Chapter 6
Friday rolled around bright and early. Brookie was up first. He bounced a rather hard Super Ball off my forehead to wake me.
“Mac, we go into action today. Operation Museum Tour. Is this a time to be sleeping? Just when your fearless pipe major requires you to ferret out the mysterious object that interests Bevison so much, you choose to snore?” His tone changed to the practical. “By the way, I’ve got our gear ready.” He opened my backpack, which he’d already packed for me, and pulled out a cell phone, a notebook, black gloves, and ski mask.
I groaned. “Brookie, chill. The monastery tour doesn’t start till after breakfast, man.” I rubbed my eyes and rolled over in my bunk and fell through the flimsy mattress, onto the floor with a thump. Someone had thoughtfully removed a couple of bed slats. I was up now. Brookie was not paying me much attention all of a sudden. He was busy with his laptop, with a smirk on his face.
“Thanks for getting all that great data off the Internet for us, Mac. I didn’t realize there was so much drama in the art world.” Drama was something Brookie understood, for sure. Apparently he was enjoying his new role, morphing from our master juggler to a kind of James Bond with frightening ease. He was now defender of the St. Rupert’s Museum and was going to catch the evil art dealer. The problem was, he kept expending energy in waves. I was having trouble just finding enough energy to put my feet in my pants, it was so early.
Fridays at St. Rupert’s were normally devoted to nonacademic study, such as the arts and culture that had excited my mom so much. We could choose one subject for three Fridays and then switch to another subject, like watercolor painting switched to media studies or fencing switched to sculpture. This was supposed to keep us Well-Rounded. We, however, had other activities today to keep us Well-Rounded, like finding unspecified art objects in the monastery’s museum.
The Monastery of St. Rupert was where the brothers and monks lived and had their offices, chapel, and museum. That’s where we headed for the tour, right after breakfast. Striding across campus toward the monastery woke me up fully and got me in the spirit of adventure. I took deep breaths of the crisp, cool fall air. It was the kind of Indian summer day that just sparkled with clean sunlight. No wonder Brookie felt so good.
As I entered the courtyard of the monastery complex, I saw other students milling around. Brother Matthew stood tall and calm in front of the original monastery building. He beamed a bland but kind of impersonal smile at Brookie and me as we waited for all the students to show up and to get settled. Once the rest had straggled up, Brother Matthew cleared his throat and raised his voice so that he could be heard by the throng.
“You will stay within visual distance of me at all times, students, during this tour,” he said in that decisive yet mild voice. The steely glint in his eye said loud and clear that we should watch our step or he’d make sure things got very hot for us. He walked over to the granite arched alcove of the old brick building, stood on the steps above us, and began his droning lecture, pointing to the building behind him.
“This was the original monastery building for the Order of St. Rupert, built in 1830. The brothers of the order now have more modern quarters. Those were added on as a wing in the 1890s.”
“Not all that modern, huh? Flush toilets, maybe?” Brookie was getting restless already. I poked him with my elbow to get him to shut up so he wouldn’t draw a target on us for Brother Matthew to take aim at.
Brother Matthew opened the huge, stained oak door. There was a groan from the antique iron hinges. Before we followed the group in, Brookie stopped me and requested, “Mac, you ask the questions, okay? It might raise, um, issues if I do.”
“What?” I asked, not getting it. I was too busy looking around.
“Well, they know me, you see.” He looked slightly—but only slightly—bashful.
I looked at Brookie standing there with his red hair on end and his shoes untied, and I saw. He was probably in trouble most of the school year.
The boys next to us pushed into the vestibule, which was tiled black and white like a checkerboard. The swooshing of our footsteps echoed eerily back at us as the group shuffled into the rotunda. I dropped my jaw as I tilted my head back to look up at the poorly lit, dark-beamed ceilings. Even the air smelled old, like incense and beeswax candles. Brother Matthew moved around in front of us and continued his talk.
“The monks, the contemplatives of the order who you haven’t met, live back here too, and their lives are none of your business.” We nodded. I’d heard about those guys living in silence. “We won’t be looking in the kitchens and private living areas of the brothers - that includes me and the rest of your teachers - because you probably wouldn’t be interested, right?” he said, nodding at us for agreement. We rolled our eyes. Of course we were interested. What kid wouldn’t want to see how his teachers lived?
“So, follow me, boys, to the chapel and museum.” The whole place looked like a museum to me, as I made the long hike down the corridor. It seemed like there were doors every twenty feet down the long hall that went on and on forever into the dim distance. The faded walls were lined with framed old-world-style documents, photos, prints, and oil paintings, hanging freestyle. In fact, there seemed to be very little order to any of the exhibits in the hall. Brother Matthew beckoned us onward. We turned a corner and entered an unmarked door.
“We are entering the monastery’s private collection area now,” he said in a hushed voice. I elbowed my way to the front so I could hear Brother Matthew better and see what he was pointing to. The long, narrow room opened into a tiled atrium with oak-framed, glass-topped cases in neat rows. The age-stained walls were lined with shelves, all filled with books to the ceiling. Although there was enough natural light to see, coming from the skylight, there was dim artificial lighting on each of the exhibits. I also noticed a tiny glass window high up near the apex of the eaves. They weren’t wasting any energy heating the exhibits, and I gave a shiver in my light shirt.
Brother Matthew’s voice echoed hollowly from the high ceiling: “Originally the brothers of St. Rupert were a healing order. You’ll see our Heritage Medicinal Herb Garden after the building tour. Then, over the centuries, our order evolved into strictly a teaching order.”
There was restlessness behind me, and somebody snickered, whispering, “Yeah, and all our trouble started.” Brother Matthew shot him “the look” without breaking stride in his monologue.
“Throughout the history of the Order of St. Rupert, people have given gifts of money and art to assist the brothers in their good works, helping to support both the school and the order.”
“I thought the brothers weren’t allowed to keep anything they got as a gift?” someone asked.
“That’s true. We aren’t supposed to have worldly goods—but these were not gifts to individuals but to the order as a whole. Many monasteries would have sold these objects for the money, but since St. Rupert’s has a strong interest in scholarship, many were kept for study purposes.” He pointed to bookshelves full of what looked like old manuscripts. “Scholars from around the world visit our museum, which is a real honor for our little academy.” He seemed as proud as if he owned it himself.
I began my questions before he had a chance to take another breath. “What are the most recent art acquisitions?” I thought I would work back from the present day to the Depression.
Brother Matthew walked over to a case before turning to us, his hand patting the glass behind him. “We received money, primarily, in the latter half of the twentieth century. However, in the early part of the century, we did get quite a few donations of art or antiques.”
He gestured, and I peered into the case he was standing near. There were small military buttons lined up with labels near them. I almost squawked out loud with disappointment.
“Not terribly valuable, but of historic interest,” commented Brother Matthew, seeing my face as I glanced at this collection of twentieth-century bric-a-brac.
“Is this all?” I asked, incredulously. Suddenly realizing I needed to sound more interested and not so disappointed, I amended, “I mean, were there other kinds of donations, like books or . . . pictures?” Brother Matthew turned and waved his hand at the walls.
“It is a very diverse collection, MacDonough. There are the ancient manuscripts from the Middle Ages,” he said, pointing to some decrepit-looking books, “to the present modern editions of contemporary writers.”
He indicated some paintings hanging from a molding on the wall. “And there are other paintings displayed around and about, here and there throughout the monastery, where they can be enjoyed to the best advantage.” I had seen some of those paintings spread around and about when we had walked down the hall to get here from the front door.
“The rest is incorporated in these cases according to category—china, silver, ceramics.” I leaned over the case of historically significant buttons. Buttons? I thought furiously. How was I going to find out what Harley Bevison was after? I was pretty sure it wasn’t buttons.
“If everything is spread around the monastery, how do you find stuff for the scholars, or, say . . . let them know who donated it?” Was I getting too specific? Was I getting too close to letting the cat out of the bag, and would Brother Matthew wonder why a kid would want to know such things? Apparently not. He looked brightly at me and nodded in approval as he walked over to a book on a stand.
“I’m glad to see you have an interest in how we organize our little museum, MacDonough. It is all catalogued here,” he said, opening a huge book on a dark oak book stand. He turned on a strong light in the corner and gently smoothed the pages like he was petting his favorite cat.
Pay dirt! Now if I could just get a close enough look. Brother Matthew shepherded us out right past the book. Brookie and I looked at each other with glee as we stepped into line. Let’s see what we could see.
Brother Matthew stopped me as we all filed by that Object of Extreme Interest on our way out the door. “Now, if all your questions are answered, MacDonough, we’ll head over to the chapel?” He was looking at me a little quizzically, probably trying to figure out what I was up to. I didn’t want to stir up suspicion, but I didn’t care much, because I knew our research had finally paid off. I even held up the line to get a better look at the book when Brother Matthew hurried me on. I strained to get as much of a view as I could as I walked past, but all I saw on the open pages were columns and lists written in cramped writing with faded ink.
Brookie and I looked at each other. We didn’t need to talk to know what the other was thinking. We’d definitely found it. We dropped to the back of the group so we could talk.
“How are we going to get at that book for a better look?” I whispered.
Brookie hissed, “No problem; we’ll slip back after the tour somehow. That desk has good light.”
“So you can photograph it?” I wrinkled my forehead.
“Yeah, I just hope we can find the right entry for this mysterious art object of Harley’s. 1929, huh? Think they’ll have dates?”
“Here’s to luck,” I said, high-fiving him. But even hopefully, how good were our chances of getting back to that book? Only Brookie knew for sure.
We’d followed the crowd into another area.
“Around this corner here is the chapel that is used daily by the brothers and monks or for special school occasions. We use the assembly hall for our school-wide services.” Brother Matthew waved us into a lovely old chapel, paneled in dark wood. I caught the whiff of old beeswax and incense in the air. “These wood carvings were brought over from Europe by members of our order shortly after their arrival in America. Go ahead and get closer so that you can look at the detail of the Holy Family on the altar carvings.”
We stayed in the back of the group as we moved slowly around the chapel and tried to blend. Brookie was not a good candidate for blending, however. His energy was higher than ever from our latest find. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, which does not make you invisible in most crowds.
“Keep your eyes open for a break in the tour, man,” said Brookie, glancing around, “so we can slip out.” We got at the end of the line to go see the carvings.
“Camouflage, man. Please try to look like a statue or something,” I begged.
“How about a diversion instead?” he said and sniggered. There was a wild gleam in his eyes that I didn’t like.
I didn’t have a chance to comment before someone in the front of the group yelled in fury at the boy next to him, “Hey, dude! What was that for? You pinched me!” Brookie looked so innocent, I knew he had something to do with it.
“Gentlemen, what’s going on here?” barked Brother Matthew as he started pulling back the boy who was trying to take a swing at the wrongly accused kid.
“Slick,” I whispered as we slid out the door of the chapel while Brother Matthew was occupied with the shouting students. Brookie pocketed his slingshot. “Explain it to me sometime when we have more time.”
Sliding through the half-open chapel doors was not a problem. The problem for me, as we headed back in the general direction of the museum, was that all the doors in the hall were unmarked. Brookie sensed my uncertainty.
“I’ve got it in my head,” he said, tapping his skull. “Museum. It’s right next to a photo of the Class of ’55.” We buzzed down the hall, turning sharp and braking to a stop as we both recognized none other than Harley Bevison in the flesh. And he was dressed as a St. Rupert’s monk. Bald and slightly overweight, he looked the part. Brookie went into action immediately, as though he’d been rehearsing for a week. Shoving the cell phone at me, he went up to the bogus monk.
“Excuse me, Brother, we’re here on the tour for new students. Can you tell us the way to the restrooms?” Brookie stepped to one side of Harley, so that in order to answer him, Harley was forced to turn his face toward me—and I could get a good photo without him seeing me. I got the phone up and whipped off two profile shots, which looked pretty good at a quick glance. The trouble was, he did see me, especially since the auto-flash went off in the dim light.
“Hey! What the hell’s going on?” Harley snatched at the phone. I dodged by him to the right after taking a feint to the left.
“Thanks anyways, Brother,” said Brookie, hoofing it quickly away from the angry man. He nodded at me for confirmation that the photos were okay as we headed off at a dead run in the direction of the chapel. I resisted the urge to see if Harley was following, but I could hear his shoes clattering on the marble floors.
“Was he warm?” I asked, panting and handing over the phone.
“He was way hot. He was right on top of the museum, if he knew what he was looking for. We were right next to the photo of the Class of ’55.” He speed-dialed Ms. Kent as he skidded around the corner and ducked into an alcove behind a huge piece of furniture. I craned my neck around the corner to see if Harley was still on our trail, but he must have stopped somewhere, for some reason.
“Your ex is in the monastery, dressed as a monk. We got photographic evidence. I’m sending the photos from my phone.” Brookie’s whisper trailed off as he punched the button that sent the pictures. I was shaking with anxiety that we were going to get caught and perhaps die in a creepy, Episcopalian dungeon. Not Brookie. He was as cool as a cucumber.
“Are you going to call the police, Brookie?” I whispered urgently.
“I’ll let Ms. Kent do that. If Harley’s after the art object today, we need to derail him and expose him, before he finds it. We need to locate it before he does, so we can protect it.” Brookie crouched down and started edging around the back of the mahogany chest that was concealing us from the hall.
“Hey, man, you’re way too memorable,” I said, pointing to his red, Brillo Pad–style hair. I pulled a watch cap from my pocket, handed it to him, and he pulled it on. I guess he’d decided that his ski mask was overkill and left it at the dorm. I was still suffering major fear of
being caught.
“Let’s head back, Brookie,” I pleaded. “Harley’s got to be out there waiting for us somewhere.”
Unfortunately, it was too late. We found out who had slowed Harley down and kept him from catching up with us: a real brother. He spotted us as we crept out from behind the chest.
“Looking for something, boys?” Brother Roger’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. Burned out, that’s the term. Some teachers just needed to get rid of their cynical attitude about students. I mean, we were just students, after all, left all alone in the monastery with a crazy criminal hunting us . . .
Never mind. I didn’t say it out loud. I got a look at Brother Roger’s face. He’d seen Brookie’s watch cap. And obviously he knew we were not where we were supposed to be, just by the looks on our faces.
“Would you believe we were looking for a restroom?” Even Brookie quailed a little under his glare. Brother Roger’s sleeves were rolled up, showing his hairy muscular arms.
“No, I wouldn’t. Not back there behind that chest of drawers. Get back with your group, Brookstone,” Brother Roger growled. The monk stood with his feet spread wide and his arms folded across his chest, staring at us hostilely as we got up and hurried down the hall, back toward the chapel.
“Hey, he saved our lives. Why didn’t you warn him about Harley?”
“If he sees him, he’ll know he doesn’t belong.” Brookie looked sheepish. “Besides, I’ve had a few run-ins with Brother Roger before. I doubt he would have believed me if I’d told him an angry art dealer dressed as a monk was chasing us.”
“You have a point there, Brookie.” I looked at him with a speculative smile. Yeah, Brookie wasn’t kidding when he’d said he was always in trouble.
We found the rest of the group waiting for us in the vestibule of the chapel, Brother Matthew looking distinctly displeased.
“Boys . . . ,” he started, but Brookie interrupted before the next word was even out of his mouth.
“We needed the restroom,” Brookie explained with a buddy-to-buddy swagger. We slid into our places.
Brother Matthew wasn’t having any. “We’ll stick together from here on, you two,” he remarked in a dry voice. “It’s a real warren of buildings, and I wouldn’t want any of the new boys getting lost.” Perhaps he felt differently about losing Brookie—maybe forever. We set out together for the other parts of the monastery complex, this time with Brother Matthew behind us, so he could roast Brookie with a dirty look from time to time.
“Boy, am I glad you phoned Ms. Kent when you did,” I said softly as we walked toward the building containing the natural history museum. I would feel so much better if an adult were handling all this. I was a new kid at this place, and I really didn’t want to start my first week of school with a reputation for causing trouble—or for Mom to hear about it, for heaven’s sake.