Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception (18 page)

“It's about Hudson.”

“Ah,” she says, then smiles softly. “My silver knight.” My heart was sinking. Sinking fast. “Well, I was wondering …”

“Yes, dear?”

“Well, I know it's none of my business …” I look down at my high-tops and sort of toe the rug, saying, “He told me that you asked him to escort you to some Art Society dinner or something?”

She nods. “Yes, that's right.”

“And I was wondering, you know, why him?”

She laughs, then smiles at me very sweetly. “Why, because he's a real gentleman. And intelligent and charming and …”

Inside I wanted to die. So it was true—she was sweet on Hudson.

What in the world was I going to tell Grams?

But then Diane leans back, lets out a little sigh, and says, “And he reminds me quite a lot of my father.”

“Your … your
father
?”

“Mmm-hmm. They even look a bit alike.” She motions to her left. “There's a picture of him on the desk. Have a look.”

It was the coolest desk I'd ever seen. It looked like something Ben Franklin might have had. Or Thomas Jefferson. It had a leather top with a gold design all around the edge. And the whole desk was kidney-shaped. Even the drawers curved around.

I picked up the picture of her father and studied his face. To me, he looked nothing like Hudson. Oh sure, his hair was white, but Hudson has way more hair. And Dr. Reijden had little round glasses. I could not picture Hudson wearing little round glasses. There were tons of books in the background, just like Hudson has in his library, and the picture was friendly enough, but something about it made me feel a little strange. I mean, in the picture he's sitting
at
the kidney desk, looking up from a letter he's writing. But now that he's dead, he sits
on
the kidney desk. It made me feel sort of sad. Like he was never going to get to finish the letter.

“See what I mean?” Diane asked.

I put the picture back where I'd found it and said, “Yeah.”

“Well,” she says, coming over to me, “I hope it hasn't caused any trouble with your grandmother. Is that what this is all about?”

I gave a little shrug and looked down.

“Ah,” she says. “Well, I hadn't intended to give off any romantic signals.” She eyes me. “Would you like me to cancel my invitation?”

I wanted to say, Yes! But I knew that would be a very bad idea. So I shook my head and said, “Hudson's one of my best friends in the whole wide world. He's smart and he's wise and he's really good company.” I looked her in the eye and added, “Today I found out he can also be kind of … tender. Just kind of keep that in mind, okay?”

She smiled at me real sweetly, then put her arm around my shoulders and said, “I promise.”

I left there feeling better. A lot better. And I was just kind of strolling along gravel, lost in feeling sorry for Hudson, when all of a sudden Flannel Man pops out from behind a hedge and says, “Hallo there, missy.”

I jumped back a little, then couldn't help laughing. With one of his cap muffs sticking straight out and the other one sticking straight down, he looked like an old hound dog who was having trouble perking up his ears. “Oh, hi,” I told him. “Out feeding your squirrels?”

“Just buryin' them treasures for later. How's Lizzy today?”

“Oh, she's okay.”

“Been a little concerned since the row last night.”

“The … the row? Like, there was a fight?”

His mouth scrunches closed, then moves to one side as he studies me. Finally he leans closer. “Mmm-hmm,” he says, his flannel ear bobbing up and down. Then he points to the big tree on Diane's property and says, “I was over picking up walnuts from under their tree—” He stops himself and says, “Mind you, that's just fine with Lizzy. Anytime, she told me. Anytime a'tall. And that's when I heard the yellin'. I got myself home right quick.
Never been a meddler, but I can't say it didn't shake these old bones. Dr. Duane and the missus would be crushed, they would, to hear their kids carryin' on so.”

“She was fighting with her brother?”

He nods. “I sense he's layin' claim on some of the estate.” He shakes his head. “Lotta nerve after all these years.” Then he adds, “Ah, well. S'long as Lizzy's all right. S'pose it'll work itself out.”

He turns to go back to burying walnuts, but I stop him, saying, “Uh, Mr. Moss?”

“Yes, missy?”

“Why do you call her Lizzy?”

“Why, because it's her name.”

“Like when she was born, her mom named her
Lizzy
?” He shrugs, “Well, Elizabeth, wot? But they all called her Lizzy.”

“So why's she go by Diane?”

He shrugs again. “Didn't know she did.”

He turns to go, but I can't help wondering just how isolated his world of squirrels really is. So I stop him with, “Mr. Moss?”

“Yes, miss?”

“Do you get the paper?”

“The newspaper?” He shakes his head and gives a little snort. “No time for that.” Then he disappears behind the hedge.

So I left him to his squirrels and hit the street, telling myself that everything
would
work itself out. Jojo'd take care of Ned Bristol, Tess would be exposed for the lying cheating phony that she was, and Hudson would get over
being blather-brained about Diane. Like he had told me about Marissa—I just had to be patient.

But as I clicked along on my skateboard, the back of my mind didn't feel like being patient. It was busy churning away. First slowly, then faster and faster, stirring up questions. Stirring up doubt.

And, as it turns out, a whole new batch of trouble.

FIFTEEN   

I snuck up the fire escape and through the fifth-floor door without a sound. And I had my whole story lined out about why I was so late—which for once wasn't hard to do. No tracks to cover, no lies to construct—I was just going to tell Grams the truth.

Trouble is, when I let myself into the apartment and looked around, well, she wasn't there to tell the truth
to.
I said hi to Dorito, fed Dorito, then started checking around for signs of how long Grams had been gone.

No mail on the table, no mail in the trash. No lunch dishes in the sink or dishwasher. Just breakfast bowls. But I did find a knife with a little mustard on it.

So I checked the fridge. Half a turkey sandwich wrapped in cellophane and stashed in the meat drawer. I unwrapped it and looked inside. Mustard.

I checked the trash again and found a rumpled paper towel with crumbs and a smudge of mustard inside.

Okay, so she'd been home for lunch, but probably not as late as one or two—which is when she usually goes down to the lobby for mail. She hadn't just taken a quick trip to Maynard's Market, either. She'd been gone a long time. I could feel it.

I thought about starting on dinner, but I started on my homework instead. Who knew when she'd come home? A month ago I could have told you
exactly
, but now, well, things felt sort of out of control. Like Grams was all wound up one minute and completely wound
out
the next. I felt kind of sorry for her. I mean, it had taken her a long time to be comfortable around Hudson. To let her guard down. Slowly she'd started trusting him. Liking him.

Counting on him.

And from what I could tell, he really liked her, too. But then ol' Purple Eyes had come into the picture and now Hudson seemed out of control, too.

So where was Grams? And how in the world was she going to react to the things I'd found out.

Maybe I wouldn't tell her.

Maybe that would be for the best.

But then I remembered our pact—I tell her the truth, she trusts me.

But would it be lying to just
not
tell her?

Now, before I can totally talk myself into or out of anything, Grams blasts through the door. She's all out of breath and windblown, and when she sees me, she whooshes into the chair across from me, saying, “You will never believe what I found out!”

“What?”

Her eyes are all wide and shining, and she's just dying to tell me, but she takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. “First, I'm sorry I'm so late. I would have called you but … but the reference desk was closing and I had to pay for my copies, and then there was this pokey
old grouch using the phone, so … so I decided to just hurry home.”

I laughed, “Grams, you're sounding a lot like me, you know that?”

She holds completely still for a moment, then laughs, “So I am!” Then she leans forward and her eyes are huge as she says, “Anyway, you will never guess what I dug up today.”

“So tell me!” I go to snag the papers she's holding, but she pulls them to her chest. “Ah-ah-ah! First,” she says, sitting up straight, “has Hudson told you his excuse for why he's fallen for Lovely Lizzy?”

“Uh …”

I was looking for a way to phrase it when she says, “Oh, come on. I know the two of you talk. Surely he's told you about her work being a window into her soul? How you know her by knowing her paintings?”

I cringed. “He
told
you that?”

“He most certainly did.”

“Well, you know how philosophical Hudson can get.”

“Delusional is more like it! It's the violet eyes, and I told him so.”

“You did?”

“I most certainly did! And I asked him, If those paintings had been done by a fat old hag with warts and bad teeth, would he be in love with
her
?”

I laughed. “What did he say?”

She huffs. “He said a fat old hag with warts and bad teeth wouldn't create such masterpieces.”

“Hmm.” I reached for her papers again. “So what are those?”

“A
real
window into Elizabeth Diane Reijden's soul,” she says, handing them over. “One with a completely different view.”

“So her name really is Elizabeth?”

“According to these articles.”

The papers were thin and sort of shiny and looked like bad copies of old newspapers. “Is her
middle
name Diane?”

“I suppose so.”

“But why—” The feel of the paper interrupted my train of thought. “These are weird,” I said, rubbing one between my fingers. “Where'd you get them?”

“At the library. Off the microfiche machine.”

“The micro-
fish?
What kind of—”

“Just look at them, would you!”

So I did. The first one was an article with the title JURIED ART SHOW PROTESTED. It was long and looked pretty dense with no pictures, so I went to the next paper, which had the headline REVENGE OF THE REFUSED. There were some pictures of people I'd never seen before, posing with their artwork. But there was also a picture of someone I did know. Too well. “That's Tess!” I said. “These are about that art show where Diane got rejected?”

Grams nodded. “That's right. The refused artists made a big fuss and put together their
own
show.” She pointed to the bottom right of the paper. “Right there Tess justifies why the panel rejected some of the art.”

I snorted. “I'll bet she does. Like she's really going to say Diane's art makes hers look bad …”

Now, I was expecting Grams to nod or maybe just shrug, but instead, she raises one eyebrow and smirks. Like, Girl, you have no idea what you're about to see.

So I turn over to the next page where there are more pictures of rejected artists. And there's Diane, smiling up at me from fishy paper. She's not alone, either. She's surrounded. Not by other artists. Not by paintings or painting supplies. No, she's surrounded by statues.

Big, white, ugly statues.

Ones that look like they've been cast off of nursing home patients.

“No!” I whispered. “
She
made those?”

“That's right,” she says with a really smug smile. “What do you suppose he'll say about her inner soul now?”

“But—”

“Samantha, it's all right there,” she says, slapping the paper with the back of her hand. “She studied here, there, and everywhere, she was mentored by some famous French sculptor in New York, some famous German in France … she drops names like you won't believe, but they don't help the end result. Those statues are hideous!”

I skimmed the article. Everything Grams said was true, and if I didn't know Diane in person, I sure would not like her from what I was reading. The article made her sound really … snobby.

“But Grams, her paintings are so good. Maybe we just don't get something about these statues—”

“Oh nonsense. What neither you nor Hudson seem to understand is that her paintings are just a new contrivance.”

“A new con
tri
vance?”

“They don't mean anything to her. They're just product. Fabricated emotions. They move you by
design
, not consequence.”

I stared at her. “Wow, Grams. You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you?”

“Yes, I have,” she said. “How else do you explain this?”

I looked back at the fishy picture and shook my head. “Maybe I just don't get art.”

She smiled at me, then kissed my temple. “What you don't get, child, is men.”

At school the next day, I realized that Grams was right—I didn't get men.

Or, at least, junior high boys.

I was charging up the school steps
shwap-bap-bap-bapbap-bap-bap
, when all of a sudden
shwap-bap-bap-bapbap-bap-bap
, there's Billy Pratt charging up the steps right beside me. “Hey-ya, Sammy!”