The Mistaken Masterpiece (33 page)

Leigh Ann continues: “And then we told him that Werkman wanted to see him, and to apologize for what happened eight years ago. It took a while, but we finally got him to believe us—that the Svindahls were playing him like a piano, totally taking advantage of the situation.”

“So I go over and open the window,” Becca says, smiling as she remembers it, “and it’s like something from an old movie. First Nate climbs through, and then Paul Werkman. Luckily, he was wearing old jeans, because he tore them on a nail as he was crawling through the opening.”

“What did Gus do then?” I ask. “When he first saw Werkman?”

“He looked kind of pale, and he was hiding behind his easel, but at least he didn’t pass out or anything,” says Leigh Ann. “After eight years, I think he had probably built the guy up in his mind into some lunatic monster, but when you see Werkman in the flesh, he’s not exactly intimidating. He’s just an average-looking guy—well, you’ll get to see for yourself. When he gets inside, Werkman does most of the talking—”

The door opens and Paul Werkman looks around Perkatory, his eyes searching for a familiar face until they land on Nate.

“Hey, there’s the man of the hour,” Nate says, waving him over to our tables. “Where’s Cale?”

Before Werkman can answer, the artist formerly known as Gus peers around the door.

Becca rushes over to greet him, and it’s probably a good thing, because he looks like he might just turn and run. “Hey, Gus, er, Cale. Come on, there’s a few more people you have to meet.”

She introduces him all around and even brings him tea with milk and honey in a china cup, although where she found
that
in Perkatory, I can’t imagine.

Not surprisingly, Cale is pretty quiet, but he does admit to looking forward to seeing some of the city’s sights he’s missed—especially the museums.

“I think I’ll walk, though,” he says quietly.

Werkman explains: “The poor guy gets in a car for the first time in eight years, and wouldn’t you know it, we get a cabbie who is a complete maniac, weaving in and out of lanes, almost getting us run over by a bus.”

“You don’t need to go to museums,” Becca says. “Your apartment is the most amazing place I have ever seen! You guys—everybody—you
have
to see it. He took us up there before we left, and it is
wild
. Every square inch of the place, walls, floors, ceilings, you name it, is painted to look like the rooms in the Met. There’s everything from Egypt and ancient Greece all the way up to modern stuff—Impressionists, Picassos, Pollocks, everybody. When you walk in, you will
swear
there’s a million paintings hanging on the walls, but it’s all just—what did you call it?”

“Trompe l’oeil,” Cale says.

“Ah, ‘to trick the eye,’ ” I translate.

“There’s been a lot of that going on today,” Malcolm notes.

“Yeah, well, the whole thing oughta
be
a museum,” says Becca.

“I’m glad you like it,” says Cale. “It kept me busy at night. Kept my mind off …”

“Me?” Werkman asks.

Cale nods.

“I can’t give you all that time back, but I can help you, Cale. I plan to talk to my agent and the owners of
the gallery that shows my work tomorrow, and we’re going to reintroduce Cale Winokum to the New York art world. How does that sound to you?”

“That sounds … really good,” Cale admits.

“I just have one more question for you,” Margaret says. “Did you go out the window, too? Or did you actually use the front door?”

“Oh, that was the best part,” Becca says. “The five of us just walk out of Cale’s studio and into the front room, where Amelia is sitting at her desk playing online solitaire. She had just taken a sip of coffee, and when she sees Cale and Werkman together, she spits it all over her computer.”

“Her mouth is just hanging open as we walk past her to the front door,” says Leigh Ann. “And then Mr. Werkman says, ‘Don’t worry, Amelia—we won’t keep him out too late.’ It was beautiful.”

It’s getting late, and as we’re starting to say good night, Elizabeth brings up the original Pommeroy, which Father Julian is holding with both hands. “Father, I’m very interested in that Pommeroy, if you still want to sell it,” Elizabeth says.

“Oh yes, but … what about the issue of its age? Don’t we still have to prove that it was painted before 1961?” he asks.

“Oh, I took care of that a long time ago,” I say proudly. “The proof was in the pictures all along—I just had to put it all together. Here, I’ll show you.” I take the
three pictures out of a notebook in my book bag and line them up on the table.

“Okay, the one on the left shows the TV, but not the painting. The game is from October 5, 1961. Those two people on the bench are your aunt Cathy and her friend Denny. The top right picture, with the birthday cake, is important for what’s in the background—the flowers in that big floor vase. We can assume it was taken the same day as the first one because Cathy and Denny are wearing the same clothes in both, and her birthday is October 5. But it’s the one on the bottom that brings everything together. You can see two important things in that picture: Cathy and Denny with a drink and a piece of cake,
about to sit on the bench, and that vase full of flowers. I used the magnifier to look at every single flower, and I am positive that they are the exact same flowers, in exactly the same position, as the ones in the top right picture, just from the other side. Put it all together and—ta-da!—you’ve got proof that the painting was on the wall on October 5, 1961. Before Pommeroy died.”

“Good enough for me,” Elizabeth says. “Father Julian, we’ll be in touch.”

Father Julian nods his agreement as his phone rings. He steps away from the table to take the call, wandering outside for a minute, before coming back with a strange look on his face.

When we finally walk out of Perkatory, I feel a little let down, probably because I still have lots of questions:

What will happen to the Svindahls?

Will Cale really be able to just start his life over again? Will he and Debbie get back together?

Will I ever see Nate Etan again?

Mostly, though, I’m relieved that it’s over—for now. I have some serious catching up to do on the rest of my life—something Livvy reminds me of when she reminds me that she’ll see me at the pool at five-thirty in the morning. And now I have no cold dog nose to wake me, although Livvy does promise to let me borrow her Tillie when I’m in need of some dog time.

And then there’s Saturday’s mysterious two o’clock appointment in the park.

I throw the bowl, the book, and everything else into a canvas tote, pull on my new red Chuck Taylors (bought with my Tillie-sitting money), and set out for the Conservatory Garden and who knows what else. After passing
through the Vanderbilt Gate (remember the skeleton key with the
V
?), I turn left, heading for the South Garden—the one that most people, I have learned, refer to as “the Secret Garden.”

It’s not called that because it’s hard to find; it’s because there is a lily pool and statue dedicated to Frances Hodgson Burnett, the author of
The Secret Garden
. When I come around the last corner, I spot Raf (just as I suspected!) and my heart, already beating fast, feels like it’s trying to bust loose from my chest.

“Hey,” I say, sitting next to him on the stone bench in front of the pool.

“I was starting to worry,” he says.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been kind of a jerk lately. Sometimes I just—”

“Easy, Soph. That’s not what I mean. You said to meet you here at two, and it’s a little after. You’re
usually
on time. Except when you’re stuck in an elevator. Or out with a movie star.”

“Wait. Back up a second.
I
told
you
to meet me here? Um, I don’t think so. You’re the one who sent me all this stuff. Aren’t you?” Suddenly I’m not so sure.

“
What
stuff? What are you talking about?”

“This stuff. My copy of
The Secret Garden
. A big brass bowl. A bird.”

Raf looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I’ve never seen any of this before. No, wait—the book. That’s the one that I took from your desk a couple of years ago. It was one of those days when all us boys came over from
our school for some assembly at St. V’s. I completely forgot that I had it, and then one day, Margaret said something that reminded me. But I gave it to her to give back to you a long time ago.”

“You stole my copy of
The Secret Garden
?”

“ ‘Stole’ is such an ugly word. I borrowed it. I got tired of hearing how great it was from you all the time, so I wanted to see for myself. I just didn’t want anyone to know I was reading such a girly book.”

“A likely story,” says a familiar voice from behind the bushes.

“Margaret! What are you doing here?”

“The same thing we are,” Leigh Ann says, pushing Becca out in front of her.

“Spying on you two losers,” says Becca.

“How did you … You mean, it was you guys all along? What about all that ‘Scout’s honor’ and ‘I don’t know who could have been in our locker’ stuff? And that argument—you all …”

“All lies,” Margaret admits with a shrug. “But sometimes the means do justify the end.”

“Oh yeah? What is the ‘end’? What are you up to?”

She points at the statue on a pedestal in the center of the pool. I’ve seen it before, but had never really noticed how beautiful it is. A young girl is standing, holding up a birdbath with both hands while birds rest in it and on her shoulder. Next to her is a boy, his elbows resting on a large stone as he plays the flute.

Mary and Dickon.

“Okay. I like it. What about it?”

“Anything seem familiar?” Leigh Ann asks.

“Wait a second. You want us to …” My eyes go from Raf to the statue and then back to Raf. The blank look on his face tells me he has no idea what’s going on.
“Why?”

“Because I have to do this ‘living art’ project for my class,” Becca explains. “I’m supposed to re-create either a famous painting or a sculpture with real people. So, are you ready? I found the perfect spot, and the sun’s shining on it right now. There’s even a rock about the size of that one for the boy wonder to lean against.”

“Is somebody gonna tell me what’s going on?” Raf asks.

“Sure,” says Margaret. “Basically, you and Sophie are going to use all the stuff in Sophie’s bag—the bowl, the flute, and the bird—and you two are going to pose exactly like the two kids in the statue.”

“And then I’m going to take a bunch of pictures,” Becca announces. “And turn them into a painting.”

“You’re what?” Raf protests. “No. No way. Do you know what would happen to me if my friends found out about this? I can see it now: pictures of me posing like that guy in the statue—with that stupid flute—posted all over the Internet. No way.”

“We thought you might say that,” Leigh Ann says. “So we brought along something to convince you. Hey, Cam, come on out.”

Cam Peterson comes around the bushes carrying a
large package wrapped in brown kraft paper. “Hi, Sophie. Hey, Raf. Good to see you again.”

“Is anybody
else
back there?” I ask. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“I’m the last one, I promise,” Cam says.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the package. “Don’t tell me it’s a fake Pommeroy. If I never see another one of those, I’ll be happy.”

“Nope—not a Pommeroy, and this time, it’s not for you, Sophie,” Leigh Ann says. “We figured you would go along with the plan without putting up much of a fight, and Becca has promised to give you the painting she’s going to do, but we had a feeling Raf might need a little extra convincing. And Cam has some interesting connections; it’s amazing what he can get.”

Cam hands the package to Raf. “I think you’re going to like this. When I first saw it, I really wanted to keep it for myself. Open it up.”

With the five of us standing there watching and waiting, he doesn’t have much of a choice, so he tears off the paper.

“No way,” he says when he realizes what he’s looking at. “This is the real thing, isn’t it?”

Cam nods. “And look—it’s signed by Humphrey Bogart.”