Who Are You? (9780307823533) (7 page)

“What happened to the real
Mona Lisa
?” someone asks.

“Two years later it was recovered when Vincenzo Peruggia was captured.”

“Oh, good. The museum got it back,” Beth says.

Ms. Montero’s eyes twinkle as if she knows a secret. “Don’t be too sure,” she says. “At the time, a journalist claimed that Peruggia had been afraid he’d be caught, so he’d destroyed the original, and the
Mona Lisa
that was replaced was another forgery—a very well done forgery, to be sure. The museum denied it, of course.”

“Well, was it a forgery?” someone wants to know.

Ms. Montero shrugs. “We may never find out.”

“What about the art experts? Can’t they tell?”

“Some forgers are so talented that it’s very hard for even the experts to tell the copies from the real thing,” Ms. Montero explains.

“I have a question,” Jonathan says. He asks about security in museums in the United States, but I stop thinking about the
Mona Lisa
theft. That’s over and done with. I can’t help thinking about what might be another theft. All I can see in my mind is the shining burst of color that hangs in Douglas Merson’s entry hall. And Ms. Chase’s words,
Douglas
has two paintings for the gallery
, echo in my brain. Many trips to Europe … paintings brought to an art dealer … is Douglas Merson an art thief?

After class I ask Ms. Montero if I can see the slide of Kupka’s painting again. I describe the painting, and she knows which one I mean. She reaches into the shelf behind her desk and pulls out a book with photos in it from the Museum of Modern Art in New York. “Here’s a photograph of the painting,” she says. “It’s called
Madame Kupka among Verticals.
Kupka used his wife as his model.”

I study the picture carefully. It has to be the very same painting I saw in Douglas Merson’s home, but I can’t tell Ms. Montero that. I’m not an art expert, so I can’t be sure.

“Has this painting ever been … well, stolen from the museum?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Is it hanging in the museum now?”

“It should be.”

“How do I find out?”

She smiles and says, “You can call the museum and ask.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. I feel foolish. I should have thought of that myself.

I pick up my books and turn to leave, but she says, “You’ve made me curious, Kristi. Why do you think the painting might have been stolen?”

She’s so nice to me, and she’s given me so much encouragement. I have to answer her. “Right now I’m just guessing,” I say. “I think I saw that painting in someone’s home.”

“You probably saw a print.”

I shake my head. “No. It’s oil on canvas. I could see the brush strokes.”

“He’d have to be very rich to purchase that painting.” She laughs, but I look at her seriously.

“He is.”

“Okay,” Ms. Montero says. She’s not like my parents, who wouldn’t give up until they’d learned the whole story, then told me what they thought about it. She smiles at me again and asks, “Do you have the application for the summer art program filled out?”

Slowly I shake my head. I fumble with my books, looking at them as if they’re the most interesting things in the world. I can’t meet her gaze. “My parents don’t want me to go on with art lessons. They think … well, that there’s not enough money … that I’ll end up with a degree but no job. I—I tried to talk to them.”

“It’s all right, Kristi,” she says. “If you really want something, you’ll work to get it. It might not be in summer school. It might not be in college. But eventually, art can become a very important part of your life.”

I raise my head and look into her eyes. “I want to be a professional artist,” I say.

Her smile grows even brighter. She answers, “Then I have no doubt that you will be.”

As I open the door to leave, Ms. Montero says, “Are you coming to the art club meeting after classes this afternoon? We’ll be doing some still-life sketching. I hope you’ll join us, Kristi.”

“I’ll be there,” I tell her. Just try to keep me away from what I love to do more than anything else in
the whole world. Besides, Jonathan Stockton will probably be there, too.

Jonathan’s not only at the meeting, he arrives before I do, so when I walk in, he’s already shading in highlights on his sketch of a pear.

“Hi,” I say, and I sit at the table next to his as casually as possible.

He looks up briefly. “Hi,” he answers, then goes back to his work.

I get my charcoal and art pad ready, then focus on an apple in the arrangement of fruit. The apple’s a little misshapen, with only one well-rounded side and a lumpy top that looks like a weird hairstyle. With a few strokes I draw my apple, and it begins to take form as a character. Droopy eyes, a long nose, and a mouth stretched wide, as if he’s singing. A few lines here and there, and he has hands and a guitar with one broken string.

I hear a chuckle behind me and look up to see Ms. Montero. “Even without the hat, he’s definitely country-western,” she says.

Jonathan hesitates, then leans over to look. He doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Ms. Montero as I rip the sheet from my art pad. “I drew what I saw. From now on I’ll tend to business.”

“I like what you drew,” she says. “After all, that’s what contemporary art is all about—what the artist sees, how the artist feels. Interpret what you see in your own way, Kristi.”

She moves on to see what Beth is doing. I catch Jonathan looking at me. He quickly looks away,
then turns back again. “You’re good,” he says quietly.

Surprised, I say, “I thought you didn’t like my drawing.”

For the first time Jonathan smiles at me. “I like it. Maybe too much. I guess I’m a little jealous of you, Kristi.”

“Jealous?” I realize my mouth is hanging open. With a gulp, I close it.

“It all comes so easy to you,” Jonathan says. “I watched you. Just a few quick lines and your apple suddenly was a real character. For a moment I thought I could even tell what he was thinking.” He waits a moment, then says, “I can’t draw like that. I wish I could.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” I tell him, “but sometimes I get mad at myself when I get too cartoony. I’d like to sketch like you. Your work is always so well planned. Every line counts.”

“I plod at what I do. You don’t. You’ve got a real talent. It must be something you were born with. Heredity. Is either of your parents an artist?”

I shrug. “I didn’t get it from my parents. My grandmother says I draw like one of her older brothers, but he was a farmer and didn’t have much time to spend on his art. Maybe it just skipped a generation!”

Ms. Montero holds up her left arm and points at her wristwatch. “Watch the time, kids,” she says.

The buzz of conversation dies down as we all tend to business. I begin with the best of intentions. But soon a gigantic human hand reaches out over
the bowl of fruit, ready to choose something to eat. My apple hunkers down in the bowl, scowling, and my big-bottomed pear winces and grits her teeth. My grapes get into such a pushing-and-shoving match that two of them fall out of the bowl onto the table.

Yeow! Ouch! Look out!
I write in balloons coming out of their wide-open mouths.
YOU NEED AT LEAST FOUR SERVINGS OF FRUIT A DAY FOR GOOD HEALTH
, I print in big letters along the bottom of the page.

Jonathan has inched his stool closer to mine. He looks over my shoulder. “That’s very funny. I like it. Could I have it?” he asks.

“Sure,” I answer. Then I say, “Let’s trade.”

He hands me his sketch of a pear. It’s beautifully shaded with thin, soft lines. I’d never have that much patience. Every little freckle and bump on the pear has been faithfully sketched in. It’s perfect.

And it’s dead. I’d like to add closed eyes and a lily in its hand.

But it’s Jonathan’s. Wonderful, handsome Jonathan. “Thank you,” I tell Jonathan, and smile at him, which is very easy to do.

I walk out of class in a happy daze. Jonathan has not only noticed me, he’s talked to me. He has even confided in me. But my daydreams about Jonathan disappear with a pop as I reach the bus stop and see a black sedan with someone in it parked halfway down the block.

Same car? No. It couldn’t be. There’s no license plate in front, and one visor is down. The other car wasn’t like that, I’m sure, or I would have noticed. From the long hair and hat it looks as if a woman is
sitting in the driver’s seat. Just one more black sedan. There must be a million of them.

As I begin to look away the sun glints off whatever the woman is holding, and I quickly glance back. She bends down, as if she’s putting something on the seat beside her. What did I see? Why do I have the feeling it was a camera?

The Memorial Drive bus grinds to a stop at the curb, blocking my vision of the car. I climb aboard, and as I settle in a window seat I twist to look back at the car.

It’s no longer there. It’s nowhere in sight.

Don’t start imagining things
, I scold myself.
That car and the person inside it had nothing to do with you.

But I’m really not so sure.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

A
s I let myself into the house the phone begins to ring. Slamming the kitchen door, I run across the room to answer.

“This is Sergeant Balker, returning your call, Kristi.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Yesterday I was followed when I was with my friend Lindy. It was a black car—a sedan.” I tell him the make and add, “But I got the license plate and—”

“I know. I got the information you left for me, and I followed through. The car belongs to a licensed private investigator. I went to his office this morning and talked with him. He told me he was employed a few months ago by Douglas Merson.”

“A few months ago. Then he’s the one who took
the recent photographs of me.” I think about the glint I saw in the car parked outside school, and the woman in the car. “Does he have a woman working for him too?”

“The guy works alone. He’s got a really small operation,” Balker answers.

“But I thought the driver today was a woman. Could Mr. Merson have hired more than one person?”

There’s a pause, and when Balker speaks I can hear the grin in his voice. “Private eyes on surveillance use all sorts of tricks to disguise their cars and themselves. Sometimes front license plates are snapped off or on. Antennas are put up or down. Both visors down, both up, or one down, one up. The driver changes clothing—hat or sweater, dark glasses on or off, even wigs.

“If you get suspicious about a car that’s following close—which it has to in Houston traffic—a few blocks farther on you’ll take another look. What do you see? A woman wearing sunglasses has become a man in a baseball cap. No longer both visors up along with an antenna. One visor’s down, and the antenna has disappeared. So you decide it’s another car, another driver. You stop being suspicious. Just in case you still have that gut feeling that you’re being followed, in another mile or so, you’ll look for the car, but the identifying marks will have changed again.”

I’m glad he’s explained. I don’t feel quite so stupid now. “Thanks for finding the guy,” I say. “Did he tell you why he was hired?”

“No, and I don’t think he cared why himself. To
him it’s just another job. He doesn’t have to keep watch on you or report what you’re doing. All he has to do is take pictures.”

“Even while Mr. Merson’s in the hospital?”

Detective Balker says, “Zigurski claims he didn’t know Merson had been shot. All he knows is that he agreed to take a certain number of photos.”

“But Mr. Merson can’t tell him to stop.”

“I told him,” Balker says. “I also told him he might not be paid. That seemed to convince him.”

“But today … this afternoon—he was still doing it, wasn’t he?”

“Probably. He’s not a very imaginative guy. I’m guessing that all he could think about was the roll of film he wanted to finish, so he could try to get paid in full.”

“Are you going to arrest him?”

Balker’s voice is quiet and soothing. “Do you really want your parents to press charges, Kristi? Believe me, it will be more trouble than it’s worth.”

I think about how scared I was, and I wish Sergeant Balker wasn’t such a nice guy to everybody.

“Will you give me this private investigator’s name? Can I talk to him?” I asked.

“Nope,” Balker says. “You don’t need to talk to him. And while I’m at it, don’t go visiting Merson’s neighbors or his hired help anymore.”

I gasp with surprise. “Who told you?” I ask, and then I add, “Do you need to mention this to my parents?”

“I’ll keep it to myself, but you keep to yourself. Have you got the picture?”

“Yes. Completely,” I tell him.
Zigurski.
That was the name Balker used a few minutes ago. He doesn’t know he had let it slip.

I change the subject. “How is Mr. Merson?”

“Improving,” Balker says. “They’re going to move him to a private hospital tomorrow.”

“Is he still unconscious?”

“What makes you think he was ever unconscious?”

“Um …” I try to think of an answer that makes sense, but all I can come up with is, “He was shot.”