Arts and Thefts Read online

  As far as I knew, the prizes this year were minimal. A picture of the winners in the local paper, the Scottsville Gazette, and some top-notch art supplies for each of the winners in three divisions: painting, photography, and sculpture. There was a Best Overall Art prize that was awarded to someone whose art was deemed the best in the whole contest out of all three divisions, and they also got art supplies, a picture in the paper, and the honor of having their art on display in Scottsville’s art museum until next year’s competition.

  That last item might explain Case’s anxiety. My friend was such an artiste that he needed his work to be perfection before anyone saw it, which made him a good forger but a difficult person sometimes. The idea of his painting hanging in a museum for all to see probably gave him insomnia. I guessed the other artists were the same way, but Case took it to a level that proved that freaking out can be its own art.

  “It’s guilt by association,” I told him. “Becca hates me, so she’s taking it out on you.”

  “Oh, that’s a great detective strategy. Really sound logic, right there.” Case fumed and paced the floor, then added, “Heather’s not even competing this year. And if she were, she would have turned in her work weeks ago like the rest of us. It would be pointless for anyone to steal her brushes now. But no, that won’t matter to that monster Becca. Right now she’s probably out finding skewed evidence on both of us. Well, when I see her, I’m gonna—”

  I grabbed his shoulder. “Okay, calm down. You didn’t do anything. Remember, she thinks I’m a thief, not you. She might think you’re involved, but if anyone’s on the hook for stealing brushes, it’s me.”

  “Right.” Case took a deep breath and sat back down. “Right. You’re the one she’ll focus on. I should worry about helping you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Seriously.” I sat beside Case and smiled. “Yeah, she’ll come after me, but Becca’s a good-enough detective that after she works the angles and realizes it couldn’t be us, she’ll move on.”

  Case looked skeptical. “You think?”

  “She may want me roasted with barbecue sauce, but she has professional pride. She’ll find the right person eventually. And, anyway, you saw how good I am at dealing with her.”

  He smiled. “You have had lots of practice.”

  “I’m a master at Becca-wrangling. Leave this to me. You worry about the contest.”

  “Then that’s okay.” Case flopped back on my bed. “I’m sorry I freaked out.”

  “You’re wound tight because of Saturday.”

  “I’m not wound tight. I’m exactly as anxious as I should be. Do you know how long I’ve been working on that painting?”

  “At least as long as I’ve been hearing about it.”

  “Months. And oh man, today is Thursday.” Case sat up as though he’d been kicked. “The contest is Saturday. Saturday is the contest. I need to go get ready.”

  “What do you have to do? The painting is turned in. All you have to do is show up.”

  “Show up and see everyone else’s art, all my competitors. And you’ve heard about things that happen at this contest.”

  I frowned and raised a finger. “You mean like that time the two kids started brawling because—”

  “Because one guy said the other’s painting looked a little ‘sloppy in the details,’ yes. They were both disqualified.”

  “That was years ago. We were seven.”

  “But you still remember it, right?” Case twisted the edge of his Baltimore Ravens jersey. “When we were eight, a girl made a sculpture that everyone said looked like it was made of earwax. We still call it the ‘Earwax Statue.’ And remember last year?”

  “Some guy’s painting got made fun of. He lost. Right?” I honestly didn’t know too much about that one; after the contest no one talked about it again.

  “Right! What if that happens to me? Or what if I spill lemonade on my pants, like that sculptor girl two years ago? She got her picture taken for the paper with a wet stain across her lap. That’s it—I have to go home and practice walking with a full glass.” Case stood and ran out of my room, downstairs, and out the back door. I heard the door slam.

  “Thanks for the intel,” I said to my empty room. Then I lay back on the bed.

  Case running off without a good-bye illustrated how freaked out he was about this contest. Sure, things happened at the art show, but not every year. Sometimes it was just an art show. An art show with nervous contestants and some quality prizes, but an art show. Maybe Case would calm down a little.

  Right, and maybe he’d invite Becca over to play some Madden with Hack and me.

  After seeing Case lose it over Becca’s interrogation and his almost-fight in the backyard, I was glad I’d never told him or Hack about my time working with Scottsville Middle’s most feared detective. I’d never be able to explain it in a way that would prevent Case from feeling betrayed.

  But that was an old problem, neatly avoided. I had bigger things to worry about. I hadn’t lied when I said Becca was good enough to catch the real thief, but I also knew that she hated me enough to only see the clues that led to me, or worse, to Case and then to me. At least she would at first. She might move on, but only after harassing both of us for days. In fact, I couldn’t believe she wasn’t already knocking on my door, hand-drawn warrant in hand, ready to accuse me. That could get awkward if Mom and Dad and Rick saw. They wouldn’t understand. They’d think she was my girlfriend or something.

  Ugh. Can you imagine, Becca and me? We’d get along like two betta fish in the same tank. At least, we would now. There was a moment at the end of the Mark job that I thought Becca and I could be . . . well, no longer enemies, but that passed quickly.

  The best plan was to relax. When the detective came, I’d tell her the truth and send her on her way. Case and I were innocent, so we wouldn’t be in any trouble.

  But trouble has a way of kicking in my door, no matter how many bolts I use.

  TO MY ASTONISHMENT, BECCA didn’t bang on my door that night. Or on Friday. Or on Saturday morning as I put on the blue button-down shirt and khaki shorts Mom has laid out for me—a clear sign that I would dress nicely for the art contest or I wasn’t going.

  (I’d fought Mom on this. I’d protested that Case was the one hoping to get his picture in the Scottsville Gazette, not me, and that no one would care what I looked like as long as my jeans weren’t torn. But Mom insisted that “the Scottsville Art Show is a semiformal event and it shows respect to the artists and the community to dress nicely.” I know when to pick my battles.)

  I frowned at myself (at least I didn’t have to wear a tie) and waited for Becca to kick down my door as my family left to pick up Hack and then go to the art show. It didn’t happen. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe our time together had left her with enough respect for me to check her suspicions before she threatened me at home.

  Or maybe she was waiting to pounce at the most annoying possible moment.

  “Are you ready?” Mom called.

  “I got to wear jeans last year. Tell me why I can’t now,” I said after I’d come downstairs.

  “Because we all know you and Hack will rush the stage if Casey wins anything,” Dad said. “If you’re going to act wild, you may as well look nice for it.”

  I shrugged. “As long as there’s a reason.”

  Rick came downstairs wearing a tie. “At least you got a reason. I’m still waiting for mine.”

  I would be the only one attending the show. Mom and Dad were taking Rick to visit some local colleges. Just as well—I didn’t need his moronic comments about whether a monkey or a two-year-old human could create better art than the stuff on display.

  Mom smiled at him. “You look very nice. It’s important to make a good impression when we talk to your future professors.”

  “Yeah, but isn’t it basically lying? They’ll never see me wearing a tie again,” Rick said. “I’d hate to mislead them.”

  “You’re wearing it,” Dad told
him. “Lie or not. Now let’s go before Hack gets himself grounded again.”

  Rick leaned down to me. “Dr. Evil, how long, in your professional opinion, can I go before I ditch the tie and no one notices?”

  I smiled. “Take it off in the car and claim you’ll put it back on later. They’ll be distracted by the campus.”

  “I knew I could count on your nefarious mind.”

  The Family Wilderson got into the car and went to pick up Hack. His nickname comes from the time he first showed Case and me how he could get into his mom’s e-mail and social network accounts, then later when he “accidentally” got every Scottsville Middle School computer stuck on a video of a dancing banana on the first day of online math testing. Most adults called him by his given name, Paul, but my parents had heard us use his nickname so often they had adopted it too.

  Hack hopped in beside Rick and me, grinning widely. “Free to go,” he said. “I was extra careful not to get grounded for Case’s big day.”

  I snorted. “You’ll wish you were under house arrest once Case gets to talking about art.”

  “Which he will.”

  “As sure as balloon animals are pointless.”

  “Was that a pun?”

  “Not intended, but I’ll take credit anyway.”

  Hack buckled up and peered at me through smudged glasses. “Has . . . Becca talked to you lately?”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Case called my house Thursday, freaking out. Mom was home, but she was busy, and I’m not allowed near the phone without parental supervision, though I heard the voice mail later. All I picked out was ‘sorry’ and ‘Becca’ and ‘trouble.’ Care to elaborate?”

  “Shh!” I peeked at my family. Dad glanced at me but then turned his attention back to the road. Rick raised an eyebrow, smirked, and shook his head before looking out the window.

  “They can’t know,” I whispered. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “We’re here,” Mom said. I looked out the window and saw the Edgar T. Fitzsimmons Memorial Park, right next to the Grecian-style art museum that looked impressive but was smaller than you’d expect. Welcome to the annual Scottsville Youth Art Show and Competition, held every year outside in the park so visitors could enjoy the summer sun along with their kids’ artwork.

  As soon as the engine ceased, Hack and I unhooked our seat belts and hopped out of the car. “Bye! See ya! Gotta go find Case.”

  “Hold on,” Mom said. “We can’t just leave you here. We need to make an emergency plan.”

  It didn’t take long to decide that Case’s parents were in charge. Mom gave me her cell phone and wanted me to call every hour, but Dad talked her out of it. The deal changed to me calling if there was any trouble or if our plans changed.

  “We’ll be back at five,” Mom said. “Will you be okay?”

  “Sure, Mom. It’s an art show. How much trouble could we get into?”

  Mom narrowed her eyes at Hack. I clapped my hands and said, “Better go find Case! Love you!” Then I turned to leave, pulling Hack behind me, as Rick and my parents left.

  Hack and I ran through the park to the Contestants’ Tent, where Case and his family would be waiting for us.

  “So,” Hack asked as we walked, “what happened with Becca?”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. Case came by and told me, still freaking out, that Becca is working a stolen art supplies case and she thinks I’m involved.”

  “Surprise, surprise.” Hack rubbed his head, mussing his once well-combed red hair. “You weren’t, were you?”

  I stared at him and he raised his hands as we wove through crowds of pastel-clad visitors. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “After that Mark thing—”

  “I swear, I’ll tell you everything. That was one time. Anyway, it got better. Becca followed Case to my house and threatened us both from my backyard. Rick almost heard her.”

  Hack made a face. “I’m sorry you have to deal with her so much. She’s such a witch. Did you know the parental locks on my school computer account were her idea?”

  “Like those stop you.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

  “Well, it’s a nice day. Try to forget about Becca and enjoy it. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  It was a perfect morning. The sun shone, bright and yellow, in a blue sky, and the wind blowing through carried just enough of the past spring’s chill to counter the warmth of the summer sun without raising goose bumps. I’d have to enjoy it while it lasted; it would get hotter and more humid as the day went on. I noted a stand labeled snow cones! cheap! with a hand-painted sign and decided I’d have to come back later when the day felt more seasonal. Maybe a few times.

  Inexpensive snow cones, no Becca, and a whole day of hanging out with my friends: life was perfect.

  When we reached the Contestants’ Tent, a big white-and-green striped canvas pavilion, a woman tried to stop us from entering. After we told her our names, she let us in. Case had already pulled strings to get us on “the list.”

  That would sound so much cooler if it wasn’t for a community art show.

  “Ouch,” Hack said once we were inside. He took off his glasses and used them to scratch his head.

  “No kidding.” I stuck my hands in my pockets (stocked with a few dollars, a pack of gum, and my homemade lock-pick set) to keep from sympathetically fidgeting.

  That’s because the atmosphere in the tent was tense. Case’s attitude at my house Thursday night was devil-may-care compared to this. Although the tent was comfortable, the tablecloths and flower centerpieces bright and festive, and the refreshment table stacked high with everything from celery sticks to iced brownies (not chocolate cake, but beggars can’t be choosers), the people milling around acted like prisoners on death row.

  A girl at one table chewed on a twisted napkin, her eyes vacant. A boy paced up and down the side of the tent, muttering to himself in a way that wouldn’t be out of place in a Lord of the Rings movie. Several girls were crying, and all around I saw helicopter parents whirring over their offspring. Shoulders were hunched and the air was full of the sound of grinding teeth. Man, this place was going to reek of sweat and desperation by the time the judges announced the winners later that afternoon.

  Not everyone was a mess, I realized. Two girls were talking cheerfully. A skinny boy in a vest and a bow tie was even whistling. What was wrong with him?

  “J! Over here.” Hack waved me over to a shaking Case, who was sitting with his family at a table beside the refreshments. His parents were talking to some other child artist’s parents.

  “Move over,” Hack said, nudging Case’s ten-year-old sister, Mia. She scowled at him and stood up, emptying the seat for me, before walking over to join her parents and the other two mini Kingstons: Brielle, age seven, and Case’s one and only brother, Bradley, age two.

  “Thanks, Mia!” I called, and she glared at me as I hurried over.

  “Don’t be like this, man,” I said, passing Case and Hack to grab a plate, a brownie, and three forks off the refreshment table. I handed out the forks. “The art is in. It’s over. It’s like when you hand a test in but it’s not graded. There’s nothing to do but wait, so why worry?”

  Case looked up at me. He rubbed his hands, which, despite the summer heat and his shirt and 49ers logo tie, were still in his Eagles gloves. A pen rested in its usual place above his ear. “Waiting for a grade. That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Let me try again. It’s like you’re a kicker for the NFL. You’ve kicked the ball, and it’s up and hanging in the air. There’s nothing you or anyone else can do but wait.”

  Case groaned and put his face down on the table. “Somehow that’s even worse.”

  Hack draped an arm around Case’s shoulders as I picked up a flyer lying on the table. “Come on,” he said cheerfully, cutting out a piece of the brownie with his fork. “How about you, me, and J go out there and make fun of all the art that makes no
sense?” He popped the brownie bite into his mouth.

  “Yeah,” I said, nudging Case to take his piece of the brownie. Not a chocolate cake, so not really right, but it was better than nothing. At least it was iced. I held up the flyer. “With a theme of ‘Dreamscapes and Nightmares,’ there’s got to be a lot to mock.”

  Case snatched the flyer out of my hand. “It’s bad taste to mock another’s artwork, unless it’s like that painting last year. Why do you think I’m in here?” He took a bite of the brownie and licked the icing off the fork. “I don’t want to accidentally run into someone while I’m looking at their work because then I’d have to comment on it. What if I don’t like it?”

  “Lie,” Hack and I said in unison.

  Case gave us death glares. “Maybe you can tell a convincing lie off-the-cuff, but there’s a reason why I do work where I can try again if I make a mistake.”

  I aimed my fork for a corner of the brownie, and Case and Hack both dueled me off with their forks. “Fine. Take it. What do I care? Okay, Case, how about I go back out there and scope it out? Tell you which pieces to avoid and where they are. Is there a map of this place?”

  Case handed me a map of the park with lines and little numbered squares where the art would be on display along the sidewalks. A key on the back revealed which art belonged to which artist. “Thanks. I’ll check it out. I only pray that after listening to you for years and years I can tell the good art from the less-good art.”

  Case’s gaze sharpened. “Was that a shot?”

  I stood. “Just a statement of fact. Back in a few. If I’m not, assume Becca found me and threw me into a snow-cone stand.”