Moxie and the Art of Rule Breaking (11 page)

In our apartment, I’d gone through the two most obvious hiding places. The main level had the kitchen/dining room, a den, Mom’s bedroom, and her bathroom. The third floor was my bedroom and bathroom…and a tiny attic space. I’d nearly forgotten about it because the door was blocked by a giant, tree-like house plant that Mom’d stuck in the hallway. And I was standing straight across from it.

I put the flashlight down and grabbed the pot. It was heavier than it looked, but slid across the floor pretty easily. When I opened the door and stepped into the attic, I didn’t see much of anything—an old bike, a few boxes wrapped in that same green twine (Grumps had a giant ball of it that he used to fasten anything and everything), and one of those hanging bags for suits and dresses.

Out of curiosity, I aimed my flashlight at the bag and unzipped.

After swatting at a big plume of dust, I beamed the flashlight inside:

A yellowed dress, lace-covered at the chest, with short
ruffled sleeves and a high neckline. For a second, I couldn’t place it—then I realized I was looking at Nini’s wedding dress. There was a picture downstairs in her apartment of her and Grumps on their wedding day—him in a black suit, her in the dress, standing on the steps of the church our family still goes to. I wondered if she knew what she was getting into when she married him. It was something I’d never asked Grumps, and Nini didn’t like to talk about “that part” of their life—every time she heard Grumps telling me a story, she tightened her lips into a line and shook her head. I just assumed that it made her uncomfortable, but now I wondered how much she
really
knew—about everything.

Did
she
—a chill fluttered down my back in the stifling attic—know where the art was?

I swallowed. I’d watched enough cop shows and Tru-Crime TV to learn about forensic psychology to know that if Nini
was
in on some of that info, it made her just as much a criminal as Grumps.

I zipped up the bag, discouraged and disappointed, ready to head back to bed. As I turned to the door, the flashlight beam revealed something sticking up from one of the floorboards: a loop of that green-and-white twine.

I almost walked past it. I almost left it alone. I almost pretended I didn’t see it.

But I did.

I crouched, stuck one finger through the loop, and tugged.

The floorboard came up without a sound. Underneath it was a big empty space in the floor, wider than the board I’d
removed. And tucked inside was a wrapped bundle. My heart stuttered. Had Grumps actually hidden some of the art
in our house?
Although the space was too small for the paintings or the sketches, the vase-thing and the flagpole eagle could be right in front of me.

Carefully, I put the flashlight at the edge of the opening and reached into the hiding place. The bundle was lumpy and wrapped in a soft cloth. I tugged on it gently, and something clinked. The cloth pulled back and it glinted. I aimed the beam on it. Instead of an eagle or a vase, I’d uncovered…a teapot.

A
teapot?

Darkly tarnished, but it was definitely silver. It had a long spout and was engraved with curlicues and flowery designs. I shifted the wrapping and saw two other, smaller silver objects: a bowl and a pitcher. Sugar and cream?

I rocked back on my heels. Clearly, this was not anything related to the Gardner art. But I was pretty sure that Nini wouldn’t have had Grumps store a classy family heirloom under the attic floor. Logically, that left only one other option: The tea set was also stolen property.

But from what?

For a minute, I let myself consider figuring it out: Going back to my room, firing up Google, taking a photo of the tea set, searching for its home, and returning it to wherever it belonged.

And then I got tired. Like, really, really tired. How much could I actually do? This week, I had five million dollars in
stolen art to track down and a gangster after me. The rest of the summer? Forget the best summer ever—I’d be happy hanging out like a normal kid with Ollie before I had to don the Uniform of Horror. The tea set could wait.

I repacked it, wrapping the cloth tightly, and tucked it back into the floor cubby. Next, I replaced the board and left the piece of twine sticking up…just in case I decided to come back for it some other time. While I went through each step, I stayed super-laser-beam-focused on what I was doing. Because if I didn’t, really awful questions peppered my brain. Questions like:

How much more was hidden in this house?

Was Grumps honest with
anyone?

Did Nini know about this stuff? Did my mom?!

You know, family things that I’m sure every kid thinks about on hot nights in June.

I closed the attic door behind me and replaced the plant. Then I ducked into the bathroom to splash some water on my face and cool off. The deeper I got into this Gardner stuff, the more I hated what it showed me about the people I thought I knew best.

Back in my bedroom, I collapsed on my bed and pulled out the proof. I went over each line, trying to figure out how in the heck I would get into the state house to look for the art—or where in the state house it might be. No matter what scenario I came up with—from a disguise (seriously. At one point I thought a
disguise
might work—that’s desperation, right there) to hiding behind some drapes to just
asking where my grandfather had worked—every one led back to the same place: Getting caught and going to juvie. And although I don’t
exactly
know what I want to do with my life, I can totally tell you that spending time in prison would
not
be on any list I’d come up with. Ever.

So all I got from those efforts were bleary eyes, a muzzy head, and more frustration. No wonder Sully Cupcakes hadn’t been able to find—or get his hands on—the art. Grumps didn’t mess around with where he’d put it (
or anything else, for that matter
, I thought, remembering the silver tea set across the hall).

Later that morning, on the way downstairs, I had to admit it. No matter what crazy scheme I’d come up with, there was only one solution: Ask Nini or Grumps what he’d done at the state house and hope they told me the truth.

“You look awful.”

I was almost at the bottom step and jumped about eight thousand feet at the words. I stumbled and scrabbled at the banister for balance, but I still landed on my ankle funny.

“Sheesh, Mom!” I snapped, ankle burning. She was sitting at the kitchen table, directly across from the staircase, sections of the newspaper spread around her like fallen flower petals and wearing her Mighty Mighty Bosstones Hometown Throwdown T-shirt from, like, 2001. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?” I limped down the last step and crossed to the kitchen, making straight for the coffeepot.

“I know you tend to forget I live here too,” Mom said, raising an eyebrow as I filled the biggest mug we had with coffee
and a metric ton of sugar, “but we have a wake tonight. I don’t go to work till two when we have a wake.” She said the last part in a slow, careful voice, the way you’d speak to a possibly dangerous animal or a freaked-out toddler.

“Oh,” I mumbled. Mom acted as a kind of hostess during the funeral home’s wakes—directing relatives where to go, refilling the tissue supply, encouraging people to sign the guest book—which meant staying until the last relatives left. Her bosses always let her come in late those days. Great for her, but this could be a problem for me. I took a swig from the mug, burning my mouth for the second time in two days. On the plus side, the searing pain made me more alert.

“That’s hot,” Mom pointed out.

“Thanks,” I wheezed. “Figured that out.” I plopped the cup on the table and slumped into the seat across from her.

“Didn’t sleep well?”

I shook my head and yawned so wide, my jaw cracked. The wake was a problem, because Mom would be home all morning, making it hard for me to get out without getting quizzed.

“I thought we could take a ride to shop for your Boston Classics uniform this morning,” Mom added, once I stopped yawning. “We may as well, while we have the time.”

Uniform of Horror time—this meant we’d be staying in Boston! But I’d lose time searching for the art.

Be careful what you wish for, right?

I texted Ollie before leaving, hoping that he could figure out a way into the state house while I was gone. It seemed like the bad luck was contagious, though, as he had to babysit LeeLee for the morning; her summer program was temporarily closed thanks to a leaking air conditioner. His mom took advantage of the day off to run errands.

Search your house last nite?
he texted.
Find any treasure? LOL!

If you only knew.
For a second, I considered telling him. But—just like I’d realized the night before—the idea of starting another mystery was exhausting. Maybe I wasn’t destined for a career in forensic psychology or law enforcement after all.

Oh yeah.
Tunz
, I wrote back, then tossed my phone onto my bed.

“Margaret Mildred, get the lead out!” my mom hollered from downstairs.

“Coming!” I yelled back. I ignored the use of my real name.
Hoping that’ll get to me?
I thought.
You have no idea…

We’d spent nearly an hour in a small, dusty uniform store in South Boston, where I got to try on the navy blue polo shirt, plaid skirt, and super-stylish khaki pants that I’d be wearing to Boston Classics this fall. Although I took our shopping trip as a great sign that we’d be staying in Massachusetts, the lowlight came when Jolie Pearson and her mom also showed up—and I realized she’d be attending high school with me.

Now, over lunch, Mom was trying to grill me about Jolie—“just a girl from school…she thinks she’s all that…no, Mom, she doesn’t bully me”—but there wasn’t much to say. If you want the truth, it’s me who annoys her more, I’d bet. But I didn’t tell Mom that.

“Well, if you change your mind about going there this fall, let me know. We have other options.”

“What does that mean?”

Mom shrugged. “Just…you know. Other options. If you’d rather go somewhere else.”

I shook my head, stomach tight. I didn’t like how this was going.

“Hey…” I said, trying for a subject change. “So I’ve been looking at the photo album that Nini and Grumps gave me. It’s pretty cool.”

Mom nodded. “I bet.”

“He worked at so many places downtown, I can’t believe it.”

She just nodded again. It’s always like this—every time I bring up Grumps, Mom gets all awkward and uncomfortable, like I’m talking about someone else’s father, not her own. She nibbled a French fry.

“Do you remember him doing a job at the state house?”

She didn’t say anything for a second, just made that fry last. Her dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and for a second I saw her not as my mom, but as someone else might see her, and how young she was—after all, she had me when she was eighteen. And she seemed really, really sad. She finally swallowed the fry.

“I was in elementary school,” she said. She creased her napkin, not looking at me. “He took me and Nini on a ‘behind the scenes’ tour of the building at one point while he was there. We met the governor, saw a bunch of offices, and went to a storeroom under the dome where he was replacing the floor and some beams. Not the most exciting thing for a fourth grader, but my teacher loved hearing about it. I got a gold star on Monday.” She popped another fry in her mouth.

Not the most exciting thing for
you, I thought, but for me…well, this was Jackpot City. I stayed cool, though.

“Oh. Neat.” I was about to ask her another question, but Mom beat me to it.

“Ready? I have to get home so I can get ready for work.” We had plenty of time, but it was obvious that this conversation was over. I scarfed the last few fries on my plate, and we headed out.

And now I totally had a plan.