Nanny X Returns by Madelyn Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page A

bunny slippers,too. But he’d been assigned the case first. Maybe he didn’t need bunny slippers to get ahead.
    â€œWhy didn’t the Secret Service just release a photo of the fish statue when they got the threat?” I asked. “It should have been in the news.”
    â€œThat is exactly what The Angler wanted,” Boris said. “Publicity.”
    Stinky added: “If The Angler’s fish was on the front page of the paper, everyone would be sending statues to the president.”
    We started running again, a gentle jog this time, not a race (except that I was still in the lead). Soon we reached the
Artsy Bartsy
office.
    I imagined Jake knocking on the door of the White House, but I wasn’t jealous; I’d been on a field trip there just before Christmas. Ms. Bertram had spent half the time yelling at us because we’d tried to whistle for the president’s dog.
    I knocked on
Artsy Bartsy
’s blue door. I was still knocking when I heard an “Ahem” behind me. It came from a tall man with black hair that stood up a little. He wore the tweedy jacket professors wear when they want to look like professors. He also had small, rectangular glasses, which were perched on a nose that was longish and kind of skinny.
    â€œWere you looking for me?”
    â€œAre you Bartholomew Huffleberger?” asked Boris.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œWe’d like to ask some questions about an art exhibit you reviewed six months ago.”
    â€œWhich one?” the critic said.
    â€œIt featured an artist named Ursula.”
    His skinny nose wrinkled.
    â€œWas her show really that bad?” asked Boris.
    â€œIt depends on what you mean by ‘bad,’ ” said the critic. “Did it make a statement? Perhaps. But what a disaster. It was as if she’d thrown her entire wardrobe of clothing onto the floor and said, ‘There. How do I look?’ Some of the pieces were okay, but was it groundbreaking? No. Was it truly art?”
    â€œI thought everything counted as art,” said Stinky. Our art teacher, Mrs. Bonawali, told us that even a can of soup could be art.
    â€œThe woman paints realistic fish with sad eyes,” Mr. Huffleberger said. “Excuse me while I faint from excitement.”
    â€œYour review mentioned a sculpture,” I said.
    â€œShe created some sculptures, yes. So does a child with a can of Play-Doh. I saw Ursula’s work once long ago at a county fair. Believe me, she hasn’t improved.”
    â€œDo you have any photographs of the artist’s work?” Boris asked. “We’re trying to see if there’s a link between her and a certain sculpture we’re researching.” He didn’t mention the president.
    â€œIs this a school project?” Mr. Huffleberger looked at me and Stinky. “No matter. I have one photo here.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through until he found a photo of a painting of a sad-eyed fish. It looked pretty good from a distance.
    â€œI noticed her website disappeared not long after my review,” Mr. Huffleberger continued. “But I have her original publicity prints inside, if you’d like to take a look.” He glanced at Yeti. “Wait here. I am a cat person.”
    He unlocked his office door and made a gasping sound. The room was as neat as Mr. Huffleberger himself. But the desk looked like someone had emptied a recycling bin on top of it. There were papers everywhere, with bite-sized chunks taken out of them.
    â€œWhat’s this?” said Mr. Huffleberger. “Picasso? Picasso, where are you?” I thought maybe Mr. Huffleberger had a Picasso painting hanging on his wall, which would count as a national treasure, and that someone—The Angler, for instance—had stolen it. But he rushed behind his desk and bear-hugged the world’s largest cat, who was puffed up like a balloon at the Thanksgiving parade. Mr. Huffleberger looked