Ann Martin - Claudia And The Mystery At The Museum

"I don't know," I said. "But there's definitely something weird about him, don't you think?" Everyone agreed. But none of us could imagine any way to prove he had stolen the coins. Our investigation had come to a dead end.

Chapter 7.

My friends and I sat on the steps of the museum, feeling glum. We had been so excited about working on the case of the missing coins, but so far all our leads had petered out. We didn't know what else we could do, for the time being.

Kristy checked her watch. "I better get home," she said. "I told my mom I would help watch the kids this afternoon."

Shannon and Jessi said they had to leave, too.

"Well, I'm going to stay and check out the Don Newman exhibit," I said. "That was my original reason for coming to the museum, and I still haven't even gotten near it."

"I'll come with you," said Stacey. "You've talked about these sculptures so much that I'm curious about them. Besides, I don't have any other plans."

I smiled at her. Stacey's not really interested in art, and I knew she was just staying with me to be friendly. "You might be surprised," I said. "I bet you'll like this stuff."

We said good-bye to the others and headed back into the museum. As we approached the big glass doors of the main entrance, I caught a glimpse of our reflections. We looked as well-dressed and sophisticated as any big-city museum-goers. I smiled at Stacey as I opened the door and ushered her in. "After you, my dear," I said.

"Oh, no, no, no!" she said, smiling back. "After you!" We giggled as we squeezed through together.

I led Stacey toward the gallery where Don Newman's work was being shown. "His stuff isn't very realistic," I warned her. "I mean, a sculpture might not look like a person, or a certain animal or anything. He just suggests things by the way he uses form and line."

"Gotcha," she said. "I'll just follow you around and you can tell me about what we're looking at."

By that time we had arrived at the entrance to the gallery. I went in, with Stacey behind me. "Wow!" I said. "Nice space." In case you don't know, "space" is very important when you're showing artwork. It has to be open and

bright and welcoming, and this room was all of those things. I began to fantasize about showing my own artwork there. Suppose, just suppose, I was introduced to the curator of the museum. "Did you say your name was Claudia Kishi?" he would ask, looking surprised. "I've heard about you. The word is that you are the most talented and promising student in the Stoneybrook schools. Could you — would you — consider showing in our modest gallery?"

"I'd be delighted to," I would say. "I feel if s important to give something back to the community you're from. Why don't you call me to schedule a possible time? I'm sure I can fit you in between my upcoming shows at the Museum of Modern Art and the Guggenheim."

"Claudia!" Stacey was tugging on my arm. "Why are you grinning like that?"

I came out of my daydream. "Oh, I guess I'm just happy to be here," I said lamely. "Look!" I continued, changing the subject. "This is a wonderful piece." We walked over to a grouping of three sculptures, two larger ones and one smaller one. They seemed to be in a kind of embrace.

"It's like a family," said Stacey. "Mother, father, and child."

"You're right," I said, reaching out to stroke the "child's" back.

"Claud!" cried Stacey. "What are you doing? You can't touch that!" She glanced nervously at the guard who stood nearby.

"If s okay," I reassured her. "Look at the sign." I pointed to the wall near the gallery door. On it was a sign like the one in the Discovery Room. "Please Touch," it said. "Don Newman believes that art should be touchable," I told Stacey. I smiled at her, and noticed that the guard was smiling, too. "He thinks art should involve more senses than just sight," I went on. "When I saw his pieces in New York, the same sign was up, and everyone in the gallery was touching the sculptures."

I walked over to another piece, and went on talking. "He even builds in special features that you wouldn't know about unless you touched the pieces," I said, "See how this one moves when I push it a little?" We were standing near a sculpture that looked like an old boulder that had been lying in a riverbed for hundreds of years. It was rounded and worn, and kind of — well, kind of friendly. That may sound weird, but it's really the only way to describe it. I touched it, and it shifted its weight just a little.

"Awesome," said Stacey, reaching out to give it a little push.

"Let's keep looking around," I said. "I saw one in New York that I just loved, and it's supposed to be here." We strolled around, looking at everything. An amazing variety of artwork was in that one little gallery. We saw sculptures carved out of wood, and sculptures that had been cast in bronze. We saw pieces made out of what looked like old car parts, and pieces chiseled in marble. Some were brightly painted, and others were the natural color of aging metal or wood.

We touched almost every sculpture. Some of them moved, tilting or rocking on their bases. Others stayed put, but it was still a pleasure to be able to feel the materials they were made of. I noticed a man and a little boy — his son, I guess — touching all the sculptures, too. You don't have to be an art expert to love Don Newman's sculptures.

"I really do like this stuff," said Stacey. "Not all of it — some of it's a little weird for me, and I feel like I don't understand it. But most of it is really cool."

"I'm glad you like it," I said. "I thought you would." We were walking as we talked. Suddenly, we turned a corner, and there it was. "Daphne!" I cried.

"Who?" asked Stacey, looking around.

"Daphne," I repeated. "If s a sculpture. The one I saw in New York." I walked over to it. "I just love this one," I said. "Somehow it makes me feel calm and peaceful."

"I see what you mean," said Stacey. "It gives me the same feeling." She reached out to touch it. "Oh, cool," she said. "Look how it moves."

I ran my hand over it. It rocked gently on its base. I touched it again. Then I stood back from it, frowning.

"What's the matter?" Stacey asked.

I paused for a second, and then shrugged. "I'm not sure," I said. "Maybe nothing. It just seems . . . different."

"Different from when you saw it in New York?" Stacey asked.

"Uh-huh," I answered. But I couldn't really say how it was different. I looked at it more closely. Had it been damaged?

"That was quite a while ago, wasn't it?" asked Stacey.

"Well, yes," I said, thinking hard. "But — Stace, you're going to think I'm crazy, but I have a feeling this statue is a fake!"

"You're right," said Stacey.

"I am?" I asked. "You think if s a fake, too?"

"No," she replied, grinning at me. "I think you're crazy."

"Thanks a lot," I said, grinning back at her. "But really, Stacey, something's wrong here. Not just with this piece, either. Something strange is going on at this museum. I mean, first the robbery, and now this."

"I don't know, Claud," said Stacey. "I think you're imagining things."

"I didn't imagine the robbery," I said stubbornly. "And I'm not imagining this, either." I rocked the statue again. "Something is definitely weird about this sculpture."

"Okay, so what if something weird is going on?" asked Stacey. "What can we do about it?"

"We can talk to the curator," I replied promptly. "That's what we'll do, talk to the curator," I added again, more firmly.

"Claud, are you sure?" asked Stacey. But I wasn't listening to her. I was walking quickly back through the gallery toward the museum offices, which are off the main lobby. Stacey followed behind me.

"I need to see the curator," I told the receptionist, when we arrived in the outer office.