The Classy Crooks Club (19 page)

“Oh, come off it, Condor,” whispers Cookie, who has turned her earpiece back on. “We're hardly a professional operation. This was my mission, not yours, and I got it done. Brace the back now, Swan. Ready? First step.”

The dolly and the quilt-wrapped lump of bear bump down the first step. For a second, the bear tips precariously in my direction, and I'm afraid it's going to fall, but the bungee cords hold fast. We take the second step the same way, then the third, while Grandma Jo continues to rage and sputter.

“ . . . there are rules for this sort of thing, and it's imperative that you follow them! I can't believe you—”

“That's enough, Jo!” Cookie snaps. “Sometimes life requires a little flexibility. Stop being so sanctimonious, open the back of the van, and help us get the target in. Or do you want us to get caught so you can teach us a lesson about obedience?”

I expect Grandma Jo to argue—I don't know what “sanctimonious” means, but from the way Cookie said it, it's obviously not a compliment. But I guess my grandmother wants this to be a successful heist as much as we do, because she climbs out of the front seat and
clomp-click-rustle
s toward the back of the van. I can just about see the steam coming out of her ears.

The bear bumps down the last step, and I run back up to the front door. As I shut it quietly behind us, I hear the sound of Bill's neighbor calling, “Hello? Anyone in here?” I flee down the steps and toward the van.

Cookie and Edna wheel the bear into position and turn it so it'll go into the trunk faceup. “Condor, you help me lift from this side, and Swan and Heron will get that side,” Cookie instructs. “Lift from between its legs and under its arms. Ready? One . . . two . . .”

I take a deep breath and grip a fistful of fur, and on three, we heave the bear into the van. The last row of seats has been removed, but the feet still stick out the back in a ridiculous way. Cookie climbs in and secures a couple of the bungee cords under the bear's arms and around the seats. Its paws stick straight up in the air, tenting the blanket and making it look like we're carting around some sort of petrified zombie. “Well, it's not perfect . . . ,” she says when she's finished.

“It'll have to be good enough,” Grandma Jo snaps. She secures the back doors as best she can with another bungee cord. “We need to get out of here. Everyone in.”

Cookie hops into the driver's seat, and I help boost Betty into the back and fold up her walker. When she's settled between Edna and me, she takes my hand and squeezes. “Thank you, dear,” she whispers. “Mission accomplished. You were absolutely wonderful.”

I squeeze back, not too hard so I won't hurt her fragile fingers. As we zip away from the crime scene, we both turn and watch out the rear window as the corners of a flowery blanket flap in the breeze around two stuffed, furry, very liberated bear feet.

T
he grannies don't come over all weekend. I wonder if Grandma Jo told them to stay away for a while—she's still incredibly grouchy about the end of the bear heist, and she spends dinner every night telling me stories about armies that got flattened because they didn't obey their generals. It seems unfair that I have to deal with her bad mood all alone—it was Cookie's idea to defy her, not mine. I miss the ladies for other reasons too; our last two heists have been so exciting that I was hoping to fit in one more before I go back home to my safe, normal life. But if we don't start planning right away, there won't be time, and my career as an ethical thief will be over just as I was getting really good at it.

Soccer used to be my escape when things weren't going well at my grandmother's house, but practice on Monday doesn't feel like a relief at all. It's impossible to enjoy playing—or even concentrate on it—when I'm constantly thinking about whether every word I say is going to make someone mad. Instead of focusing on my technique, I spend the entire practice watching for signs that Maddie hates me and avoiding Brianna so I won't have to tell her I'm not going to her party. Rejecting the invitation is definitely the right thing to do, but who knows how she might punish me once she decides I'm not cool after all?

I relax for the first time when I get home from soccer on Monday and hear Cookie's raucous laughter coming from the storage room. I change into jeans and a clean T-shirt and dash in to see everyone, even though I know I'm not supposed to run in the house. Cookie beams when she spots me and beckons me over. “Look!” she says, holding out her phone. “Stanley showed me how to use the camera! Doesn't Teddy Roosevelt look wonderful in the master bedroom?”

I had assumed Cookie would keep the bear in her parlor or her study, like Bill did, but there he is on the phone's tiny screen, looming over the bed like he's contemplating chowing down on the fluffy pillows. Cookie's wallpaper, carpeting, and enormous canopy bed are all a startling shade of red; it looks kind of like a meat locker in there. I scroll to the next picture, and my heart does this stupid fluttering thing when I see Stanley posing next to the bear, in shorts and sandals, making a goofy face like he's scared he might get eaten. I consider texting it to myself, but Cookie would probably notice if I started typing away on her phone.

“He looks great,” I say, then turn off the phone really fast before anyone notices I'm not actually talking about the bear. “You did a good job taking the picture, Cookie.”

“I wish I had a grandchild to teach me how to use all this newfangled technology,” Betty says quietly. “I can barely make my phone dial someone properly.”

“I'll help you with your phone anytime,” I say. “You can pretend I'm your grandchild. I'm sure Grandma Jo won't mind sharing.”

“What's that?” asks Grandma Jo, who's feeding Picasso small pieces of mango.

“Nothing,  Jo,” Betty says. She winks at me like it's our secret, and a little bubble of happiness expands in my chest.

I peer down at the new blueprints on the table. “So, what are we working on this time? Whose turn is it to pick the target?”

“It's my turn,” Edna says. She has so many scarves on today that I can't even tell if she's wearing a shirt underneath.

“What are we stealing?”

“Liberating,” Betty and Cookie correct me in unison.

“A painting,” Edna says.

I suddenly feel uncomfortably hot. Stealing Picasso isn't even remotely the same as stealing
a
Picasso. “Like, from a
museum
?” I ask, and my voice comes out high and squeaky.

“No, no,” Edna says. “From a house.”

“Might as well be a museum, though,” says Cookie. “Look at this place!”

I take a look at the drawings. I don't know how to read blueprints, but it looks like there are at least forty rooms, and the swimming pool and four-car garage are labeled, so they're easy to spot. When I lean in close, I see the words
Entertainment Area
penciled onto a room on the basement level. It looks big enough to be a private movie theater.

“This is amazing,” I say. “So, what's so special about the painting?”

“I made it,” Edna says, totally matter-of-factly.

“Really?” I say. “You paint?” What I really mean is,
You paint well enough that other people hang your work in their houses?

“She's quite well known in the art world, actually,” Betty says.

“Wait, was painting, like, your job?” Up until this moment I've never considered that the grannies might've had actual jobs. In my mind, they've always been retired, planning heists and playing cards. But of course they must've done other things before I met them.

Edna nods. “It still is my job. I paint every morning from five to noon.”

“Wow.” I turn to Cookie. “What's your job?”

“I used to sell real estate for a living. But that wasn't my
real
job.” Her eyes get misty behind her giant bug glasses. “I was a muse.”

I wait for her to say more, but she seems to think this is self-explanatory. Finally I say, “Um, what does that mean?”

“I inspired people to make great art, darling,” she says. “Sculptures, music, dance pieces.” She lifts her arms in a slow ballet move, then lets them drift back down, and her bracelets clink back into place. “Most art made by men is inspired by beautiful women, you know—men rarely think about anything else. And I was very beautiful when I was young.”

“You're still beautiful,” I say, and Cookie pats my cheek.

“Flatterer,” she says, but I can tell she likes it.

“Betty, what was your job?” I ask.

“I was a teacher, dear. Second grade. Oh, I loved those children with all my heart. I never had any of my own, you know.”

That makes total sense—Betty actually looks kind of like what my second-grade teacher, Ms. Colbert, might look like when she gets old. They have basically the same haircut. “When did you retire?” I ask.

“Oh, I can't remember exactly.”

“It must've been around 1991. Right, Betty?” Cookie asks.

Betty shoots her a sharp look. “Yes,” she says. “That sounds about right.”

I'm pretty sure 1991 is the year they were talking about the other night, when Betty was super interested in someone's trial. There has to be a connection; maybe she got so wrapped up in her true crime stuff that she stopped doing her job properly. “Why did you—” I start to say, but Betty cuts me off.

“It was time,” she says. “It was just . . . time.”

I want to ask more about it, but her voice sounds final; this subject seems to be off-limits. She's probably embarrassed about whatever happened; maybe she got fired or something. I don't want to make her uncomfortable, so instead I ask, “What are you going to liberate when it's your turn?”

Betty shakes her head, and for a second she looks a little sad. “I'm just in this for the thrills, dear.”

“Really?” I say. “You're going to skip your turn?”

“I already have almost everything I need.”

“There must be something you
want
, though, or a cause you believe in.” It doesn't seem fair that Betty should put herself at risk for her friends over and over without ever getting any payback.

“I don't need to liberate anything to be happy, darling AJ,” she says. “All I want is to be here with you.”

“Well, okay.” If Betty doesn't
want
to take her turn, I certainly can't force her. I turn back to Edna. “So, why are we stealing—um, liberating—your painting? Did someone take it from you, and we're getting it back, like with the bear?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Edna says. “They bought it at auction, but I miss it so. My paintings are parts of me, and I need them near me to give me strength as I head into the third act of my life.”

Okay, this isn't quite as bad as stealing from a museum, but it still doesn't sound as ethical as the other two heists. “So, you've stolen other paintings, then?” I ask.

Grandma Jo puts Picasso down on a perch and joins us at the table. “Goodness, Annemarie, there's no need for you to ask so many questions. We're wasting time.”

“Jo, she's one of us,” Cookie says. “There's no reason to keep information from her.”

“She's one of us right
now
, but she won't be in a week,” Grandma Jo says. “It's far too risky to tell her everything and then send her back to her family. Information should be distributed on a need-to-know basis.”

Of course, there are lots of reasons I'm excited to go back home next week—I get to see my parents and Snickers, and I'll finally be able to walk to soccer and skate around the neighborhood and watch TV again. But the way Grandma Jo's talking, it sounds like she expects our entire relationship to be over after I leave. It's not like we've become friends or anything, but it
did
seem like she was finally starting to trust me and respect me a little. I don't want things to go back to how they've always been between us, where I see her on holidays three times a year and she sighs at my unladylike interests. We actually have things in common now, and it hurts that she still doesn't want me to be part of her life. I've been trying pretty hard to get into her good graces, but now it seems like I haven't made any progress at all.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” I ask, and my voice sounds shakier than I meant it to. “I promise I'm not going to spill any of your secrets, but I guess I don't have to help this time, if you guys don't want me to.”

I expect Betty or Cookie to jump in and stand up for me, but it's Grandma Jo who says, “Don't be ridiculous. You're here for eight more days, and you can be very useful to us in that time. There's no reason for us to be inefficient with our resources. Now, come here and help us figure out how to get this painting out of Westlake Manor.”