Pieces and Players Read online

  “Hey, you stole that from my head,” Tommy blurted. This wasn’t true, but Tommy suddenly felt like Calder was leaving him behind.

  “I think we’re all thinking about the same stuff,” Early said, and the way she said it made Tommy feel less alone.

  He tried to sort things out, but these deeps made everything feel distorted. And they changed the rules. If a boot could appear, icy fingers tweak, or a giggle come from nowhere, how could the five decide what was real and what wasn’t?

  For some reason, Tommy didn’t dare say this aloud. Whoever else was in the deeps could probably see — and hear — a lot more than they could.

  “Scaz,” he moaned. “How can you tell who’s in the deeps?”

  “I can’t,” Zoomy said comfortably. “But sometimes I just know.”

  “Got it,” Tommy said. He glanced around anxiously, glad they were in his Robie House apartment and not in the Farmer.

  * * *

  After lunch, Early and Petra each headed home. Tommy and Calder walked Zoomy back to the guesthouse he and Gam were staying in. On the way, they’d planned to check on Mrs. Sharpe’s house and make sure Ms. Hussey wasn’t in trouble with Mr. Devlin.

  “We’ll listen for screams from inside,” Calder had joked. Now they stood on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Sharpe’s door.

  Tommy thought suddenly of the stone man trapped beneath the lion, but all he said was “Hey, ever thought about how violent all these last names sound when you line them up? Chase, Crunch, Hurts, Cracken, Whacker, Stabbler, Sharpe … and now Devlin. Like you’ve got chasing, breaking, hurting, hitting, stabbing, and now deviling!”

  The three laughed, but it didn’t feel too funny.

  “Ms. Hussey won’t like us checking on her,” Calder said abruptly. He pulled out the V. “V for vexed.”

  “Victim,” Tommy said.

  “Vinigerminigeiniger,” Zoomy said.

  Tommy smiled. “That’s a winner! The great man’s name is related to vinegar.”

  Zoomy grinned happily. “How rude!”

  Meeow! Ratty popped out of a bush and rubbed himself back and forth on Zoomy’s legs.

  The boys stopped laughing. Zoomy bent over and whispered, “Spies!” into the collar.

  Tommy grabbed Zoomy on one side and Calder on the other. The three rushed down the street and around the corner, voices cracking under the strain of the moment, laughing again once they were safely away. Ratty sat calmly on the porch and watched them go. He hopped up as Mrs. Sharpe’s door opened.

  Ms. Hussey stooped to pat him. “Where’re the kids? I thought I heard them,” she said, rubbing his ears. “You’re the pussycat who came to visit the queen!”

  “Which would make them the mice under the chair,” a man’s voice said behind her.

  If the boys had heard, they might have stopped laughing.

  Monument Cracken’s house was forbidding. A Victorian hodgepodge of turrets and curved rooms, it was painted a bloody crimson with black trim. Petra looked up at the windows, which were shuttered. Why would anyone want such spooky paint on a house? She reached for the knocker, which was a brass hand with an old-fashioned ring on one finger. The ring had a bumblebee imprinted on it, as if for stamping letters. A snake bracelet encircled the wrist.

  Bam! Bam! The sound was deafening. Petra stepped back and smoothed her hair. Then she ran her tongue over her front teeth, just in case there was any leftover lunch.

  The man who opened the door was much younger and taller than Mr. Cracken, and wore a penguin uniform. Nodding stiffly to Petra, he handed her a sealed mailing envelope.

  “Please return this in the condition in which it was lent,” he intoned. “Mr. Cracken is allowing you twenty-four hours.”

  “Thanks so much,” Petra said, staring behind him into the hallway. She then added, as if stalling for time, “So … I should be back here tomorrow, same time?”

  The man nodded again and seemed to slide backward on ice as the door clicked shut.

  Hugging the package, Petra stood for a moment on the porch, shocked by what she’d seen.

  Behind the Penguin, five or six expertly wrapped, slender rectangles leaned against the wall, rectangles of various sizes that could have held the Manet, the Vermeer … certainly any number of the missing thirteen. But why would Monument Cracken have the art hidden — and not exactly hidden! — in his house? And if not — would an old man like that be buying expensive art at his age? What had she seen?

  She hurried toward Early’s apartment. She’d promised to share. On the way, she made herself think calmly about Mrs. Farmer’s family of art and her kind wishes for the rest of the world.

  Squeezing the book tighter, Petra whispered, “We’ll find your missing family, we will. And maybe the man in The Concert will turn and help us.”

  Just then a group of children ran by, and one shouted, “Your turn! Your turn! Take your turn!”

  Petra frowned. What was this? Why were things echoing each other in a nonsensical way, sort of like the snakeskin boots fitting with the snakes around Medusa’s head? Or Mr. Devlin mimicking Ratty’s expression? Or the bee and the snake on the doorknocker?

  It felt as though the line between what mattered and what didn’t was getting blurrier with each step.

  * * *

  Early’s mom, Summer, welcomed Petra at the door. Jubie jumped up and down waving a drawing he’d made of a garbage truck dropping things off the back. “It’s doin’ poo! We got new markers, too! Just for us,” Jubie shouted.

  Their apartment was one room, as Early had warned her, and spotless. Petra saw almost no furniture aside from a table, but there were bright bedspreads, mats, and pillows along each wall. Lamps balanced on milk crates shed inviting pools of light in the darker corners. Shoes sat two by two by the door, largest to smallest. Four cloth napkins, each with its own design, were neatly rolled and held with kid-made pipe cleaner rings. Even the spices in a kitchen area, organized by color on a shelf next to the stove, looked orderly.

  Petra sighed, untying her sneakers. “You’re so lucky. Everything’s so inviting, and you only have one little, ah, assistant around. I’d trade any day!”

  When Summer brought the girls a huge bowl of popcorn, Petra said happily, “How did you know? I’m in heaven. Never leaving.” She noticed that Early’s hair was loose and fell in a puff of curls around her face. “Hey, our hair looks kinda the same now,” she pointed out.

  Early smiled until Jubie leaned close and whispered, “Yum yum popcorn sistahs!” and almost fell into the bowl.

  “We’re going out, young man,” Summer announced, whisking Jubie into his jacket. “And I’ve made you your own bag of popcorn, see? And I’ve made one for Dash, who will be home in a while. Back soon, girls.”

  “There’s drawbacks to living in one room, let me tell you,” Early said as the front door closed. “Jubie could make a house the size of Mrs. Sharpe’s feel like a peanut shell. I think he’d even make the Farmer feel small.”

  Petra opened the envelope Mr. Cracken’s butler had handed to her. “Ooh, this copy’s in great shape,” she purred. “Yikes, the popcorn! I bet he’d call the police if we got even one grease spot on it.”

  They put the book to one side and sat for several minutes eating and talking. Early told Petra more about what had happened to their family, and how hard she’d had to work to scare away “the ghosts of bad guys,” as she put it. She also shared the word and quote notebooks that the Pearl family had kept for years. Petra was thrilled and told Early about her own notebook, her dreams of becoming a writer, and how difficult it was to get any peaceful thinking done in her home.

  “My dad says what burns is what turns,” Early said. When Petra looked worried, she added, “He only means that what’s hard can send you to new places in life, you know?”

  “Yeah, it’s just … the turning thing reminds me of ‘What if he turns?’ Mrs. Farmer’s question about the Vermeer man. It seems like I keep hearing that phrase.”

&
nbsp; “Maybe that’s good. It means he’s come alive!” Early crowed, and made a scary Frankenstein face.

  Petra rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and it’ll be your job to get him to call us and tell us where his painting is — and who stole it!” She went on to tell Early about the oddly perfect rectangular packages in Monument Cracken’s hallway.

  “But why would they be there — except that it’s so unlikely, it’s safe,” Early mused.

  “And if I saw other paintings — why?” Petra looked unhappy. “He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to be buying fancy art right now, you know?”

  “I’ll come with you tomorrow when you return the book,” Early offered. “Another pair of eyes.”

  “Great,” Petra said, her mouth full. Sharing worries was always a relief. “Hey, your mom makes such good popcorn — I can’t believe I’ve almost demolished the whole bowl. Whoa, look: Some of these pieces have faces, like a nose and two eyes! Here’s one that even has a mouth. Maybe I’m next.”

  “No way! I’m not meeting that penguin guy tomorrow with a piece of popcorn standing next to me.”

  Petra laughed, and helped to chase runaway kernels and wash and dry the bowl. They settled side by side against the wall, the small red book open between them.

  “So, here’s the part we read in Powell’s, about art being like family to her,” Petra said. “I notice she writes in short bursts, like these are things she’s thought about for ages and then boiled down to just a few words. Listen to this:

  “Most great art begins with the human face. It can make the plain beautiful and the undistinguished immortal.”

  “Mmm, that’s so true,” Early murmured. “I’ll bet if you were in line with the Mona Lisa lady in a grocery store, you’d never think she was unforgettable. Oh, good, more on faces.

  “From birth, we work to decode the human face. Art is built on that truth.”

  Petra nodded. These days, that felt miserably true. She struggled each morning to decode her own face — in the bathroom mirror. “Here’s another,” she said to Early, pointing at the page.

  “Art speaks through the language of the human face. Imagine what would be left of art if we erased all faces!”

  Early whistled. “What a nightmare! I don’t know about Zoomy, but if you’re used to seeing faces, imagine how lonely and confused you’d feel without eyes, noses, and mouths to show what’s going on. You’d be lost.”

  Petra nodded. “And art would feel pretty empty.”

  Early read on:

  “A face captured in art, one that resonates, can remind you of yourself. There is magic in recognizing the face behind a face, in seeing that art can reflect with greater accuracy than any mirror.

  “The right art, when you find it, will dovetail with your soul.”

  “Oooh,” Petra said. “I have to let that sink in for a minute.”

  Early was already grabbing for the dictionary. “Dovetail … It’s such a cool idea, that art can interlock with your true self.”

  “It’s almost,” Petra said in a dreamy voice, “as if Vermeer’s world and the expressions on the people he painted make me feel more at home in my own face; or like they make me feel as though one day I might be just as … well, as serene and mysterious, you know? As complete.”

  Early nodded. “Like you’d have a right to be who you are — whatever that is — and everything would work out fine.”

  “You’ve got it,” Petra said happily. “An understanding world.” She glanced shyly at Early.

  Her friend nodded and pointed to the page. “Listen,” she said.

  “If you ask a person on the street which piece of museum art they remember best — or would like to own — it is almost always one with a person in it. People feel close when they understand each other. Anyone who thinks the living and the dead aren’t connected through art is a fool.”

  “Whoa, I love how this fits,” Petra said. “And we’re surrounded by patterns! Faces in popcorn … faces in art …”

  Early was already writing furiously in the family Quote Book. She paused. “I wonder why more people don’t know about this book? It’s a game changer for anyone who looks at art.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Farmer thought she’d be made fun of,” Petra suggested. Her phone rang. “Ms. Hussey?” she said, then listened for a moment. “I can do it, and I’ll spread the word. Tomorrow morning at eleven. Really? Really? That’s weird.”

  After she hung up, she looked at Early, her face suddenly frightened. “I’m not sure I like this. Ms. Hussey said she was just thinking about all the faces in the stolen art, and about how the pieces might be hidden behind other art, in public places. You know, like the last place that would be likely for most thieves. She wants to go on a trip downtown with all of us tomorrow, on Monday. But Early, can you believe she called just as we were reading this part about faces in art?”

  Early sat up straight. “She’s been talking to someone who’s read this book. Like Eagle. After all, he’s the one who heard us reading it in Powell’s the other day — maybe this is proof that he did steal it!”

  “We’ve gotta warn her,” Petra said. “There may be a very good reason that Mrs. Sharpe never told Ms. Hussey about him.”

  “Yeah, like he’s the mystery man in The Concert,” Early said. “The only one without a face.”

  “The one who turned,” Petra said softly.

  “We’ll knock. SHUT UP! Oh sorry, Early, I didn’t mean you!”

  Early grinned into her cell phone. “I get it. You mean, go to the spooky house before you’re expected?”

  “I knew you’d understand,” Petra said happily. “We’ll show up to drop off the red book on our way to the train station this morning — and I’m thinking that arriving unannounced might be good.”

  “You’re on,” Early said. An hour later, the two girls had met on a corner near Powell’s. They walked north on Blackstone Avenue, Petra clutching the small package.

  “I see what you mean about this place,” Early said quietly as they approached. “If you wanted your house to look unfriendly, you couldn’t do a better job.”

  They were still across the street when a limousine pulled up in front. The driver stepped out and flung open the back door. Just then, the Penguin opened Mr. Cracken’s front door and hurried down the steps to help carry three more carefully wrapped packages into the front hall.

  “Scaz,” breathed Early. “What’re we seeing?”

  “Keep walking, as if we’re just going by,” Petra hissed. “It’s too late to hide.”

  “No, because we have to return the book!” Early whispered. She pulled Petra’s arm and they half sank, half fell between two parked cars. From where they landed, they saw a number of skinny ankles and canes follow the packages out of the back seat.

  “I’ll pretend I have a bathroom emergency!” Early said, and before her friend could respond, she popped upright, dragging Petra after her.

  “Lovely,” Petra mumbled as they clumped up the porch steps behind Winnifred Whacker and Hershel Hurts. The two old people didn’t seem to have heard them, but the Penguin pointed to the girls in horror. The two in front turned slowly around.

  “Had to return the book early — our teacher is taking us downtown today,” Petra blurted.

  The Penguin held out his hand and then snapped his fingers when the girls didn’t move. Neither Ms. Whacker nor Mr. Hurts moved either, which meant everyone was stuck.

  This gave Early time to squeeze around Ms. Whacker, who looked ready to scream. “I have, um, a bathroom emergency,” Early said, as if mortified. “Forgive me, but nature calls.”

  The Penguin frowned, rolled his eyes, but stepped back, and before Petra knew it, Early had vanished into the gloom inside. Still holding the doorknob, the Penguin turned to honk directions, his tone making clear that this was an imposition.

  Meanwhile, the two old folks examined Petra as if she had just escaped from the zoo. Painfully aware that she had a ragged hole in the toe of one sneak
er, she froze. Ms. Whacker wore pointy high heels with artsy swirls all over them, as if someone had taken an Impressionist painting, chopped it in half, and wrapped it around her feet.

  As the two turned away and stepped slowly through the open door, Petra knew she had to do as Early had, and simply assume she could enter. Having forgotten about the book, the Penguin began to close the door just as she slid one foot into the hall.

  “Oh, I’ll wait in the entryway here, that’s fine!” Petra mumbled, stepping inside as if he hadn’t just tried to shut her out.

  “Don’t move,” the butler hissed and spun on his heel, gliding after Ms. Whacker and Mr. Hurts into another room.

  Her heart pounding in her throat, Petra glanced wildly around. The packages that had leaned against the wall yesterday were gone, but the three that had just been unloaded stood in their place. There was one way to find out whether these were priceless …

  Just as Early stepped out of a door at the end of the hall, the sound of the toilet flushing behind her, the Penguin hurried back toward the girls and Petra pretended to stumble toward the rectangles leaning against the wall.

  “Whoa,” she gasped, as she lunged toward the largest one, one arm waving as if to catch herself. The Penguin dropped the two coats he’d been carrying and reached out to grab Petra, who then really did lose her balance. Early, nearby, got her foot ground beneath one of the Penguin’s fancy flippers, and the three tumbled into a ghastly, noisy pile. One of the packages leaning against the wall tilted slowly toward them, coming to rest on the Penguin’s head.

  It was Monument Cracken who lifted the rectangle off the pile and, without asking whether anyone was hurt, tucked it under his arm. He then turned toward Petra. “And the book?” was all he said, his voice sounding as if it had never been young.

  Speechless, Petra handed it over.

  “Thanks so much, Mr. Cracken,” she croaked as she struggled to her feet. “It’s a treasure, so filled with wisdom and wonderful ideas about —” Mr. Cracken had already turned away and was stumping back into the next room. The door closed with a polished thud, ending her sentence.