The Painted Horse by Bonnie Bryant Read Free Book Online Page A

Skye, Stevie blended into the group. She didn’t want to risk having the policeman spot her. When the tourists finished taking pictures, she walked with them toward Central Park West.
    On Central Park West she figured she was far enough away from the policeman that she could hustle. She dog-trotted all the way to the historical society.
    She ran up the marble steps and into the lobby of the society’s building with one minute to spare. Then she dashed into the store and looked at the postcards. She had to get a postcard of an object that was not a painting. If it was a painting, she would have to know all about the artist. She noticed one of a lamp with a glass shade.
Lamps don’t have artists. They’re just lamps
, she thought. She bought the postcard and went out to the lobby to wait for the rest of her group.
    She had just stopped panting when Mrs. Martin appeared.
    “I hope you did a better job today, Stevie,” she said.
    “Much better,” Stevie said.
    The rest of the group had gathered.
    “Show us what you picked,” Mrs. Martin said.
    Stevie pulled the postcard of the glass lamp out of the bag. “Is that a lamp or what?” she said. “I’m not too into antiques, but I could live with this lamp.”
    “Tell us something about it,” Mrs. Martin said.
    “It’s like a plant,” Stevie said. “It has branches, roots, flowers.… It’s like a living thing, almost.”
    “Very good,” Mrs. Martin said. “Who made it?”
    What kind of a question was that? “A lamp maker,” Stevie said.
    A line of irritation appeared between Mrs. Martin’s eyes. “I cannot believe you selected this object without knowing who made it.”
    “I’ll find out later,” Stevie said. “This lamp and I are connected.”
    “Then you would want to know that it’s made by Louis Comfort Tiffany,” said Mrs. Martin.
    “He’s an American genius,” said Ms. Dodge.
    “There’s a whole exhibit of those lamps upstairs,” said Mrs. Martin. “How could you have picked a Tiffany lamp as your object without seeing the exhibit?”
    Stevie felt her face turn red. Truly, she had blown it. Again.
    “You’ve been fooling around all this time,” Mrs. Martin said. “You’ve been hanging out in the store.”
    “Absolutely not,” Stevie said.
    “Then where were you?” asked Mrs. Martin.
    Stevie realized that she had to think faster than she had ever thought before. She thought of Skye. She thought of the tickets. She thought of the backstage visit. She thought of a nice hearty meal. She knew that Skye would make a good excuse for her disappearance.
    “It’s like this,” she said. “I couldn’t talk on the phone last night, so I couldn’t call this friend of mine who’s a movie star.”
    Mrs. Martin sighed and looked away.
    “He’s not just a movie star, he’s also a Broadway star,” Stevie said. “He’s in
Murder at Midnight.
He’s going to give us all free tickets, invite us backstage afterward, and introduce us to stars. And then he’s going to take us out to dinner. And then he’ll take us home in a limousine.”
    Mrs. Martin shook her head. “When we get back to Willow Creek, I am going to have a long, long talk with your parents.”
    “You don’t have to make up stories like that,” said Ms.Dodge. “I know maybe you feel insecure sometimes, Stevie, but it’s better to tell the truth.”
    “It
is
the truth,” Stevie said. “Wait until we get back to the hotel. Tickets will be waiting for us.”
    Mrs. Martin and Ms. Dodge looked at each other and sighed.

B Y THE TIME Lisa and Carole got to Carole’s house, they were exhausted.
    “Scratching really wears you out,” said Lisa as she rubbed her elbow.
    “What made that cloth so itchy?” Carole said.
    “Itching powder,” said Lisa.
    “What’s that?” Carole said.
    “You buy it at joke shops,” Lisa said. “My cousin Albert is always buying stuff like itching powder. He also likes plastic ice cubes with flies inside.”
    “He sounds like a