thing—she thought Sarah was in on it! It was bad enough Hector had betrayed Sarah. Now Connie was piling on the guilty verdict, too.
“Lay off, Connie!” I said. “Sarah didn’t do anything wrong. Shetold you—she found it in her car.”
Connie was silent. I tried to stare at her, but the daggers in my eyes didn’t fire.
“I didn’t help anybody do anything wrong!” Sarah said with the indignation of the unfairly accused. “And neither did Hector.” She looked around her as if trying to decide whether to bolt. “And . . . and there’s an easy enough way to prove it. The security camera tapes. Have you looked at them?”
Connie slumped back in her seat. Sarah had hit on something.
“Just got ‘em. But they’ve been looked over already.”
“What about the ones from today?” Sarah asked defiantly.
“I can pick them up tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a good idea, Connie,” I said. “If Hector put the painting in Sarah’s car, it would show up on a security tape—at least it’d show him walking down that corridor with the painting.”
“All right.”
Connie’s “all right” inspired me. I pressed forward. “It’s getting kind of late. If you’re so concerned about your client, shouldn’t you be getting the painting back to her instead of jawboning with us?” Yes, I actually said “jawboning.” I thought it sounded, oh, I don’t know, kind of detective-like.
“You’re right,” said Connie. She reached in her jeans pocket and pulled out a few bills, which she threw on the table like the private investigator she was. Then we all stood and made our way to the door.
Connie drove us home in silence and easily maneuvered into a just-her-car’s-size parking spot not too far from Sarah’s car.
We got out and stood shivering while Sarah went to her car to retrieve the painting.
“You know,” said Connie, watching Sarah thwump the trunkto open it, “I probably should have—”
“Ohmygod!” Sarah shrieked as the trunk lid popped open. We rushed to see what was the matter. I was thinking “snake!”
Well, just for a nanosecond. Then my real brain kicked in and I mentally finished the sentence that Connie had started—that she should have immediately taken possession of the painting instead of leaving it in Sarah’s car, because . . .
“It’s gone!” Connie stomped her foot and cursed as she looked into the trunk. “And I just called them and told them I had it!” She smacked her head with her hand. “Why couldn’t I have waited? Why? Why? Why?”
That’s what I love about my sister. Like me, she makes mistakes.
She ran out into the middle of the street, looking up and down as if she’d actually see some thief running high-kneed down the asphalt with the painting. She groaned and let loose a cascade of expletives, then looked at us and said “sorry” as if we hadn’t heard those words before. (Had she forgotten what high school is like?)
Pulling a pair of tight leather gloves from her pocket, she quickly put them on and rushed back to the trunk, where she rummaged through the mess that was left.
“Nothing else was taken,” she said more to herself than to us.
“Well, there wasn’t much else but junk,” I volunteered.
“There was this!” Connie dragged out a heavy case.
“My laptop,” Sarah said mournfully.
“You have a laptop?” I asked. I had to share one computer with two siblings, but Sarah had her own laptop? I was getting farther and farther behind in the keeping-up-with-the-Joneses race.
“It’s an old one. Mr. Daniels lets me use it. I put it in the trunk because I didn’t want it sitting out in the open where someonecould see it.”
“And steal it,” Connie added. “But they didn’t steal it. They only took the painting.”
“They were looking for the painting,” I said in a low voice. A shiver coursed up my spine. Someone had followed Sarah. I turned to her. “Who knew you were coming here?”
“I don’t know!” She
“Lay off, Connie!” I said. “Sarah didn’t do anything wrong. Shetold you—she found it in her car.”
Connie was silent. I tried to stare at her, but the daggers in my eyes didn’t fire.
“I didn’t help anybody do anything wrong!” Sarah said with the indignation of the unfairly accused. “And neither did Hector.” She looked around her as if trying to decide whether to bolt. “And . . . and there’s an easy enough way to prove it. The security camera tapes. Have you looked at them?”
Connie slumped back in her seat. Sarah had hit on something.
“Just got ‘em. But they’ve been looked over already.”
“What about the ones from today?” Sarah asked defiantly.
“I can pick them up tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a good idea, Connie,” I said. “If Hector put the painting in Sarah’s car, it would show up on a security tape—at least it’d show him walking down that corridor with the painting.”
“All right.”
Connie’s “all right” inspired me. I pressed forward. “It’s getting kind of late. If you’re so concerned about your client, shouldn’t you be getting the painting back to her instead of jawboning with us?” Yes, I actually said “jawboning.” I thought it sounded, oh, I don’t know, kind of detective-like.
“You’re right,” said Connie. She reached in her jeans pocket and pulled out a few bills, which she threw on the table like the private investigator she was. Then we all stood and made our way to the door.
Connie drove us home in silence and easily maneuvered into a just-her-car’s-size parking spot not too far from Sarah’s car.
We got out and stood shivering while Sarah went to her car to retrieve the painting.
“You know,” said Connie, watching Sarah thwump the trunkto open it, “I probably should have—”
“Ohmygod!” Sarah shrieked as the trunk lid popped open. We rushed to see what was the matter. I was thinking “snake!”
Well, just for a nanosecond. Then my real brain kicked in and I mentally finished the sentence that Connie had started—that she should have immediately taken possession of the painting instead of leaving it in Sarah’s car, because . . .
“It’s gone!” Connie stomped her foot and cursed as she looked into the trunk. “And I just called them and told them I had it!” She smacked her head with her hand. “Why couldn’t I have waited? Why? Why? Why?”
That’s what I love about my sister. Like me, she makes mistakes.
She ran out into the middle of the street, looking up and down as if she’d actually see some thief running high-kneed down the asphalt with the painting. She groaned and let loose a cascade of expletives, then looked at us and said “sorry” as if we hadn’t heard those words before. (Had she forgotten what high school is like?)
Pulling a pair of tight leather gloves from her pocket, she quickly put them on and rushed back to the trunk, where she rummaged through the mess that was left.
“Nothing else was taken,” she said more to herself than to us.
“Well, there wasn’t much else but junk,” I volunteered.
“There was this!” Connie dragged out a heavy case.
“My laptop,” Sarah said mournfully.
“You have a laptop?” I asked. I had to share one computer with two siblings, but Sarah had her own laptop? I was getting farther and farther behind in the keeping-up-with-the-Joneses race.
“It’s an old one. Mr. Daniels lets me use it. I put it in the trunk because I didn’t want it sitting out in the open where someonecould see it.”
“And steal it,” Connie added. “But they didn’t steal it. They only took the painting.”
“They were looking for the painting,” I said in a low voice. A shiver coursed up my spine. Someone had followed Sarah. I turned to her. “Who knew you were coming here?”
“I don’t know!” She
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