All That's Missing (34 page)

Steamboat was happy to follow Arlo back to the house. Arlo stroked Steamboat's head to keep him quiet while they slipped through the kitchen door. A strange toolbox blocked the entryway. Muddy footprints left a track from the door to the basement steps.

“Now what?” Maywood said.

Arlo put a finger over his mouth. “Listen,” he said.

Voices drifted up from the basement.

Arlo sent Maywood a message with his eyebrows. “Up there,” he whispered, pointing toward the kitchen. He lifted Steamboat into his arms, then led Maywood up the steps. Ever so slowly, Arlo pulled the door to the pantry open just enough for the three of them to slip inside. Arlo sat on the lid of the steel garbage pail. He signaled to Maywood to sit on the cardboard box that was filled with empty canning jars. Steamboat nestled between them. Then Arlo pulled the door shut and the three of them huddled together in the dark.

“What are we doing?” Maywood whispered.

Arlo pointed at a vent in the floorboards. In a few seconds, voices floated up from the basement. Arlo leaned toward them, straining to make out the words.

“You sure this house belonged to the same guy that was in those letters?” a male voice asked.

“I am now,” the other voice said.

Arlo recognized them both immediately. Mr. Garringer and Mr. Wolfe. He kept his head tilted at just the right angle so he could understand what they were saying.

“It was sweet the way those two delinquents led us straight to the statue, wasn't it?” Mr. Wolfe said. “You had it figured out all along. That Malachy guy was buried in Edgewater. He lived in this house.”

“You can gloat later,” Mr. Garringer said. “Right now we need to find that painting.”

Maywood's eyes bulged. Arlo shrugged. He nodded toward the vent and then pointed at his ear. Maywood understood. She leaned closer to listen, too.

“There's nothing down here,” Mr. Wolfe was saying.

“So where do you suggest we look?” Mr. Garringer asked.

“I'm telling you, there's something behind those bookcases,” Mr. Wolfe said. “If you ask me, that's where Malachy stashed the Brokenberry.”

There was a long pause, following which Mr. Garringer said, “All right. Let's have another look.”

Steamboat squirmed in Arlo's lap. When footsteps pounded up from the basement and across the kitchen floor, Arlo squeezed Steamboat tighter. The dog let out a tiny yelp. On the other side of the door, the footsteps stopped. Arlo's heart nearly stopped as well.

“Did you hear something?” Mr. Wolfe asked.

“Nah,” Mr. Garringer said. “You're too nervous. Old houses make funny noises. Come on. Let's find that painting.”

Arlo started breathing again.

The footsteps moved toward the center hall.

Arlo patted Steamboat on the head. “Good boy,” he whispered.

Soon they heard tapping on the wall of the alcove.

“Now what?” Maywood whispered.

“Now we wait,” Arlo said.

“For what?” Maywood asked.

“I'm not sure,” Arlo said.

There were more knocks and the sound of books being tossed on the floor. Soon a loud scraping sound set Arlo's teeth on edge. It was as if someone was moving furniture, only it must have been something a lot bigger than a sofa or a table because it sounded like a piece of the house was being moved.

After a while, the sound turned softer, as if they had finished one stage of whatever they were doing and moved on to something else. Then there were squeaks like footsteps over creaky floorboards.

“Now?” Maywood whispered.

Arlo nodded. “Now,” he said.

They made their way quietly out of the pantry. Arlo held on to Steamboat's collar to keep him from running ahead of them. They crept through the dining room, taking care to stay on the thickest and softest part of the worn carpet. When they reached the main hallway, they saw what had made the noise.

The bookcase on the wall beneath the stairs had been moved. It was standing open, like a giant door leading into a small room underneath the stairway and part of the wall. At the back of the room was a doorway and what appeared to be steps.

Arlo picked up Steamboat again and carried him, with Maywood following behind, through the room and partway down the steps.

At the bottom of the steps was another room, much larger than the space under the stairway. It had wood floors and plaster walls and a low ceiling. And it appeared to extend the entire length of the living room above it, though there was not enough light to be certain of that. Mr. Garringer and Mr. Wolfe were both down there. They were standing under a bare lightbulb, which hung on a wire from the ceiling. Along the walls on either side of them were wooden racks with what appeared to be bottles stacked on their sides.

Arlo felt Steamboat's breath on his hand. He prayed the dog would stay silent long enough to see what the men were up to before he and Maywood crept out of the room.

It wasn't until Mr. Wolfe stepped to one side that Arlo spotted the painting. It was on an easel between the two men and beside it, on the floor, was a dusty bedsheet that must have been covering the painting. Arlo wasn't close enough to have a clear view, but still he could see the bottom portion of the canvas, that place where the artist had painted what appeared to be twigs of berries resting on a silver platter. Solomon Brokenberry's hallmark.
On a painting in a secret room inside his grandmother's house!

Arlo turned to Maywood and gave her an eye signal indicating they should leave. They backed up the steps and tiptoed through the secret room and into the house.

Arlo put Steamboat down and began pushing on the bookcase immediately.

“Help me,” he said. If the bookcase made the same noise going back into place as it had made when the two men opened it up, they needed to work quickly.

Maywood pushed, too. The wall began to move — ever so slowly at first, but then faster as they came closer to latching it tight. They heard footsteps coming up from below.

“Hurry,” Maywood whispered.

Arlo heaved as hard as he could. Maywood threw her body against the wall as well. There was a loud click as the bookcase snapped into place. The secret doorway was closed. Hands pounded on the other side. Mr. Garringer and Mr. Wolfe shouted in angry voices.

“Let us out of here!”

“Where's Steamboat?” Arlo asked, his heart hammering at the thought that Steamboat might be trapped inside with the two men.

“Over there,” Maywood said. She pointed toward the living room.

Arlo let out his breath. “Call the police,” he said.

Maywood picked up the receiver and punched 911.

Then they waited.

Sirens whined. Gravel ricocheted under the tires of three sheriffs' cars as they careened down Ida's driveway. A minute later, the sheriff and three of his deputies burst through the kitchen door.

“In there!” Arlo yelled, pointing toward the center hallway. He led them to the bookcase under the stairs.

Steamboat stood and barked as everyone crowded around.

“In there?” the sheriff asked.

Arlo nodded. “They were after a painting,” he said.

“A painting?” The sheriff screwed up his face. “What kind of painting?”

“It's in a secret room,” Maywood added.

One of the deputies elbowed another one. He rolled his eyes.

“There's a room behind that bookcase,” Arlo said. “It leads to a stairway that goes to a room under the living room.”

“This better not be a false alarm,” the cranky deputy said.

“Calm down, Pete,” the sheriff said. “You saw that black Caddy in the driveway, didn't you? There's something fishy going on here. That's for sure. And I don't think it's these kids.”

Another deputy was running his finger around the edges of the bookcase. Then he ran his hand along the bottom side of each of the shelves.

Meanwhile, the sheriff started firing questions.

“How many of them did you say there were?”

“Two,” Arlo said.

“And do you know who they are?”

“Sure,” Maywood said. “It's Mr. Garringer and Mr. Wolfe.”

“Who are they?” the sheriff asked.

Arlo told him.

“You're sure you saw them down there?” the sheriff asked.

Arlo nodded. “They were looking at a painting.”

“Do they have weapons?” the sheriff asked.

“I don't know,” Arlo said.

“Nice job,” the deputy who was checking out the bookcase said. He gave Arlo a nod.

Steamboat wagged his tail as if the deputy were praising him.

“He wasn't talking to you,” Maywood said.

Steamboat looked crestfallen until Arlo patted him on the head and Steamboat perked up again.

“Bingo,” the deputy who was searching the bookcase said. He showed the sheriff a button on the bottom side of the third shelf.

“OK,” the sheriff told his deputies. “Form a line. You kids go outside and wait. And take the dog with you.”

As Arlo carried Steamboat through the dining room, he heard the sheriff's voice behind him.

“This is the county sheriff. I've got three deputies with me. And we're armed. So what we're going to do is . . . I'm going to open this bookcase real slow. And when I do, I want to see the two of you with your hands up.”

“Come on,” Maywood said. She tugged on Arlo's arm.

Part of Arlo wanted to stay and watch, but he was also afraid Steamboat might break loose and get hurt. Nothing was worth risking that. So he followed Maywood outside to the driveway.

“How long do you think we'll have to stay out here?” she asked.

“No idea,” Arlo said. “But I guess they'll let us know when it's OK to go back in.”

Arlo threw a ball for Steamboat and waited while Steamboat retrieved it and brought it back to drop at Arlo's feet.

A few minutes later, the sheriff and three deputies led Mr. Garringer and Mr. Wolfe outside. The two men were handcuffed. The deputies put Mr. Garringer in one car and Mr. Wolfe in another.

Then the sheriff came over and asked Arlo and Maywood to follow him inside.

The bookcase was still standing open. The sheriff led them back down to the secret room. There was the painting on the easel. Arlo leaned in close to examine it.

It was a picture of two boys standing in front of a large wooden table in what appeared to be the grand hallway of an old house. One of the boys was seated, and the other stood beside him. On the table a small silver platter held two clusters of red berries.

Maywood whispered one word. “Brokenberry.”

Arlo gave her a nod. “Exactly,” he said.

“You kids know who painted this picture?” the sheriff asked. He gave Arlo a funny look.

Maywood explained about Solomon Brokenberry and the upcoming exhibit at the museum in Richmond. The more she talked, the more amazed the sheriff looked. He kept shaking his head.

“I should put you kids on the payroll,” he said.

“It's because of Mama Reel,” Arlo said. “She told us all about him.”

Mama Reel and Lucius arrived a few minutes later. They found their way to the secret space under the living room.

“How did you ever discover this?” Lucius asked.

“The robbers led us here,” Maywood said.

Lucius's eyebrows popped up.

Meanwhile, Mama Reel stared at the painting. “It can't be,” she whispered.

“Is it really by that Brokenberry guy?” Maywood asked.

Mama Reel bent down and examined the painting closely. She stared at the berries on the platter and lingered over the artist's signature at the bottom of the canvas.

“Mind you, I'm no expert,” she said. “But this looks like the famous lost painting.” She glanced at the sheriff and looked back at the picture. “But that can't be. Can it? How on earth would it end up here?”

The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Lost painting?” he said.

Mama Reel kept talking. “All this time,” she whispered.

“All what time?” the sheriff asked.

“Since 1907,” Mama Reel said. “Well, it didn't disappear until 1930 or so. After the Crash.”

“You lost me,” the sheriff said. “Who lost the painting?”

“Sorry,” Mama Reel said. “I'm rambling, aren't I?” She straightened her glasses. “Here's the story, Sheriff. Solomon Brokenberry was an artist from a family that had ties to this area. In 1907, he exhibited a painting that looked exactly like this one at the Salon d'Automne in Paris. It created quite a stir.”

“You keep calling it the
lost painting,
” the sheriff said. “What does that mean?”

“After the exhibition, Brokenberry's dealer sold the painting to an American collector from Baltimore. That man's name was Weiderman. He had the painting shipped home. There was an article about it in the Baltimore newspaper in 1912, with a photograph of the painting in Mr. Weiderman's living room.”