Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception (26 page)

Jojo looks at me, blinks for a few seconds like he's hallucinating, then looks from Tess to Austin and then back inside the Vault. “But—”

So since they know I'm there, I step forward and say, “Maybe Diane picked them up, you know, earlier? I mean, you did get the pictures taken, right? For the lithographs?”

“Lithographs?” Tess asks Jojo. “She's agreed to lithographs?”

“She signed the contract today if it's any of your business,” Jojo snaps. Then his eyes get big like he's suddenly having a horrible thought. “Please, lord. Don't have them be …
stolen.
”

“Stolen?” I ask him. “What about the security guard?”

“Mrs. Weiss fired him!”

“But he's
your
security guard.”

Jojo gives a helpless shrug. “She said he was eating up the money I owed her.”

Austin's eyes narrow down on him. “Something don't smell right here.”

Jojo's face flutters around like crazy. “Uh, maybe I'll call Di and—”

Austin grabs him by the arm. “Partner, what you'd better do is call a locksmith. Pronto!”

Jojo makes some little choking sounds, bobs his head a bunch, then scurries off to use the Bean Goddess phone. I shadow him behind the counter like I'm part of the phone-call package, and thirty seconds after he says, “Di, darling?” into the receiver I can tell—his tush is toast.

“She doesn't have them?” I whisper when he gets off the phone.

“No!” he wails. “How can this be?”

He jets off, but I just stand there a minute, thinking. Then I take a quick look around, and since no faux-bos seem to be watching, I grab the phone, dial information, and in no time I've got the number for the Heavenly Hotel.

André picks up on the third ring, saying, “Heavenly,” right through his cigar.

“André,” I whisper. “It's Sammy.”

“Who? Speak up, would ya?”

“Sammy,” I whisper louder.

“Oh, hey!” I can practically see him sitting up straighter. “We in trouble?”

“No, but I need to know something—has the Harley guy checked out?”

“Uh, noooooo. He just paid for another night.”

“He did?” I charged ahead anyway. “When?”

“Not mor'n ten minutes ago.”

“So he's in his room?”

“Believe so.”

“Connect me, would you?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

A long minute later I hear, “Hello?” in my ear.

“Mr. Reijden?” I whisper.

“What's that?”

“Mr. Reijden? It's Sammy. My grams and I met you in the lobby?”

“Oh, right.”

“I know why you stole the paintings.”

Silence.

“I understand why you did it, and I don't blame you.” Finally he says, “Miss, look. This is between Lizzy and me.”

“So she knows you have them?”

There was a really long pause, and finally he says, “Come again?”

“The paintings—she knows you've got them? Like I said, I don't blame you, I just don't—”

“Are you saying they're not at the gallery?”

My skin felt like it was crawling right off my shoulders. “Uh … that's right. The Vault's been shut down because Jojo hasn't paid the rent. All the rest of the paintings are locked inside, but hers are gone. And since Jojo just called your sister and
she
doesn't have them, I figured you took them. I mean, that
was
you the night of the reception, right?”

I could hear him across the line, thinking. And finally he says, “My sister's wrong about a lot of things, but she's right that you're a real smart kid. And I'm sorry about kicking your jaw. That looked like it hurt pretty bad. Didn't mean to harm no one. And I know the whole thing was kinda crazy, but I was afraid she would sell some that night.”

“So you do have them?”

“No, ma'am.”

“But—”

Just then a bean-brewing bohemian snatches the phone from my ear and says, “What do you think this is? A pay phone?”

“Hey!” I cried, but she slammed the phone down and wagged her pierced tongue at me like some weird lizard or something.

“That's supposed to
scare
me?” I asked her. “Go French a frozen fish, why don'tcha?”

She blinked at me once, then threw me over the counter.

So I was dusting off, collecting my cool, when Grams blows through the Bean Goddess door. And before she can get a single question out, I grab her by the arm and yank her back outside.

“Samantha! What on earth is going on? Where are we going?”

I pull her along, saying, “I'll tell you on the way,” because in my heart I know.

I don't have much time.

TWENTY-TWO   

Santa Martina's probably got a grand total of two taxis, but when Grams found out what I suspected, she jumped out into Broadway traffic and flagged one down. And when we got dropped off in front of Diane's driveway, I wedged Mrs. Ambler's magnifying glass into my back pocket, then stashed my skateboard and backpack in the same old bushes and said, “Let's go.”

About halfway down the driveway, Grams whispers, “My hunch is she won't let us in.”

“But she's got to be home. Jojo talked to her just a little while ago.”

“Oh, she's home, all right,” Grams says, pointing to the sky. “What I'm saying is, she won't answer the door.”

What Grams had pointed to was smoke coming up from the chimney, blowing in a thin gray stream over the rooftop. And at first I didn't think anything of it, but then I got this awful, nauseating thought. “Grams!” I gasped.

“What, Samantha? What is it?”

I was staring at the smoke. “Nooooo!” I cried, and took off running.

I pushed the doorbell like crazy.

Nobody came.

I whacked the door with my knuckles.

Nobody came.

I pounded with my fist and my foot and rattled the knob and screamed, “Diane, don't!” but nobody answered the door.

Grams caught up to me, panting, “Samantha, what is wrong?”

“Oh, Grams! Oh, Grams!” I cried. “She doesn't need them anymore. All they are now is evidence.”

Grams tried to calm me down. Tried to talk me out of what I was thinking, but it was no use. I beat on the door like I wanted to kill it. “Grams, call the police! Go over to Mr. Moss's and call the police!”

“But—”

I took off around the house, looking for another door. A side door. A back door. An
unlocked
door. And when I came around to the sunroom, to the big, wide window of the sunroom, I could see in, clear to the family room.

There was Diane, sitting on the edge of the fireplace hearth with perfect posture, watching the fire burn. And I couldn't tell what was inside the fireplace—all I could see was a flame in the center and black smoke curling up the sides—but leaning against the hearth was something I would recognize anywhere.

Whispers.

“No!” I screamed as I pounded on the window. “Diane, don't!”

She didn't even look over. She just kept staring at the fire.

I ran around the house, rattling doorknobs, trying windows, yelling, “Help! Help! Somebody, help!” And I was
clear around the back side of the house when I heard a loud noise. A
brittle
noise.

At first I froze, trying to figure out what had broken. Then I ran. And I was barreling past the sunroom when I saw it—a six-foot hole in the sunroom window. And lying across the bottom frame on its nonexistent face was that hideous, nursing home statue that had been standing guard outside.

I stepped on it, over it, right into the house. And when I got into the living room, what did I see?

My grams on the ground like a professional wrestler. Seriously, she's on top of Diane, pulling her head back by the hair with one hand, wrenching a leg back with the other. And Diane's flailing around, trying to hit her, but Grams is bouncing up and down on her back, crying, “You fake! You phony!”

Now, part of me is dying to jump in and help Grams, because Diane looks like she might break free any second, but Grams cries, “Samantha, quick! See if you can save them! She threw them all on!”

There's smoke pouring into the room from underneath the paintings, and as I charge the fireplace, I see
Whispers
on top, still intact.

I grab for the top few frames, but before I can get a grip, flames flare up around my arm and I have to pull back.

So I try from a different angle, but suddenly the hood of my sweatshirt yanks me back, cutting into my throat and choking me.

It's Diane, hanging on, dragging me away, crying, “I … am … not … going to let you … ruin this … for me!”

And there's Grams, sprawled on the floor behind me, down, but definitely not out.

So I'm twisting and kicking and yanking, trying to get back to the fireplace, when all of a sudden Grams charges Diane with a flying tackle from the side and sets me free.

Black smoke is billowing everywhere now, but
Whispers
is still okay. So right through fire and smoke and heat, I reach inside. The frame is blazing hot, but I hold on anyway. But just as I'm pulling
Whispers
out, fire shoots through the middle and
poof
, the girl in the painting disappears.

I yank it away, crying, “No! Noooo!” and smother the flames on the carpet.

I knew it was ruined, but still, I couldn't bear to believe it. And when I finally did turn it over and look, my eyes spilled over. The whole center was crinkled and melted. All I could make out was the tail of the rocking horse and a little bit of a hand.

I almost gave in and bawled my eyes out. But there in the bottom left corner was what I'd come to Diane's house for in the first place.

Proof.

I checked Grams. She had ol' Purple Eyes in a hammer-lock, but Diane was still fighting hard to get to me. So I dried my eyes, pulled out Mrs. Ambler's magnifying glass, and got to work.

She'd done a good job. A very good job. The color
matched almost exactly. And I didn't have to scrape the paint away to know I was right, but I did anyway. I picked at it with my thumbnail until the
i
was back to its original
u
, and the true artist's name was showing.

“Well?” Grams asked me, twisting Diane's arm back extra hard.

I nodded. “Says Duane.”

The minute I said her father's name, Diane gave up, crumbling onto the couch. And while Diane's whole body's wrenching up and down, sobbing, Grams dusts her hands off and says, “Told you she was a phony.”

I turned back to what was left of
Whispers.
And I couldn't help it—I started to cry again. Partly I was crying because this painting that I loved so much was gone. But with those tears came smaller, harder tears.

Deeper tears.

I mean, I finally, finally understood what it was about this painting.

It was the joy of belonging.

The joy of sharing.

The joy of love.

I shook the painting at Diane and choked out, “Why?”

She flung aside tears and said, “Was it worse than leaving them here for no one to see? Was it worse than—”

“Why couldn't you just have shown them as
his
?”

“Because he's
dead.
No one cares about a contemporary artist whose future is over. I was doing him a favor! I was combining our talents to bring the world his paintings and—”

Grams snorted. “Don't delude yourself, woman. You did what you did for strictly self-serving reasons.”

“It's not true!”

I hugged what was left of
Whispers
and choked out, “Then why'd you
burn
them?”

She looked right at me. “Why'd you have to come back? Why'd you have to talk to Pete? Why couldn't you just have left me alone?”

And that's when I noticed it—one of her eyes was …
brown.
I looked at her closer and said, “You wear …” I turned to Grams and cried, “They're just contacts! Purple contacts!”

Diane turned away, but Grams was in her face in a flash. And when she saw her brown eye, Grams tisked and muttered, “A phony, through and through.”

Then all of a sudden Grams stiffens. Just sort of gains two inches and pricks up an ear. And as she hobbles over to a small window and pulls back the curtain, I begin to hear it, too.

One tricked-out Harley-Davidson coming down the drive.

“I have a hunch your brother's not going to be too pleased with you,” Grams tells Diane.

“He had no right to show up after all these years!” She flings aside some more tears. “He's a deadbeat! A good-for-nothing bum! At fifty-six, he's still trying to
find
himself!”

“Hrmph,” Grams says. “And I suppose you fancy yourself an artist? A deserving member of cultured society? Well, look in the mirror,
Elizabeth.
It's not a pretty sight.”

Grams heads for the front door to let Lance in, but she's still hobbling, so I say, “Grams? What's with your foot?”

“My shoe's broken and my ankle's sore. And I don't want to hear about it, okay?”

So while she's gone, I ask Diane, “I don't get why your brother didn't just turn you in.”

“I told you! He's a deadbeat! The courts have been after him for ages. He owes fifteen years of child support! Never paid one cent! So no, I wasn't going to give him half the paintings. Why should I?
I'm
the one who's worked so hard to get them noticed,
I'm
the one who's put my life on hold. He didn't move back to take care of Mother like I did. He never called or wrote, and now all of a sudden Daddy's paintings are
special
to him? All of a sudden he develops a
conscience
? I offered him a nice percentage, but no! He doesn't think what I'm doing is
right.
Well, he's nothing but a hypocrite!”