CHAPTER 9

In Focus

“She’s pretty upset,” Clementine said, covering the microphone of Amal’s cell phone. On the other end, her mother shouted about how embarrassing it had been to get a report from the museum’s head of security that her daughter had orchestrated a complicated diversion in order to sneak past a guard in the special exhibit.

“Will she let us back in?” Wilson asked as he fiddled with the long, black cylindrical contraption he’d picked up from his house. He and Clementine had made a quick trip there and back to the Art Museum. Since there was only one bike, Raining and Amal had stayed behind.

“Mom, I’m sorry,” Clementine said. “I really am. I promise I won’t go anywhere near the Goings painting again … yes … promise … thank you.”

Clementine hung up and handed the phone to Amal. “She said we can come back in,” she told her friends. “But we have to be on our best behavior. And we’re still not allowed in the special exhibit gallery.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Wilson said as he followed Clementine back into the Art Museum. “Not with what I have.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Clementine said, leading the way to the special exhibit gallery. They might not be allowed inside, but no one had said they couldn’t observe from the hallway.

Once they’d reached the gallery, Wilson held the long, black cylinder — his digital telescope — to his eye.

“Can you see it?” Clementine said, bouncing on her toes.

“I just want to get it into focus for you … ,” Wilson said. “There we go.”

He handed it to Clementine, and she put it up to her right eye.

“I don’t see anything,” Clementine complained.

“That’s because you’ve got the wrong eye open,” Wilson said. He bit back his laughter, knowing Clementine wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Oh, right,” Clementine said. She closed her left eye and opened her right eye. “That’s much better. I can see it now.”

“Great,” Raining said. “Does anything look weird?”

“Or suspicious?” Amal asked.

“Or forged?” Wilson added.

“Or photocopied?” Raining said.

Clementine stared and stared at the painting. She looked at the detail of the tiles themselves, and she looked at the men sitting at the counter — the wrinkles on their faces, the lines in their hair, and the stripes on their shirts — but she couldn’t see anything weird at all.

“Oh, I just don’t know!” Clementine said, exasperated. She lowered the telescope. “Ralph Goings was just too good at hiding his strokes. He was a pioneer of the genre!”

“Um,” Wilson said, “so are you saying it’s real?”

“I don’t know!” Clementine said. “My mom might be able to tell, but she’s not here, and she’s so mad, you guys. I’m not going to ask her to —”

“She doesn’t have to be here,” Wilson said. “Give me that back.” He took the telescope, held it up for a few moments, and then click, click, click, click.

“Did you just take pictures with that?” Amal asked.

Wilson nodded. “It can store images,” he said. “Cool, huh?”

“Wow,” Amal said. “You have to let me borrow that for stargazing.”

“You got it,” Wilson said. “Now let’s bring these pictures to Dr. Wim.”