Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception (5 page)

“Sloppy splotter? Sloppy
splotter
? Jojo, did you hear what that insolent little brat just called me?”

Jojo just stands there with half a smile plastered on, his eyes big and kind of roving around the crowd like, Tell me this is not happening … Tell me this is
not
happening …

“Throw her
out,
” she screeches. “No, have her arrested!”

Jojo cringes. “Arrested? For calling you a … splotter?”

“No! For being part of this charade!”

Diane says, “There is no ‘charade' or conspiracy or anything else involved here, Tess. That man tried to heist my paintings, this girl stopped him. That's all there is to it.”

Tess looks around the crowd. “Doesn't
any
one else find this a little bit coincidental? Think about it! A reporter from the
Los Angeles Times
actually comes to this wretched town with the promise to do a piece on one of us … what better way to make a media event of it than stage your own robbery? Of course he wants to cover
her
now! It's got everything he could want in a story … even though none of it has a thing to do with art!”

Austin Zuni steps forward and says, “Now that you mention it, it is a bit convenient to have a robbery—”

“I didn't
have
a robbery!” Diane turns to Jojo. “What utter nonsense
is
this?”

“Yeah,” I tell ol' Splotty. “If anyone hired that guy, it was probably you.”

“What?”

“Well, you can't exactly put paintings in the
L.A. Times
if they aren't around, right?” I shrug. “It's one way to cut down on the competition.”

“Saaaay,” Austin Zuni says. “I hadn't thought of that … !”

Tess snaps, “Oh, shut up, Austin. That's ridiculous.”

“I don't know,” I tell her. “You seem pretty desperate to me.”

“Jojo,” she says through her teeth. “Get her
out
of here.” And yeah, it probably would have been polite for me to keep my mouth shut, but I was mad at her. Mad because she'd been so rude to Hudson. Mad because she'd looked down her nose at me. Mad because that's how I get when I hear glass scraping glass, and that's exactly what she sounded like to me.

So I tell her, “Well, you do. I mean how can your paintings possibly compete with hers? Anybody can dump a bucket of paint on a canvas. Anybody can take a big ol' fat brush and slash it across something and frame it. You don't need a Ph.D. to know it's ugly.”

“GET HER OUT OF HERE!”

“I'm goin', I'm goin'!” I tell her. “Just next time watch who you call a ragamuffin.”

Grams is hurrying along beside me as I make for the door, only Jojo runs in front of us and blocks our path. “Wait, wait! You can't go! The police are going to want to talk to you!”

Well, I didn't exactly want to talk to them, so I said, “Look. You know everything I know. The guy tried to rob the place with a squirt gun. He didn't get anything, and now he's gone. End of report.”

“But …”

Just then some men come shuffling in, all out of breath and windblown. They shake their heads when they see Jojo. “Couldn't find him. We searched blocks in all directions. He's just gone.” Then one of them adds, “What's taking the police? How long's it been since you called?”

“Oh!” Jojo cries, and holds his cheeks. Then he turns beet red and runs toward the scary table.

“Brother,” I grumble, and head for the door. And Grams is right there beside me, only she keeps looking over her shoulder at Hudson, who's hanging on Diane's every word.

“You want to walk home, don't you?” I ask her when we get outside.

“I most certainly do,” she says.

“Well, at least let me leave a note on his windshield.”

“He doesn't deserve a note.”

“Grams,” I say, digging through her purse for a scrap of paper and a pencil, “he's just being attentive to a damsel in distress.”

“And what were
you
in there?”

I look up at her. “Me? A damsel ?” I get back to digging. “Never!”

“He's being an old fool,” she says with a scowl. “It's those Liz Taylor eyes.”

“Who?”

“Elizabeth Taylor. The actress? Don't tell me you've never heard of her?”

“Nu-uh.”

“Well she had eyes just like those. Brought men to their knees just as quickly, too.” She
hrmphs
and then waits for me as I snap a “We walked home” note under Hudson's windshield wiper.

I put my arm around Grams, and as we start down the street she looks from her feet to mine, saying, “I guess it was a good night to wear high-tops after all.”

I grin at her. “Every night's a good night, Grams.”

She laughs, then says, “I'm glad you didn't want to stick around and talk to the police. I was more than ready to get away from those people. What a wretched bunch!”

We turn the corner toward Broadway, and suddenly the wind gusts up and whirls around us. Like it's dancing with us for a minute before moving on.

Grams starts walking a little faster, saying, “I just love this weather, don't you, Samantha? It makes me feel … electric.”

“Electric?” I laugh and say, “I would've guessed you
wouldn't
like it.”

“Oh, no. I've always loved the wind. Mind you, not the steady ones—they're draining. But gusty winds? Oh, I adore them.”

Now it's funny. I'd never seen my grams act like this before. She was practically skipping along the sidewalk, practically flinging her arms around in the air. She
wasn't
actually skipping or flinging, but I could tell that in her heart she was feeling young and happy and defiant. Like
she was as free as the wind and no starstruck senior citizen was going to get her down. She was going to
fly
instead.

Then Grams says, “That Tess Winters may be a real pill, but I have a hunch she's right.”

“About … ?”

“I'll bet she set the whole thing up.”

“Who? Purple Eyes? You really think so?”

“I do.”

“But Grams—”

“There's something about her I don't trust, don't like, don't …
believe.
”

“But—”

“I swear that fellow smiled at her.”

“The Bandit did?”

“Well, he had that whole getup on, but just for a moment, I swear he did.” She seemed to think about this a minute, then nodded. “I think that whole fainting routine was just to draw attention away from him.”

“But Grams, why?”

“For the publicity! It's all about publicity.” She kicks a stone and says, “Oh, I would love to prove it. It would serve him right, for being such a fool.”

I grin at her and say, “Grams!” because really, even though I'd seen her mad about things before, I'd never seen her on fire like this. I mean, for the first time in my life I could see
her
using binoculars and hiding in bushes, chasing after bad guys.

This was a brand-new side of Grams.

One I'd soon learn a whole lot more about.

I'm not supposed to be living in the Senior Highrise. It's illegal. But I'm there anyway, on what I call a permanently temporary basis, while my mother gets her act together in Hollywood.

Don't get me started.

So since I had to sneak up the fire escape while Grams could just waltz inside and use the elevator, she was already in the apartment when I slipped through the door. I found her sitting stiff in a chair with her arms crossed, watching the phone ring off the hook.

“You're not going to answer it?” I whispered.

She shook her head.

“Ever?”

Shake, shake, shake.

“What if it's not him?”

“It is.”

“What if he's worried?”

“Hrmph.”

“Grams … !”

“I'm not in the mood to hear that I'm overreacting.” I scowled at her and picked up the phone.

She crossed her arms tighter.

“Hello?”

“Sammy?”

“Hi, Hudson.”

“Why on earth did you two leave?
When
did you leave? One minute you're arguing with that Winters woman, then next thing I know you're nowhere to be found.”

“Well, neither of us felt like sticking around. And you were, uh … a little preoccupied.”

“Listen, let me talk to your grandmother. I feel horrible that she walked home.”

I held the phone out to Grams, but she just shook her head and dug in deeper.

“Hudson? She doesn't want to talk to you right now.”

“She's … mad?”

I eye her and say, “You betcha. Where are you, anyway? You don't sound like you're at home.”

“I'm not. I'm still at the Vault. The police have been taking statements … it's quite an ordeal.”

“How's the damsel?”

“Who?”

“Your damsel in distress.”

Now Hudson Graham is probably the smartest guy I know, but until that moment, I swear he was clueless about why Grams and I had walked home. And I could almost hear the click in his brain as he said, “Ah … oh, dear.”

“Um-hmm. So why don't you call back in the morning?”

Grams' head goes into hyper-shake, and across the line I hear, “But—”

“You know how she gets.”

Grams' jaw drops, so I give her a little shrug and smile like, Well it's
true
…

“Okay,” he says. “I'll do that. But in the meantime, would you try to convince her that I'm not a dog?”

“Aaarrroooo!”

“I'll talk to you in the morning.”

“Good night,” I told him, and hung up the phone.

Of course Grams wanted to know every little thing he said. And then we had to go and beat the whole evening to death. So when I finally got to hit the couch, well,
Zzzzz
, I was out.

So I'm seriously snoozing away, in the middle of a really great flying dream—one where I'm sailing over the rooftops of Santa Martina with my arms out, and the bad guys who are chasing me can't fly as high as I can. And I'm getting away, going up, up, over trees and St. Mary's steeple, laughing
heh-heh-heh
over my shoulder at them— when the phone rings.

One eye snaps open, but the rest of me tries to keep on flying. But what the one eye sees is the little clock on the end table next to me.

Seven-thirty?

On a Saturday?

What kind of moron would … and then I remember— Hudson.

Boy! I thought as I rolled the pillow over my head. He's getting dumber by the minute.

Grams didn't pick up the phone, either. And when it finally quit ringing, she took it off the hook and laid it on the counter. Then when it made a beeping noise and a
mechanical lady told us to hang it up, Grams told her to shut her prerecorded mouth and unplugged the phone from the wall.

I never did get back to my flying dream. I got up and had some oatmeal instead.

Now, five-grain oatmeal may not seem like much of a Saturday morning treat to you, but really, it's all in the approach. Grams makes me eat it practically every morning, so I've learned how to love it. All you need is some brown sugar, some maple syrup, and walnuts. Lots of crushed walnuts. Mix it all together, add a little milk, and
yum.
You'll want seconds every time.

Which is exactly what I was having when all of a sudden there's a knock on the door. At first it's just a tap-tap-tap, but on the third try, it turns into a whack-whack-whack! And I say to Grams, “You've got to answer the door!”

“The
nerve
of that man! How dare he invade our … personal space!”

“Grams, just answer it, would you? You can't avoid him forever.”

She crosses her arms. “Watch me.”

I get up and say, “Okay, then I'll answer it.”

“Samantha, you can't do that! What if it's
not
him?”
Whack-whack-whack.

“I guess that's a risk I'm willing to take.”

At the last minute, Grams cuts me off and shoos me away to hide in her closet, which is where I always have to go when someone unexpected comes over. But for once I don't dive into Grams' pile of pumps. I just duck behind
the bedroom door and peek out the crack as Grams opens the apartment door.

And who comes barging into the apartment all flustery and blustery and out of breath?

Marissa, carrying two bulging tote bags.

“Marissa?” Grams gasps as she snaps the door locked behind her.

“Don't worry!” she whispers. “I came up the fire escape. And I did try to call you, but first no one answered, then the phone was busy!”

“Did you … did you try very early this morning?” Grams asks her.

Marissa's face scrunches up into a cringe. “Did I wake you up? I'm so, so sorry! I just wanted to find out if Sammy could go before she took off somewhere else.”

“Go?” I ask her, coming out from behind Grams' door. “Go where?”

“To the Faire!” she says, then starts yanking clothes out of a tote bag. “Look at this! Check these
out
.”

“Marissa, stop right there.”

She looks at me, one arm up, a dark red velvet dress with puffy sleeves and some kind of white lace-up contraption of a blouse draping clear to the floor.

“I hope you're not thinking what I think you're thinking, because you can just quit thinking it.”

“But my mom told me kids under fifteen don't have to pay if they're in costume. And since I know you won't let me pay
for
you, I figure—”

“It's a dress, Marissa.”

“And hel-
lo
, you're a girl … ?”

“Not
that
kind of a girl,” I say, pointing to the ruffles and frills. “You can't ride a skateboard in something like that. You'd
kill
yourself.”

“Well you don't
have
a skateboard to ride, now do you?”

She was giving me an evil little grin, so I told her, “Shut up.”

“Samantha!” Grams says, looking all stern at me.

“You have no idea what she's implying, Grams, so don't start sticking up for her.”

It's like Grams didn't even hear me. She just spreads the skirt of the red dress Marissa's holding and says, “This is quite lovely.”

Marissa hands the dress over to Grams, then out of the other tote bag she yanks a royal purple dress that's even frillier than the red one. “Look at the bodice on this,” she says to Grams. “Isn't it gorgeous?”

“Oh, my!” Grams says. “Where on earth did you get these?”