Under the Egg by Laura Marx Fitzgerald

Lydon—is the head curator for the European Paintings wing,” I said emphatically.
    â€œEmeritus,” Lydon proffered with a gracious bow.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” Bodhi picked at a mosquito bite.
    â€œIn layman’s terms, my dear,” Lydon tried the same bow again, “retired.”
    â€œSo why are you here?”
    Lydon coughed up the faint laugh that adults use when they actually find you annoying. “Yes, well, one of many perks of five decades’ employment at the Metropolitan Museum is an office onsite for ongoing research and mentorship.”
    Bodhi’s face lit up, and I knew immediately that no good could come from whatever she was going to say.
    â€œFifty years? That’s a long time. You must know everything about this place.”
    He chuckled. “Well, I’m not sure that my oversight would extend to—”
    â€œLike, you would know if a painting had gone missing or something.”
    I raised my eyebrows at Bodhi and again attempted to telegraph S-H-U-T U-P.
    Lydon drew up his lean frame a bit. “The Metropolitan Museum has not had a painting stolen since its opening in 1872. Now the Gardner Museum in Boston, there’s a fascinating tale—”
    â€œThat’s not what I heard.”
    Lydon looked silently at Bodhi, then even longer at me. “I beg your pardon?”
    â€œI heard”—Bodhi shot me what she must have thought was a secret wink—“ we heard that you’re missing a painting. Any ideas what happened to it?”
    With a glance around the room, Lydon snapped, “Come with me, girls,” and turned on the heel of his freshly polished shoe, striding briskly—more briskly than you would expect of a man with a cane—out of the gallery.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I hissed to Bodhi as I trotted behind him, just out of earshot.
    â€œWe can tease out how much he knows!” Bodhi hissed back.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter what he knows. Now he’s going to know how much we know!”
    â€œWhoops, didn’t think about that.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”
    We followed Lydon through galleries, elevators, semi-hidden doorways, and institutional-looking corridors, until we arrived at a book-lined office with a sweeping view of Central Park and Lydon’s name in brass on the door.
    Lydon gestured for us to sit in two straight-backed chairs and took his place behind an imposing mahogany desk.
    â€œNow, girls,” he produced a fountain pen and rested it under his chin with a composed smile, “what’s all this about?”
    I put my hand firmly on Bodhi’s arm before she could speak. “Nothing. We just overheard some guards talking about a missing painting. That’s all.”
    Lydon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Well, then, you know better than to believe rumors.”
    â€œSure, yes, just a rumor,” I agreed quickly.
    â€œPeople—employees especially—like to gossip. Turn a minor misunderstanding into something notable, something salacious.”
    â€œUm, sure. I guess.”
    â€œYour grandfather was a valued employee of the Met for many, many years. I’m sure he would be deeply disappointed to think you were spreading stories—fictions really—that besmirch the reputation of this museum. And its security team.” He looked at me pointedly over the top of his spectacles.
    I looked pointedly back. “Jack didn’t care about reputations—his own or the museum’s. The only thing he cared about was the art.”
    â€œWhy, yes, Theodora. You’re right. He did care deeply about the museum’s collection. And wouldn’t he prioritize the safety of that art above all else?”
    I thought back to the painting in his studio, painted over and hidden for decades. Hidden for its safekeeping, I suddenly saw. “Yes,” I nodded slowly. “Yes, he would.”
    Lydon stood up and came