I wondered how such a thing could happen . . . a robbery like that in broad daylight. And then I realized they were talking about the Van Gogh I had in the backseat. Good God, I was the one who’d committed the robbery.
I had a moment of dizziness, followed by nausea. Stay calm, I told myself. Don’t panic. It’s not as bad as it sounds. The painting wasn’t actually stolen. It was borrowed. Probably, I wouldn’t have to do more than ten years for borrowing. Time off for good behavior might have me out before I turned forty. A sob inadvertently escaped from somewhere deep in my chest, and I changed the radio station to seventies rock.
I parked in front of my house and hustled the painting inside, being careful not to let the bedsheet slip away. I locked the door behind me, carried the painting upstairs, and slid it under my bed. Out of sight, out of mind. Except it wasn’t totally out of my mind.
“This is a mess,” I said to Cat. “What if I get caught? What will I say? I’m sorry, your honor, but I was trying to save all of mankind. And then I’ll tell the court I’m special because I can identify bewitched objects. Even I don’t believe it.”
I sat on my couch with my computer and Googled Charles Duane. I assumed he was a composer, since his name seemed to be attached to the musical notes on the painting. I was surprised to see he was the rector of the Old North Church from 1893 to 1911.
“This does me no good at all,” I said to Cat.
The doorbell rang and my heart jumped in my chest. I peeked out my front window, fearing a SWAT team, seeing Glo instead.
I opened the door to her. “Why aren’t you at work?”
“Clara said I was useless, so she gave me the afternoon off. She said she didn’t want to hear any more about saving the world, but golly, it’s important. I mean, it’s the world. And you’ll never guess what I found out. Charles Duane was the rector of Old North Church, so let’s go.”
“To Old North Church?”
“I’m sure we’ll find more clues there,” Glo said. “My wizardry is finally kicking in. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get there and I have a vision. I might be able to point us right to the Luxuria Stone.”
I put Cat in charge of guarding the hidden painting, and an hour later, we were at Old North Church in Boston’s North End. It’s a sturdy, blocky redbrick building with a bell tower that looks like it was built by Practical Pig. The sidewalk and courtyard surrounding the church are redbrick, and all the other buildings on Salem Street are also redbrick. There’s parking on one side of the street with enough space left for a single car to navigate the remaining blacktop patched road. Across the street from the church is an Italian café and a shop selling T-shirts to tourists.
I’d walked the Freedom Trail a couple months ago and stopped in to see the church, so I knew something about it. Built in 1723. It’s an Episcopal church with services on Sunday. Other days, it’s open to the public as a national treasure with tours and a gift shop. The interior is white, with some dark wood trim and elaborate chandeliers hanging over the center aisle. Pews are set into boxes, and there’s also a second-floor balcony with a pipe organ.
“I’ve never been in here,” Glo said, looking up at the chandeliers. “This is so historic.”
We were the only tourists in the church. Glo was walking around, reading plaques. I sat in one of the pews and listened to the silence, imagining what it must have been like to worship here two hundred years ago. Someone was working on the balcony level. I could hear footsteps and an occasional clink.
“The chandeliers and the bells were shipped here from England,” Glo said from the back of the church. “How cool is that?”
A guy looked over the balcony railing at Glo. “Are you interested in the bells?”
“Yes,” Glo said. “Can they still ring?”
“We usually ring them for Sunday service. And we have weekly practice sessions.”
“Wow,” Glo said. “I’d love to hear them.”
“I’m one of the bellringers,” he said. “If you come back on Sunday, maybe we could go out for coffee after.”
“Sure,” Glo said.
“I have some questions about the bells,” I said to him.
“Give me a minute to finish cleaning up, and I’ll be right down.”
“How do you always manage to get a date?” I asked Glo. “You’re like a date magnet.”
“I’m cute,” Glo said. “And I think it must be part of my wizard power. I think to myself, Boy, he’s hot. I’d like to go out with him, and next thing, I’ve got a date.”
I didn’t know about the wizard power, but she was right about being cute. I was sort of cute in a girl-next-door kind of way that didn’t seem to encourage dates. Glo was cute in a quirky, fun way that was obviously more approachable. Truth is, I wish I was more like Glo, but I’d feel like an idiot if I tried to wear a pink ballet tutu with green-and-black striped tights and motorcycle boots.