"Martin, Ann M - Baby-sitters Club Mystery 011 - Claudia and the Mystery at the Museum" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin Ann M)

By that time we had arrived at the entrance to the gallery. I went in, with Stacey behind me. "Wow!" I said. "Nice space." In case you don't know, "space" is very important when you're showing artwork. It has to be open and
bright and welcoming, and this room was all of those things. I began to fantasize about showing my own artwork there. Suppose, just suppose, I was introduced to the curator of the museum. "Did you say your name was Claudia Kishi?" he would ask, looking surprised. "I've heard about you. The word is that you are the most talented and promising student in the Stoneybrook schools. Could you Ч would you Ч consider showing in our modest gallery?"
"I'd be delighted to," I would say. "I feel if s important to give something back to the community you're from. Why don't you call me to schedule a possible time? I'm sure I can fit you in between my upcoming shows at the Museum of Modern Art and the Guggenheim."
"Claudia!" Stacey was tugging on my arm. "Why are you grinning like that?"
I came out of my daydream. "Oh, I guess I'm just happy to be here," I said lamely. "Look!" I continued, changing the subject. "This is a wonderful piece." We walked over to a grouping of three sculptures, two larger ones and one smaller one. They seemed to be in a kind of embrace.
"It's like a family," said Stacey. "Mother, father, and child."
"You're right," I said, reaching out to stroke the "child's" back.
"Claud!" cried Stacey. "What are you doing? You can't touch that!" She glanced nervously at the guard who stood nearby.
"If s okay," I reassured her. "Look at the sign." I pointed to the wall near the gallery door. On it was a sign like the one in the Discovery Room. "Please Touch," it said. "Don Newman believes that art should be touchable," I told Stacey. I smiled at her, and noticed that the guard was smiling, too. "He thinks art should involve more senses than just sight," I went on. "When I saw his pieces in New York, the same sign was up, and everyone in the gallery was touching the sculptures."
I walked over to another piece, and went on talking. "He even builds in special features that you wouldn't know about unless you touched the pieces," I said, "See how this one moves when I push it a little?" We were standing near a sculpture that looked like an old boulder that had been lying in a riverbed for hundreds of years. It was rounded and worn, and kind of Ч well, kind of friendly. That may sound weird, but it's really the only way to describe it. I touched it, and it shifted its weight just a little.
"Awesome," said Stacey, reaching out to give it a little push.
"Let's keep looking around," I said. "I saw one in New York that I just loved, and it's supposed to be here." We strolled around, looking at everything. An amazing variety of artwork was in that one little gallery. We saw sculptures carved out of wood, and sculptures that had been cast in bronze. We saw pieces made out of what looked like old car parts, and pieces chiseled in marble. Some were brightly painted, and others were the natural color of aging metal or wood.
We touched almost every sculpture. Some of them moved, tilting or rocking on their bases. Others stayed put, but it was still a pleasure to be able to feel the materials they were made of. I noticed a man and a little boy Ч his son, I guess Ч touching all the sculptures, too. You don't have to be an art expert to love Don Newman's sculptures.
"I really do like this stuff," said Stacey. "Not all of it Ч some of it's a little weird for me, and I feel like I don't understand it. But most of it is really cool."
"I'm glad you like it," I said. "I thought you would." We were walking as we talked. Suddenly, we turned a corner, and there it was. "Daphne!" I cried.
"Who?" asked Stacey, looking around.
"Daphne," I repeated. "If s a sculpture. The one I saw in New York." I walked over to it. "I just love this one," I said. "Somehow it makes me feel calm and peaceful."
"I see what you mean," said Stacey. "It gives me the same feeling." She reached out to touch it. "Oh, cool," she said. "Look how it moves."
I ran my hand over it. It rocked gently on its base. I touched it again. Then I stood back from it, frowning.
"What's the matter?" Stacey asked.
I paused for a second, and then shrugged. "I'm not sure," I said. "Maybe nothing. It just seems . . . different."
"Different from when you saw it in New York?" Stacey asked.
"Uh-huh," I answered. But I couldn't really say how it was different. I looked at it more closely. Had it been damaged?
"That was quite a while ago, wasn't it?" asked Stacey.
"Well, yes," I said, thinking hard. "But Ч Stace, you're going to think I'm crazy, but I have a feeling this statue is a fake!"
"You're right," said Stacey.
"I am?" I asked. "You think if s a fake, too?"
"No," she replied, grinning at me. "I think you're crazy."
"Thanks a lot," I said, grinning back at her. "But really, Stacey, something's wrong here. Not just with this piece, either. Something strange is going on at this museum. I mean, first the robbery, and now this."
"I don't know, Claud," said Stacey. "I think you're imagining things."
"I didn't imagine the robbery," I said stubbornly. "And I'm not imagining this, either." I rocked the statue again. "Something is definitely weird about this sculpture."
"Okay, so what if something weird is going on?" asked Stacey. "What can we do about it?"
"We can talk to the curator," I replied promptly. "That's what we'll do, talk to the curator," I added again, more firmly.
"Claud, are you sure?" asked Stacey. But I wasn't listening to her. I was walking quickly back through the gallery toward the museum offices, which are off the main lobby. Stacey followed behind me.
"I need to see the curator," I told the receptionist, when we arrived in the outer office.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, "Mr. Snipes is a very busy man, and he doesn't usually see people on Saturdays."
"I'm sure he's busy and I don't have an appointment," I said, "but this is a very important matter. I have to see him as soon as
possible." My voice was growing louder. Stacey stuck by my side, but she didn't say anything.
"I don't think Ч " began the receptionist, but just then a door opened behind her and a man stuck his head out.
"What's going on, Ms. Hobbes?" asked the man. He was a skinny guy, dressed in a black suit. He looked more like an insurance agent than a curator. He had black hair and a thin black mustache and very pale skin.
"These girls wanted to see you," she said, "but I told them Ч "
"What seems to be the problem?" Mr. Snipes asked, interrupting her. He looked at me intently, and I noticed his small, dark eyes.
"If I could just speak to you for five minutes," I began.
"Yes?" he said impatiently. He gestured toward his office, and Stacey and I followed him in.
He sat down behind his desk. Stacey and I stood in front of it. Suddenly I remembered my fantasy Ч Mr. Snipes asking me to show my art in his museum Ч and I blushed.
"Well, it Ч if s just that I noticed something strange about one of the Don Newman pieces," I said finally. I told Mr. Snipes that I had seen Ч and touched Ч the sculpture before, and that it seemed different now. "Maybe
somebody switched it during the robbery. I just think it may be a fake, I mean, a forgery," I finished, looking at the floor. Somehow I knew he wasn't going to believe me.
I was right. "This is the most absurd thing I've ever heard," he said, rolling his eyes. He pushed a button on his intercom. "Ms. Hobbes, bring me the Newman file," he said into it. Then he looked back at Stacey and me. "Playing detective may be an amusing way to pass an afternoon," he said, "but taking up my time with your ridiculous theories is pushing things too far." Ms. Hobbes brought in the file, and he showed me the registration number for the sculpture. Then he marched us down to the gallery and showed us that the number matched the one on the artwork. Afterward, we went back to his office. "I hope you've enjoyed your little game," he said. "And I trust I won't be seeing you in here again."
"No, sir. We're very sorry, sir," said Stacey.
I didn't say anything. I was too busy sneaking a piece of paper off of the desk while Stacey apologized. It was a copy of Mr. Snipes' resume. I saw several lying there, and I had been overcome by the need to know more about this nasty man. I know it wasn't the right thing to do, but right or not, I had to do it. I was so happy to have this new museum to go to,