The Summer We Read Gatsby by Danielle Ganek

middle of the party.” She caught Biggsy’s eye. “I know. Rude , right? But he was so into it, I couldn’t say no. And then here’s where it gets weird.” She paused to take a bite of her crab cake sandwich, oozing with tartar sauce, and then washed it down with fresh lemonade before resuming. “He stood before that painting for a long time, much longer than he looked at any of the others. Almost as if he were trying to place it in his mind.”
    “I saw him!” Biggsy cried out, his eyes lighting up, immediately fueling Peck’s suspicions. “You were already back outside and he went back in there by himself. Nobody else was around. He was staring up at that painting forever.”
    “Here’s what I think,” she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, even though there was nobody who could hear us. “That painting was the thing of value that Lydia was talking about. She probably didn’t want anyone to know what it was because we would have gotten socked with big taxes. And maybe she didn’t want to make it too complicated for us, because how do you divide a painting? Unless you sell it and share the proceeds. That would explain why she worded the will that way.”
    “And this Miles guy, he collects art, right?” Biggsy chimed in. “I knew he did—that’s why I wanted to talk to him about my work. But he was too busy casing the joint. Didn’t even hear me.”
    Peck gestured at him with her sandwich, sending a dollop of tartar sauce in his direction. “Literally. That’s what happened. He figured out what it was and that it was worth something. Oh God,” she moaned. “I just realized I told him. I’m such a blabbermouth, I had to go and tell him all about Aunt Lydia’s will and the thing of utmost value.”
    “I had another theory,” Biggsy said. “But now it seems silly. I think you were right. He had that horny look in his eye. He wanted that painting.”
    “I’m telling you, there’s something shady about Miles,” Peck added eagerly. This was exactly the kind of drama she would work to create when it didn’t exist, and she was enjoying this immensely. “When I was young and didn’t know better I found it sexy. But when you think about it, how did he make all that money? Oh, I do think he could be a thief. He had it in him.”
    I’d been listening rather skeptically as the two of them worked themselves into a frenzy of conviction, but I didn’t really believe Miles Noble would appear, seemingly out of the blue, into Peck’s life and into her aunt’s house and walk away with a painting off the wall, even if it was the one I’d liked best. But I had no other explanation. “What was your theory?” I asked Biggsy.
    He hung his head. “It’s dumb now.”
    Of course this only made Peck and me implore him to tell us what he was thinking, and when he spoke a small smile played at his lips. His looks were distracting. His accent was flat and unplaceable—he told us he’d grown up in Utah, but then he also mentioned having lived in a trailer park in Oregon and summers in Idaho, so the exact source was unclear—and he never sounded particularly intelligent, but it was hard not to be thrown off by the fact that words were emerging at all from such a mouth. It was disconcerting, like one of those Abercrombie ads come to life.
    “You know how Lydia always said there was a ghost?” he said sheepishly. Lydia had always enjoyed sharing her tales of the genial figure of the former owner of the house who made an appearance every now and then, hiding a frying pan from the kitchen on the bookshelf, or moving the items on the bar cart. “Well, I’ve seen it for myself.”
    “You thought a ghost took the painting.” I couldn’t help sounding dubious.
    “He’s more of a poltergeist,” he said, looking to Peck for confirmation. “Sometimes he finds things.”
    “Oh! Oh! What if it’s Lydia !” Peck interjected, looking pleased with herself. “Trying to tell us something. Communicating from