Read Deceiving Mr. Bevison Page 5


  Chapter 5

  Band practice was the best. Getting up for that seven a.m. practice was horrible, but I could stagger out of bed and usually show up on time and be functional. The effort was way worth it. Ms. Kent proved to be just the piper major to the max deluxe, best I’d ever worked with. And did I mention, she was also way better to look at than any pipe major I’d had before.

  It seemed that Ian had been really modest about the band’s competitive career. Like, total understatement. I could tell we had a very good chance of winning, not just local competitions but certainly qualifying for Area Championships. By winning those, we could then qualify to go to the nationals. How cool was that? But there was this fly in the ointment called Harley Bevison.

  We found out how bad it was at Thursday morning practice, while we were working on our long drill. Ms. Kent said that the long drill would be a chance for us to practice our marching without playing our instruments. We’d march along, practicing our different formations. Ian told me we got a break at the halfway point for a good cup of coffee at the Carafe Café Coffee Shop. It felt good to get away from the school for the first time that week. Any comment I might make about school coffee is unprintable.

  So, we were not piping but humming as we marched along. It would have been too loud for the natives, if we’d played. We were practicing our parade formation, getting into straight lines and rows, keeping our distances, making good turns, swinging our arms in time. However, many of us were ignoring our marching as we craned our necks, staring at the tree-lined street and quiet residential homes around us.

  “Hey, guys, didn’t you hear what I just said?” Ms. Kent’s stressed-out voice pierced our vertical slumber. She rubbed her face as though thoroughly exhausted. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself.” There were tears running down her face. “Forgive me this time for yelling. Next time I yell, you can get even.”

  She started briskly down the road by herself toward the coffee shop. We paused a moment, in shock. Then we broke ranks and hurried, without speaking, to the outdoor seating.

  “We’ll buy you a latte, Mandy.” Ian shocked us all by calling Ms. Kent by her first name. We grabbed all the tables and moved them together, in front of where she was sitting. Ms. Kent laughed weakly.

  “You guys are the greatest . . . but I really shouldn’t be going to pieces. I just haven’t had a good night’s sleep in ages.” She was still making little gulping sounds, as she tried to control her tears. Prakash looked at her with concern.

  Ian went to the window and ordered a carafe of coffee and a special latte with extra whipped cream for Ms. Kent. Bringing it over to the table, he asked, “So what can we do for you besides buying you coffee?”

  Ms. Kent smiled gratefully and carefully sipped her hot drink through the mountain of cream.

  “We know why you aren’t sleeping. I told the guys about Harley being an art dealer and not the most honest person on the planet,” said Prakash, filling his own cup from the carafe.

  “You shouldn’t have, Prakash. It’s not school business.”

  “It’s our business if it affects our chances of winning the Area Championships because you can’t sleep,” reasoned Ian.

  “If you don’t tell people what’s going on, how can they help you?” Pete pleaded.

  “What you say makes sense, but I am your teacher.” She seemed to suddenly make up her mind. “But you are right. Trespassing is one thing, but Harley is hanging around, getting really persistent about me getting him quietly into the monastery museum, and I don’t know why . . . I honestly don’t know why I married that jerk.” She looked at her palms on the table a moment and said quietly, “To think he looked so Sunday school when I met him.” She broke into a giant stress yawn. “And just when I was going to talk to the headmaster, Father Dell up and left on sabbatical this week.”

  “Is Harley pressuring you with threats, or anything?” Prakash asked.

  She clattered the latte mug, smacking it back on the saucer as she looked up in startlement at Prakash.

  “I think I’ve said too much already, guys. Just leave it.”

  “But if he has something unethical in mind, he could name you as an accomplice.” Prakash was really putting the pressure on.

  “Don’t you think I know that? I thought I was handling it okay until today, Prakash.” She drained her cup, apparently finding courage in the caffeine. “He actually has a particular work of art that he’s interested in. He just won’t tell me which one. I figure that if he’s up to something unethical, he’ll let it slip sooner or later. And I’ll have more information about it if he keeps communicating. I’m documenting all his calls and emails.” She was starting to look better, though her eyes were still red. In my opinion, she had guts.

  Ms. Kent tapped the edge of her cup with the spoon and glanced quickly up at us.

  “In fact, he already dropped one huge clue, guys. He was telling me a little about what he was looking for. The art object he’s interested in was probably donated in 1929. He wanted to know if the museum had any files or anything, you know, to identify artworks that were donated in that year. Hmmm…1929. That was the year of the great depression.”

  “So are you actually leading him on, trying to get more information out of him?” Brookie asked with major amazement on his face.

  “Well . . . yeah. I guess I am. However, I did make it clear to Harley that Father Dell is the one to call; he shouldn’t be asking me how to get in the museum. And that he’d better stay off school property unless he has permission, or I will tell the police.”

  “Why not tell Brother Matthew?” Eric asked.

  “I’m not your conventional high school teacher, Eric. I’m just here to teach band, so I’m not sure how Brother Matthew will feel about this when I tell him that my ex-husband is hanging around, probably trying to fleece the school.”

  We stared at her.

  “I mean, it’s my word against his that he’s trespassing, isn’t it? Somebody might believe I’d been fool enough to invite him.” She heaved a sigh. “Unless I have some kind of evidence, I’m a sitting duck for an accomplished liar like Harley.”

  “Let us help.” Sixteen eyes stared at her intently.

  She put both elbows on the table and stared back earnestly in our direction. “Only research, boys, understand? I need to know what Harley wants from that museum. Then I can take that information to Father Dell when he gets back. He will know what to do. But you’ve got to stay safe.” She gave us a pleading look. “I’m going too far to ask this of you, but what choice have I got, with my job on the line and my sanity at stake?”

  It felt like it was the right time to put in my two cents’ worth. Time to quit being shy about giving them the information I’d been sitting on all week. I pulled out my thumb drive to show her and everybody.

  “I looked up a bunch of art and antiquities stuff after Prakash told us about Mr. Bevison. You guys might want to look at it.”

  Ms. Kent looked surprised and interested. “Hey, thanks, Mac. Maybe this will help. I’ll get it back to you, after I copy it.” She reached across the table, taking the drive from me with a huge grin. It seemed to cheer her up a lot. She shoved her chair back and stood up with new resolve.

  “We’re visiting the museum tomorrow, Ms. Kent. Maybe we can spot something valuable—you know, ask some questions,” inserted Brookie, fishing for a good word. “Then I, as chief-collector-of-evidence, can take photos, when we spot it,” he said pompously. “It sounds like what we have here is a treasure map with an X on it, but nobody knows what the treasure is.”

  If praise was being handed around, he wanted his share. He was visibly puffed up already.

  Ms. Kent patted him on the back, which deflated him quite a bit. “That should be safe enough, Brookie. Just keep it that way.

  “Spend some time researching on your own, but after you’ve finished your schoolwork and practice, okay? I’ve got to study . . . and sleep.”

  Glancing at he
r watch, she spun around with a look of alarm. “We spent too much time here, guys. Double-time, march, if you want to get back to St. Rupert’s in time for a real breakfast.”

  We had no trouble hearing and obeying. This time we marched, tall and straight, with lots of snap in our steps. Why not? We were a bunch of pipers with a mission..