The Mistaken Masterpiece (12 page)

It takes a second, but the logic finally sinks into my chlorine-soaked brain. “Ohhhh. Now I see.”

“But now for the bad news. This particular picture, I’m sorry to say, was definitely taken after 1963.”

“How do you know that?” Margaret asks.

“Do you see this window? Now look closely at the car out in the driveway. I am a hundred percent positive that those are the grille and headlights of a 1964 Ford Thunderbird. The new models would have come out in September or October 1963—a couple of years too late to be useful to you.”

“So what can we do?” Leigh Ann asks.

Malcolm rubs his chin a little more, then smooths out his mustache with his fingers. “Well, here’s what I would do: go through these pictures and find every single one that shows either the painting or the spot on the wall where it was hung—even the ones that were obviously
taken much earlier or much later than 1961. You never know how they might come in handy. Then put those sharp red blazers on and get down to some serious detective work.”

“What kinds of things should we be looking for?” Becca asks.

“At this point, anything. Everything. Combinations of things,” Malcolm says. “Clothing. Hairstyles. A pen sitting on the desk. A calendar. A pack of matches. A record album. You know what those are, right? It’s what we had in the days before CDs and iPods.”

“We know what records are,” I say, slightly insulted. “Vinyl. They’re back in style.”

“Ah, forgive me. I momentarily forgot that I am also dealing with famous musicians.”

Malcolm and Elizabeth are probably the Blazers’ biggest fans; they’ve been to every one of our shows, and Elizabeth lets us practice in her basement a couple of times a week after school.

Margaret holds up the loupe. “Can we borrow this? I think I’m starting to get some ideas about where we go from here.”

“You definitely have your work cut out for you,” Malcolm says. “But if the way you handled all the twists and turns in those extravaganzas with the ring and the violin is any indication, the Red Blazer Girls Detective Agency can certainly handle
this
case. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

“I would think, dear,” Elizabeth chimes in, “that if you were really confident, you’d risk something that actually had some
value
.”

“Touché,” says Malcolm, holding his heart as if he’s been stabbed.

With Becca heading to Chinatown and Leigh Ann off to Queens, Margaret and I walk back to my apartment fully intending to do our homework together. I say “intending” because my new friend Tillie has made other plans.

Mom isn’t home from the music school yet, and Tillie meets us at the door. If you’re not a dog person, you probably don’t understand how unbelievably nice it is to be on the receiving end of that greeting at the end of the day. Dogs are
always
glad to see you; it doesn’t matter if it’s been three hours or three days. I’ve only had Tillie for a few days, but it feels like we’re old friends and have a routine that we’ve been following for years.

After her usual tail wagging, rolling over to have her belly rubbed, and excited leaping, she is ready for her afternoon walk. We take her over to Carl Schurz Park, between East End Avenue and the river. There’s a small area that’s fenced in on three sides, and I bravely (stupidly?) unclip her leash and let her run around while
Margaret and I keep her away from the open side. It’s just what she needs—some real exercise—and since she doesn’t try to run away, I’m starting to gain the confidence to let her go off-leash in Central Park, which is many, many times larger than Carl Schurz Park.

That is, unless I kill her first.

When we get back to the apartment, Mom is there waiting for us at the door, and the greeting I get from her isn’t nearly as nice as the one from Tillie. She is scowling at me.

“Sophie! Have you seen your room?”

“Oh, right. Sorry, Mom. I know, I promised to straighten it up over the weekend. I’ll do it tonight, I promise.”

“I think you’d better take a look,” Mom says. “It’s going to be a bigger job than you think. Margaret, if you’re smart, you’ll disappear before you get roped into helping her.”

I glance at Tillie—all innocence and sweetness—and then run back to my room, stopping cold when I get to the doorway.

“Holeeee cow,” I gasp. “What happened?”

“Was there an earthquake today that I didn’t notice?” Margaret asks. “Some other kind of natural disaster?”

“Hurricane Tillie,” I say.
“Tillie!”

Tillie, wisely, does not come when called.

All my bookshelves are on the floor, with all my books. Hundreds of books.

“How on earth did she …” Margaret ponders for a moment, then walks gingerly toward the pile, glancing up at the wall, from which the naked brackets still extend. “Ahhh. The chair,” she says, pointing at my sturdy wooden desk chair. “I’ll bet she climbed up the back of this chair and then put her feet on the bottom shelf.”

“But … why?” I ask, sorting through my most precious possessions and one decidedly unlovely brass bowl, now in an ignominious pile on the floor. (In case you’re wondering, yes, I’ve been back to my orthodontist. Another
Reader’s Digest
, another “Word Power.” Frankly, I don’t know what I’ll do to expand my vocabulary if I ever get my braces off. It’s quite
worrisome
. In fact, I’m rather
disconcerted
by the very
notion.
)

“You must have had something up there that she wanted,” Margaret says. “A sandwich?”

“I did
not
have a sandwich on my bookshelves,” I insist. “C’mon, I hardly ever bring food in here. Other than the occasional cookie, that is.”

Margaret’s raised eyebrow tells me that she’s not buying whatever I’m selling. “Occasional, my eye.”

“Okay, so maybe it’s
slightly
more than occasionally. But I would never put a cookie on the bookshelves.”

And then I see it. In the corner of the room, over by the window.

Miles and miles of gray yarn. A hint of red stitching. Chewed-up leather.

“Is that—?” Margaret’s hand flies to her mouth.

“A baseball,” I whisper. It’s hard to make much noise
when your heart makes the leap from your chest to your throat.

Margaret picks up Father Julian’s tote bag and looks inside. “Were they … both … in here?”

“Y-yes.” I drop to my knees. I’m not praying—well, not yet, anyway. My legs just gave out.

Margaret starts to stuff that mass of yarn and leather formerly known as a baseball into the tote. “This is definitely only one baseball. The other one might still be safe.”

I’m still paralyzed, unable to help her.

“Come on, Sophie. Help me find the other ball. I don’t see any more yarn. It’s probably under all these books.”

I force myself to start looking under everything—the bed, my desk, the ginormous pile of books—but it’s just not there.

“This can’t be happening to me,” I sob, looking upward. “First my nose, now this. What did I do wrong?”

And then, the unthinkable: Tillie walks into my room with the other baseball in her mouth.

I scream.

Margaret screams.

Mom comes running.

And a totally terrified Tillie scurries from the room with the two of us right on her tail—a tail that is tucked firmly between her legs. She goes into my parents’ room and ducks under the bed.

“C’mon, Tillie,” Margaret coaxes. “Good girl. You can come out. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Actually,
one
of us might. Because, to tell you the truth, I’m not exactly certain of what I’m going to do when I get hold of that scrawny mutt’s neck.

Tillie is unconvinced by Margaret’s pleasant tone, however, and stays put.

“What does she have?” Mom asks.

“A baseball,” Margaret answers. “It belongs to Father Julian. We’re—it’s kind of a long story.”

“It’s really valuable,” I manage to say. “Maybe.”

“I’m going in after her,” Margaret says dramatically.

“Be careful,” Mom says.

Which is exactly what moms are
supposed
to say in situations like this.

Margaret commando-crawls under the bed, sweet-talking Tillie every inch of the way. “That’s a good girl, Tillie. Can I have the ball? I’ll trade you that nasty old baseball for a brand-new cookie. Good girl!”

“Did you get it?”

“Got it.” Margaret’s feet start backing out from under the bed. Tillie pokes her head out, looking up at me with those big ol’ sad eyes of hers.

“Don’t even talk to me,” I say to her.

A dust-covered Margaret finally emerges, holding the ball up triumphantly. She spins it around and around in the light.

With a heavy sigh, she announces: “It’s okay. A little
wet, but no damage, and the autographs are all still there.”

“Thank God,” I say. Then I glare at Tillie, who hides behind her new best friend and protector, Margaret. “You … you …”

“Maybe Tillie should come with me for a while,” Mom says. “While you and Margaret go sort things out in your room.”

“Good idea, Kate,” Margaret says, pulling me along. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

An hour later, my books are still in a pile on the floor. I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out how I’m going to tell Father Julian that the baseball his great-uncle caught at Yankee Stadium was eaten by Nate Etan’s dog. I wonder if he even knows—or cares—who Nate Etan is. Somehow I doubt he’ll think he’s
lucky
that his family heirloom was chewed up by some celebrity’s mutt.

Margaret attempts to console me by telling me that, no matter what, Father Julian will forgive me.

“He’s a
priest
, Sophie. He’s in the forgiveness business. And you didn’t do anything wrong, or even irresponsible. You had no way of knowing that Tillie has some weird baseball obsession and would tear down a whole wall of shelves to get to one. It was an act of God.”

“More like an act of
dog
,” I say through sniffles and sobs.

Margaret’s next strategy is hard research. She goes
online, reading article after article on baseball construction throughout the years. Occasionally she spouts some fact or other about how many yards of wool yarn it takes or how the covers changed from horsehide to cowhide because there was a shortage of horses, but I’m too caught up in my own self-pity to really pay attention. Until now, that is.

“Sophie. Come here. I have some bad news.”

“Y-you do?”

“Uh-huh. ’Fraid so.”

I drag myself off the bed and slump next to Margaret. The very same Margaret who has saved me so many times. But not, it seems, this time.

She points at the article on the screen, something about World War II-era baseball. “Sorry, but you’re not going to be famous.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” I feel the tears backing up in my eyes. “Oh no. That
was
the original ball, wasn’t it.”

Margaret smiles and shakes her head. “What I meant was, you’re not going to be famous as the girl whose dog ate a really valuable baseball. Tillie ate the fake one. I’m positive.”

“Really?” My knees give out again and I sit on the floor next to her.

“Absolutely.” She holds up a rubber ball about an inch in diameter. “This is the center of the ball that Tillie chewed up—they call this ‘the pill.’ During World War II, the government was rationing rubber, so they had to
use inferior, man-made materials for things like baseballs. And
this
is definitely not natural. This baseball may have come from Yankee Stadium, but not in 1928. It wasn’t made until 1942 at least.”

I jump to my feet and tackle her, pulling her off the chair and onto the floor, where I sit on her. “Margaret Wrobel, I
love
you! You totally saved my life. Again! I am going to dedicate the rest of my life to you. Whatever you want, just ask me and it’s yours.”

“Easy, Soph. It’s not that big a deal. All I did was prove that you got lucky. It was fate; Tillie had a choice of two baseballs to eat, and she ate the ‘right’ one.” She pushes me off her and picks up the other ball, still damp from Tillie’s mouth. “And now, thanks to Tillie, we know that
this
is the real baseball.”

Upon hearing her name, Tillie trots back into my room, tail wagging like mad. She sniffs the air until she locates what she’s looking for: the baseball that we so cruelly and unfairly took from her.

“No way, Tillie,” Margaret says, laughing. Then she tucks the ball into her book bag. “Under the circumstances, perhaps it’s best if
I
hold on to this.”

I glance at the devil-in-a-dog-suit named Tillie. “I think you’re right.”

“Woof!” says Tillie, who has already shrugged off the loss of the baseball and moved on. Her nose is buried in one of my school blazer pockets, and she sniffs, snuffles, and whines until she finally manages to pull out the folded “Sorry about your nose” note from Livvy—the
note that I had purposely not mentioned to anyone. She then stretches out on the floor, holding the paper between her front paws, and starts to lick it.

“What is that?” Margaret asks. “It must smell really good to her.”