Double Vision (10 page)

I hesitated. But then I told them everything: about my chicken farm disaster, the government agents, the expensive lawsuit and Dad working at Meineke, and how I was sent to replace Ben since he'd gone missing. Let's face it: my cover as Benjamin Green was blown anyway. I left out the cool gadgets Henry had given me, but then I figured a guy was entitled to a few secrets. Especially when the ladies at the table had repeatedly tried to hurt me.

I don't think Françoise's grandma understood much of what I was saying, because she still gave me the stink eye. After a while she disappeared down the hall where she'd come from, muttering stuff in French.

“I think your grandma hates me,” I said to Françoise once I finished my long story.

“She doesn't like strangers, and she hates Benjamin Green. You look like him, so that's enough for her.” Françoise just shrugged. “You want some croissants?” She took me into the kitchen, where there was a basket of flaky pastries that looked awesome.

And they were. “These are the best ever,” I said between bites. That got me a tiny smile.

“It's the stuff that fell on the floor.”

I stopped chewing.

Françoise grinned. “Gotcha.” She punched me in the arm.

“Ow.” But I kept eating until the whole basket was empty. “I just got here. All I've had is airplane food,” I said as I licked my fingers. “How 'bout that big apple pie in the window?” I was up for some dessert.

“Oh, that's a fake. Decoration, to lure customers,” Françoise got me a glass of water, and stood with her arms crossed, watching me drink. After a while, she said, “I'm assuming you still haven't found my father. Since you're here, and he's not.”

I said, “And the evil
Mona Lisa
is still missing, too.”

Françoise nodded, looking troubled. “So they told you about the Leonardo da Vinci collection.”

“Wait—you have more of these?”

“Not evil ones, but secret.” She shook her head. “They didn't tell you. Figures. They didn't tell Benjamin Green either, so why would they tell you?” I could see her thinking, making calculations, trying to decide how much she was willing to share. Trying to decide if she could trust me. “Come on,” she said eventually, and motioned for me to follow her into the hallway her grandma had come from. “I'll show you the Vault.”

“The Vault?”

I FOLLOWED HER DOWN A NARROW
hallway. There were pictures on the walls, family snapshots clustered together, just like we had at home. Françoise's dad, younger, next to some guy who looked a lot like him—same arched nose but a different kind of face. Slicker, meaner.

“Who's that guy?” I asked Françoise.

“My uncle Jules. He lives in America.” She paused to look at the picture. “We rarely see him, but he came to visit a few weeks ago. He brought me a Barbie.” Obviously this Uncle Jules didn't know who he was dealing with.

We hurried by lots of cute baby and little girl pictures. Françoise, I figured, before someone gave her a stick. Down the hall, to the right, there was a wooden door, and I watched Françoise open it. Inside were a bunch of shelves, brooms, and cleaning supplies.

Françoise turned to face me. “A month ago, I wouldn't have taken you down here. Never. Do you understand?”

I didn't, but I nodded anyway.

She pulled what looked like an old broom handle, tucked in the corner. There was a soft click, like a door being unlocked, and she pushed against the middle shelf. I watched with my jaw halfway to the floor as the whole back wall opened like a door. A cool draft blew our way from the dark opening behind it.

“You have a bat cave?”

Françoise looked at me, confused.

“It's a lair, like Batman—never mind.”

“This isn't some cartoon,” Françoise said, irritated. “Follow me.”

We walked into a small space blocked by a heavy metal door. Françoise stopped to push the door of shelves behind us, and moved a lever that I figured locked it back in place. Then Françoise used the key on the long chain around her neck to unlock the heavy metal door. It shrieked and moaned when she pulled it open. We walked down these old stone steps, like a stairway you might see in a castle.

“This must be good,” I mumbled.

The room beyond the door was about the size of our living room, with a low ceiling lit by dangling bulbs. Françoise turned on the lights. Empty storage racks lined the walls to the left and right of us. At the back of the room were empty wooden bookcases, and in front of them a heavy wooden desk with a lamp and a stack of papers on it.

“This is the Vault,” Françoise said, sounding sad.

I lowered my backpack and left it in a corner. I still didn't get the big secrecy. “What is this ‘Vault'—your storage space? I don't understand. And you know you're out of everything, for what it's worth.”

“I know. This was where my father stored the Leonardo da Vinci collection.”

“Da Vinci just gave your family stuff?”

Françoise shrugged, like this was no big deal. “He was a family friend long ago. Da Vinci gave some of his notebooks, sketches, unfinished paintings, and a model of—well, never mind, that's not what you're after.” Françoise walked along the empty racks, and came to a sudden stop. “Twenty-two B,” she said, with a nod to the empty storage rack. “That's where the evil
Mona Lisa
used to be.”

I looked at the spot. There wasn't anything to it really, just another rack, much like the ones Dad used to store stuff at the shop.

“The Vault. I think I get it now. You guys were like guards, keeping this Dangerous Double safe. So where did the rest of the collection go?”

“I'm not sure.” Françoise's face hardened. “I had not been down here for weeks. Then last Friday, after Papa left for his deliveries, they showed up.”

“Who?”

“Agent Fullerton and Benjamin Green. That kid Ben pretended to be my friend and tried to get information from me.” Françoise made a disgusted face. “So after they left, I came down here to look, and the Vault was empty.

“Then later that afternoon, Papa went missing. So my grandmother called the police. They found his van just a few streets from here in an alley. The doors were open, bread everywhere. No Papa …” Françoise's voice trailed off. “I think my father knew that someone was about to steal my family's secret da Vinci collection, so he moved the Vault's artifacts to keep them safe.”

This was heavy stuff, to have your father be abducted over a dangerous painting in your basement. And here I thought I had it tough with my chicken farm disaster. Even with a lawsuit pending, my life was pretty easy compared to Françoise's. “So now what?”

“Now I must find my father, of course,” she said, sounding irritated. “You only care about your precious painting.” Françoise turned away from me and from the empty rack.

“That's not true. I care about my family. And to get things right, I have to find the evil
Mona Lisa
.”

Françoise leaned on her father's desk, not seeming to listen.

My mind raced, pumped by the lack of sleep somehow. I tried to think of a way we might find a trail, when I heard a scream, coming from above us.

Françoise shoved me aside and pushed open the metal door. I had to really hoof it to keep up—this girl could run. Up the stairs, past the shelves, out the closet, down the hallway with photos, to the kitchen, where her grandmother was screaming.

Grandma followed up with a bunch of super-angry French.

I hurried into the store. And there he was: Benjamin Green.

“LINCOLN BAKER,” BENJAMIN GREEN
said from the other side of the counter—thankfully there weren't any other customers. He looked all serious and a little ticked off. “I thought I ordered you to stay away from the Mégère bakery.”

“Exactly.” I crossed my arms, and then he crossed his. It was too weird, so I uncrossed mine. “You're not the boss of me.” Way to sound mature, Linc. “If I want to come here, I can do that. Besides, you're not exactly a great secret agent, are you? You're a bad guy now.”

Benjamin Green clenched his jaw. “You don't know what you're getting yourself into, Baker.”

He kept throwing my name around. “How do you know who I am?”

“I saw you on YouTube.” He gave me a smug little grin. “Covered in chicken poop.”

“I love animals—what can I say?”

Suddenly, he stepped close and grabbed my collar, pulling me across the counter. “You're a clown, Baker, and you're getting in the way of my mission.”

“Let go of me!” I tried to pull away, but Benjamin Green should've gotten a certificate of merit for shirt holding. The counter pushed into my stomach.

“Go home, where you belong.” He shoved me away. “Leave this one to the professionals.”

“Like you? You're a crook!” I reached to grab him by the collar of his spotless black wool coat, but he'd stepped back and was too far for me to reach.

“It's more complicated—too complicated for you to get, Chicken Boy.” He pointed his finger at me. “Stay away. This case is mine.”

“Says who?” Françoise stood in the doorway to the kitchen, holding her stick in her right hand. “How about
you
stay away, huh? Unless you want to bring me my father.”

“I can't do that,” Benjamin Green said, sounding sincere, even if we weren't buying it. “Trust me when I tell you—”

“Trust
you
?” Françoise looked ready to spit flames.

And then I saw them, right in front of me—I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed them before. Pies! At least a dozen of them. I grabbed one, silently apologizing for wasting great food, and reached back. Focused on my best pitch.

And I slammed a pie right in Benjamin Green's face.

He just stood there, flabbergasted. Thick white cream dripped onto his black coat.

“Is that what it takes to shut you up?” I said. I picked up another pie and handed a third to Françoise. “I think this one's apple. It's food abuse, really.”

Françoise tossed her pie, hitting the superagent square in the chest. “Chocolate,” she said, smiling, licking some cream off her fingers.

That was enough for Benjamin Green. He turned and opened the bakery door, ringing the little bell. “You'll need more than pies to save yourself next time, Baker.”

Françoise's grandmother snatched the pie from my hands and hit Benjamin in the butt just before he closed the door. “Bull's-eye,” she said in her French accent.

And we all laughed.

Then Françoise's grandmother pointed to the mess and wagged her finger at me. “You clean it up.” Françoise headed for the kitchen, and I was left mopping the floor. And as much fun as the whole pie throwing was, I started to feel kind of down, to tell you the truth.

So far, I'd managed to ruin my cover as Benjamin Green with Françoise in five seconds, and I still wasn't anywhere near getting Jacques Mégère or the evil
Mona Lisa
back. Meanwhile, my family was dodging the lawyer's phone calls over this crazy, expensive lawsuit.

Then I thought of what Ben said.

It's too complicated for you
. What was complicated? And why was he trying to get me to leave? I could think of only one reason.

I was getting somewhere.

If I wanted to stand half a chance of getting my family out of trouble, Dad's shop back on track, and me back in Lompoc Middle School taking lame field trips, I had to keep digging until that evil
Mona Lisa
was found. I had to create my own mission. Prove I could be just like Benjamin Green.

My phone rang and I looked at the number—Agent Stark. Probably checking up on me. I hesitated. If I didn't answer, she'd think I was in trouble.

“Hello, Agent Stark.”

“Do you have our package?”

“You mean Jacques Mégère? No.” I heard her groan. “Drake never showed. But guess who did?”

“I don't do guesses. Just tell me.”

“Benjamin Green.”

Silence.

“Seems he's not missing at all,” I went on. “He's just joined the Drake operation. And they weren't buying your whole exchange. Maybe he's the one who tipped them off about our painting being a fake.”

“So no Mégère.”

“No.” Now I knew what that meant: the mission was a failure. At least I'd gotten some good croissants out of the deal.

“Where are you?”

“On my way back to the hotel,” I lied, and hung up.

Okay, so I stalled, but that would only fly for another half hour or so. Next time I talked to Agent Stark or Fullerton, I knew I had to cough up something better than my bakery pie fight. I needed evidence, a clue, something.