The Mistaken Masterpiece by Michael D. Beil Read Free Book Online Page B

According to family legend, they sat just to the left of the foul pole in left field, but I can’t be certain about that. The Yankees were batting in the bottom of the eighth inning and Lou Gehrig hit a long fly ball that curved foul—right into Phillip’s glove.”
    “Cool,” I say. I’ve been to the old Yankee Stadium a few times, but I’ve never even come
close
to catching a foul ball.
    “After the game, Phillip and Oliver head over toward the Yankees’ dugout, and with a little luck and some good old-fashioned begging, they managed to get everystarter’s autograph. Phillip takes the ball home and is, I’m sure, the envy of every kid in the Bronx.”
    Father Julian stops to take a swig of his soda. “But somehow, between 1928 and now, this second ball appeared, and we don’t know which is which. To tell the truth, we’d forgotten about them until Dad came across them when he was cleaning out the garage.”
    Margaret takes a closer look at the two baseballs. “I’ll bet we can figure out which is the original. There has to be a way to tell.”
    “Well, you’re welcome to try,” Father Julian says. “That would be a huge help. So I guess you now have two cases instead of one.” From behind the couch where we’re sitting, he retrieves a package, about two feet square and neatly wrapped in brown kraft paper.
    “This is the real reason you’re here,” he says, carefully removing the paper. “And, Rebecca, I think you are going to find this
especially
interesting.”
    “Why her especially?” I ask.
    “Because she is an artist, and this case involves a piece of art.”
    He holds up a painting—a very modern, abstract picture of rows of overlapping squares in bright blues, reds, yellows, and greens, surrounded by a simple wooden frame that is painted silver. It looks vaguely familiar, like something I’ve seen on a museum visit with my parents.
    “Holy cr—er, cow!” exclaims Becca. “Is that a Pommeroy?”
    “Elizabeth Harriman wasn’t kidding—you
do
know your art,” says Father Julian. “That’s exactly right. How do you know about Pommeroy?”
    “We studied some of his paintings in my class. He always uses those same primary and secondary colors, and there’s always some repetition of a simple geometric pattern—sort of his trademark.”
    I look at Becca with a newfound sense of admiration. I had no idea she knew so much.
    “Are you saying
this
is by a famous artist?” Leigh Ann says, sounding a bit—no, make that a
lot
—skeptical. “I mean, I guess it’s pretty, but I could—”
    “Stop! If you say you could paint something just as good, I’ll slug you,” Becca warns her.
    “Jeez. You artists are so touchy!” Leigh Ann says, backing away from
l’artiste
.
    “Well, Rebecca can correct me if I get any of the facts about the artist wrong, but let me tell you the story behind this painting,” Father Julian says. “And it starts a generation earlier, with my great-grandfather. He was what they call a finish carpenter—one of the people who did all that fancy woodwork in old houses—and from what I hear, he was one of the best. Sometime in the late 1950s, he was hired by Leonard Pommeroy to put up some wooden ceiling molding in his house out on the North Shore of Long Island. It should have been a quick job, but once Pommeroy discovered how talented my great-grandfather was, he kept finding more and more things for him to do, until he had spent several weeksthere. They were both artists of a kind, I suppose, and became friends. When it came time to settle the bill, the artist was short of cash, and offered
this
to him in exchange. Now, my great-grandfather didn’t know the difference between a Picasso and a paint-by-number, but he was at least aware of Pommeroy’s reputation and he liked the painting. So he made the deal.”
    “Ohmigosh, and now it’s worth, like, a million dollars, right?” I say, getting excited.
    “Hold on,” Father Julian says. “It’s not