Mystery on Museum Mile by Marcia Wells

Author:Marcia Wells
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

Chapter 18

Spy

March 23

My mom is dragging me to an art opening tonight, which I am not thrilled about. I spend way too much time in museums these days. It’s actually becoming unhealthy. I need some sun, or I’m going to come down with scurvy or leprosy or whatever disease you catch when you need more vitamins.

Mom’s not buying my excuse. Her office is sponsoring a photography show at the Winston Café, and it is crucial that I be there, or else clients may abandon the company and the earth might stop spinning. I can’t complain, though, since she did let me become Eddie Red and I guess I owe her big-time.

At the exhibit, I weave my way through the city coats, designer purses, and tacky comments like “What an inspired angle!” so I can check out what everyone is raving about. The artist (and I use the term lightly here) has taken black-and-white photos of body parts, blown them up so you barely know what they are, and then scattered the shots along two walls. It looks like a giant was sucked into a lawn mower, chopped into pieces, and then spit out into a tunnel for all to admire.

“Have you ever seen such artistic vision?” a too-thin woman gushes.

It’s an arm, lady. And an ugly one at that.

My mom gives me an enthusiastic wave from across the room. She’s stunning in a red wool suit and knee-high black boots. One of the guys from her office clearly thinks so too, the way he keeps offering her a drink. My dad swoops in to rescue her, directing her to the dance floor.

I wave to her and head for the food table. They always serve super-tiny food at these things, as if dinner in miniature is supposed to taste better. A feast fit for Stuart Little.

I pick up a mini pie that has melted cheese on it. Looks promising. After popping it in my mouth, I nearly gag. Über-gross. Pretty sure it’s stuffed with cat food. As I discreetly spit it into a napkin, a woman with green eyes catches me in the act and grins. I duck my head in embarrassment and toss my napkin into a garbage can, then beeline for the table of sodas. My mom can’t complain this time. I need calories.

It’s a little bizarre how the lady continues to watch me, like she really knows me. She seems familiar too, but I can’t place her. Her emerald gaze is freaking me out.

When I get back home, I draw her.

I inspect the picture for an hour, poring over every inch of it, willing myself to find her in a scene from my mind. Nothing fits. It’s like flipping through a database at high speed and then the computer crashes. My brain is fried. Those green eyes are unforgettable, and yet I’m forgetting. I wonder: Is it possible to get Alzheimer’s at age eleven?

I have to remember that I am an undercover spy. A lame one, to be sure, but being a spy involves a whole new world of awareness.

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