Chapter 12. Cultural event with unexpected consequences
The next morning after delivering the Pen we set off for Richelle's place. When we arrived there, we found her in Mr Brinkley's minivan. Deep in her personal thoughts, she was carelessly wiping the dashboard.
"The penal battalion is at work," Nick grinned bitterly.
"It's no laughing matter," Richelle gave him a grim glance. "I had a serious conversation with my parents yesterday."
"Do you think we were praised?" Tom muttered.
Sunny and I exchanged glances. I was glad that I didn't have such problems.
"If it hadn't been for the Work Demons, we wouldn't have had to attend this exhibition," Nick sighed.
"Yeah, they showed unexpected smartness this time," I nodded.
"I wish they'd continue diving," Nick grumbled. "Because of them we aren't able to finish this case. These morons successfully got rid of us. They'll find the picture and receive the reward while we'll be attending these stupid museums and exhibitions."
"It depends on us," Sunny smiled.
"Nothing depends on us now," Richelle grumbled.
"You're wrong. Hey, guys, cheer up!" Sunny exclaimed. "Everything's not so bad! Listen, if we pretend that we're enjoying this cultural program, I'm sure that your parents will calm down soon. Do you think they have time to drag us from museums to exhibitions every day? Or do you think they want to discuss classical literature? Do you think they have nothing else to do?!"
"That's right," I agreed. "At worst they'll take us into the city next weekend. But at this point their cultural program's likely to finish."
"Of course if we aren't so stupid to get into another row again," said Liz.
"We'll be careful," Tom cheered up.
"Besides, there's nothing we can do today," Sunny whispered. "Greta is warned. Ross will be guarded, so that guy won't dare to come today. Let's relax and have a good time in the city."
"And visiting an art exhibition is much more interesting than weeding," Tom grinned.
So by the time Mr Brinkley turned up, we were gaily chatting in a good mood. Mr Brinkley, on the contrary, looked sleepy and gloomy. Richelle had said that he had problems at work, which he'd worked out only yesterday. He'd planned to spend this day on a sofa, reading a book or watching TV, but instead of it, he had to go to the city museum with us.
Mr Brinkley already seemed to be sorry that he volunteered to take us to this exhibition. But he had no choice. So he grimly said hello and opened the driver's door.
"Get in," he growled, climbing inside.
We clambered into the car and set off. When we drove out of Raven Hill, it started to rain. In the city we stuck in a traffic jam. Mr Brinkley's mood dropped a bit more. Probably desiring to give vent to his irritation, he began to preach at us.
"When I was in your age, we often went to theatres or concerts. And read a lot of books."
"We also read books," I objected.
"You should read more," Mr Brinkley snapped.
Tom started to object that he personally read enough, but Nick sharply dug him in the ribs.
"At least we didn't poke our noses into dangerous affairs," Mr Brinkley went on droning, desperately trying to overtake a smoking truck.
At that moment another car abruptly turned into our lane. Mr Brinkley, by some miracle, managed to slow down.
"We didn't cause troubles for our parents…" Mr Brinkley's voice suddenly trailed off. I smiled. One day my dad had mentioned that young John Brinkley was a real troublemaker.
"Didn't you, Dad?" Richelle stared at him. "But mum told…"
"Don't bother me. I'm driving," he pretended to be totally concentrated on the traffic.
We had been slowly moving in the traffic for about an hour. The rain was becoming heavier and heavier. Finally we turned into a little street, which lead to the Fine Art Museum. The road was almost empty, so soon we were parking on the museum parking lot.
The rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it was as though buckets of water were being emptied over our heads. With our heads bent and eyes narrowed, we ran towards the museum and rushed inside. The foyer was empty except for the woman who sold tickets. She was grimly staring at us from her counter. We looked around, brushing drops of rain off our hair and clothes. By now everyone, except for Tom, was in a bad mood. Tom was the only one who was enjoying this punishment. He even suggested that we should hire a museum guide.
"Maybe on our own it would be better?" Mr Brinkley weakly objected. He didn't seem to want to tie himself by the guide's route.
"No, with the museum guide the excursion will be much more interesting," Tom insisted.
"Oh, okay," Mr Brinkley sighed and handed Tom several notes. "Go and pay if you want to."
"Of course I want," Tom nodded. "If we're here, we should get as much information as possible."
"I've never noticed that you, Tom, wanted to get as much information as possible at school," Nick snorted.
Tom didn't answer. He was already walking towards the ticket counter. Several minutes later he returned with another ticket in his hand and a fat woman in a long, black dress, who was stomping next to him, waving a huge fan.
"So, let's begin our excursion!" she announced loudly. "But first, let me say a few words about this museum. It was founded in 1985 year, based on Aristotel Konstantinidi's collection. It's the famous collector and researcher of paintings of 18th-19th centuries. Here you'll find works of the greatest artists of this period and works of not so famous painters. Since the foundation we've collected a lot of other amazing paintings. So now you can find here works of French impressionists, Russian avant-gardists, English portraitists and a lot of other interesting things.
Then there was a flat enumeration of collectors, who'd given their paintings to this museum. After that the woman told us about the museum building and, casting meaningful glances at Mr Brinkley, she pointed out that other businessmen contribute large sums of money for the museum's development.
Mr Brinkley pretended not to hear her remark. I suppose he considered that his earnings weren't large enough to promote survival of a whole museum.
Finally when the introductive part of the lecture, which lasted for no less than twenty minutes, was over, the woman-guide led us into the first hall. Mr Brinkley bent down to us and whispered that he needed to leave us. He promised to catch up with us in five minutes.
Richelle nodded and we followed the woman. Raising vortexes of wind by her hand fan, she was droning about paintings, artists and collectors. Then we went to the second hall; then to the third one. Time dragged on incredibly slowly; halls and names were following each other, the guide was talking without ceasing, her huge hand fan was working like a real fan.
All of us, except for Tom, were bored to death and lulled by endless paintings and long explanations. Mr Brinkley hadn't turned up yet. It crossed my mind that he probably was enjoying pictures on his own, or was sitting in a museum cafe, reading a magazine.
The guide, meanwhile, led us into another hall where there were pictures, which the museum had received about a month ago. Completely exhausted, we trailed after her. I already didn't take information. I just couldn't. My head wasn't working. All what I cared about was when this torture would finish. The others seemed to feel the same. Of six of us only Tom was showing a sincere interest to the exhibition.
I heavily sighed. I was unbearably thirsty and felt as if my legs were about to fall off.
"Among the new paintings we can find several impressive masterpieces of the second half of the 19th century," the guide was telling.
"I can't listen about masterpieces anymore," Richelle groaned. "I'm thirsty. I need fresh air! It's stuffy here."
"Shut up," Sunny snapped at her.
"The most valuable painting here is "The crying mermaid", written by Jack Troffe, a famous artist of the 19th century," I heard the guide's flat voice through the fog in my head.
"Oh-h, please, not mermaids again," Nick whinged. "I've had enough of them!"
All of a sudden Tom made a choking sound and nudged me with his elbow.
"Guys," he whispered. "Look at her face! This mermaid looks exactly like our mermaid from the library."
Tiredly I glanced at the picture. The mermaid really seemed a bit familiar.
"Are you sure," Sunny asked doubtfully. "I don't remember that mermaid clearly."
"Tom's right," Richelle nodded. "But our mermaid was smiling, and this one is crying."
"And the surroundings are familiar," Nick said. "The pond. The big rock on which the mermaid is sitting. The full moon."
"But the shepherd isn't here," I pointed out.
"Probably he managed to escape her charm and ran away," Nick snorted. "That's why the mermaid is crying."
"It seems to me that our picture was smaller," Liz gave one more remark.
"And the frame on this picture isn't like ours," Tom added.
"Look, this painting has the artist's signature," I pointed at the left corner of the picture, where there was a large signature "J. Troffe."
"Unfortunately nowadays almost all of Troffe's paintings are lost," the guide went on without noticing our discussion. "Several of his paintings are in private collections overseas. That's why we're very proud that we managed to receive this picture."
"Can you tell us," Nick interrupted, "this Troffe guy painted only one mermaid?"
"It's an interesting question," the woman nodded solemnly. "I'm surprised that an inexperienced in fine art boy touched such a narrow-specialized issue. According to researchers of Troffe's works, he created a triptych. It's a series of three paintings, combined by one idea. In this case it is the mermaid. "
"Does it mean that there were three pictures about this mermaid?" Liz gasped.
"Exactly," the woman nodded.
We exchanged glances. "Do you know names of the other two pictures?" I held my breath as I stared at the woman, expecting her answer.
"Of course. "The guileful mermaid". "The crying mermaid". And "The dead mermaid"," the woman answered.
"Guileful?" we all gasped.
"Yes, guileful," the women confirmed. "Unfortunately the other two parts of the triptych are believed to be lost. Although "The crying mermaid" also was believed to be lost. Only about a month ago it was found out that all these years this picture was in the private collection. The owner left his collection to our museum after his death. By the way, almost half of his life he devoted to searching for the other two parts of the triptych, but wasn't successful. "
"Wow!" Tom breathed out in fascination.
"Oh, you can't imagine how many curious stories happen to paintings," the fat woman cheered up. "Let's go back to the previous hall and I'll tell you how one of the Turner's painting was found. It's a real detective story!"
None of us wanted to go to the previous hall and listen to stories about other pictures, but we had no choice. In that hall we ran into Mr Brinkley.
"Oh, hi. Are you finished?" he looked at us hopefully.
"It's a really amazing exhibition," Tom gasped. "You won't believe what we've found out!"
"Your kids are very smart," the guide announced. "They're listening, don't make noise and even ask interesting questions."
"Really?" Mr Brinkley's lips twisted into proud smile.
The fat woman started to tell her story about the Turner's picture. Though this time Mr Brinkley was the only one who listened to her. The rest of us were thinking about one and the same. About mermaids. Only now we realised that the real treasure wasn't hidden in the frame. The real treasure had been hanging on the wall in a little local library for many years. A lot of people looked at it, but none of them even thought to find out who'd painted this picture.
But we still didn't know who could steal this picture and where it could be now. We also didn't know why "The guileful mermaid" was without a signature.
Finally the fat woman thanked us and said that the lecture was over. We went outside. The rain had stopped by that time.
"I want to eat and drink!" Tom immediately announced.
"You're not alone," we all agreed.
We got into Mr Brinkley's minivan and soon were sitting in a cafe, eating hamburgers. After that we went to the park, where Mr Brinkley came across a friend of his. While they were talking, we had time to discuss what we'd found out.
"Now we have even more reasons to find this picture!" Tom exclaimed. He considered himself a good artist and still couldn't believe that he hadn't seen that this childish little painting turned out to be a priceless work of art.
"I doubt that we'll find it," Nick shook his head. "The painting must be already in someone's private collection."
"We should tell Miss Vortek," Richelle sighed.
"We have no choice," I agreed with her. "It's a national heritage after all. We can't keep this information back from the police."
"Why does it always happen this way?" Liz sighed. "This picture had been hanging in the library for at least forty years and no one even looked at it. But once it was stolen, you started calling it a national heritage."
"Okay, listen," I said firmly. "Priceless or not, we must find this painting. We still want to receive the reward, don't we?" I turned to Nick. "And we'll be in all city newspapers if we find the second part of the lost triptych," I said to Richelle. And the Pen can't afford losing such a scoop, I added to myself. "We must find out where this picture can be."
"First we should find out who stole it. Then we'll be able to answer the question where it can be," Nick said. "But to tell the truth I don't know how we can do it. We have no clues at all."
"We have one clue," I objected. "The one and only our clue is Mr Adaskey. I suggest visiting him again. Very cautiously," I added hurriedly, noticing how their faces changed.
"We'll do it tomorrow," Sunny said. "But today let's just have a good time, okay?"
We agreed with her and enjoyed the rest of the day. Mr Brinkley drove us home only late in the evening.