Still Life

  Morton let go of the pillow. It bounced to the carpeted floor, sending up a puff of dust. “Mama wouldn’t do that,” he said. “She wouldn’t trap anybody.”

  “Well, she might have wanted to learn to use her talents for good, like Mrs. Dewey, and Walter, and Rutherford. Or . . .”

  “Not or,” said Morton. “She was good.”

  “Okay,” said Olive. She paused, watching Morton tuck his legs back under the nightshirt. “So, was she studying with Aldous McMartin?”

  “Maybe,” Morton mumbled to his kneecaps. “Yes. But it was for nice reasons. To learn to paint. And to watch him.”

  “To watch him?” Olive repeated.

  But Morton didn’t go on. Olive waited, looking down at the tufts of Morton’s hair, which turned from amber to pale gold as the fire burned down. Inside her mind, something else began to change. It turned from something wispy and gray into something strong and solid, something that gave off sparks of its own radiant, promising light.

  “You know what I think?” she asked, very slowly. “I think maybe your mother was a threat to the McMartins. Maybe she was learning to use Aldous’s magic so that she could undo it. Maybe he had to trap her before she could stop him. Maybe . . . if we find her . . . maybe she could defeat him for good.”

  Morton glanced up at Olive. “Maybe,” he said. His eyes went back to the fireplace. “But I just want her to come home.”

  Something in Olive’s chest—that same warm, solid, strong thing—spread its way through the rest of her body. She stood up and strode across the dimming room, straight to the fireplace. The last of Mary’s sketches was crumbling into red-seamed ash. Olive pulled the envelope from her pocket. With a little flick, she dropped it into the grate. The heat in the embers rushed up, breaking through the paper with fresh jets of flame. In seconds, Aldous’s message was gone.

  OLIVE CALLED RUTHERFORD first thing the next morning.

  “I knew you were going to call,” Rutherford said, before Olive could get any further than Hello. “And I know that you want to go back to the museum as soon as possible, and you’re hoping that I will accompany you.”

  Olive sighed. “Do you know how it feels to have someone know everything you’re going to say before you say it?”

  “I can read thoughts, not feelings,” said Rutherford. “So my answer to that question would have to be no.”

  “It’s a little annoying.”

  “I can imagine. You were thinking we’d meet at three o’clock, as the museum closes at four, weren’t you?”

  Olive let out another sigh. “Why do we need a phone at all?”

  “Because of feelings,” said Rutherford. “Your thoughts are not the only things that interest me.”

  Olive smiled, in spite of herself. But she was glad Rutherford couldn’t see her do it. “Just so you know, I feel . . .” She trailed off. She knew Rutherford could read the word grateful scrolling through her mind anyway.

  “I shall see you at three.” Rutherford hung up.

  • • •

  At precisely 2:45, Olive was in the basement of the old stone house, kneeling in front of Leopold with her empty purple backpack held invitingly open.

  “I am reluctant to leave my station, miss,” said the cat in his gravelly voice. “Particularly when we know that what I’m guarding could be an invader’s first target.”

  “But Leopold, I need you,” Olive pleaded. “The other two cats can stay here to guard the house while you come with us for backup. You’re the perfect choice for this mission. You’re brave. You’re wise. You’re quiet.”

  Leopold’s chest inflated in a gratified way. “Simply doing my duty, miss.”

  “I know. That’s why we need you. This will require stealth and secrecy.” Olive gave the trapdoor a significant look. “And you know all about keeping secrets.”

  The cat inclined his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, miss.”

  “I’m talking about the secret room with the—”

  “Yes,” said Leopold quickly. “I do actually know what you’re talking about.”

  “So . . .” Olive rustled the backpack. “Will you come with us?”

  Leopold eyed the bag’s purple pockets dubiously. “It’s not especially dignified,” he said at last, in his very deepest voice.

  “Well—you’d be riding on my back, so it’s kind of like a saddle,” said Olive. “You’d be like the Duke of Wellington, and I would be the Duke of Wellington’s horse.”

  Leopold’s eyes flickered. “Copenhagen?”

  “Sure,” said Olive. “We can pretend we’re going there.” She held out the backpack. “Mount your steeds, gentlemen!”

  With a deep, decisive breath, Leopold strode into the bag and let himself be zipped inside.

  • • •

  The Dunwoodys weren’t surprised that Olive wanted to spend Saturday afternoon at the art museum. They had stopped being surprised by Olive’s artistic tendencies when she was five, and they had given her a beautiful wooden abacus, which Olive had taken apart and used to make a beaded headdress for her teddy bear.

  “You’re sure you’d rather go to the art museum than help me grade these math quizzes?” said Mr. Dunwoody, waving a sheaf of papers enticingly.

  “I’m sure,” said Olive.

  Mrs. Dunwoody looked up from the latest issue of AUSOM: The Absolutely Unrelenting Seriousness of Mathematics. “Have a good time,” she said. “Just don’t stay out after dark.”

  “I won’t,” Olive promised, wrapping a scarf around her neck. “I’ll be home by dinnertime.”

  “And don’t forget your hat. It’s freezing out there.” Mr. Dunwoody gave Olive’s back a pat. Her backpack squirmed.

  Olive yanked a knit cap over her hair, shouted “Good-bye!” to her parents, and raced out the front door.

  Rutherford was waiting for her at the corner.

  “Hello, Copenhagen,” he said, with a little bow. “And good afternoon, Your Grace.”

  “Good afternoon, sir,” muttered the backpack.

  “The appropriate address is Your Grace, not Your Highness, you know,” said Rutherford as they headed down the slope of Linden Street. “The Duke of Wellington was not a royal duke. If, on the other hand, he had been born into the ruling family, as the second son of the king or queen, for example . . .”

  Rutherford rambled on about titles and hierarchies as they hurried up one snowy block after another. Olive, who was shivering in spite of her coat and the warm lump inside her backpack, was grateful for the distraction. She kept her chin tucked into her scarf and her eyes on the streets around them, making certain that they weren’t being followed. It was still light enough that Aldous McMartin would probably have avoided the outdoors, but the sun was sinking behind the rows of snowy houses, and the sky above them was the steely shade of a mirror in an empty room.

  They wound their way around corners and across quiet streets until the houses gave way to stores and offices, all decked with wreaths and small, colored lights. By the time they reached the museum, the streetlamps had blinked on.

  “. . . Although until the Hundred Years’ War, the royalty of England spoke Anglo-Norman French, which is why they’re called royalty—from the French roi—in the first place,” Rutherford concluded as they climbed up the wide stone steps.

  Somewhere nearby, church bells clanged a carol.

  “It’s three thirty,” Olive murmured. She put her mouth close to the backpack. “Are you all right in there, Leopold?”

  “Perfectly. Thank you, miss,” Leopold’s voice rumbled back.

  Olive hesitated at the doors. “We’ll need to find a place to hide, so we can explore the painting after everyone else leaves,” she whispered. “It would probably be safest if no one noticed us at all.”

  “Agreed,” said Rutherford. “We should avoid
making contact with anyone.”

  He pulled open one of the heavy glass doors, and they stepped into the museum’s entryway. And there, behind the information desk, with her frizzy red hair curling out from her head like the bristles of an overused toothbrush, sat Ms. Teedlebaum.

  “Well, hello, art lovers!” she hooted, hopping to her feet. “What are you two doing here?”

  Olive’s heart plunged. “Um—”

  “We were so inspired by yesterday’s visit that we decided to return,” Rutherford interrupted.

  “Wonderful!” Ms. Teedlebaum beamed. “I’m this weekend’s information officer, so if there’s anything you’d like to know, just ask!”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Rutherford, “we would like to learn more about one of the paintings we discussed yesterday.”

  “I’d be delighted to help, Livingston!” Ms. Teedlebaum stepped out from behind the desk with a tinkle of pens and keys. “Which artist are you interested in?”

  “The one with the pentimento,” said Rutherford. “The portrait by Mary Nivens.”

  Olive stifled a gasp.

  Ms. Teedlebaum’s smile widened. “Of course!” she exclaimed. “Follow me!”

  “What are you doing, Livingston?” Olive asked between her teeth as she and Rutherford followed the rippling hem of Ms. Teedlebaum’s orange kaftan through the hallways.

  “As we have already been noticed, it seemed wiser to give a plausible explanation for our visit than to act mysterious and uncomfortable,” said Rutherford.

  “Hmph,” said Olive, even though she knew that Rutherford could read her thoughts, which were all grudgingly agreeing with him.

  “Here we are!” Ms. Teedlebaum’s voice rang through the quiet room. A few other visitors looked up, startled. “Mary Nivens’s portrait!”

  Olive stared hard at the double-layered image of Morton, with its strange bumps and swirls. It wasn’t moving. The longer she stared at it, the more she began to fear that Rutherford was right. What if it was only a trick of the brushstrokes, a shift of light and color? What if she’d been fooled by an illusion, and her hunches meant nothing at all?

  “We believe that the artist, Mary Nivens, once lived between our houses on Linden Street,” Rutherford was saying.

  Olive threw him a dark look, but Ms. Teedlebaum’s smile was bright enough to eclipse it entirely.

  “Really?” she exclaimed. “How fascinating!” Her refractive green eyes hit Olive. “I wonder if she was acquainted with the famous Aldous McMartin!”

  “Mmm . . .” said Olive.

  “Are there any other pictures by Mary Nivens in the museum’s collection?” Rutherford asked.

  “No, Cunningham, unfortunately not,” said Ms. Teedlebaum. “This is the only piece by Mary Nivens that’s in public ownership, as far as we know.”

  Olive squinted up at the painting again. It remained perfectly still.

  “Has there been any attempt to remove the outer portrait to see what is beneath it?” asked Rutherford.

  “That’s a tricky process,” said Ms. Teedlebaum, “and our art historians have determined from the canvas itself that the underlying painting must be very close in age to the painting on top of it. It’s most likely that Mary painted over one of her own artworks. Painters do that a lot, to save money, or to hide embarrassing mistakes!” Ms. Teedlebaum laughed, turning to Olive again. “But it’s fun to imagine something more mysterious, isn’t it?”

  Olive tried to answer, but her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth, and all that came out was a little clicking sound.

  “It certainly is,” Rutherford answered for her.

  “It’s like buried treasure,” said the art teacher, raising her paint-splotched hands. “Once you dig it up, it isn’t buried treasure anymore. It might just be a box of old car parts!”

  “I suppose that is possible,” said Rutherford agreeably.

  Olive finally managed to get her tongue unstuck. “Um, Ms. Teedlebaum? You said that Annabelle McMartin donated this painting to the museum. Did she tell you why she was giving this one away?”

  Ms. Teedlebaum nodded. “I asked her about that. She told me that it wasn’t one of her grandfather’s artworks, which were the only pieces she had to keep, and she thought it would be safest at our museum, and that I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Isn’t that a wonderful old expression?” Ms. Teedlebaum clasped her hands delightedly, bracelets jingling. “Do you have any other questions?”

  “No, thank you,” said Rutherford. “It’s been very informative.”

  “Good.” Ms. Teedlebaum smiled down at both of them. “Enjoy the paintings. Just remember that we close in fifteen minutes!”

  “Thank you, Ms. Teedlebaum,” said Olive and Rutherford.

  “Thank you, madam,” said a deep voice from Olive’s backpack. Fortunately, Ms. Teedlebaum was already sailing away on a ripple of orange kaftan.

  “I know what we should do,” Olive whispered, glancing around the gallery to make sure no other visitors were close enough to overhear. “There are bathrooms in the entryway, just past the information desk. We’ll wait until Ms. Teedlebaum is distracted, call good-bye to her so she thinks we’ve left, and then hide there until everyone’s gone. Okay?”

  “The men’s bathroom, or the women’s bathroom?” Rutherford asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well, two of us are male . . .”

  “Fine. The men’s room then,” said Olive. “Ms. Teedlebaum will be less likely to come inside it, anyway.”

  “Excellent thinking, miss,” said Olive’s backpack.

  They slunk back along the corridor. The museum was emptying for the night. A few whispering grown-ups still wandered in the huge, unfurnished rooms, but everyone seemed to be drifting toward the exit.

  At the end of the main hall, Olive craned around the corner. Ms. Teedlebaum was back at the information desk. Her frizzy head was bowed over the worn wooden surface. She appeared to be folding tissues into origami shapes before tucking them back into their cardboard box, which wouldn’t have made sense if anyone else had been doing it.

  Olive gave Rutherford a nod.

  “Good-bye, Ms. Teedlebaum,” they said loudly, trotting across the entryway.

  “Good-bye!” Ms. Teedlebaum called back, glancing up from a Kleenex crane to give them one more smile.

  The instant her head was down, Olive and Rutherford dove toward the restroom. Rutherford peeped through the doorway first. “All clear,” he whispered.

  They tiptoed inside, letting the door swing gently shut behind them.

  The bathroom was painted a dingy yellowish color, like a dish of dusty butter. A row of stalls with chipped metal walls faced a row of matching pedestal sinks. Olive slipped into the farthest stall. Rutherford took the one beside her.

  “I’m going to stand on the seat, so my feet don’t show,” Olive whispered through the wall.

  “Good idea,” Rutherford whispered back.

  After arranging several strips of toilet paper and readjusting her backpack for maximum sturdiness (she didn’t want to lose hold and drop Leopold into the toilet bowl, for many good reasons), Olive climbed up onto the old wooden seat. Her hands were starting to sweat, so she took off her mittens and stuffed them into her coat pockets.

  Then she waited.

  It took about thirty seconds for her legs to start to ache. Her knees were locked at an uncomfortable angle, but she couldn’t change position without losing her balance or making noise. Every tiny sound seemed to thunder through the room, growing louder as it echoed from the yellowish walls. The hair twitching against her ears sounded like claws on a window screen. Her heartbeat was a fist striking a punching bag.

  Finally, when she knew she would have to move her legs or lose her mind, there was the creak of an opening door. Olive held her breath,
listening to the jingle of keys, followed by the snap of a light switch.

  The butter-colored room turned black.

  In the distance, there were more soft clicks, and then the thump of a heavy door . . . and then, at last, there was silence.

  Olive waited for another minute, counting the seconds in her head.

  “You skipped the forties,” Rutherford whispered from next door. “But I think we can safely emerge, with or without them.”

  Olive climbed down from the toilet seat and stumbled out of the creaking metal stall. To her right, she could hear Rutherford doing the same. In the blackness, she crouched down and unzipped her backpack. Leopold emerged, his eyes like two fireflies against the dark.

  “Shall we make our exit?” Rutherford’s voice whispered.

  “Let’s hurry!” Olive whispered back.

  They slipped out of the restroom. The museum’s entrance was silvery and silent. Fading daylight pressed through the glass doors. The big wooden information desk was abandoned, only a box of origami tissues marking the spot where Ms. Teedlebaum had been.

  In a cluster, they darted across the entryway and back down the hall, Leopold soundless, Rutherford quiet, and Olive trying to be quiet and failing miserably. Her backpack made annoying rustling sounds, and her boots struck the creakiest floorboards. Even her breath seemed to reverberate through the cavernous rooms.

  They turned into the gallery. The hanging lamps above the artworks had been switched off for the night. Light from the windows reflected in the polished floors, turning the air to gray mist. The canvases gleamed dully.

  “Here we are,” Olive breathed, stopping in front of Morton’s portrait. She tugged the spectacles from her collar and set them on her nose.

  The painting remained perfectly still.

  Even though she had been telling herself not to get her hopes up, Olive felt a wave of disappointment pushing them down again.

  “Do you see anything?” Rutherford whispered.

  Olive shook her head.