Free The Mistaken Masterpiece by Michael D. Beil Page B

Detective Agency can certainly handle
this
case. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
    “I would think, dear,” Elizabeth chimes in, “that if you were really confident, you’d risk something that actually had some
value
.”
    “Touché,” says Malcolm, holding his heart as if he’s been stabbed.

In which Tillie has an unusual snack
    With Becca heading to Chinatown and Leigh Ann off to Queens, Margaret and I walk back to my apartment fully intending to do our homework together. I say “intending” because my new friend Tillie has made other plans.
    Mom isn’t home from the music school yet, and Tillie meets us at the door. If you’re not a dog person, you probably don’t understand how unbelievably nice it is to be on the receiving end of that greeting at the end of the day. Dogs are
always
glad to see you; it doesn’t matter if it’s been three hours or three days. I’ve only had Tillie for a few days, but it feels like we’re old friends and have a routine that we’ve been following for years.
    After her usual tail wagging, rolling over to have her belly rubbed, and excited leaping, she is ready for her afternoon walk. We take her over to Carl Schurz Park, between East End Avenue and the river. There’s a small area that’s fenced in on three sides, and I bravely (stupidly?) unclip her leash and let her run around whileMargaret and I keep her away from the open side. It’s just what she needs—some real exercise—and since she doesn’t try to run away, I’m starting to gain the confidence to let her go off-leash in Central Park, which is many, many times larger than Carl Schurz Park.
    That is, unless I kill her first.
    When we get back to the apartment, Mom is there waiting for us at the door, and the greeting I get from her isn’t nearly as nice as the one from Tillie. She is scowling at me.
    “Sophie! Have you seen your room?”
    “Oh, right. Sorry, Mom. I know, I promised to straighten it up over the weekend. I’ll do it tonight, I promise.”
    “I think you’d better take a look,” Mom says. “It’s going to be a bigger job than you think. Margaret, if you’re smart, you’ll disappear before you get roped into helping her.”
    I glance at Tillie—all innocence and sweetness—and then run back to my room, stopping cold when I get to the doorway.
    “Holeeee cow,” I gasp. “What happened?”
    “Was there an earthquake today that I didn’t notice?” Margaret asks. “Some other kind of natural disaster?”
    “Hurricane Tillie,” I say.
“Tillie!”
    Tillie, wisely, does not come when called.
    All my bookshelves are on the floor, with all my books. Hundreds of books.
    “How on earth did she …” Margaret ponders for a moment, then walks gingerly toward the pile, glancing up at the wall, from which the naked brackets still extend. “Ahhh. The chair,” she says, pointing at my sturdy wooden desk chair. “I’ll bet she climbed up the back of this chair and then put her feet on the bottom shelf.”
    “But … why?” I ask, sorting through my most precious possessions and one decidedly unlovely brass bowl, now in an ignominious pile on the floor. (In case you’re wondering, yes, I’ve been back to my orthodontist. Another
Reader’s Digest
, another “Word Power.” Frankly, I don’t know what I’ll do to expand my vocabulary if I ever get my braces off. It’s quite
worrisome
. In fact, I’m rather
disconcerted
by the very
notion.
)
    “You must have had something up there that she wanted,” Margaret says. “A sandwich?”
    “I did
not
have a sandwich on my bookshelves,” I insist. “C’mon, I hardly ever bring food in here. Other than the occasional cookie, that is.”
    Margaret’s raised eyebrow tells me that she’s not buying whatever I’m selling. “Occasional, my eye.”
    “Okay, so maybe it’s
slightly
more than occasionally. But I would never put a cookie on the bookshelves.”
    And then I see it. In the corner of the room, over by the