Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception

  There were twelve Disciples total, plus Tess. And when Hudson came back with the teas, he scowled in Tess's direction and said, “Looks like she's holding court, doesn't it?”

  “She is.” I leaned over the table and whispered, “Those are Tess's ‘disciples.' ”

  His face scrunched up. “Surely you jest.”

  “Not I, sire,” I said in my best English accent.

  He laughed. “Say, that was good.” Then we overheard Tess say, “Who's volunteering first today?”

  At first none of the Disciples said a thing. Then they all seemed to talk at once. Finally Tess laughed and said, “Frank, you're elected.”

  So Frank lifts a covered canvas onto the easel, and when he whips the sheet off, the whole Disciple table gasps at the painting. It's a big red face, with black holes for eyes and a screaming mouth. And glued all around the face and sticking out of the mouth are blue and red tubes of some kind.

  “What are those things?” I whisper to Hudson.

  “Shotgun shells,” he whispers back.

  “Comments?” we hear Tess ask the group.

  There's a moment of silence and then one Disciple says, “It's powerful.”

  “Arresting,” Miss Kuzkowski chimes in, then adds, “No pun intended.”

  There's a little laughter, then someone calls out, “It's electrifying!”

  “Stunning!”

  “Nice depth to the acrylic, Frank.”

  Then after a few moments of silence, Tess says, “Very powerful, Frank. Leaps ahead of your last presentation.”

  Frank was nodding away, beaming like a little kid.

  I whisper to Hudson, “Comments?”

  He shakes his head. “It strives to evoke a sense of hatred. I find it emotionally contrived and aesthetically distasteful.”

  “Hey, I think you ought to join the Disciples.”

  He scowls. “I'm afraid I'd be more of a Dissonant.”

  The next Disciple's painting was already on the easel. It was waves of color overlapping from top to bottom with some long drips running through like stretchy faucet drips. Tess stands there, nodding. “I feel the rhythm.”

  “Yes, yes!” the artist cries. He's actually bouncing up and down on his toes, his thick glasses bobbing on his nose. “It represents rhythms of civilization. Paths crossing, lives intersecting…. I've tried to be submissive to the materials, allowing them to take me, rather than trying to dominate them!”

  Tess nods. “Just as we discussed, Koto. Good progress.” She looks around the Disciple table. “Comments?”

  “It's mesmerizing!” some Disciple gushes.

  “Very Zen, Koto.”

  “It projects heat as it moves from cool to warm and then back to cool again.”

  “And I feel a … a fluid ity of cooperation.”

  “Nicely stated,” Tess says. Then after Koto sits down she smiles around the table. “Those were the only presentations this week, am I right?”

  Personally, I'd had enough of Tess and her dopey Disciples. But when I try and get Hudson to tell me about what's bothering him, he holds up a finger and says, “She's brought something, I'd bet my boots.”

  And sure enough, the Supreme Splotter lifts a large sheet-covered painting onto the easel, then waits. And when she's sure she's got the attention of everyone at the table, plus all the people in the Bean Goddess who've been listening in, she says, “I present to you …,” then throws back the sheet, “Looking Glass.”

  The Disciples all oooh and aaaah. Everyone in the Bean Goddess stares. And what we're all gaping at is the world's biggest …

  Oval.

  That's right. All it is, is a big white oval on a jet-black background. Well, jet-black except for her signature slashing across the bottom right corner in turquoise.

  “Fabulous!” one of the Disciples cries.

  “It's so … so deep!” another one gasps.

  “Why, just look at it!” someone else chimes in.

  Tess stands beside it like she's wearing a crown. “Gaze into my Looking Glass. See inside your soul!”

  Then that Koto guy with the bouncy glasses stands up and moves around the table, shifting from side to side as he looks at her painting. And seriously, he's acting like he's about to bust at the seams, he's that excited.

  “What is it, Koto?” Tess asks him.

  “This is so brilliant! So brilliant.” And Tess is looking oh-so-pleased with herself but then, then Koto says, “Did you consider using silver paint? Or some reflective medium? So you could actually have seen yourself. Or some contorted version of yourself?”

  Tess's face changes like clay on a potter's wheel. From top to bottom it comes squeezing down into a frightful frown. All the Disciples hold their breath. Koto freezes with a big OOPS on his face, then dives back into his seat. And Tess just stands there, nostrils flaring, lightning bolts shooting from her eyes.

  “It was just a suggestion,” Koto squeaks, but Tess doesn't let him off the hook. She takes a deep breath and says through her teeth, “It reflects your soul, not your face!” Then she sits down with a pout while all the Disciples swoon around her, telling her how brilliant Looking Glass is.

  Hudson shakes his head and mutters, “The Empress is wearing no clothes.”

  I bust up. “Exactly!”

  So after we sip and laugh for a minute, he holds his tea high. “Here's to not exposing ourselves in public.”

  I clink my glass to his, then kick my high-tops up on the empty chair next to me and ask, “So, Hudson. Tell me about Grams.”

  He frowns, then shakes his head.

  I sit back up. “Hudson, look. I always feel better when I talk to you … give it a try, will you?”

  He just shakes his head some more. “Okay. Well tell me this: Are you mad at Grams?”

  “No. I'm more mad at myself.”

  “Because … ?”

  “Because I'm afraid your grandmother's right.”

  My hands were suddenly clammy. My heart seemed to forget how to beat. And I tried to make it sound funny, but it came out real quiet when I asked, “About you being all blather-brained about Ms. Reijden?”

  He gave me half a grin, then did something that about ripped my heart in two.

  He shrugged. Like, yeah, okay. So I'm blather-brained.

  I sat up. “But Hudson—”

  “I know! And I swore it was just her paintings, but the more I look at them, the more depth I see in them, the more they stir my soul …” His voice trailed off and he gave a helpless shrug. Like it was too late for him to stop it. Too strong for him to fight it.

  “But Hudson,” I whispered. “I love her paintings, but I'm not in love with her.”

  His eyes looked pained. “Don't you see? They are who she is. Her hopes and her fears, her joys and despairs. You know who she is by knowing her paintings.”

  “But Hudson, come on. That doesn't mean—”

  He shook his head, cutting me off. “She's committed to attending an Art Society dinner in Santa Luisa Wednesday evening, but after that horrific review, she just can't face going alone. She's asked me to escort her, and I've agreed.” He looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Sammy, she was just devastated by that review.”

  “But … couldn't she have asked somebody else?”

  “I'm sure she could have asked any number of people.”

  “So why you? I mean, you just met, and you're so much … you know, older than she is.”

  His eyes flashed. “No one likes to be called old, Sammy.”

  “I didn't say … I mean, I didn't mean …” But he was already standing up. “Hudson, wait!”

  He shook his head and said, “I'm not some old fool. I'm sorry that's how you see me.”

  And with that, the one person I can always turn to— the one person I can always talk to, the one person who knows me better than I know myself—turned his back on me and walked away.

  “Hudson!” I cried, but he kept on walking, straight out the Bean Goddess door. And I did
chase after him, but it didn't do any good. I'd hurt his feelings, and besides, ol' Purple Eyes had him under a spell.

  Now if it hadn't been for Grams, I would have been happy for him. But I knew that Grams really liked Hudson, even though she wouldn't admit it. So I wasn't happy. Not for anybody.

  I went back inside the Bean Goddess to where I'd stashed my stuff, and as I was strapping on my backpack, I noticed part of an abandoned Sunday paper on a table nearby. So I paged through it, looking for the review Hudson had talked about. I mean, Hudson had called it horrific, but how bad could it be? Was this just some damsel-in-distress game Diane was playing? And why Hudson? Don't get me wrong—I love the guy. And yeah, for seventy-two, he's kinda handsome. But he's seventy-two! Why couldn't Diane find someone, you know, fiftytwo? Or sixty-two?

  I spotted the review. And halfway through, I had to sit down. The reviewer said that Tess's paintings “demonstrate unbridled courage” and “allow us to liberate our imagination from our mechanical mind” and that Austin Zuni's work “haunts the continuum of dominance”— whatever that means. Then came the part about Diane's paintings.

  At first I couldn't even breathe. Then my heart started pounding and my hands started sweating and I wanted to punch something. Somebody. How could they say that about Whispers ? About any of her paintings? Sure, I could hear catty ol' Tess saying something like this, but a reviewer?

  I looked at the top of the column. At the reviewer's name. Ned Bristol. At his chumpy little picture, smiling from the page. “You're a jerk!” I yelled at the paper. “And a moron, too!” And I had lots more to say, believe me, but all of a sudden I stopped and looked at the picture again.

  Closer.

  In my mind, I took off the faddish glasses.

  Erased the smile.

  And slowly a wave of heat spread from my head, down my back and out my arms.

  It was him!

  It had to be.

  I looked over at Tess and her Disciples, laughing and yapping and drinking brewed bean juice. And I knew right then that Hudson was right.

  The Splotter was wearing no clothes.

  FOURTEEN

  I tore out of the Vault and rode my skateboard hard and fast. I don't remember the turns or the lights or the traffic—I was too busy thinking to pay much attention to what I was doing.

  Inside, my head was a jangly, jumbly mess. On the one hand, Tess Winters was mean and I wanted her to be guilty. She was snobby. She was cold and hateful and phony. I wanted to throw a bucket of paint on her and her broomstick and make her dissolve.

  But on the other hand, I was confused about Diane. I mean, I liked her, but she had come between Hudson and Grams, and I was sort of panicked about it. I didn't want Grams to be sad or hurt or any of that, plus I didn't want to lose Hudson as a friend—something that was already happening, thanks to my big mouth.

  But even though I knew Grams thought that Diane was a sneaky manipulative purple-eyed dragon—even though it might hurt Grams' feelings for me to help Diane—if I was right about Tess, someone had to expose her.

  When I reached the arch of roses, I popped up my board and carried it down the gravel driveway to Diane's house. And as I got close, I noticed that Diane already had company. Near her walkway was one of those European motor scooters. You know, bigger than a bike, but not quite a motorcycle?

  Anyway, this thing was bright white and had about fifty rearview mirrors on it. Seriously, they were different shapes and different sizes, sticking out all around the front end like a wall of glass.

  I checked it out long enough to learn that it was called a “Vespa,” then went up and stood at the front door. And when I finally reached up to ring the bell, my arm seemed heavy. Weak. Like it just didn't want to do it.

  But I knew I had to tell her. So I pushed the doorbell, took a step back, and waited.

  The door didn't open, but a curtain to my right moved slightly. I waved like, Hey, I know you're there, even though I couldn't see who it was.

  Forever later, the front door swings open and Diane peeks out at me saying, “I'm sorry, Sammy, but it's not a good time.”

  Her eyes are all puffy and her cheeks are flushed, and she's got a mangled hankie in her hand.

  She starts to close the door on me, so I cry, “Wait! I have something I have to tell you!”

  She cocks her head a little like, Oh?

  “It's about Tess. She …” I pull the newspaper review out of my back pocket and hand it to her.

  “She what?”

  “First, do you know this Ned Bristol guy?”

  She nods. “He's interviewed me several times.”

  “Does he always wear glasses?”

  She shakes her head. “No …”

  “Do you know what he drives?””

  She focuses on me a little closer. “Why?”

  “Just tell me—does he drive a purple Camaro?”

  “Yes … he does.”

  “That's him!” I said, slapping the paper in her hands.

  “That's who?”

  “The guy who took an envelope from Tess! Out the side door of the Vault! A couple of hours ago! I'm sure she was paying him off.” I tapped on the paper. “For this!”

  Her face morphs from soft-puffy-smile to eye-popping surprise. Then she grabs me by the wrist and hauls me through the house and into the living room. And who's sitting on the fireplace hearth?

  Jojo.

  Big surprise, huh? I mean, who else would drive a motor scooter with fifty funky mirrors?

  Anyway, he jumps up when he sees me, looking sort of guilty and very confused. “Sammy?”

  “Tell him,” Diane says to me. “Tell him everything you just told me.”

  So I do, and when I'm done, Jojo says, “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you sure it was Ned?”

  “I followed him down the alley. I watched him zoom off in a jacked-up purple Camaro with chrome bumpers and Bondoed doors. You know anyone else who has one of those?”

  “No, but come on. Tess could have been handing him tickets to the movies. You can't just accuse people of paying people off.”

  “You should have seen the way she did it, Jojo. She kept looking over her shoulder.”

  “But that doesn't mean he's the guy! It could have been—”

  “Joseph, clearly this review is the result of a bribe. Ned Bristol has never written anything even remotely scathing in his life! It's always been gushy small-town puff pieces. And now this? It's Tess's style, Tess's thoughts, Tess's words. He just took the bribe to place it.”

  “Yeah!” I said. “And I'll bet he's also the Squirt Gun Bandit! She was probably desperate to get your paintings out of there because of that L.A. Times guy!”

  “Why … I'll bet you're right!” Diane says, then adds, “First she tries to steal my paintings, then she tries to destroy them this way.”

  Jojo shakes his head and tisks. “But Ned wouldn't risk his job—”

  “He'll never admit it, Joseph. Although he's certainly made no secret of the pittance he gets paid at the paper, so maybe he doesn't even care. The point is, this all makes sense now. Tess is just trying to push me out of the limelight, and frankly, I'm more than happy to leave.” She puts her hands on her hips. “I want my paintings back, Joseph. Today.”

  “No, no! You don't! Don't you see? All she's done is push you into the limelight! That ridiculous review will make people curious! They'll be coming in in droves.”

  “To see my ‘conspicuously out of touch' paintings? No thank you.”

  “But Di, be reasonable. None of this is my fault! And I'm heavily invested in you! I've taken out ads, I've done promo three counties wide. I got the Los Angeles Times to cover you! When that hits stands around the globe, none of this will matter!”

  “It does to me.”

  Jojo takes a deep breath and puts both hands up. “Okay, okay. I'll investigate. I'll get to the bottom of this and—”

  “You'll investigate?” She shakes her head like, Oh yeah—fa
t lotta good that'll do.

  “Wait and see! And if Tess is behind this, we'll expose her and she'll be the one to suffer. Not you, not me. Tess.”

  Diane crosses her arms. “But none of this will happen before your contract with her is up, am I right? After all, you're invested in her as well, no?”

  He gives her a helpless shrug. “What can I do? I'm legally bound to her.”

  “Not if she's broken the law!” She shakes her head again, then sort of crumbles into the folds of a worn-looking armchair. “Oh, let's stop bickering. I don't want this. You don't want this.” She sighs. “Perhaps I am ready to pursue other avenues.” She looks at Jojo. “Like you encouraged me earlier?”

  Jojo's eyes get bigger. And bigger. And bigger. “Do you mean … ?”

  She nods. “I think lithographs might be a good idea after all.” She lets out a big sigh and says, “The art world has been run over by people like Tess—I just can't stomach it any longer.” She gives him a tired smile.

  “Would you release me from my contract if I agreed to prints?”

  Jojo dashes over and slides down on one knee, holding one of her hands with both of his. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes! I'm so glad you've finally seen the light! Do you remember how reluctant you were to show them at all? How you priced them so high, hoping maybe they wouldn't sell?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “You didn't have to! It was obvious to me! Obvious from the day you unveiled the first one. You wouldn't even show me the others, remember? They're personal to you.” He pats her hand. “This way, we'll sell the prints, you'll keep the originals—it'll be the best of both worlds!”

  She smiles at him, then lets out a choppy sigh. “Okay, then. Let's do it.”

  Jojo jumps up. “Darling, I am on it. I'll get Michael to shoot the negs right away and—” He stops short and says, “I am your agent and distributor on this, then, right? We do have an exclusive agreement, right? One you won't renege on, right?”

  She laughs and waves a hand. “Write it up. I'll sign anything that's fair. I just want my paintings back.”