen munching his way through some fudge brownies. Sean shoved the package of photos into Brian's hands.