A Work of Heart: Part One

Crack the case (and fall in love) with Bailey and Vanessa.

The book slid out of its tight prison between two others, but not without taking the other two with it. I hissed through my teeth as they fell right on my toes and thunked to the floor.
“Ow.” I glared down at the books, half-tempted to kick them. Then I scolded myself. These were books. They weren’t sentient and they hadn’t landed on my foot on purpose. Besides, I might dent the pages—an unforgivable offense.
I bent down to pick them up, then straightened and eyed the gap they’d left—only to find someone looking at me through the gap.
“Ack!” I jumped in surprise. I could only see half his face, but I thought maybe it looked a tad familiar.
“Sorry, sorry!” The guy held up his hands apologetically. “I heard a thump and wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I tilted my head and shifted my glasses. He definitely looked familiar. Actually, I felt sure I knew him.
“I’m good,” I assured him. “Thanks. Um, remind me of your name again?”
“Bailey Deerfield.” He stuck his hand through the gap to shake mine.
I chuckled and took it. “Oh, right. The kid from art class.”
“Yeah. Sorry if I scared you with my mugshot.” He withdrew his hand and rolled his eyes.
“Listen, bud. Don’t pay those goober brains any attention. They just needed an easy scapegoat, and they picked you because you’re new around here.”
His brow furrowed. “You mean, you don’t believe them?”
“Not a chance.” I adjusted my glasses. “I happen to be a journalist who cares about facts. And the facts of the case don’t point to you. I mean, you just got here. How would you know anything about the layout of the school or Ms. Hartley’s classroom?”
He laughed, a bit triumphantly, I thought. “Gee. I thought everyone had just branded me a criminal without a second thought. Nice to know someone cares about the truth around here.” He offered me a crooked, soft smile. “What’s your name, by the way? I’m forgetting my manners, sheesh.”
“I’m Vanessa Frederickson. It’s a pleasure to meet you properly.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.” He smiled again, then laughed self-consciously. “Maybe I ought to come around the shelf so we don’t have to talk through this weird hole between books?”
I snorted. “Yeah, that might be a good idea.”
He hurried around the shelf and shook my hand again. “So you’re a journalist?”
“Yep. I’m president of the Journalism Club here.”
He nodded. The light in his eyes dimmed a bit. “That’s cool. I wish I could have been better at writing and stuff.”
“But you’re great at art,” I protested. “You should see me trying to draw anything beyond a stick figure. I’m pretty sure Ms. Hartley is gonna give me a D just so she doesn’t have to have me in class again.”
That got a laugh out of him. “Yeah. I guess we all have different strengths.” We walked toward the study tables. “I guess mine is being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Tell me about it.” I shook my head. “I just wish we had more clues. Somebody took that painting, and it wasn't you.” I whipped out my pocket notebook. “Do you know anything about the piece beyond the artist and its estimated worth?”
“For sure,” Bailey gushed, and the light in his eyes I’d seen in art class came rushing back all at once. “It’s an impressionist painting, like Monet’s style. He’s considered the father of impressionism, you know. That’s kind of how I’m trying to lean my style, more towards capturing the overall gist of it rather than agonizing over details. Details were never my thing. That’s why I’m not a great writer.”
I paused my scribbling and glanced sidelong at him.
“Sorry, sorry. You asked about the painting, and I’m rambling about myself.” He scratched the side of his face and laughed self-consciously. “Um, let’s see. It was probably about a 16 x 24 based on what I saw through the window in Ms. Hartley’s office door. She let me peek at it after I found out what artist was being featured in the auction. She never opened the door, though.”
I frantically made arrows to separate my thoughts as he spoke. “Did you happen to see a key of any sort? A key ring she carried?”
“Not that I remember. I wasn’t paying attention to her or what she had in her hands. I was trying to get a peek at the painting. There was a light switch she turned on inside the closet that was behind her desk. She could get to it from outside the closet. Second from the left, I think.”
“Fantastic.” I jotted down the last few details he’d given me and smiled. “This is a great start.”