Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes (31 page)

But pretty soon lots of people are gathering around. And I'm just realizing that this one lady in a tight knit dress and slicked-back hair standing near Tess Winters is Miss Kuz
kow
ski, when a soft voice in my ear says, “Did you really tell her she was an ugly excuse for a human being?”

I jerk around, and standing right beside me is a woman with soft fluffy ringlets of reddish-brown hair. And I guess I was looking a little worried, because she pats my shoulder and says, “It's all right. I haven't had such a good laugh in ages.”

Now, this woman has the most amazing eyes I've ever seen. They're blue, but not a regular blue. There's a definite tint of
purple
to them. And her posture is very regal. You know—straight up and down, but in a relaxed way. And she smells powdery—soft and sweet and … nice.

She puts out her hand and smiles. “I'm Diane Reijden, and you are … ?”

“Sammy,” I tell her. “Sammy Keyes.”

“Sammy,” she says with a little twinkle. “Short for Samantha?”

I nod.

“And these are your grandparents?” she asks, smiling at Grams and Hudson.

“Yeah. I mean, well, this is my grandmother and this is our friend Hudson.”

Grams shakes her hand and says, “Rita Keyes,” then adds, “Pronounce your last name for me again, would you?”

“Reijden,” she says, then laughs. “Like ‘ridin’ a bus.’ But please, call me Diane.”

Hudson stands and shakes her hand, saying, “Hudson Graham. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Reijden. We haven't had the chance yet, but we're looking forward to viewing your installation.”

So, ding-dong. It's finally sinking in that this woman with the purple eyes is the third painter, when I notice that Hudson is
still
shaking her hand. Like he's having trouble letting go.

Grams has noticed, too. She's looking from Hudson to Diane with a drooping smile, and let me tell you, the air is suddenly charged with all sorts of confusing signals.

Finally Grams clears her throat and says, “Could we offer you a plate?”

“Oh my, no! We had plenty while setting up. And I certainly didn't mean to intrude, I just wanted to share a smile with Samantha.” Then she whispers to me, “It's not every day someone dares to put Tess Winters in her place.”

“What's her problem, anyway?” I whisper back. “Oh, well, we certainly don't want to get into
that.
” Then she gives Grams a warm smile and says, “Thank you for coming out tonight. If you have any questions about my work, by all means ask.” 26

“I have a question,” I say, then add, “Uh, but it's not about your work.”

She smiles. “That's all right. What is it?”

I nod over at the scary table. “Why is everyone over there? Who's the guy with the big black bag?”

“Ah,” she says. “Well, we were told that a correspondent from the
Los Angeles Times
promised to show up tonight. I didn't believe he actually would, but it seems I've been proven wrong.”

Hudson says, “The
Los Angeles Times
? Why, that's enormous exposure!”

“Yes,” she says with a smile. “Shouldn't you be over there? Certainly your work deserves the attention and exposure more than the other two.”

She winks at Hudson and says, “Thank you, but I don't fawn well. I find it … distasteful. Besides, I'm sure he'll make his way over here soon enough.” She smiles at us and says, “Excuse me now, won't you? I should go attend to my guests,” then glides over to where a couple is standing, discussing one of her paintings.

When she's gone, Grams smoothes a nonexistent wrinkle from her skirt and says to Hudson, “I thought you weren't familiar with Ms. Reijden's work.”

“I'm not.”

She levels a look at him. “Yet you think she deserves the exposure more than the other two?”

Her lips are tight.

Her face is flushed.

And believe me, I
do
recognize this look—Grams is
steamed.

Hudson clears his throat. “Well … Just look, Rita. Even from here you can see her work is something real.”

“Hrmph.”

He grabs Grams' hand and pulls her up. “Let's take a look and see if I'm right.”

Now for a minute there I thought Hudson was going to keep right on holding her hand, but Grams shook free, then sniffed and marched over to the installation on her own.

There were only eight paintings on Diane's wall. And they weren't huge. Or trendy. And the signature in the bottom left of every one didn't jump out at you like, Notice ME! They were worked into the painting and, I don't know, quiet.

I went from one painting to the next, to the next. And I found myself moving slower and slower, because the more I looked at them, the more I liked them. They weren't flashy or stunning, they were more moody. And the longer I stood in front of them, the more their mood sort of replaced
my
mood. Kind of edged it out and left itself behind.

One painting titled
Pool of Gold
was of a woman gazing at her hands in her lap. That was it. But the way the light fell across her face and sort of collected in her palms, it looked like she was holding a little dish of liquid gold.

Then there was one that Hudson seemed to like called
Resurrection.
It was a painting of autumn leaves being stirred high in the air—the wind lifting them up, up, up. One tattered leaf was separate from the rest. Higher than the rest. And it seemed to glow orange and gold with
two points like arms, spreading up and out, reaching for the sky.

Another, called
Awakening
, was just a sunlit field of young wild grass with a small tree off to one side. But it made me want to find that place. To sit and listen to the breeze rustle the grass.

But the painting I kept coming back to was of a little girl on her tiptoes, stretching up to whisper in someone's ear. The painting is mostly shadows, so you can't see the face of the person she's whispering to. All you really see is the girl's face and her sparkling brown eyes, lit up by the moon shining through a window.

“
Whispers
, is it?” Hudson said, reading the plaque. “Who do you suppose she's telling secrets to?”

“Her mother,” I answered without thinking, and suddenly there were tears in my eyes.

Now honestly, I was embarrassed. I mean, this was nothing to start
crying
over. So I hadn't seen my mom in a while. So the days of me telling her secrets were long gone. This painting wasn't me
or
my mom. As far as I knew it wasn't anybody real. It was just paint.

But Hudson put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I find them to be very moving, too. It's amazing what she does with light.”

And that's when everything kind of happened at once. I noticed Grams coming toward us from one side, Diane was moving toward us from the other, but just as they're about to reach us, a side door blasts open and the air petrifies with, “FREEZE!”

And standing there, twenty feet from me with the door
wide open and the night sky behind him, is a
bandit.
He's wearing a black mask across his eyes, a faded blue bandana tight across his nose and mouth, a brown cowboy hat crammed down on his head, and jeans that make mine look dressy.

’Course he's also wearing a nylon jacket and running shoes, so he looks a little … goofy. Like he's part Zorro, part Jesse James, and part … Bill Gates?

And everyone in the Vault is sort of going, “Huh?” until he jabs the left pocket of his jacket forward and screams, “I said, FREEZE!”

And this time everyone does, because now it's easy to see—

This bandito's got a gun.

Don't miss these other great books by
Wendelin Van Draanen:

Published by Dell Yearling
an imprint of Random House Children's Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York

Text copyright © 2002 by Wendelin Van Draanen Parsons

Interior illustrations copyright © 2002 by Dan Yaccarino

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the
written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
For information address Alfred A. Knopf. Books for Young Readers.

The trademarks Yearling and Dell are registered in the U.S. Patent and
Trademark Office and in other countries.

eISBN: 978-0-307-54529-9

April 2003

v3.0