Finding the Forger by Libby Sternberg Page A

what it was at first!” She sounded like she was going to cry.
    Connie’s head snapped up. “What do you mean, at first ?” Connie said. “Who’d you talk to? How’d you find out?”
    “I called someone,” Sarah said sheepishly.
    “Hector!” I said. “Oh no!”
    “The guard?” Connie asked. Can we all say “Deep doo-doo”?
    Sarah nodded.
    “You called Hector?” Connie shook her head in amazement and didn’t wait for an answer. “Okay, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to call Fawn at the museum and tell her I’ve got the Bargenstahler and will drop it off tonight. Wait right here.”
    She ran back to the house while Sarah and I stood out in the cold.
    “Sarah,” I said, “why’d you call Hector?”
    “Because I thought I was in trouble. I needed help.” She rubbed her cold arms. “And he’s innocent!”
    But she sounded like she was still convincing herself of that point. She called Hector, I guessed, because she wanted to reassure herself that he wasn’t guilty. Whatever he’d said, it hadn’t quite done the trick. She still had doubts. And so did I.
    In a minute, Connie was back with her car keys and two sweaters, one for each of us.
    “Come on,” Connie said. “We’re going for a milkshake. I want to talk.”
    I had a strong feeling that the talk would have to take priority over the milkshake.

Chapter Twelve

    S HAKEY’S OLDE FASHIONED Soda Shoppe, a new corner store just two blocks from home, was designed as a cheery little spot, what with its white and black tile and wrought iron chairs and tables. Tonight, however, as Connie laid it on the line, a cloud of gloom hovered over our table by the door.
    After gathering information from Sarah—when had she last looked in her trunk, where had the car been parked at the museum, who had keys to that door, and what did Sarah know about Hector—Connie set it all out for her, cold and hard.
    “Hector’s the obvious suspect,” Connie said, staring at Sarah. Sarah’s fingers played with the bottom of her milkshake glass. “He had the smarts, the know-how,” Connie continued. “And he probably knew your trunk would pop open.” She sipped at her kiwi smoothie.
    “But why would he put it in my trunk?”
    “To throw people off the trail. If they suspect you, the heat’s off him,” said Connie.
    “Hector wouldn’t do that to me!” protested Sarah, whose milkshake was hardly touched, whereas mine was already gone. She reached over and grabbed Connie’s hand. “You’re not going to turnhim in, are you?”
    “It isn’t my job to turn him in,” Connie said, matter-of-factly. “It’s my job just to tell my client what I’ve found out and the conclusions I’ve drawn from it.”
    Well, that was hardly fair. We all knew what conclusions she was drawing.
    “When will you be doing this telling?” I asked Connie, squinting my eyes at her to send the message I was on Sarah’s side in this fight.
    “Probably tonight.”
    “Tonight?” Sarah pulled back from the table.
    “You can’t be running around town with that stolen painting in your car, Sarah,” Connie said to her. “It has to go back.”
    Sarah slumped in her seat and sighed heavily. She looked down at her nail-bitten fingers, twisted her mouth to one side, and looked up suddenly. “Why can’t we just replace it?”
    “What?!” Connie and I said in unison. Neither of us said what we were both thinking—that Sarah’s desire to make things right meant she also thought Hector was responsible.
    But maybe Connie wasn’t thinking that exactly. She leaned into the table and looked intently at Sarah. “If you helped a friend because you thought it would keep him out of trouble, but you weren’t part of the original trouble, that isn’t as bad as being responsible for the trouble itself.”
    Okay, I can be dense sometimes, but when it comes to understanding my sister, I’m practically a member of sibling-Mensa. Her compassionate little speech meant only one