The basement door was shut. Zoomy had left it open.

Through the door, the four kids could hear Ms. Hussey’s voice.

“What did you think … How could you … What if burbledy-burble …” She sounded scary.

“I haven’t heard Ms. Hussey sound like that since nasty Denise poured glue in her purse in sixth grade,” Calder muttered.

“We’d better help Zoomy,” Petra whispered.

As they peeked around the door, Ms. Hussey whipped it open. “I ought to leave you guys down there for a while!” she snapped.

Eagle had picked up Ratty and was cradling him in one arm. “Guess there’s more than a little distrust around here,” he murmured. “Distrust and fish oil. Did you get the box open? There are more on the other side of the room.”

He’s frighteningly calm, Tommy thought. Like a cat who’s just caught his mouse.

“What are you saying?” Ms. Hussey whirled on Eagle now. “This is partly your fault. For — for — turning up! Poor Mrs. Sharpe, not feeling well, and now the stress of balancing everything and then the kids sneaking around her house.” She paused. “What box? I mean, boxes?”

“I thought you knew,” Eagle said mildly. “We’re trying out some of my storage systems in the basement here, in case I want to use the space for business overflow. But they’re empty. Isn’t that right, kids?”

Reluctantly, the four who’d gone into the basement nodded. They looked disappointed — and so did Zoomy when he heard the news.

Ms. Hussey sank down on the sofa next to Zoomy, who bent over his notebook. “I give up,” she said. “I thought this was about finding the art stolen from the Farmer.”

“Life sometimes pulls together things that don’t look like they should fit.” Eagle’s voice was soothing. “All is not always what it seems.”

“Great, thanks for the news,” Ms. Hussey said under her breath.

“Sorry we went down there,” Petra said.

“Just being good investigators,” Calder added.

Ms. Hussey nodded and sighed. “And sorry I shouted at you, Zoomy. It’s been a hard few days.”

“Hodilly-hum,” Zoomy replied, staring straight ahead, his notebook open on his lap. He’d written, ~stinky spill, Rat-a-tat attack, empty boxes. On the next line, ~Mrs. Sharpe gone. Like sardines.

“Is Mrs. Sharpe okay?” Tommy asked. Suddenly he had a flash of her dying like Mr. Chase, and Ms. Hussey living in this house.

As if reading his mind, Ms. Hussey said evenly, “She’s fine, nothing to worry about. They’ll release her in an hour or so. For whatever reason, she insisted on being alone until the doctors say it’s okay for her to leave. In the meantime, you guys should get going. We have a whole lot to do before the trustees arrive, including getting more of that sardine smell out of here. Couldn’t you guys find the cookies?”

This was her first joke since coming back to the house, and the five were relieved.

“Sorry — we fed Ratty. We didn’t mean to make a mess. And I left some notes in the attic, next to the box of photographs,” Early said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Should I get them?”

“Another time,” Ms. Hussey said firmly.

“We’ll leave that box undisturbed,” Eagle added, as if talking to the cat’s collar.

“And you, my man, are quite a wordsmith. I like that Ratty entry,” Ms. Hussey said to Zoomy, who grinned.

As they left the house, Calder said, “I think Ratty’s name fits Eagle better.”

Tommy was busy thinking about the way Eagle and Ms. Hussey talked. “We, we, we,” he muttered. “One minute it seems the two of them are friends, and the next minute they’re not. Same with Mrs. Sharpe, so it’s really a triangle. You can’t always tell who likes who.”

“They’re an uncomfortable threesome who’re stuck together,” Early said. “Mrs. Sharpe thinks she’s in control, but so does Eagle and so does Ms. Hussey. It’s obvious that everyone wants someone to find the stolen art, but the three grown-ups aren’t sure whether to trust each other.”

“Or us,” Zoomy added.

Petra suddenly stopped dead. “For art, this building — Mrs. Sharpe’s words in my dream, you know? Maybe she’s talking about the art going into her basement, into that storage box! But why? Why on earth would she ever get the art from a thief and put it in her basement?”

“If her son is the thief, she might be willing to take the art and then pretend she stole it. So he could go free!” Tommy blurted. Suddenly he felt taller and smarter. “That would be the sting she talked about when we were first at her house! A move that fooled other people, right in front of their faces!”

“Yeah! Maybe she’s ready to be sacrificed, like a sardine,” Zoomy said.

“I think you guys are nuts,” Calder said. “But I do think the art is trying to get us to do something. Like my pentominoes talk to me, you know?”

They walked several yards in silence, each wrestling with his or her own confusions.

It was Tommy who next stopped the group. “I was about to ask you guys something when Mrs. Sharpe fainted.” He kicked at the sidewalk. “Did — ah — anyone else think Mrs. Farmer was sort of there with us, in the museum?”

“Sure,” Zoomy said immediately. “I saw her shoe. And she showed me some lions. My grandma has seen ghosts before — she thinks it’s pretty normal.”

Early stuffed both hands in her jacket pockets. “After we left the Dutch Room, I looked back. Someone in a long dress whisked around a chair; it was just the fastest whish, like a skirt moving if someone was playing hide-and-seek. But I knew the room was empty, so — well, I didn’t say anything.”

“We’re sure she likes kids,” Petra said slowly. “And that she didn’t care for the guard too much.”

“That cold touch …” Calder murmured. “And the tweaks!”

“She’s waiting for us to go back,” Petra said. “I’m not sure I want to, but — I can feel the pull. She’s waiting, you know?”

“Yeah,” Calder said. “Hate to say it, but I feel the same thing. Like all those guys on the boat are yelling their heads off all this time, waiting to be rescued.”

“What if we asked Eagle to take us?” Zoomy said. “I’ll bet you a million bucks he has a key. And if he tries to do anything bad in there, Mrs. Farmer will protect us.”

“Scaz,” Tommy said mournfully. “I was hoping you guys would tell me you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

*  *  *

The five kids spent a long, uncomfortable hour in the alleyway behind Mrs. Sharpe’s house, sandwiched between a splintery cedar fence and the trashcans. Peering through knotholes one eye at a time, they saw Eagle and Ms. Hussey’s heads move around in the kitchen. The two seemed to be talking, and at one point Ms. Hussey looked straight up, her hand over her mouth, and then Eagle moved behind her, arms raised — what! Now Ms. Hussey spun around and they were nose to nose. Yikes, what next? Were they about to kiss? Then Ms. Hussey disappeared from sight and came up wearing yellow rubber gloves.

“I feel bad about that oil spill,” Calder said. “She’s still cleaning.”

Zoomy could only observe the deeps, but the others gave him a running account. Everyone felt as if they needed glasses by the time Eagle stepped out the kitchen door, closed it with a bang, and headed for his van. Ms. Hussey wasn’t with him.

“Quick!” Tommy called as they took off at a run, hoping to stop the vehicle as it turned the corner toward the hospital. Early got there first and waved Eagle down.

The driver’s side window opened. “You guys still hanging around? Not much to see,” Eagle said calmly, as the kids gathered in a breathless group. Tommy had led Zoomy along by the sleeve of his sweatshirt, calling out, “Dip, three steps” and “Crack, four!”

“We’re getting good at this,” Zoomy mumbled, and Tommy nodded.

“Mrs. Farmer —” began Petra. “She likes kids. We need to get back, but without — you know, interference.”

“And how will you do that?” Eagle asked, his voice still alarmingly smooth.

“Someone could let us in,” Calder said, scratching his head with the F pentomino. “Someone who’s good at alarms. And devices, like dehumidifiers.”

“Ahhh … and you think Ms. Hussey and your parents would be comfortable with this?”

Just then two young men in black jackets crossed the street at the end of the block and seemed to pause midstride when they saw the van surrounded by kids. Eagle nodded in their direction and they hurried on.

Is he communicating with them? Tommy wondered. He glanced at three of his four friends to see if they’d noticed.

“Hinige sinigigninigaliniged tinigo blinigack jinigackinigets!” Tommy said quietly.

“Ooooh, well, I’ll leave you guys to it.” Eagle smiled. “Always loved codes myself. Mother Goose has its own cryptic language that works with our world. Like blackbirds being similar to people dressed in black leather. Stuff like that.”

I’m not the only one who sees that, Tommy thought to himself.

The five stood back quietly as he started to roll forward. “Wait!” Petra blurted. The van stopped. “We didn’t mean to be rude. We were just trying out a language we made up. Can you get us back into the Farmer, Eagle? Please? We might pick up something that’s missing in how everyone’s thinking about the F-A stuff. You know Mrs. Farmer wanted kids to feel welcome in her home, and —”

Eagle laughed softly. “I always felt welcome there, as a kid. I went whenever I could. It was strange. I almost felt as if I belonged there.”

“That basement door, the one that all the trustees have a key to — could you open it for us?” Early asked breathlessly.

Good timing. Wish I could cut to the chase like that. Tommy shot her an impressed glance.

“And what about the guards and the police?” Eagle asked. “Shall we drug them with poisoned doughnuts and … hmm, tie them up? Then sit down and do a Ouija board?”

The kids’ mouths were all open now.

“Wait,” Petra said. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I believe in what Sarah Chase Farmer believed in. Like you kids, I’m open to ideas. Why do you think I bought a Ouija board for you after our visit the other day?”

“Seriously?” squeaked Tommy. “You’re not just making that up?”

Eagle winked at them and recited:

“Wire, briar, limber lock,

Five geese in a flock,

Sit and sing by a spring,

O-U-T and in again.”

He grinned. “You guys remember that one? Do you mean to tell me you didn’t spot the Ouija board up in the attic this morning? I tucked it in between some old games. Didn’t want to be too obvious.”

Seems like he’s always a step ahead, Tommy thought to himself. And winks are usually a sign of someone trying to get away with something.

“As long as we don’t end up like Willie running around the beehive,” he mumbled. “Isn’t there a Mother Goose rhyme about running away from bees?”

“If you can run, you won’t get stung,” Eagle said evenly. “Meet me back here at seven tomorrow evening, and wear dark clothing. I’ll research the guard setup, both inside and out. Tell your parents — and grandma — that you’re having a work dinner at Mrs. Sharpe’s.”

As the van accelerated slowly, the kids felt as though they’d signed on for something that could be as dangerous as tying their sneaker laces to the bumper.

“Scinigaz,” Petra said. “Inigarinige winige stinigupinigid?”

*  *  *

Knowing they weren’t expected home yet, four of the five called their parents for permission and then headed downtown. Gam wouldn’t agree to Zoomy going with the others, not without Ms. Hussey along, and Zoomy decided to pick his battles: He was needed as a part of the expedition the next night, so he’d lie low until then. Plus, he couldn’t fool Gam twice.

“Gam and me, we’ll go to Powell’s and read some more Mother Goose. I’ll see what else might fit with Eagle and how he views things. Maybe catch some clues.”

“Excellent,” Petra agreed. “And we’ll check out another piece of art with a face, one my mom suggested at dinner last night: Picasso’s huge outdoor lady. Might be the solution that no one has investigated. Hidden but in plain sight!”

Calder, Tommy, and Early didn’t feel as hopeful, but it was an investigation, a job to keep them busy. After dropping Zoomy at the guesthouse, the four hurried on toward the train station at 56th Street.

When they reached the wall outside the entrance, beneath the tracks, Early stopped.

“Hey, guys! My family calls this the Story Wall, and it’s covered with faces. Real faces, portraits from the neighborhood. And look, there’s a heavy metal box on the bank up there, one I never noticed before! Probably just has track equipment, but it is behind the faces! If the art’s in there, that’d be faces behind faces, for real!”

At the top of the wall mural were the words Where Are You Going? and Where Are You Coming From? Early explained that the artist, Olivia Gude, had photographed and talked with a bunch of everyday people who happened to walk by on one particular day here, over twenty years ago. She’d recorded them in paint, including some of their answers to her two questions. Most looked directly at the viewer. A few hurried past. What they shared were mostly heartfelt experiences, like coming to the US from another country, trying to find a way out of poverty, building a life through education and family. One answer was simply, “I’m walking in a circle.” The words they left behind spelled out dreams, disappointments, work, routines, hope, happiness, desperation, and faith.

“My dad says it’s like an open book with pictures, a living story for everyone, out in all weather,” Early said.

“It makes me think of all the art people in the Farmer,” Petra said, “but they can’t speak. Except in dreams,” she added hurriedly.

“Funny how plain old folks get important when they’re turned into art,” Early said.

“I wouldn’t mind having my picture up there,” Calder said. “Holding a pentomino.”

“Heads up!” Tommy’s voice was strangely muffled.

Calder, horrified, watched his buddy scramble up the bank, clinging to bushes and clumps of dead grass. The other two glanced around nervously, expecting a shout from someone driving by.

“Hurry up, man!” Calder called. “A train is coming!”

“Oh, no,” groaned Early. “My bad idea!”

Tommy crouched by the box, which was several feet from the tracks and tagged with spray graffiti. He ran his hands around the sides and whooped, “There’s a door! This could be it!” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he had a flash of the open door in his dream, the door in the big tree.

“HEY, KID!” bellowed a voice. “Get away from there! You could get fried!”

Tommy jumped to his feet, lost his balance, belly-surfed down the bank, and shot off the wall at the base, landing in a painful pile on the sidewalk.

The girls and Calder hurried over. Tommy sat up and checked his elbow and a hole in the knee of his jeans. “Scaz,” he muttered.

A face peered over from the top of the bank. “Trust me, kid, stay off the tracks. Bad way to go,” the man growled.

It wasn’t until the train arrived and they were safely onboard that Tommy muttered, “He didn’t have on an orange vest. Could’ve been anyone.”

The four looked at one another and then around the train. “Yeah,” murmured Calder, glancing at a guy in a black jacket several seats away. “Good guys, bad guys — who can tell?”

Without Zoomy there, the boy-girl balance felt awkward; somehow, Zoomy’s presence put small things in perspective. Now Petra was aware of sitting next to a girl who had thighs that were half the size of hers, and Tommy was aware of a new Krakatoa simmering on the side of his nose.

“Sorry I gave you the idea, Tommy,” Early said abruptly. “That box wouldn’t be a very protected place to stash great paintings from the biggest art theft in US history, would it?”

As Tommy opened his mouth to answer, Petra cut across him. “Thieves have unloaded stolen art in all kinds of crazy spots — a tree house, bathrooms, even the trash.”

“I was gonna say, it could be anywhere,” Tommy agreed, glaring at Petra.

“Or spread all over, like the black jackets are,” Calder said. “Don’t forget, it’s thirteen pieces of art and thirteen people, now that Mr. Chase is gone.”

“Your point?” Tommy said. “That prime numbers can sneak around?”

“No, just that once something goes wrong, like a person dying —”

“The art will run away and cry?” Tommy snickered, not quite sure why he felt so mean.

Calder shrugged. “Think about it: Who has the best ideas — us, the Hussey-Sharpe-Devlin threesome, the trustees, or the faces in the art? It’s thirteen to thirteen now, art to people. That’s all I meant. And the F-A clue was important, but maybe no one will ever know what the old man meant.”

“Dead to alive,” Petra muttered.

“Alive to dead, you mean.” Early’s hand trembled as she fiddled with a button on her sleeve.

I’ve never heard Calder blat on so much, ever, Tommy thought to himself. His knee was beginning to really hurt. Is this just growing up, or noticing that girls like you more if you talk about stuff?

“So why did Mrs. Sharpe pull us into the group?” Tommy said loudly. “It wasn’t our idea. And it can’t be because we’re so amazing.” He glared at Calder.

“Maybe we’re the fish baiting the hook,” Early said. “Although I don’t know what I mean — I just said it.” She tucked her hair nervously behind her ears.

Glad Goldman didn’t hear that one, Tommy thought to himself. He’d never want her near his bowl again, not even with the juiciest baloney sandwich on the planet. And why was I thinking that Mrs. Sharpe looked like a fish when there was a huge cat in the house? And right after that, the cat was snapping up real fins and tails …

“Seems like there’s fish everywhere. And cats,” Tommy said.

“Plus snakes and blackbirds and rats,” Early added.

Calder pulled the T pentomino out of his pocket. “T keeps coming up. Thieves … together … thirteen … test … testimony.”

Talk talk talk, Tommy thought but didn’t say. “Maybe your pentominoes need a rest. Some snooze time.” Tommy elbowed his old buddy, who seemed like he was showing off.

“T for time, and yours is up,” Calder said. Tommy slid down in his seat, knowing that his friend was right. He was acting pretty terrible.

“And we’re worried about all that but not about going to the Farmer tomorrow night with Eagle — what are we, crazy?” Petra crossed her legs, her thighs rubbing with a miserable shreee sound. When everyone looked down, she kicked Tommy on his sore knee by mistake.

“Sorry!” she muttered just as he yelped, “Scaz!” Both looked out the window as if something out there could rescue them.

Stepping off the train, the four glanced around. No black jackets on the platform. The March air had a bite to it and loose garbage blew sideways across their path.

Relieved not to be facing one another, the kids walked several blocks in silence. When they reached the huge Picasso sculpture, set in Daley Plaza in the midst of skyscrapers, Tommy spoke first. “Pretty ugly, isn’t she? Like a gigantic hunk of rusty playground equipment, but for giants. Or a huge harp — if you like strings that go between someone’s nose and their hairdo.”

Early snickered.

Score. Things were looking up. Tommy shifted his feet farther apart and straightened his shoulders.

“Her eyes are awful close together,” Calder said.

“I don’t think she’s so bad,” Petra said. “I looked up some stuff about her. She’s untitled, been here since 1967, and was given to the city by Pablo Picasso. She’s about fifty feet tall and weighs something like a hundred and sixty tons. She’s Cubist. You know, that art style that chops up what you see and rearranges it.”

“That why she also looks like a dog?”

“No, a baboon!” Tommy and Calder were now shoving each other.

“How about a stinging insect?” Early added, and Petra stiffened.

She turned away and walked quickly toward the sculpture, as if to say, Too bad for you guys, none of you get it. Seconds after disappearing around the back, she popped out again.

“Hurry!” she called. “Hinigidiniging plinigacinige!”