Moxie and the Art of Rule Breaking (19 page)

Of course, it was closed. I’d expected that, though. A few
couples sat on the front stoop, eating cannolis and laughing. I slipped around the side of the building, eyes moving across the shadows, hoping I wouldn’t get caught or spot The Redhead, and proceeded to press on the windows. Old churches in my neighborhood don’t have air-conditioning; maybe this one was no different?

The second window in the line spun like a secret-passage-blocking bookcase on
Scooby-Doo. Disco!

Since it spun on a pin or something right in the middle, even when all the way “open,” the window was too narrow for an adult to squeeze through. But a slightly undersized almost-high school freshman? No problem. I carefully lowered my bag into the room, then hoisted myself onto the sill and slipped in.

Instead of having straight-across pews like in a regular church, Old North’s seats are sectioned by wooden boxes. According to the guidebook, in the 1700s, high-class people didn’t want to sit too close to people who didn’t have as much money as them, so they “bought” the boxes and each family had their own reserved seating. Nini had said that Grumps worked “on the stairs or floorboards.” Yeah, right. Again, thanks to the guidebook and my research, I learned that “recent renovations” to the church included refurbishment of the gallery seating, the windows, and “repointing” of the brick exterior—whatever that was.

My hope was that Grumps had been the one to do the work on the gallery. Windows and brick weren’t his thing.

I went toward the front of the church, keeping my flashlight
beam pointed at the ground, trying not to feel the fear creeping up my spine.

A sign pointed to the gallery—up a flight of stairs. My eyes had started to adjust to the semi-darkness, so I clicked off the light and slowly crept to the second floor. Here, instead of boxes, the pews were more bench-like, but still were separated by high walls. The church-goers’ backs were parallel to the outside, so they basically were looking down at the middle of the church instead of directly at the altar.

There were dozens of pews, not to mention floorboards and perfectly clean white walls. How was I going to find Grumps’s hiding spot? I wished Ollie were with me—he would spot the tiny things I missed—and for the zillionth time wondered what had happened to him.

Focus, Moxie.

I put my “think like a criminal” hat on. There was no place to hide anything up here, unless Grumps put the art underneath the floor of the pews—in which case, I’d never find it. How could I move every bench?

I sat on one of the hard, old benches to think, knowing I was wasting time, but I had to be logical. I had to make this one count.
Had
to.

Ollie’s voice in my head said,
See things that are right in front of you, Moxie.

My eyes roamed the gallery. Straight-backed pews, white walls, floor. Straight-backed pews, white walls, floor. Straight-backed pews…

And then I saw it. Once I did, I couldn’t believe I’d missed
it. In the other gallery, opposite where I sat, there was a bench with a slightly higher back than the others.

As fast as I dared, I scooted around the perimeter of the balcony. My palms were sweating like crazy. Every step I took, I thought someone was going to turn the lights on and yell for the police, or—even worse—The Redhead would reach out from under a pew and grab my ankle.

No wonder detectives and superheroes have sidekicks, I thought. This business is way too scary alone.

I made it to the off-sized pew with no problems—other than my quadrillion near-nervous breakdowns. And once I was there, it was obvious that the back of the seat was higher than the ones around it. Noticeably higher. I ran my fingers over the edge. Same dark stained wood that trimmed the others. Same pure white paint…just, about two inches higher than the rest. How had no one noticed this before?

I took a step back and figured it out. The pews were in two rows—like movie theater seats. This one had a pillar in front of it and was near the end of the row.

But that didn’t reveal how to get the art out. I dropped to my knees and took out my flashlight. The backs of the other pews stopped an inch or two above the floor, but not this one. It went all the way to the bottom. I had to hand it to Grumps: His carpenter skills were amazeballs. There was no seam, nothing to show that this seat hadn’t been built this way in 1723.

I stood and went to the front of the pew, where you’d sit. Then I dropped to the floor and slid under it on my belly.
Again, no cracks, seams, or visible hinges. What would Ollie do if this were a cache? I wished I’d paid more attention when he hid and found stuff.

Think, Moxie. Think!

Logically, I knew that the paintings had to be inside the back. It was the right height to hold the art—about as tall as me. I knocked on the pew. It had a funny, muffled, echo-y sound to it. I knocked on the seat above my head. It had more of a flat tone. The back of the bench was hollow. I closed my eyes and envisioned all the steps on my proof.

The paintings were big, and some of them were on wood.

You can’t roll them up, or the paint will flake off and ruin them.

If you couldn’t roll them up, and at least one was on wood, there was no way I could get them out from the bottom of the pew. I slid out and stood on tiptoe to get another look at the trim on the back of the seat. Holding my flashlight close, I scanned the entire edge.

And there it was: a seam. A hair-thin line that bisected the wood.

And it was covered in what seemed like three inches of shiny lacquer, stain, or varnish. My poor excuse for fingernails scrabbled at it, but couldn’t catch hold. I rummaged through my bag for the screwdriver. Heavy and cold in my hand, it made me pause.

Moxie, you are about to vandalize a 299-year-old building. A building that is a national landmark and Big-Time Historical Important Place.

A place that’s hiding millions of dollars of stolen art, plus
the key to the safety of my family, Grumps, and—now—my best friend.

Without another pause, I gripped the handle of the screwdriver like I was holding a knife in a horror movie, and jabbed it straight at the seam. The varnish cracked and turned white, and the flat edge of the screwdriver stuck into the wood like a knife going into a Halloween pumpkin. I wrenched it free and stabbed again. This time, the varnish gave and the screwdriver slid all the way into the seam. I pushed the handle forward, trying to pry the piece of wood up. The popping, snapping noise of the paint and trim separating seemed as loud as a bomb exploding, but there was no way I was going to stop.

Power through, Mox.

A second later, the wood came off entirely, clattering to the floor and catching me by surprise. The screwdriver slammed down, sandwiching my hand between it and the back of the pew. I’d put a lot of power behind that shove, and my hand killed. I stuffed the screwdriver into the bag and shook my fingers, then I directed the flashlight beam into the cubby built into the back of the pew.

There they were: ragged edges of canvas, and, deeper into the cubby—which was barely two inches wide—the edge of a piece of wood.

My breath caught in my chest. Finding the etchings had been amazing, but this…
this
was the real deal. These were the pieces that had gotten the most attention.
These
belonged in those empty frames that captivated everyone
who went to the Gardner. I blew out a big burst of air.

I tucked the flashlight between my shoulder and ear, so I could work hands-free. Using just my thumbs and forefingers, I gently, gently grabbed the rough edge of one of the canvases and slid it up as high as I could reach.

The weak beam of light revealed blue-black clouds that looked ready to boil off the canvas. The mast of a ship…a piece of sail…the terrified men hanging on to the boat.

I was holding
The Storm on the Sea of Galilee
, Rembrandt’s only seascape.

In my hands.

The flashlight picked up the whirls and strokes of the brush, the shiny whatever-it-was he used to seal it. A few flakes of paint fluttered into the cubby.

How many people had walked by them? Sat here? Leaned against this bench?

I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Even though I was way too short to pull the whole thing out, I finally got why people were so entranced by this piece of art—art in general. The painting was like a capsule that collected and concentrated the strength of nature in storm clouds and rough waters. I wished Ollie were here to share this with me, wished we could have another mini-celebration like we had in the state house storeroom. Instead, I completely identified with the terrified apostles on the boat, tossed on a giant sea and waiting for rescue. I blinked away tears.

Finally, I gently replaced the painting, cringing as flakes of paint fluttered into the hiding place, and pulled out another—Vermeer’s
The
Concert.
It was even more awesome than the picture I’d seen online: the checkered floor, the woman about to sing, the man with his back to the audience—all of them looked like they were ready to jump off the canvas and perform. Then another Rembrandt, and—too far in for my short arms to reach—the wood panel that the missing landscape was painted on. Five pieces. These, plus the six we’d found in the state house…

That meant the ku and the flagpole thingy were at Fenway Park.

Reluctantly, I put the piece of trim back and covered the art. The wood was so mangled—varnish cracked, paint chips all over the floor—as soon as anyone came up to the gallery tomorrow—or later tonight—they’d notice it.

Of course The Redhead would be back, even if she had been here for hours earlier. As high as I was after seeing the art, that reality brought me right down. I couldn’t carry it out of here. I couldn’t hide it in a better location in the church. And with Ollie probably tied to a chair somewhere, I couldn’t take a lot of risks either. I needed it as a bargaining chip, but I hadn’t realized that I couldn’t move it or keep it safe.

There was only one option left.

I plopped down in the pew and said a prayer, hoping Grumps and Nini and Mom would forgive me, turning my broken cell phone over and over in my hands.

God, if you’re listening, please let this be the right decision.

And then I dialed 911.

“911 operator, please state your emergency.” The voice was crisp and businesslike. Calm.

“I’ve found five of the missing pieces of art stolen from the Gardner Museum in 1990.” I tried to keep my voice even, but it broke a little at the end.

“Say again?” Not businesslike anymore. I repeated myself.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“No. They’re in the gallery of the Old North Church in Boston, left side facing the altar, in a cubby built into the back of a pew. Trust me, you won’t miss it. But get someone here, quick. They won’t be here in the morning.”

Or in an hour. Or twenty minutes. Or who knew when….

The operator asked another question, but I’ve seen enough cop shows to know that when you call, they trace you. I hung up, hoping she didn’t think I was some kid playing a joke, hoping that she had some idea as to the importance of what I’d just told her, hoping that she’d actually get the police or FBI here and not ruin things even more.

I wished I could see them find the art, but it was too risky. And anyway, with the screen busted on my cell, I had no idea
what time it was—but knew I was
way
past pushing my luck sneaking in without Mom noticing. I offered another prayer for the safety of the paintings and my family (it seemed like the right thing to do while in church), stood, and slipped out of the pew.

I should’ve been praying for my own safety.

The Redhead was leaning against the door to the stairwell.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was, but I yelped and jumped when I saw her. Had she heard my phone call? Seen me find the paintings? Where was Ollie? I tried to get it together.

Breathe, Moxie.

We were about six feet apart; one set of pews between us. She stood perfectly still, legs crossed at the ankle, back against the door frame, blocking the only exit. Same leather jacket, dark pants, and boots that I’d seen her in for two weeks. Her hair was pulled back, though—Redhead Stealth Mode?—accenting her pointy chin and catlike eyes.