Fly Away (9 page)

“What about Richmond Hill?” I asked. “Is that near Stouffville?”

“Sorta,” she said. “What's this all about?”

“I need to go there,” I told her. “Without my parents knowing.”

Shona frowned, trying to look like she was deep in serious thought. She still looked like a nine-year-old kid, but I kept that opinion to myself.

“That,” she said haughtily, “can be arranged.”

I was careful not to laugh. Unbelievable. She was actually going to help me.

“Like, how?” I asked.

“My grandparents are constantly bugging me to visit,” she said. “I could call them. And I could say I was bringing a friend along.” I must have looked suspicious, because she added, “Duh. I know we're not friends. But we need Arielle back if we're going to win this thing.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence, I thought. But what I said was, “Thanks, Shona. It would be a big help. And I'll pay for everything, okay?”

Two hours later, she called me at home to confirm that we were welcome at her grandparents' place for Friday and Saturday night.

“We have cheerleading practice Sunday,” I reminded her.

“We'll be back in lots of time,” she said.

“Um, okay…,” I said.

“And where is it in Richmond Hill that we're supposed to go?” she continued.

“I have no idea,” I confessed. “I'm only guessing Benedict lives in Richmond Hill, since his post-office box is there.”

She paused before she spoke again. “Didn't you say he's a famous artist? It shouldn't be so hard to find him. We need to call someone who knows about art. Like an art professor or something. You want me to make some calls?”

“No,” I said, wishing I'd been the one to think of that. “I'll do it. But Shona…”

“Yeah?”

I hesitated. “That's a really good idea,” I admitted. “And it's nice of you to do this for me. This trip.”

“You are paying my bus fare, right?” she asked, as if my offer to do so had been her reason for helping me out.

“Of course,” I said.

“Then no sweat.”

The next morning, I left messages with four different art professors. Only one called back. I was beginning to wonder whether Trey Benedict was famous at all. But Professor Chava Hartz from York University had clearly heard of him.

“He's a sculptor,” she confirmed. “But not exclusively. He used to work with textiles. Did you say your art teacher actually assigned you this guy to profile, or that you chose him on your own?”

“Assigned,” I lied.

“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. “Well, yes, I'm fairly sure he's still based in Richmond Hill. I have his contact details on file. Email me, and I'll send them to you.” She paused, and then she said, “Listen, Miss…”

“Goodwood,” I told her. “Marnie Goodwood.”

“How old are you, Marnie?”

“Sixteen,” I said.

“Uh-huh…well, Marnie, apart from the contact information, I'm not sure I can be of much help in terms of information about Trey Benedict. But let me give you another number to call, okay?”

I took down the number she recited for a guy named Frank Comiskey. “Is he an art professor too?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “He's a journalist.”

chapter twenty-one

It was 10:00 PM when we reached Shona's grandparents' house. We stayed up for two more hours looking at photos from their recent Australian trip. But when I woke up the next morning at seven, Shona was already out of the shower.

I sat up in my bed. “You really don't need to come with me, Shona.”

“You don't know where you're going,” she said in a tone that suggested I might even need help finding my way out of bed.

“I printed off some maps,” I replied.

“Well, I'm coming,” she said. “Get over it.”

At breakfast, she told her grandparents we were going to a dancewear store. “You know, Gram. Where I used to get my gymnastics outfits.”

“Then we'll drive you, dear! That's such a long way…”

“We already got our bus tickets,” Shona lied. “We're all set.”

The trip to Richmond Hill took three different buses, with a twenty-minute wait for one of them. If I'd been alone, there would have been plenty of time to get nervous. But with Shona, I felt torn between irritation and fear. Her excitement just made it worse.

“So,” she asked, “when we get to the house, are you going to tell him you're Flygirl from that artists' site? Or are you going to say your real name? Because I was thinking, if you were going to say you're Flygirl, I should—”

“I was just going to knock on the door and ask for Ari,” I said.

“Oh,” she said.

When we got out at the stop nearest Benedict's address, we had to flag down a cab. “We're going to five-eleven Straightarrow Court,” I told the cabbie.

The driver studied his GPS screen. “That's gonna be a fifteen- or sixteen-dollar fare,” he warned.

“It's okay,” Shona told him. “She's paying.” She grinned at me and hopped in the cab.

After ten minutes, we entered the fanciest neighborhood I'd ever seen. High stone fences and ironwork gates protected tennis courts, pools and sprawling mansions. The contrast between this place and downtown Toronto was dramatic.

“If Arielle is here,” Shona said, “I don't think she's in much danger.”

“No,” I agreed. Peering through the hedges, I began to wonder how Arielle would react to being found.

“Here we are,” the cabbie announced, reaching the end of a long dead-end street. “This the place?”

“Yes, thanks,” I said, even though the elegant Japanese-style gate bore no nameplate, and you couldn't see the house beyond. The number was right. We climbed out of the cab.

“Do you want me to wait?” the driver asked.

I looked at Shona, standing awkwardly in the road in her silly pink fur-trimmed parka. I realized how we must look: two teen girls, both tiny for our age, our store-brand clothes betraying our small-town origins. “Nope,” I told him, trying to be cool. “Mr. Benedict is expecting us.”

I waited until he drove out of sight before pressing the gate buzzer.

“Hello?” a crisp female voice replied.

“Uh…yes,” I said. “I'd like to speak with Arielle.”

“Who is this, please?” the woman asked.

“Is Mr. Benedict expecting you?”

Before I could decide what to say next, Shona piped up. “We're not here for Mr. Benedict. We're friends of Arielle's.”

There was a pause and some static, as if the woman had covered the intercom receiver with her hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement up in a tree. A small, motorized camera lens pivoted slowly toward us.

“I think you must be mistaken,” said the woman. “This is the Benedict residence. There is no Arielle here.” Then she hung up.

Shona and I looked at each other. “Ring it again,” she said.

We tried the buzzer a few more times, but it was clear that we weren't getting in. We heard a crunch of footsteps on gravel. A big man in a skullcap and dark glasses suddenly appeared on the path.

“Hey!” I called out to him. But he just stared menacingly at us, turned around and disappeared in the direction he'd come.

Spooked, I elbowed Shona in the ribs and walked briskly around the corner, forcing her to follow me. I didn't stop until we were fifteen meters from the gate.

“Was that some kind of guard?” she asked, incredulous. “What kind of artist has a bodyguard?”

“And there's a camera too,” I said. “For all we know, they can hear us, even without the intercom.”

“But we aren't doing anything wrong,” she said. “They are. That woman definitely sounded like she was covering something up.”

I thought so too, but standing there ringing the bell wasn't doing us any good.

We sat down on the curb to consider our options. A freezing wind kept blowing Shona's fine blond hair into her eyes. She was shivering. She wrapped her arms around her bony gymnast's knees.

“First,” I said, “we need another cab.”

I dialed the number on the card our driver had handed us. Once the cab was on its way, I dug around in my purse for the number the art professor had given me.

“Comiskey,” drawled the journalist when he answered. “Like whiskey…”

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Can I help you?”

I explained that Professor Chava Hartz had said he might be able to help us. With information about Trey Benedict.

“I know Benedict,” he interrupted. “But who's Hartz?”

“An art professor,” I said. “But it doesn't matter. It's Benedict I'm interested in.”

“And who are you?” he asked.

“I'm nobody,” I said impatiently. “I'm here with a friend from Stratford, Ontario. We're cheerleaders. We're looking for our missing friend.”

To my surprise, Frank Comiskey invited us to meet him in Maple. He gave us the address of a coffee shop near his apartment building. I said we'd be there at two, even though I had no idea where the town of Maple was.

chapter twenty-two

Maple ended up being so close that we arrived almost forty-five minutes early. We had to wait forever in that coffee shop. True to my word, I paid for Shona's hot chocolate and bagel.

“Benedict's neighborhood is pretty sweet,” I said, trying to make conversation. “I guess he really is a famous artist.”

“Famous creep, you mean,” Shona said. “Kidnapper. Maybe child molester.”

I shook my head. “Arielle's no child. And she wanted to go there. She won some fancy mentorship. You have to apply for it. I tried to apply, and he wouldn't even give me an application form. You have to be really good.” I wrapped my hands around my cup to warm them. “I don't know, Shona,” I said. “Maybe we shouldn't be here. We could ruin things for her.”

“Are you serious?” Shona choked. “He ripped off her paintings! And that woman on the intercom pretended Arielle isn't even there!”

“Maybe she isn't,” I said.

“She is.”

I stayed quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” I said. “I'm pretty sure we're right about this. But she came here out of her own free will. She had her paintings shipped and everything.”

“Maybe not,” Shona said. “Maybe Benedict did that. Maybe he sent his henchmen to her house to steal them.”

I smiled. “I don't think artists have henchmen, Shona.”

She looked offended, and I felt a little bad. I was starting to realize that seeming clever and mature was very important to Shona. I guess maybe it's hard to be a fourteen-year-old girl on a team with older girls.

“But you're right,” I added to make her feel better. “An ethical artist wouldn't pass someone else's work off as his own, I don't think.”

Frank Comiskey took a long look at the two of us when he walked in through the coffee shop doors. He was trying not to laugh.

“What's your problem?” Shona snarled.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Welcome to Maple, undercover cheerleaders.”

Comiskey explained that he was a freelance journalist. He wrote a lot about criminal law: white-collar crime, fraud. “Long trials,” he said. “Scandals. If someone rich or famous has done something to embarrass him- or herself, I'm the guy the newspapers call.” He gave a tired little half smile that suggested he wasn't entirely proud of the work.

“You don't like doing it?” I asked.

“It depends,” he said. “There are some things the public needs to know and other things they don't. You girls want a hot chocolate or something?”

“No, thanks,” said Shona. “We want to know about Trey Benedict.”

“Well, technically,” Comiskey said, “I'm not allowed to report any of this. There's a gag order in place,” he explained. “You know what that is?”

“Sort of,” Shona said.

“There are charges pending against Mr. Benedict,” Comiskey said. “The court has decided that there are matters that, if reported by the media, might unfairly prejudice his case.”

“Charges pending?” I asked, really worried now. “Then why isn't he in jail?”

“Whoa, Nelly,” said Comiskey. “You only go to jail before trial if you're dangerous.”

“He has our friend,” Shona blurted out.

Comiskey frowned. “Your friend is an artist?”

We told him about Arielle running away, about the artists' bulletin board and about Benedict claiming her work as his own.

Comiskey nodded. “I've heard this story before. Tried to report it. But it's complicated,” he explained. “Benedict alleges— when he's forced to acknowledge the girls' work at all, that is—that these girls are willing collaborators. He's their mentor; the works he produces are artistic collaborations.”

“So then why does he need henchmen?” Shona challenged.

“Henchmen?” Comiskey laughed. “I'm guessing you met Eduardo. He's some kind of bodyguard, never leaves Benedict's side. If you ask me, he's just there to make Benedict look important.”

I'd been quiet while they talked. It was all coming together in my mind. “He finds talented young artists and he uses them,” I interjected. “Because he doesn't have any real talent of his own. He's paranoid someone will find out. It explains the gag order, and the guards…”

Comiskey smiled. “I guess cheerleaders only play dumb.”

“We do not!” Shona shot back.

“So,” I asked him, “what are the ‘matters' you mentioned before? The things that the gag order prevented you from reporting?”

Comiskey shrugged. “Off the record, then. There was a story going around about a boat. A fancy yacht. It belonged to the stepfather of a girl whose family sued Benedict. It sunk one night. The rumor was that Benedict and his friend Eduardo were involved. That it was some kind of threat to the girl's family.” He shrugged again. “Far-fetched, in my opinion. If it's any comfort to you,” Comiskey continued, “there's never been any suggestion that Benedict's ever hurt an artist. But if this Arielle were my friend, I'd tell her to get out of there.”