Under the Egg by Laura Marx Fitzgerald Page B

mean, there is still a chance that Jack smuggled our painting out—what, forty years ago? But honestly, if they’re this keyed up about a minor de Kooning gone missing in the last year or so, they’d have conducted a full-scale manhunt already for a missing Raphael.”
    â€œSo we still don’t know where he got it?”
    â€œNo.” I sighed heavily. “But Lydon had a good point. I can’t walk into a pawnshop with this thing, or an antiques shop, or—”
    â€œCadwalader’s? They didn’t even think it was real.”
    â€œThat’s because Gemma is an idiot. Nice shoes and all, but still an idiot.”
    â€œNo argument here.” Bodhi flopped herself under a tree.
    â€œOkay, maybe it’s stolen,” I said as I collapsed next to her, too hot to care about the dirt being ground into my petticoat. “But maybe it isn’t. Maybe he got it honestly. All I know is, if I can’t figure out where he got it and find some kind of proof of ownership, then they’re going to assume it’s stolen. And it’s going to be taken away before I can figure out why Jack wanted me to have it in the first place.”
    â€œAnd before you can sell it.”
    â€œThat, too.”
    We eventually left the cool shade of the park and made our way slowly down Broadway (picking up a decent-looking castoff blender along the way). By the time we reached Spinney Lane, the sun was slipping beyond New Jersey.
    Bodhi paused in front of our house, hitching a foot up on our stoop. “So do you think it’s a portrait?”
    The same question had been rattling around my brain all the way down Broadway. “I don’t know. Raphael used La Fornarina as a model for the Virgin Mary plenty of times before. But every other time, he’d transformed her into this perfectly idealized Madonna. Why not this time?”
    â€œBecause this time—”
    â€œThis time he was painting the real Margherita Luti, his one true love. And if that’s the case, then—”
    â€œWho’s the kid?”
    â€œExactly.”
    Bodhi nodded distractedly and walked off toward her own house without even a good-bye. But as I got the key in the front door, I heard sneakers pounding on the sidewalk, and Bodhi appeared again under the light of the streetlamp. “Here’s another question,” she panted. “That bird is flying out of the baby’s hand, right? I saw a bunch of paintings at the Met today with Jesus and birds, but those birds were all flying down. All white and golden and shiny with light.”
    â€œWow,” I said, “you really were paying attention.”
    â€œHey, I told you, this is my new independent study project.” She grinned. “And I’m gonna get an A.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Bodhi vowed to barricade herself in her media room and not to leave her computer until she uncovered proof that determined the painting’s authenticity, or history, or both.
    I retired to the kitchen, my books splayed all over the table, which is where I was when my mom wandered in around midnight and started opening cupboard doors at random.
    â€œMom? What are you doing out—I mean, up?” It was rare to see my mom outside her room beyond her morning walk to the tea shop.
    â€œOh, Theo, there you are. I was calling for you. I’m out of tea.” She started rummaging under the sink, among the buckets and cleaners. “The kettle?”
    Sigh. “I got it.” I snagged the kettle from its usual place on the stove and filled it at the sink. “What’s up? You stuck on something?”
    My mom sank into one of the unmatched kitchen chairs and stared out the darkened window. “An equation. I can’t sleep.”
    â€œMe too.”
    Her eyes, puffy under heavy lids, fluttered down to the books on the table. “Oh, really? Is it some kind of Diophantine equation? Because I could