Under the Egg by Laura Marx Fitzgerald Page A

around to the front of his desk, looming over us like an eclipse. “And that’s why we mustn’t go around repeating these stories—which have no basis in fact, I should add—which can only confuse people.” He settled himself on the desk’s corner. “And we don’t want to confuse people, do we?”
    â€œWhat are you guys talking about?” Bodhi piped up. “The truth is, you’re missing a painting. How is telling people the truth about it confusing them?”
    Lydon’s concerned-uncle façade faltered. “Look, girls, I don’t want word getting out about any of this—period. This is a small but significant painting of great value. If word gets out, we could lose it to the underground art market forever, especially if people believe it’s in unsecured hands.”
    â€œOh, it’s not unsecured,” Bodhi blurted out, then looked at me and slapped her hand over her mouth.
    The small room filled with a menacing silence.
    â€œIt’s not possible. There’s no way that painting could have left this building. Not past our security—” Lydon stopped himself.
    I said nothing, as did (thank God) Bodhi.
    Lydon began agitatedly tapping his fountain pen on his knee.
    â€œIt’s no secret that Jack always had financial issues,” he mused aloud, “despite the work I secured for him over the years.” Blue ink began to spatter Lydon’s crisp trousers with each tap of his pen. “But perhaps Jack had a ‘retirement plan’ in place, hmmm? One that involved removing the painting and leaving it, for some reason, in the hands of a ten-year-old girl—”
    â€œThirteen,” I corrected.
    Lydon leaped to his feet and grabbed my arm, oblivious to the inky fingerprints he left.
    â€œListen, you little brat. You think you can walk into a pawnshop with a de Kooning under your arm? They’ll arrest you so fast—”
    â€œDe Kooning?” I gasped. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œYes, of course the de Kooning. The missing painting.” Lydon cleared his throat. “I mean, the painting rumored to be missing.”
    Even I knew that Willem de Kooning was a twentieth-century Dutch abstract painter. Who most definitely did not go around painting the Virgin Mary.
    Lydon was talking about a different painting.
    But before I could do damage control—
    â€œWho’s de Kooning?” piped up Bodhi. “I thought we were talking about Raphael.”
    Lydon stared at Bodhi and slowly released his grip on my arm.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œNothing.” I glared at Bodhi who finally clamped her lips shut.
    Lydon sat back and regarded me. “My God, there’s another painting, isn’t there?” he put together slowly. He looked at my sweater bag, bulging with its tomes on the Italian Renaissance. “A Raphael,” he whispered.
    Bodhi jumped up and pulled the arm recently vacated by Lydon’s grip toward the door. “Nope. There’s no missing painting, remember? That’s what you said. So I guess this conversation never happened.”
    We were almost to the stairs by the time Lydon made it to the door. I don’t know what made him madder—our escape or his ink-stained suit—but the last thing we heard in the stairwell was the bouncing echo of a four-letter word.

Chapter Nine
    W e didn’t stop running until we were halfway through Central Park, finally giving in at the roller skaters’ circle. It took most of “Disco Inferno” before we’d caught our breath enough to talk.
    â€œSo,” Bodhi wheezed, “that guy was talking about some other painting. A de Korn— de Koon—”
    â€œA de Kooning. Yeah,” I nodded wearily.
    â€œSo Jack stole that one, too?”
    I paused to massage a stitch in my side. “I don’t think he stole either of them,” I started slowly. “I