“A fake painting!” Camille exclaimed. “But how? Why?”
Art held up the journal. “This is how,” he said. “There are tons of old paintings by artists who never became famous. Art forgers buy those paintings from art dealers and use the old canvases when they fake a painting.”
He pointed to the drawing in the journal. “According to the journal, this artist—Guillou—painted at the same time as van Gogh. They would have used the same kinds of art supplies—the same paints, the same brushes, the same types of canvases. The fake van Gogh was painted on Guillou’s canvas, the one with the girl and her basket on the front and the spider on the back.”
“So someone just painted a van Gogh painting over the picture of the girl?” Camille asked. “It can’t be that easy, can it?”
“No,” replied Art. “It’s a lot more complicated than that. The canvas is just the start. You have to get rid of the old painting or it will show up on x-rays. Sometimes a forger will sand off the old painting or strip it off with chemicals. And then you have to make sure you use the right materials when you actually paint the new picture—oil paints that would have been around back then, nothing modern. Heck, sometimes forgers will even buy old brushes and use them.”
Camille paused.
“Is that why these people are after us?” she finally asked. “They want the journal?”
Art nodded. “The spider proves that the so-called van Gogh canvas was not really used by van Gogh—it was originally used for another painting, Guillou’s. It’s probably the only proof that the long-lost van Gogh at the National Gallery is a fake.”
“Wow,” said Camille. She started to ask another question and then paused. She turned and looked around the room.
“What’s the matter?” Art asked.
“It’s sorta strange, isn’t it?” she finally said.
“What’s strange?”
“That you have a key to this room,” she said. “And that you also have the only clue that could prove the painting’s a fake.”
“What do you mean?” asked Art.
“Think about it,” the girl said. “This room’s filled with art supplies that would have been used back when van Gogh was alive—you said so yourself.”
Art nodded. She was right, but he didn’t like where the conversation was headed.
“And how would you have gotten that journal?” she asked. “You said it probably came from an art collector or an art dealer, right?”
Art didn’t respond.
Camille swallowed. “How do you know so much about art and how to fake a painting? We painted flowers in art class with paint that came in little plastic bottles—we didn’t learn how to grind up mummies for paint. How do you know all that stuff? What if . . . and I’m just saying . . . but what if you have something to do with the fake painting?”
Camille was right. How does a twelve-year-old boy know so much about art? Art didn’t have an explanation—it was all just there, in his head.
“I’m not an art forger!” he insisted. “I’m just a kid.”
“I know you’re just a kid,” Camille replied. “But remember when you were telling me and my mom about seeing the Monet painting on my mug?”
“Yes.”
“You had been with someone, right?”
“Yes.”
“A man.”
“Yes.”
“What if that man is the art forger?” Camille suggested. “Maybe you’re his son—or brother, or nephew, or whatever—I don’t know. But what if the men at the museum really were police officers? What if the people at the hotel were police officers also? What if they are trying to get the journal to prove the painting is a fake?”
What Camille was saying made sense. And something in Art’s head told him that she was far closer to the truth than he could imagine—and that scared him. What if he really was part of a plan to sell a fake painting to the National Gallery of Art for millions and millions of dollars?
There was a long silence.
“Are you mad at me?” Camille asked.
Art shook his head. “No. You might be right. I need to know the truth.”
“So what’s next?”
“We keep looking,” he replied.
“No matter where it leads?” she asked.
“No matter where it leads.”