The Mistaken Masterpiece (27 page)

The door opens, and suddenly I am in the twilight zone, facing the strangest sight I have ever seen. For a moment, I’m not sure if I’m looking into a mirror, or if that is a
different
girl and dog in front of me. When I finally focus, I realize that the blond girl I’m staring at is, of course, Livvy, and the dog she’s trying to hold back could be Tillie’s identical twin.

“Sophie? What are you—” But Livvy is cut off by Tillie, who leaps out of my hands and almost tackles her, wagging her tail and whining and licking Livvy’s face. Livvy’s dog watches this for a few seconds, and then starts barking.

“Tillie,
sit
!” The words leave Livvy’s and my lips at precisely the same moment, and for the next ten seconds I completely forget that I’ve left Margaret (and a certain painting!) hanging two floors above me.

“You have a dog named Tillie?” I say. “This is Tillie, too, but she’s not really mine. She’s Nate Etan’s—she we … I … it’s kind of a long story.”

Livvy is still petting my Tillie, who continues to tell her the story of her life.

“Ohmigosh, I almost forgot … I, um, need a huge favor. Do your side windows open?”

“The … windows? Uh, yeah, I guess so.” “Bewildered” doesn’t
begin
to describe the look on her face.

“Look, I promise to explain everything later. It’s kind of an emergency.”

The two Tillies sniff and circle each other as Livvy steps aside and waves me in. “Which window do you need?”

“Far wall.
That
one.”

I can see the yellow twine curving into the tree branches that are only a few feet from the window, and as I stick my head out, Margaret looks down at me. “I think I can reach it,” I say. “Livvy, can you hold on to my feet so I can reach out a little farther?”

Poor Livvy is in some kind of shock—she just nods and wraps her arms around my ankles. (Livvy Klack! Helping me! A few weeks ago I would have been worried that she’d toss me out the window.)

I stretch my arms and fingers to their limit, and with the help of a swirling gust of wind, I first touch and then get a firm grip on the edge of the painting’s frame.

And then … I freeze.

Pointing directly at my head is a black iron spear; its razor-sharp tip seems only inches away.

“Ohhh. Whoa.” The ability to think clearly disappears as my imagination goes haywire. Please, please,
please don’t let go, Livvy. I swear I will never say another bad word about you.

Margaret calls down to me. “Sophie? What’s wrong?” A pause, and then, “Oh. My. Gosh. Okay, I see it, too, but you can do this, Soph. Focus on the painting. Deep breaths.”

Those are the magic words for me. Margaret knows that when I get overly excited or stressed out, I sometimes forget to breathe, which makes thinking—or just about anything else—extremely difficult.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

I pull the painting toward me, untangling the string from the fence. Success!

“Go!” I shout up to Margaret, who pulls it up and into the fifth-floor window.

I close the window and turn to face Livvy, who
smiles
at me.

“I’ve gotta go right now, but—”

“Go,” she says. “You can tell me later. I can’t wait to hear what this is all about.”

“Thanks—for, you know, not dropping me. I owe you, big-time. Come on, Tillie,” I say. Both dogs make a move for me, and I hesitate before choosing the one with the collar. “Let’s go, girl.” She wags her tail at me but looks back at Livvy with a sad whine as I pull her out the door and up to the fifth floor.

I knock softly and Margaret opens the door; she gets a wild look in her eyes when she realizes that Tillie is with me.

“Where did
she
come from?”

“Becca must have let go of her leash when she was trying to climb the fence,” I say, stepping into the foyer with Tillie. “How did everything go up here? Is the painting on the wall? She didn’t see or hear anything?”

“It’s perfect. Everything looks exactly like it did before she went into the kitchen,” Margaret answers. “Come on, they’re going to be back in the living room any second now.”

“I can’t stay in here with her,” I say, pointing at Tillie. “And I can’t just leave her in the hall.”

“Ah, there you are!” Elizabeth says. “Tea’s ready, girls.”

Without warning, our hostess suddenly appears behind Elizabeth and peers around her at Margaret, Tillie, and me.

Batten down the hatches: Tropical Storm Prunella has made landfall. Her face clouds over when she spots Tillie. She sputters for a moment before spitting out the words, “What is
that
filthy beast doing in here?”

Now, before I go any further, let me remind you that this outburst is coming from a woman with a hundred dead animals hanging on her walls.

“She’s
not
filthy,” I say, seriously insulted on Tillie’s behalf. I brush her coat every day, and even wash and dry her feet when we get back from the park. She’s cleaner than lots of people I know.

“Out! Out, out, out! All of you! I invite you into my
home and you bring a
dog
. I should have you all arrested.”

“For what?” I ask. I’m not trying to be a smart aleck; I really want to know what crime she thinks we’re committing.

“But what about the League?” Elizabeth says. “We haven’t had a chance to talk about a role for you.”

“As if I would join an organization that includes dog owners! I know when I’m being cheated! Now, out with you!” She reaches into the hall closet for a broom and literally starts to sweep us out of her apartment. “Out, out, out.”

The door slams shut and we practically fall on the hallway floor laughing.

“
Now
do you believe us?” I say to Elizabeth. “We tried to tell you she belongs in the loony bin.”

“Now, girls,” she says. “Be nice. You probably thought the same thing about me the first time we met.”

Margaret shakes her head emphatically as we start down the stairs. “No, we thought you were interesting. Maybe a little eccentric. But never crazy.”

“At the moment, I am a bit confused,” Elizabeth admits. “Where did Tillie come from? Was she part of the plan all along?”

“That’s a
very
good question, isn’t it, Sophie?” Margaret says. “But then, I have a
lot
of questions for Miss St. Pierre. Starting with how you got into that apartment on the third floor.”

“Magic,” I say. “Tell you what—I have to go thank somebody, and, uh, sort some things out. I’ll come over later. Tell Becca and Leigh Ann I’ll call them.”

I give Elizabeth a kiss and a big hug and knock once more at the door to apartment 3B.

Livvy opens the door to apartment 3B, and once again I have the uncanny feeling that I’m staring into a mirror.

“Man, this is weird,” she says.

I hold up my hand. “Before you say anything else, I have a question for you. Does your Tillie know any tricks? You know, like play dead or roll over?”

“Um, she
used
to. She had a whole act; we’d go through them all the time. Then all of a sudden, she stopped. Now I can’t get her to do anything.”

“Hmmm. Do me a favor: try it again, right now.”

Livvy looks at her Tillie and shrugs. “Okay, but I know she won’t do it. Hey, Tillie! Play dead!”

Livvy is right; her Tillie stands there unmoving, staring blankly up at her. My Tillie—er, Nate’s Tillie—on the other hand, spins in a tight circle three times, stands stiff as an ironing board momentarily, and then flops to the floor, as if some unseen force has pushed her over.

“Oh. My.” Livvy’s jaw drops. “T-Tillie? Is that … 
you?” She looks at the other Tillie. “But … then who are you?” She drops to the floor, dazed by the revelation that she’s been living with somebody else’s dog.

“I think I know,” I say. “Would you say that her behavior changed about two weeks ago? Maybe after a walk in the park?”

Livvy nods. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

I then have to explain how I know Nate Etan, and how I ended up with his dog. Which is actually Livvy’s dog.

“So, the bottom line is, you’ve been taking care of
his
dog, and I’ve been taking care of yours. Who started barking the second she saw this building, and who ate a pair of my shoes and a baseball. My personal favorite, though, is when she howls at the moon.”

“Oh my God!” Livvy cries. “She
does
do that! Isn’t it spooky? But … how?”

“When they were shooting those scenes in the park, Nate used to take Tillie—his Tillie, that is—for walks around the park and let her off-leash in the mornings—”

“And I did that, too! I usually stay here with Julia on Friday nights, and Saturday mornings I take Tillie over to the park. There are always a million dogs off-leash, and I let her have a good run. A couple of weeks ago, she disappeared for a while, but then I found her. It’s funny, but now that I think about it, I remember that something seemed wrong at the time. She had the same collar, but something about the way it was put on was different, and the way she looked at me when I called her. Like she didn’t really know me. And then she was
really picky about the food that she’s always eaten. How did I
not
know it was the wrong dog?”

“That’s easy. Look at them. They’re impossible to tell apart by looks. And remember, you weren’t the only one fooled. Nate didn’t know, either. It’s a good thing I knocked on your door today. Nate’s coming back for Tillie on Friday. They’re going up to New Hampshire and then back to California. But then again, who knows? If we hadn’t figured this out, Tillie might have become a movie star.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Yeah, I think so. And he should probably see the two Tillies together so he doesn’t think we’re scamming him or something. You want to meet him?”

Her eyes light up. “Yes!”

“I think we can arrange that.”

Livvy, thrilled to be reunited with her Tillie, is greatly amused by the Tales of Prune-hell-a.

“Now that I know she hates dogs, I’ll have to make sure that Tillie and I run into her more often,” she says with a smidgen of that old Livvy sass. (Which doesn’t seem so bad when it’s not being directed at me.) “I still owe her from that day in the diner.”

“You’d need ten dogs, a couple of horses, and maybe a
goat
to get even with her for that. But let me know when you’re ready. I’d
love
to help.”

Before I leave
—not
with the same dog I brought—I invite Livvy to stop by my apartment on Friday night, at
the time Nate is allegedly picking up Tillie. “I have to warn you, he probably won’t come. He’s … well, he’s not exactly the most reliable person.”

“Does he look as good in person as he does on TV?”

“Better.”

“Then I don’t care if he’s unreliable. I’ll be there.”

Confession time: I fell asleep while reading
Nicholas Nickleby
. But before you Dickens-haters out there start in with your chants of “I told you he’s boring,” let me explain. I’ve been getting up at five in the morning, swimming for two hours, and then running around like a maniac every day, and it has finally caught up with me. End of story. So just lose those smug smiles right now; Charles Dickens still
rules
.

In my dream, I’m sitting at my favorite Parisian café with Leigh Ann and Cam … and Nate, doggone it. The waiter arrives on a mint-green Vespa and fills everyone’s water glass except mine. Then he scoots away, his white apron flapping in the breeze.

“Excusez-moi,”
I say, trying to get his attention. “You forgot me!”

He stops and turns around to see what I want. For the first time, I see his face—it’s
Raf’s
wonderfully familiar face!—and he’s aiming that licensed-to-kill smile of his directly at me. He opens his mouth to say something, and—

“Sophie! Wake up!” Mom says. “You’ll be late for swim practice.”

Groan. “I’m moving,” I fib while trying to come up with a legitimate reason to stay in bed.

But Tillie’s cold, wet nose takes care of that little fantasy, and I trudge off in the dark to the pool.

After practice, I meet Margaret outside her building. She is standing there, arms crossed and tapping her foot.

“What happened to you last night?” she asks. “I thought you were coming over to study Spanish.”

“I know—I’m sorry about that. I just ended up talking to, um, Livvy for a while.” I intentionally mumble the key word in that sentence, but Margaret has the hearing of a hoot owl.

“Did you say
Livvy
? Where did you—oh, right, that woman she knows lives in Prunella’s building. How did you know which apartment she was in?”

“I
observed
,” I say proudly. “Just like you’re always telling me I need to. Her name was right there outside the lobby, with all the buzzers.”

“Good work, Sophie! I’m impressed. And Livvy was there? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

And then the moment of truth.

“Ohmigosh, Sophie. Are you and Livvy … friends?”

Jeez. For once, couldn’t she just ask me something simple, like … what is the meaning of life?