Under the Egg by Laura Marx Fitzgerald Read Free Book Online Page B

don’t know what this is. Like the reverend said, it’s probably much later than Raphael. It could be some junky old thing my grandfather found in a pawnshop. It could be some old family heirloom he found down in the cellar and—”
    â€œThen why did he hide it, huh? Explain that!”
    I couldn’t.
    â€œAll right, let’s say it is a Raphael. That means it’s probably,” I looked around, “ stolen . And if it’s stolen, no one is giving me thirty-seven anything, except maybe thirty-seven years in the slammer.”
    We were back on Broadway and stopped to enjoy the air-conditioning leaking out of a nail salon’s doors.
    â€œSo what, we drop it in front of the next cop car we see and run?” Bodhi looked disappointed. “This was just starting to get good.”
    I set the suitcase down and perched myself on top. “Okay, let’s think. We have an artist and time period in mind. We’ve translated the message. What do we need to figure out next?”
    Bodhi started counting off on her fingers. “Is it really a Raphael? If not, what is it? Where’d your granddad get it? Why’d he hide it? Why—”
    â€œNo, I said next . What do we need to know next? Because if it’s stolen, we have to turn it in. But if it’s just some old painting—well, I could use the money, whatever it’s worth. Like, now.”
    I looked down at the slip of paper Reverend Cecily had handed me. “Let’s say we go to this auction house. Worst case scenario: They call the cops. Best case scenario: They say it’s mine to keep and it’s worth millions.”
    â€œMedium case scenario: It’s stolen but there’s a reward for its safe return?” Bodhi ventured.
    â€œPretty-good case scenario: It’s not stolen, it’s not by anyone famous, but it’s worth a few thousand, and I sell it.”
    â€œSlightly-better-than-terrible case scenario: It’s stolen, they haul us down to the precinct, but let us off with a stern warning.”
    â€œHighly embarrassing case scenario: It’s a Paint by Number kit, and they laugh at us.”
    â€œPretty-unlikely-but-super-dramatic case scenario: They’re really vampires, but we fend them off with the Baby Jesus picture, casting them back to the tenth circle of hell.”
    â€œActually, we’re already doomed to the tenth circle of hell.” I stood up and grabbed the suitcase again. “Because we’re about to ride the subway in July.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    It was late in the afternoon by the time we got off the subway ($384.00—$2.50 = $381.50) and found Cadwalader’s, the Madison Avenue auction house where Reverend Cecily’s friend worked. Antique furniture dotted the cavernous modern lobby, a sleek cube of golden marble floors, walls, and ceilings. On the other side of an ocean of Persian carpet sat a polished young man behind a paper-thin computer terminal.
    â€œYes? May I help you?”
    I whispered, “We’re not in the Village anymore.”
    â€œUpper East Side, all the way,” Bodhi whispered back.
    â€œYes, girls?” He seemed impatient because . . . he had so many other people to wait on? No. As Jack always said: the bigger the desk, the smaller the man.
    I strode boldly across the carpet, trailing Bodhi behind me.
    â€œYes, we’re here to see,” I double-checked the slip from my pocket, “Augustus Garvey.”
    â€œDo you have an appointment?”
    I shook my head. “But I am here on,” I cleared my throat importantly, “business.”
    The guy blinked and then said smoothly, “Just a moment. Who may I say is visiting?”
    â€œTheodora Tenpenny.”
    â€œAnd Bodhi Ford.” Bodhi poked her head over my shoulder.
    â€œYou can tell him just . . . friends of Reverend Cecily.”
    He blinked again. “Very good. Please have a seat.”