Arts and Thefts Page 9

  I heard a click near me as Quinn tucked the item in the purse, hooked the bag over her shoulder, closed the locker door, and hurried out.

  “She gone?” Becca whispered.

  I waited a moment. No one came back in. “Yeah.”

  “Then I’m out of here!”

  A few minutes later, we were both sitting on the ground. Becca brushed dust off her clothes. “Freaking thief, leaving me hanging. Almost letting me get caught.”

  “You didn’t get caught, and I said I was sorry.”

  “Whatever.” Becca pulled out her camera and started jabbing buttons like they’d insulted her mother. I shook my head. What was going on with her?

  “I got a picture of the thing in her hand,” Becca said. “We’ll see what she came for—oh.”

  “What is it?” I peered over Becca’s shoulder at the camera’s display. She threw an elbow at me, but not before I could see. Pixelated, yes, but very clearly a small bottle of paint.

  “Innocent, huh?” I said.

  Becca frowned. “It’s not one of the paints stolen from Heather.”

  “You sure?”

  “Her paint bottles were bigger.”

  “I don’t think we need to search Quinn’s locker anymore. The evidence is gone now.”

  “If it is, in fact, evidence.” Becca chewed her lip. “I’m getting the feeling more is going on here than we thought.”

  Paint bottles where they shouldn’t be, but not related to the theft? I was getting the same feeling. “Looks like we’re done.”

  “No. I’d like to check one more locker.”

  I examined the wall of lockers. “You’d better have a number.”

  “I don’t, but you might. We need Casey Kingston’s locker.”

  I stiffened. “No.”

  “Heather said she saw him at her party. The one you said Casey never attended. She was one hundred percent sure. I shouldn’t have doubted my intel, but maybe it was a good thing I did. Now I know for a fact that Casey could have stolen the brushes.”

  What? “That has to be a mistake. I was with him . . .” I trailed off, remembering. We had been playing video games, that was true, but Case had left for lunch and come back hours later. Why would he have gone to the party and not told me?

  “Casey would also know which brushes to take,” Becca said. “He’s a competitor, a nervous one, with something to gain today.”

  “Case is not a thief.”

  “You don’t tell him everything. Maybe it’s time to consider that he has his own secrets.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You know the locker number, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t exactly have time to get it earlier.”

  Becca pointed at the door by the security guard. “Then go get it.”

  “I’m not opening Case’s locker.”

  “Why not? Do you think he has anything to hide?” Becca folded her arms. “If he’s innocent, we won’t find anything, right? Isn’t that what you said about Quinn?”

  I gritted my teeth. “This is such a huge breach of trust.”

  “Do it, and if he’s clean, I won’t mention it again.”

  That was appealing. One quick look, and if there wasn’t anything suspicious, that would be the end of it. Becca wouldn’t pursue Case.

  I sighed. “Give me a moment.”

  Becca sat in the chair as I went out to the lobby to ask the guard for my friend’s locker number.

  It was easy. I spun a tale about needing to grab Case’s inhaler (he doesn’t have asthma, but adults question you less when it relates to medical situations) and, because I’m actually Case’s friend, it must have rung true. The guard gave me not only the locker number (121) but also the combination.

  I went back to the locker room. Becca hung back as I located the locker and began entering the combination, hating myself.

  “This is much faster,” Becca commented.

  “Why don’t you break into your best friend’s locker, and I’ll sit back making snarky comments?” I grumbled.

  “I don’t think it’s ‘breaking in’ if you already have the combination,” Becca said as I opened the locker.

  Becca stepped over to see what was inside, but I blocked the door. I needed to get a good look first and make sure there were no forged doctor’s notes inside.

  A large purse with everything a mom with four kids would carry. And there, at the back . . . oh no.

  Becca pushed me aside and looked in. She gasped and pulled out two bottles of tempera paint, one red and one yellow.

  “This means nothing,” I said. “A painter has paints in his locker. So what? He could have bought them at the gift shop.”

  “The bottles are old, though, like Heather’s. And red and yellow? Tempera? That can’t be a coincidence.” Becca handed me the yellow paint and examined the red.

  She shook her head and pulled out her camera. “I hate to say it, but it seems like your friend is our thief.”

  “Because this paint looks like the paint Heather had stolen? Let me remind you: Case has plenty of his own paints and brushes. Why steal Heather’s?”

  “Because they’re Heather’s, not his. If you’re going to sabotage someone, why not use tools that can’t be traced back to you? It would prevent that annoying problem of having to wash the paint out of your own brush before it stains.”

  “That still doesn’t prove Case did it. Tempera is pretty common paint. This could have come from anywhere. It could be for anything.”

  “Like sabotage?”

  “Case would never do that.”

  “And yet you’re holding evidence in your hand. If we found that in Lee’s or Quinn’s locker, you’d agree that the proof was obvious.”

  It looked bad. I knew that. But I also knew Case. “If you knew how wrecked Case is right now, you wouldn’t suspect him.”

  “Right. Because criminals never get nervous.”

  “It isn’t Case. This paint is unrelated. It has to be.” Although, I didn’t know how. Every instinct in me agreed with Becca: this was Heather’s paint. Why did he have it? Did Case find it himself and plan to return it to Heather after the contest? When did he have time, and why wouldn’t he tell me about it? Could Becca be right? Did Case have secrets I didn’t know about?

  Annoyed, I returned the yellow paint to Case’s locker, slamming the bottle onto the metal floor of the compartment. The bottle’s lid snapped open and spurted a glob of paint onto my hand.

  Becca laughed. “You and lockers and paint.”

  “Funny. No, really. Hilarious.” I rubbed the paint, friction-drying it to get it off my skin. Tempera paint feels rough and chalky when it dries, and this was no exception. I wondered if I’d have abrasions once the paint was gone. But my skin was fine, if slightly mustard-colored.

  I closed the locker door without a word and walked out of the locker room, Becca right beside me. The security guard waved at us as we left the museum and stepped out into the sunlight.

  “It’s time to go find your friend,” Becca said as we reentered the park. Her expression was hard. “I have some things I’d like to say to him.”

  I turned to Becca, ready to let her know what I really thought about her accusations. But before I could say a word, a scream ripped through the air.

  Becca and I looked at each other. “That was from the painting areas,” she said.

  I tabled my argument and followed Becca, who was already running, to see whatever atrocity had just happened.

  WE WEREN’T THE ONLY ONES racing to the source of the scream. Other art show visitors clogged the paths as Becca and I wove our way to the painting gallery’s Wall E, where the commotion was raging on.

  Becca and I were small for our age, so as the adults stopped to watch, we were able to sneak under and around them. That’s when we saw what had happened.

  A girl was weeping as her parents tried to console her. I knew her: Diana Legris, a painter who was a rising eighth grader at Scottsville Middle. Her friend ha
d left her wallet on the bus and Diana had hired me to retrieve it. I’d gotten it back in fifteen minutes. Hadn’t even missed class. Hold your applause, please.

  Becca pointed. “We’re too late.”

  I looked and gasped. Behind the girl hung her painting. It had to be hers; Diana was a kind girl, but I doubted even the kindest heart would cry that much over the destruction of a competitor’s artwork.

  The painting was ruined. It was the superhero one I’d seen earlier, when I was scouting out the art show for Case, so realistic that it looked more like photography than painting. But that was before. Now there was a wide zigzag stroke, like a Z, covering the work. The Z dripped thick, wet, red paint.

  “Oh no.” Becca’s guess, and mine, had been solid. This wasn’t just theft. It was sabotage, it was real, and it was out of my pay grade. I wasn’t equipped to handle sabotage. Good thing I had Becca to help put together the clues and catch our bad guy.

  Diana gave another loud sob, and I gritted my teeth. It looked like I’d have to become the kind of person who stopped saboteurs, for Diana’s sake, and for Case’s. He would not be the next one to fall, whether by sabotage or by Becca’s overdeveloped sense of justice.

  He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have.

  “Come on,” Becca said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the painting.

  What was she thinking? Granted, the painting was distracting, but didn’t she see the group of contest officials and park security questioning everyone in sight? And . . . oh no. Was that Becca’s mom, Detective Mills, closely examining the painting? Yes, it was. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I pulled back.

  “We can’t,” I said.

  “Come on. My mom doesn’t bite.”

  I wasn’t worried about her biting me. I was afraid of her in general. I’d met the cub; I had no desire to meet Mama Bear.

  “What is she even doing here?” I asked. “Isn’t an art show sabotage a little rinky-dink for the head detective?”

  “She happened to be here on her day off, and anyway, this is the big Scottsville social event of the summer. Why wouldn’t she help out? Now, come on.”

  Becca pulled again and I dragged her back.

  She scowled. “We have to go right now!” she said. “Park security is going to take that painting away and we won’t get another chance to examine it. They’ll store it somewhere safe and that’s it. No more case for us.”

  Case. He must have heard the commotion, and if I knew him . . . I scanned the crowd.

  I didn’t see them anywhere. Case is tall, and Hack’s red hair would be visible from Mars. If they were there, I would have seen them. Good. The last thing I needed would be Becca ripping into Case over what I was sure was just a misunderstanding. Especially with her mom present.

  We had to find our culprit soon. Only then would Becca move off Case.

  “We have a job to do,” I said, pointing at Diana. “And if we want to do it well, we have to split up. Not far. Just so you can examine the painting while I talk to the victim.”

  “Makes sense. We have a lot of ground to cover and not much time. But I could talk to Diana instead.”

  “I’ll do it. I’m a better people person than you are.” I smiled. “Besides, I know her.”

  Becca narrowed her eyes. “You mean you’ve done jobs for her before.”

  “Tomato, tomahto. Ladies first?”

  Becca glared at me, one eyebrow raised. I shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you need me, you’ll know where to find me.” I turned on my heel and edged around the crowd, making my way toward the grieving Diana.

  I don’t like seeing people upset, and talking to the victim is very much in my line of work. In a way, every client I take on is a victim; I know how to care for them in a way Becca doesn’t. I also know how to get information out of a victim without putting her on the defensive.

  Diana’s wails had subsided into sobs, which stopped when she saw me. “J-Jeremy,” she said.

  So she remembered me. “Hey, Diana,” I said softly. I kept my voice gentle and friendly, sounding compassionate for the sake of the job, which wasn’t hard to do. I just imagined Diana, with her hopes high for a prize, finding her painting wrecked after all the hours she’d spent on it. “I’m sorry about your painting,” I said. “I wish I could have stopped it.”

  Diana smiled weakly. “Nobody could have stopped it, and anyway, you catch thieves,” she said. “Sabotage isn’t your field of work.”

  “Yeah, well, a bad guy is a bad guy, and I’m going to take this one down.” Well, Becca and I would, but that was just details. All I needed was a little more evidence to prove that Lee or Quinn were involved. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Diana shrugged. “I don’t know, it all happened so fast! I never expected it.”

  “People usually don’t,” I said. I looked over my shoulder at her ruined painting. Becca was there, leaning in close. She wore plastic gloves and was using her hand to measure the paint strokes. Her camera dangled from her wrist. As I looked, the gumshoe caught my eye and glared. I guess she still didn’t like me being out of handcuff range.

  The red paint was dripping down the canvas like blood. My heart ached for Diana. She was a sweet girl and didn’t deserve this. “I promise, I’m going to catch the person who did this,” I said. “You’ll see justice.”

  Justice? Wow, I was starting to sound like Becca. But what else could I promise a girl who hadn’t lost a wallet or a keychain but her shot at winning? I couldn’t retrieve that.

  “Thanks, Jeremy,” Diana said. She pulled away and smiled at me. “You’re a good guy. How can I repay you?”

  “I haven’t caught the saboteur yet, and as always, my work is pro bono. Try to enjoy yourself today and remember that you have next year. I saw your painting; it was good.”

  Diana laughed. “Sure you don’t want chocolate cake?”

  “If you can find it, I won’t say no. But I think all they have here is the brownies in the tent, and it’s not the same.”

  “It sure isn’t,” said a voice behind me. Case appeared at my elbow, a pen behind his ear. “Brownies are too dense to fully enjoy on the palate.” He smiled at Diana.

  “Case talks like a foodie when he’s nervous,” Hack said. His face was turned down, focused on the screen of a phone I was sure wasn’t his.

  Good thing neither of my friends were looking at me; they would have noticed my face twitch as I had a miniature heart attack. I thought they’d be off at Wall C checking on Case’s painting after the sabotage, making sure that his hadn’t also been attacked. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Case had decided to stand guard over his baby for the rest of the afternoon.

  I glanced at Becca. This time she was facing her mom, and they seemed to be having some kind of argument. Detective Mills waved a hand at the saboteur’s paint streaks, and Becca frowned. Then the younger Mills pointed at the crowds.

  I didn’t know what was going on, but at least neither mother nor daughter was looking my way. Good. As long as Becca was distracted, Case and Hack would be safe.

  “Did anyone see anything?” I asked. “When the painting was attacked?”

  Hack finally glanced up. “I’m on it. I’m searching through the buzz for witnesses testimonies.”

  “Whose phone is that?” I asked.

  “A friend’s,” Hack said.

  “I can save you the trouble. No one saw anything,” Diana said.

  Case pulled out a chocolate frosting–stained napkin and took the pen from his ear. “What do you mean by that?”

  Diana looked at Case, all ready to take her statement, and threw me a confused glance. “I’m sorry, is he with you?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Case got there first. “Always, miss.”

  “Yep,” Hack said distantly.

  I swallowed my guilt. Case and Hack always had my back. Surely I could be honest with them about the job and who I was working with—on second thought, no. Becca was already in a bad mood. I didn�
��t need my friends mad at me too.

  But I still needed that statement. “So, Diana,” I said. “What did you mean when you said no one saw anything?”

  Diana twisted her hands. “There was a bit of a . . . disturbance,” she said.

  Case jotted that down on the napkin. “Uh-huh. What happened?”

  Diana took a deep breath. “I had brought my family over to see my painting,” she said. “Grandma had just arrived, and she hadn’t seen it yet. So we brought her over here. We were just about to go get snow cones when someone shouted, ‘Oh my gosh, what is that?’ And we all turned to look.”

  Case and I met each other’s eyes and grimaced. It was a simple, stupid trick, shouting for everyone to look at something. But it was simply, stupidly effective. I’d used it several times to get myself out of a sticky situ ation. For just a few seconds, you’d have everyone’s attention focused elsewhere. It didn’t last long, but it worked great if all you needed was a few seconds to escape.

  Or to slather paint on someone’s art.

  “Where did the voice come from?” I asked.

  Diana pointed down the path toward her ruined painting. “Not far. And when I turned around, my painting was ruined,” she said, sobbing on the last word.

  “Did you see any of the other competitors around?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” I rattled off a list of contestants, making sure to include Quinn Eccles and Lee Moffat. “Any of them?”

  Diana shook her head. “I’m sure.” Well, that was helpful.

  Holding back further tears, Diana added, “They told me the judges hadn’t had a chance to look at it yet. I’m out of the running. Not just for Best Overall but also for Best Painting. I’m going home with nothing.”

  “Really?” I said. “That doesn’t seem right.” The judges must have been out for a while; how could none of them have seen Diana’s painting?

  Hack coughed. “J,” he said in a low voice, “that’s kind of the point of sabotage.”

  “I get that,” I said. “But Diana was attacked for a reason. Don’t you think her work was good enough to earn her a prize? Shouldn’t the judges give her something as a consolation?”