“With this key.” Simon laid it on the desk. “It’s a copy of the one to the basement storeroom, and it’s no good now because that entrance is getting boarded up.”
Old Guy Two said, “We’re told that in addition to working in the museum you are also a student at the Ringling School of Art and that you wanted to copy a painting here.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a pause when nobody knew what to say. Then Old Guy One said, “The security doesn’t seem to be—”
“Nothing wrong with security,” Simon said quickly. “Mr. O’Malley never missed his rounds. He couldn’t have spotted me, I was too careful. There was nothing to spot.” Unless, he closed his eyes, unless you’re a certain kind of miscreant, then you’ll be spotted by a pair of eyes flashing like jewels.
The old lady, who was about the size of Aunt Hannah, began to chuckle. She said, “You must have wanted to paint that picture very much, young man.”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
“And museums have stuffy rules, don’t they?”
“I guess they have to.”
Mr. Lucas had been fidgeting. He said, “Well, the important thing is that none of this gets out, especially considering tonight.”
What was tonight? Simon searched his memory. Weddings were often held on the museum grounds and there was a big one tonight. Guides were needed to show guests around, but Simon hadn’t signed up because of Uncle Willie.
Mr. Lucas went on, “When you clear out your locker, leave your blazer here in the office.” He took an envelope from the desk drawer. “This is two weeks’ pay. I think you’ll agree we’re being generous considering the circumstances.”
“You sure are.” Simon stood up. “And thanks for not giving me a hard time. I loved working here and I’m sorry I loused up.”
The old lady suddenly said, “Where is it?”
Simon moved to the door. “Where’s what, ma’am?”
“The picture you painted.”
“I confiscated it, Mrs. Mills,” Mr. Lucas said hastily. “It’s right here.” He turned it around where it stood against the wall.
“Why, it’s the Van Zeller Nativity, one of my favorites.” She reached for a cane that lay across the chair beside her and stood up. “Give it to me... Not bad at all.” She extended the painting to Simon. “Finish it — at home, needless to say.” She chuckled, “I just might buy it.”
Nobody was saying anything, least of all Simon, who was speechless. Mrs. Mills went on, still chuckling, “That was quite a caper, Simon, and I for one almost wish you’d gotten away with it. I can just picture you sitting there under Dorothea’s very nose. She must have been turning in her grave. I knew her, you see.”
Simon wanted to cry, “So did I!” He said, “Did you, ma’am?”
“Yes, Dorothea and I were great friends. She was considerably older, of course, and she taught me a lot about art. You might say she was a bit of a know-it-all, but you couldn’t help loving her.”
No, no you couldn’t.
Mrs. Mills waved her cane to the men who stood like dummies — this lady sure was head honcho — and walked to the door. Simon opened it and went out after her. She was still talking.
“My husband and I were collectors too, but not nearly on the scale of the Fox-Nugents. I remember once...”
She chatted on and Simon felt obliged to listen even though he desperately wanted to get back to Uncle Willie. So he stood there patiently and was glad afterwards that he did.
“And one of Dorothea’s treasures was something we gave her, a silver soup tureen, attributed to—”
“—the great German silversmith, Erich Bonhof, circa 1750.” Simon smiled down on her. “Gift of Dr. and Mrs. Kenneth Mills and used by the Fox-Nugents at all important dinners.”
Mrs. Mills burst out laughing, pushing her straw hat back on her head. “Young man, you’ve certainly done your homework.” She went on to lecture him on his stupidity in blowing the job, but Simon hardly heard her. Two words in his speech about the soup tureen had triggered something in his head. He said, “Mrs. Mills, I’ll bet you and your husband were invited to a lot of those important dinners.”
“All of them.”
“Did you ever notice anything, well, unusual about Dor, er, Mrs. Fox-Nugent’s place at the table?”
She looked at him in surprise. “You mean that lumpy little napkin ring with the fake stone?”
“Yes.”
“Heavens, I haven’t thought about that in years. And they told you about it in your course? Yes, it had some sort of sentimental value and Dorothea was very upset about its loss. As I recall, it was stolen — around Christmastime, I think — by some child who worked on the place and who—”
“—who is my uncle,” Simon knew his voice was shaking, “who never stole anything in his life and who is dying right now so I’d like to go be with him. Thanks for returning my painting.”
He almost ran down the hall, his eyes blinded by tears. He mopped them as he threw stuff from his locker into a tote, picked up his easel, and went down the back stairs and around the garden to the parking lot. He strapped the easel and his painting to the bike and thought, as he coasted down the driveway, that he must have dreamed everything that had happened and that it would be good to work at a down-to-earth place like the Waffle House.
He had to wait half an hour before the manager could see him but the guy was nice and said he could start Friday. Simon thanked him and went out and sat on his bike, staring at the side of the building. This had to be the right thing to do. He’d blown it at the museum and let his family down. Aunt Hannah was right; it was a good thing Uncle Willie never had to know. Uncle Willie. Simon started up and headed for Senior Years. As soon as he turned into the street he knew something was weird.
Simon drove down the block to where a Rolls Royce was parked before Senior Years. A man sat at the wheel reading a newspaper and a bunch of people were standing around staring at the car. Simon secured his bike and walked up to the front window. He said, “Mind if I ask whose car?”
“Mrs. Kenneth Mills. She’s visiting somebody in there.”
Simon went inside. A slightly dazed Mrs. Woodman was standing at the window gazing out at the Rolls. She said, looking at him in awe, “The lady wants to see you. She’s with your uncle.”
Simon walked into Willie’s room, not liking this. Whatever crazy reason Mrs. Mills might have for coming here, it would only remind him of Dorothea and the museum and he wanted to forget both. There was the big straw hat, and beside it was Volanda, who hurried toward him with a bewildered shrug. Mrs. Mills was sitting beside Willie’s bed gazing calmly at the quiet face. She said, “Simon, I told this young lady that I do have a reason for coming here, because if you think I’m following you around just because you’re young and handsome you’re only partially right.”
Volanda began to giggle and Simon looked into the twinkling old eyes under the hat, then at Uncle Willie. He said, “I don’t think we should talk here.”
“Quite right.” Mrs. Mills stood up and reached for her cane. “I just wanted to see this gentleman, the one you said was accused of theft so long ago but didn’t do it. Where can we discuss this?” Mrs. Mills looked at Volanda. “Will you come with us?”
She said, “Si, go to the cafeteria with Mrs. Mills. I should stay here. There might be a... a... change.”
Simon put his lips to the side of Volanda’s head, then walked beside the wiry old lady to the door. She said, “Is the coffee here any good?”
“Not bad. How did you find this place, Mrs. Mills?”
“I asked at the museum for your home phone number and your aunt said you’d be here.”
Simon knew that curious eyes followed him as he and his odd companion entered the packed cafeteria and looked for a cleared table. There wasn’t one, so Mrs. Mills sat herself down in the first empty chair and started pushing dishes aside. Simon said, “Let me—”