donât know what this is. Like the reverend said, itâs 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 andââ
âThen why did he hide it, huh? Explain that!â
I couldnât.
âAll right, letâs say it is a Raphael. That means itâs probably,â I looked around, â stolen . And if itâs stolen, no one is giving me thirty-seven anything, except maybe thirty-seven years in the slammer.â
We were back on Broadway and stopped to enjoy the air-conditioning leaking out of a nail salonâs doors.
âSo what, we drop it in front of the next cop car we see and run?â Bodhi looked disappointed. âThis was just starting to get good.â
I set the suitcase down and perched myself on top. âOkay, letâs think. We have an artist and time period in mind. Weâve translated the message. What do we need to figure out next?â
Bodhi started counting off on her fingers. âIs it really a Raphael? If not, what is it? Whereâd your granddad get it? Whyâd he hide it? Whyââ
âNo, I said next . What do we need to know next? Because if itâs stolen, we have to turn it in. But if itâs just some old paintingâwell, I could use the money, whatever itâs worth. Like, now.â
I looked down at the slip of paper Reverend Cecily had handed me. âLetâs say we go to this auction house. Worst case scenario: They call the cops. Best case scenario: They say itâs mine to keep and itâs worth millions.â
âMedium case scenario: Itâs stolen but thereâs a reward for its safe return?â Bodhi ventured.
âPretty-good case scenario: Itâs not stolen, itâs not by anyone famous, but itâs worth a few thousand, and I sell it.â
âSlightly-better-than-terrible case scenario: Itâs stolen, they haul us down to the precinct, but let us off with a stern warning.â
âHighly embarrassing case scenario: Itâs a Paint by Number kit, and they laugh at us.â
âPretty-unlikely-but-super-dramatic case scenario: Theyâre really vampires, but we fend them off with the Baby Jesus picture, casting them back to the tenth circle of hell.â
âActually, weâre already doomed to the tenth circle of hell.â I stood up and grabbed the suitcase again. âBecause weâre about to ride the subway in July.â
â¢Â â¢Â â¢
It was late in the afternoon by the time we got off the subway ($384.00â$2.50 = $381.50) and found Cadwaladerâs, the Madison Avenue auction house where Reverend Cecilyâs 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.
âYes? May I help you?â
I whispered, âWeâre not in the Village anymore.â
âUpper East Side, all the way,â Bodhi whispered back.
âYes, girls?â 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.
âYes, weâre here to see,â I double-checked the slip from my pocket, âAugustus Garvey.â
âDo you have an appointment?â
I shook my head. âBut I am here on,â I cleared my throat importantly, âbusiness.â
The guy blinked and then said smoothly, âJust a moment. Who may I say is visiting?â
âTheodora Tenpenny.â
âAnd Bodhi Ford.â Bodhi poked her head over my shoulder.
âYou can tell him just . . . friends of Reverend Cecily.â
He blinked again. âVery good. Please have a seat.â