“What’s dimin—” the little girl started to say, but her mother shushed her.
“Very small,” said Simon patiently. He was thinking that “very small” might also describe his chance of getting away with tonight’s crazy plan. Glancing at his watch, he continued, “The museum is a replica of a sixteenth century French château. It was built here in Sarasota by the Fox-Nugents not only as their home, but also to house the splendid collection of paintings and sculptures acquired during many years of travel. Upon opening it to the public, the Fox-Nugents moved their living quarters to the spacious top floor of the château. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Fox-Nugent continued to expand the collection until her own death in 1960. With its fine view of the Gulf of Mexico, this small but elegant museum is one of Sarasota’s most popular attractions.”
A man in the group asked, “Is it owned by the city?”
“Excuse me?” Simon’s thoughts had begun to wander again. Suppose somebody saw the stuff in his locker...
“I said, does the city of Sarasota own this place?”
“No. The Dorothea Fox-Nugent Museum is privately owned and operated by a board of trustees.” He moved forward. “Please take a few minutes to look around this room, which holds the finest paintings of the collection. On the right wall you see a Copley, a Sargent, and a Tintoretto. On the left wall, a Hals and a Veronese. On the rear wall,” he knew his voice changed as he got to the rear wall, “is an early Van Zeller, one of his most beautiful Nativities. It depicts Mary, Joseph, and the child Jesus in a raised structure resembling a dovecote.”
Simon was always annoyed by the people in these groups who, instead of turning to look at the works of the masters, continued to gawk at the portrait of Mrs. Fox-Nugent. When they raved about it he always wanted to say, “It’s nothing but a second-rate pretty picture and it doesn’t belong in here.” In a way, though, it did. Her museum had been a wonderful gift to the city, and the lady probably deserved to be surrounded by her best treasures. But in Simon’s estimation, the portrait was flashy and too flattering. He’d seen photographs of Dorothea Fox-Nugent and learned a lot about her during his training course. He respected what she’d done for Sarasota, but he thought she looked rather bossy and stuck up.
He said, “Are there any questions?”
Staring at him, a fat woman asked, “How old are you?”
Simon wanted to say, “I didn’t mean personal questions,” but he smiled politely.
“Twenty.”
The little girl asked, “What’s your name?”
“Simon.”
Now everybody was staring at him. He was used to it. He knew he looked great in the red museum blazer, and as the only black tour guide he’d be bound to attract attention.
An elderly man asked, “Are you a student?” to which Simon nodded. “Where?”
“The Ringling School of Art.”
The man smiled. “You’re very well versed in your subject, young man. You give a good tour.”
“Thank you.” The closing bell rang shrilly. “And thank you all for coming. Let me remind you that the museum is not open on Christmas Day.”
There was a patter of applause and the room began to empty. Simon waited until the last person had cleared the door then snapped off the lights. Through the dimness he could still see the gleam of Mary’s halo in the Nativity. He smiled at it thinking, Just a few more hours and you’ll be mine, all mine!
He hurried down the hall to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. The room was bare except for some lockers and a few chairs. He hung up his blazer and tie, took off his white shirt, and pulled on a T-shirt. Then he got out of his trousers and into jeans. Standing before his locker mirror, he was smoothing his hair when a middle-aged fellow guide came in. Simon closed the locker door quickly and said, “Hi, Bill.”
“Big Saturday night date, Si?”
“Just Volanda.” He hated having to sound casual about Volanda because he liked her so much, but everything he said tonight had to sound casual. He turned the key in his locker and went out, telling Bill to have a nice weekend. He was fighting panic. If anything went wrong he’d lose his job, maybe go to jail, and his mother and Aunt Hannah and everybody he knew would be shocked and disappointed — everybody but Volanda. She’d suggested it and said it should work.
Bolstering his courage with that thought, Simon walked down the hall, passing other guides coming off duty. Their pleasant “good nights” made him feel horribly guilty; he was the youngest of them all and knew he was something of a favorite. Stairs took him to a door that opened onto the beautiful garden of the museum. The winter was unusually warm, and the place was a riot of flowers under bordering palm trees. Visitors were still straggling down the gravel path toward the big iron gate that formed one of the two entrances. The grounds were surrounded by a ten-foot-high red brick wall, and Simon had decided that this back gate would be better than the one to the parking lot, which was visible from the street.
Mr. Fitz, the head gardener, herded out the last of the visitors and started to close the gate, looking over his shoulder.
“Last call. You going out this way, Si?”
“No, I was just, er, thinking how pretty the garden looks.”
“I never thought you were much for gardens. You’re usually roaring off on that motorcycle of yours.”
“It’s in the shop,” Simon lied. “I gotta hike to the bus stop.”
“I’m out of here in five minutes.” Mr. Fitz pocketed his keys. “Give you a lift?”
“Oh — no thanks.” Simon backed hastily inside. “Come to think of it, a friend said he might pick me up.”
He joined the parade of employees moving toward the door to the parking lot. A beverage machine stood there and Simon got himself a soda. Then he walked across the lot and halfway down the drive. He sat on a stone bench and opened his soda. Trapped without his bike, he waved at the stream of departing cars, declined offers of lifts in favor of the non-existent friend who was picking him up, and glanced often at his watch with what he hoped looked like a “waiting” frown.
Now the parking lot was deserted except for the night watchman’s car. This week it was Mr. O’Malley, and right now he’d be having his supper in the little sitting room behind the office where the rather antiquated alarm system was. The museum had never had a break-in. Simon had learned in casual conversation with Mr. O’Malley that the watchman’s rounds were every three hours beginning at eight o’clock. Plenty of time if all went well. Simon had told his mother that he and Volanda were going to a movie so she wouldn’t expect him; she was the kind of mom who tended to “expect” you even though you were twenty.
He stuffed the soda can in a receptacle and went down the drive to Sun Circle with its pretty walk curving along the gulf, then up Sapphire Drive to the bus stop and the sign that read DOROTHEA FOX-NUGENT MUSEUM with an arrow. There were nice homes along here and some traffic now, but it would taper off later. Simon knew this because he and Volanda had walked around the area last night. He supposed he should eat something, but he doubted if he could swallow a crumb. Maybe a candy bar would go down. He strolled another block to a Quickmart and bought one. Then he crossed Route 41 and went into the crowded lobby of the Days Inn. He sat down in a corner with a magazine in front of his face and stared at it. And stared at it for what seemed like an eternity.
At eight thirty it was dark, at least as dark as it was going to be with that gorgeous big old moon hanging up there. Simon recrossed Route 41, walked back along the now quiet Sapphire Drive, and stood at the foot of the museum driveway. The château was on a rise and he looked up with a funny chill at its silhouette towering behind the wall. The wall itself cast a deep shadow, but the slope up to that protecting darkness was silvery bright. He figured it would take him ten or eleven seconds to sprint up, and if he was seen that was the end of him.