The Painted Horse (6 page)

S
TEVIE
CROSSED
THE
STREET
into Central Park. She hadn’t given up on being good. She was just … taking a break.

Finding the carousel was not as easy as she’d thought. First she wound up at an ice-skating rink, and then at something called the Dairy. Finally she heard the lovely, tinny music of the carousel.

She came around the corner and saw that there was no line at all. That was great. She’d buy a ticket, hop on, hop off, and be back at the historical society before anyone missed her.

“One ticket,” she said to the fuzzy-haired man.

“Just one?” he said with a smile.

Stevie realized that his business must not be too good at the moment. She owed it to him to buy more than one ticket. “I’ll have two,” she said. “Well, actually, three.”

He counted out the tickets and said, “Enjoy.”

“I believe I will,” Stevie said with a grin.

When the carousel music had stopped playing and the gate was opened, Stevie went in. To her delight, she saw that there was no one on Ralph. She climbed on and leaned toward his head. “Did you miss me?” she said.

Ralph didn’t reply.

“I missed you,” she said.

The man with the backward baseball hat came to take her ticket. “You don’t have to buckle up today,” he said. “I realize you’re an experienced rider.”

For a second Stevie felt like telling him about Belle and how she missed her horse—and about the class trip and all the horrible antiques. But he was already on his way to take another ticket. She held on to the pole, waiting for the music to start. She looked up, waiting for the horse to rise with the music. On the other side of the carousel fence, she saw the mounted policeman. He was staring at her. Ralph started moving.

“Go, Ralph,” she said, leaning slightly forward, the way she did when she wanted Belle to go faster. “We’re in big trouble. We’d better get out of here.”

But Ralph just went around and around and around.

“Ralph,” she said, “you’re a great horse, but you have one shortcoming. You’re no good for escapes.”

Ralph sank lower and lower. Stevie thought of sliding off Ralph’s back and sneaking away, but she realized she couldn’t do that. The carousel was surrounded by a stout iron fence. “If you weren’t attached to this carousel, you could jump the fence and we could gallop away together,” she said.

Ralph started moving up.

The policeman had his hands on the pommel of his saddle. Stevie could tell that he was planning to wait until she got off the carousel.

For a second Stevie had visions of jail. She saw herself behind bars. Then she reminded herself that they don’t put kids in jail for playing hooky from a school trip. On the other hand, if she returned to the historical society in the custody of the police, she would be in big trouble.

As the carousel whirled around and around, Stevie’s mind also whirled. She was in a tough spot, one of the toughest of her life. She had to do something, but what?

The music slowed and the carousel wound to a stop. Ahead of her a mother lifted a child from a horse and put him on the ground. The two of them walked toward the exit.

Stevie had a brilliant idea. She’d hide among the mothers and children. As she walked toward the exit,
she bent her knees. She wasn’t as short as the kids, but she was semishort.

She crept through the gate and past the ticket booth. She turned right, ready to straighten up and run for Central Park West. There was a shadow in her path. She looked up.

The policeman looked down at her. “Do you have trouble with your knees?” he asked.

“You won’t believe it,” said Stevie, straightening up. “Some people have one trick knee, but I have two.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” the policeman said. “Do you have some identification?”

Stevie thought fast. Her home address and phone number were in her wallet. If the policeman got her phone number, he’d call her parents and she’d be grounded for the rest of her life.

“My grandfather has it,” Stevie said. “He’s meeting me here.” She looked around. “He’s late again. But that’s him. Absentminded.”

“What’s your name?” the policeman said.

Stevie thought fast. “Jane Jones.” The name didn’t even sound real.

“Your grandfather should be more careful. You shouldn’t be wandering around alone. You might get lost,” the policeman said.

“What can I do?” Stevie said. “It’s my grandfather. He has all these strange notions.”

The policeman pulled his walkie-talkie from his belt. “I’m worried about you,” he said. “I’m going to call for a car to come and get you. I don’t want you wandering around Central Park by yourself.”

He said something in a low voice into the walkie-talkie.

Stevie figured that this was it. Her life was ending.

Over the top of the hill came a swarm of skaters wearing black helmets and knee pads. They were bent low, swinging their arms. The wheels of their skates made a faint whir as they raced along.

The policeman’s horse snorted and backed up. A skater stumbled and rocketed toward the horse. The horse whinnied with fear, and the skater screamed.

Stevie stepped away. The policeman was watching the skater, who was watching the policeman. Stevie looked over her shoulder. The park was green and welcoming and safe. She started running. She ran past a flower bed and a row of benches. A man lying on a bench looked up at her with surprise. She realized that she was drawing attention to herself by running and forced herself to walk. It was the hardest thing she had ever done. Her feet wanted to fly. Her arms wanted to pump.

Go slowly
, she told herself.
Look casual. Act cool.

There was a shout.

That’s it
, she thought.

“Look out!”
came a familiar voice.

Stevie saw a baseball zooming toward her. She put her hands up to protect herself, and the ball landed in her hands.

“Great catch,” said the voice. Under the brim of a baseball hat was the friendly face of Skye Ransom. “Stevie!” he said. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you. How come you didn’t call?”

“I’m kind of in trouble,” she said. “I can’t make phone calls.”

“Same old Stevie,” said Skye with a grin. “Always up to something.”

If he only knew
, Stevie thought.

“I’m in a rush,” Stevie said, looking over her shoulder. “But I’m staying at the New Gotham Hotel with some kids from my class.”

“A lot of kids?” said Skye, looking worried.

“Only six and two teachers,” Stevie said.

“I can get hold of eight tickets,” Skye said. “Come to my show tonight. You’ll come backstage, and then I’ll take you guys out to dinner.”

“Great!” Stevie said.

“Want to join our team?” Skye said. “We can use your talent. That was some catch.”

“I wish,” Stevie said. Veronica would
die
if she heard that Stevie had played in the Broadway Show League. On the other hand, Stevie would probably die if she
didn’t get back to the historical society. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to run!” she said.

“But—” Skye said.

“We’ll catch up later,” Stevie said.

“Wait!” Skye said.

A group of tourists with cameras was passing. “Are you Skye Ransom?” one of them said to him.

“That’s what they tell me,” he said with a grin.

As tourists surrounded Skye, Stevie blended into the group. She didn’t want to risk having the policeman spot her. When the tourists finished taking pictures, she walked with them toward Central Park West.

On Central Park West she figured she was far enough away from the policeman that she could hustle. She dog-trotted all the way to the historical society.

She ran up the marble steps and into the lobby of the society’s building with one minute to spare. Then she dashed into the store and looked at the postcards. She had to get a postcard of an object that was not a painting. If it was a painting, she would have to know all about the artist. She noticed one of a lamp with a glass shade.
Lamps don’t have artists. They’re just lamps
, she thought. She bought the postcard and went out to the lobby to wait for the rest of her group.

She had just stopped panting when Mrs. Martin appeared.

“I hope you did a better job today, Stevie,” she said.

“Much better,” Stevie said.

The rest of the group had gathered.

“Show us what you picked,” Mrs. Martin said.

Stevie pulled the postcard of the glass lamp out of the bag. “Is that a lamp or what?” she said. “I’m not too into antiques, but I could live with this lamp.”

“Tell us something about it,” Mrs. Martin said.

“It’s like a plant,” Stevie said. “It has branches, roots, flowers.… It’s like a living thing, almost.”

“Very good,” Mrs. Martin said. “Who made it?”

What kind of a question was that? “A lamp maker,” Stevie said.

A line of irritation appeared between Mrs. Martin’s eyes. “I cannot believe you selected this object without knowing who made it.”

“I’ll find out later,” Stevie said. “This lamp and I are connected.”

“Then you would want to know that it’s made by Louis Comfort Tiffany,” said Mrs. Martin.

“He’s an American genius,” said Ms. Dodge.

“There’s a whole exhibit of those lamps upstairs,” said Mrs. Martin. “How could you have picked a Tiffany lamp as your object without seeing the exhibit?”

Stevie felt her face turn red. Truly, she had blown it. Again.

“You’ve been fooling around all this time,” Mrs. Martin said. “You’ve been hanging out in the store.”

“Absolutely not,” Stevie said.

“Then where were you?” asked Mrs. Martin.

Stevie realized that she had to think faster than she had ever thought before. She thought of Skye. She thought of the tickets. She thought of the backstage visit. She thought of a nice hearty meal. She knew that Skye would make a good excuse for her disappearance.

“It’s like this,” she said. “I couldn’t talk on the phone last night, so I couldn’t call this friend of mine who’s a movie star.”

Mrs. Martin sighed and looked away.

“He’s not just a movie star, he’s also a Broadway star,” Stevie said. “He’s in
Murder at Midnight.
He’s going to give us all free tickets, invite us backstage afterward, and introduce us to stars. And then he’s going to take us out to dinner. And then he’ll take us home in a limousine.”

Mrs. Martin shook her head. “When we get back to Willow Creek, I am going to have a long, long talk with your parents.”

“You don’t have to make up stories like that,” said Ms.
Dodge. “I know maybe you feel insecure sometimes, Stevie, but it’s better to tell the truth.”

“It
is
the truth,” Stevie said. “Wait until we get back to the hotel. Tickets will be waiting for us.”

Mrs. Martin and Ms. Dodge looked at each other and sighed.

B
Y
THE
TIME
Lisa and Carole got to Carole’s house, they were exhausted.

“Scratching really wears you out,” said Lisa as she rubbed her elbow.

“What made that cloth so itchy?” Carole said.

“Itching powder,” said Lisa.

“What’s that?” Carole said.

“You buy it at joke shops,” Lisa said. “My cousin Albert is always buying stuff like itching powder. He also likes plastic ice cubes with flies inside.”

“He sounds like a million laughs,” Carole said.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Lisa groaned. “Anyway,
when we first saw Veronica, she had a white bag in her pocket. Later the bag was in the wastebasket. It was from Jerry’s Joke Shop.”

“That’s why she told us to go help Max,” Carole said. “She wanted a chance to put itching powder on the chamois cloth.”

“Exactly,” Lisa said. “She knew we’d wind up making total fools of ourselves.”

“And we did,” said Carole. “How come Veronica always seems to win?”

“Because Stevie isn’t here,” Lisa said. “We need her diabolical brain.”

“I bet she’s having a fantastic time in New York,” said Carole.

“While Veronica tortures us in Virginia,” said Lisa.

Twenty minutes later the girls had showered and shampooed and put on fresh clothes. The itching was gone.

“Let’s have a snack,” Lisa said.

There were fresh chocolate chip cookies in the cookie jar. Lisa put some on a plate while Carole poured glasses of milk.

“Maybe Melody will lose the videotape and we won’t be on TV,” said Lisa.

“Somehow I have the feeling that she won’t,” said Carole.

From the front of the house came the sound of a door opening. “I’m home,” came Colonel Hanson’s voice. He walked into the kitchen. “Are you on TV again?”

“Yes, and it’ll be worse,” Carole said. “We looked like even bigger dummies.”

“Wait until you see,” said Lisa.

Colonel Hanson turned on the news. The top story was the weather. “There’s good news,” the meteorologist said. “The storm that has been drenching Willow Creek is finally moving up the coast. By tomorrow the sun will be shining here, and New York City will have our rain.”

“Poor Stevie,” Carole said. “It’s no fun being a tourist in the rain.”