Famous Mistakes Read online

  I laughed. “Well, I guess one person still does. But back to the case. Bess, do you see anything?”

  Bess looked at a loss. With the room so full, it was impossible for her to get a good look at anyone’s clothes. It was time for me to do my thing.

  “Excuse me,” I said. One woman standing a few feet from me turned her head in my direction, but the rest of the women ignored me. I tried again, louder. “Excuse me!” A few more heads turned my way. I tried again, really yelling this time. “EXCUSE ME!” The room went suddenly quiet, and now everyone was looking at me.

  I cleared my throat. “Hi,” I said. “I’m a producer with NED Talks, which is an up-and-coming podcast. Our host, Ned Nickerson, is interviewing Brady Owens.” Immediately, everyone started booing. “And we want to hear your side!” I said before the boos got too loud and I lost them. They simmered down. “Ned wants to make sure both perspectives are represented. My coproducer and I,” I said, indicating George, “will be conducting pre-interviews for potential guests on the show.” I paused dramatically. “Who would like to be considered as a guest?” Everyone in the room shot up their hands.

  “Is Ned really going to interview one of them?” George whispered in my ear.

  “Of course. He’s a responsible journalist. He’ll want to get both sides of this story,” I whispered back.

  “Great,” I said to the whole group. “George and I will begin circulating and asking questions about your viewpoint.”

  I approached the woman in front of me, and the others lined up behind her, creating more space in the room. Bess nodded and started floating toward the back.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “I’m Jennifer,” she answered. I pulled out a small reporter’s notebook that I always carry with me in case a situation like this pops up and I need to write down clues. It’s long and skinny, so I can easily hold it in one hand to take notes. It’s old-fashioned and George makes fun of me for not just using my phone, but I find it much easier and faster.

  “So, why are you here? Why do you think a meeting with Joe Archer is important?”

  “We feel strongly that he should cancel Brady Owens’s performance. Brady crossed the line when he advocated violence, and the River Heights Arts Complex should not condone that kind of behavior.”

  “But what about free speech?” George asked. “Doesn’t the First Amendment say that Brady has the right to say whatever he wants?”

  Another woman jumped out of line and stood next to Jennifer. “Of course. Brady has that right,” she argued. “The First Amendment just says the government can’t tell Brady what he can and cannot say. The Arts Complex is a private business. It can decide who it does and doesn’t want to support.” She looked at me. “My name is Corinne, by the way, if you want to write that down.”

  “And,” Jennifer continued, “we have the right to say that we don’t agree. We just wish Joe Archer would actually listen us. He pushes past us without listening every time he goes to his office. Like just now. The River Heights Arts Complex is really important to all of us and he should hear what we have to say.”

  I nodded and jotted down what she’d just said. I stole a glance at Bess, who was circulating among the group, appraising their outfits and snapping photos on her phone.

  “Exactly,” Corinne added. “Brady can say whatever he wants, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences. And in my book, the penalty for suggesting that an audience of over two hundred people mug a single woman in a dark parking lot is that you don’t get to be paid to tell jokes anymore.” She paused, and I saw her discreetly wipe a tear away.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I was mugged a few months ago as I was walking home from school. One man grabbed me from behind while another one snatched my purse. It was the scariest moment of my life. I had bruises on my arms for weeks from where he grabbed me, and I’m lucky I wasn’t more seriously hurt. So the idea that this comedian thinks he can make a joke about that and urge people to commit that crime . . . it makes me really angry.”

  I nodded and thanked her for telling me her story. It may have only been a ruse when I had said we were pre-interviewing people for Ned’s show, but now I knew how important it was to have a few of these protesters on the podcast. It was an important issue, and they had important things to say.

  In the meantime, though, I still had a job to do.

  “How long have you been conducting this sit-in?” I asked.

  “We’ve had people here for more than a week,” Jennifer said.

  “Yeah, and Joe Archer hasn’t even deigned to meet with us,” Corinne said loudly, throwing her voice in the direction of Joe’s assistant. The assistant looked up at Corinne and then pointedly lowered her eyes again, ignoring her.

  “Brady goes on at seven o’clock tonight. At this point, it seems like Joe Archer is not going to give in to your request to cancel the show. Do you have a plan B?”

  Jennifer and Corinne exchanged looks, and I caught Jennifer ever so slightly shaking her head no at Corinne.

  “Nope. This is it. There’s no plan B.”

  I was pretty sure they were lying, but before I could press them any further, the door to the hallway swung open, and a tall woman with dark hair and bright blue eyes stood in the doorway. She was wearing creased gray slacks and a white shirt with an argyle V-neck sweater vest over it. Her face glistened with sweat, her hair was disheveled, and her shirt was wrinkled. Still, she was a commanding presence, and immediately everyone’s attention shot to her.

  “Tami! You’re back!” Jennifer cried next to me.

  There was a pregnant pause as everyone waited for Tami to respond.

  “The eagle has landed! The petitions have been delivered!” Tami yelled, and broke out into a wide smile. Everyone in the room flocked around her, effectively boxing me, George, and Bess out of the group to the outskirts.

  Bess came up next to me. I turned toward her. “I know I’m not a fashion expert, but her clothes meet the definition of preppy, right?”

  Bess nodded. “Definitely. And those pants could be the bottom half of a pantsuit, the top half of which would be a blazer.”

  I looked back at Tami. I could barely make her out among all the other activists encircling her.

  I shoved myself past Jennifer and Corinne to the center of the circle, so I was right next to Tami.

  “Hi. Tami, right?”

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “I’m Nancy. I’m a producer for the NED Talks podcast, and I just wanted to say that I love your outfit.”

  “Okay. Thanks?” she said, clearly confused as to why I was bringing this up. I had to admit, it wasn’t the smoothest line of questioning I had ever done in my days of being a detective, but sometimes you just had to go for it.

  “Anyway, I’m in the market for a new blazer, and I’d really love one with gold buttons. Oh, and I’m a big fan of anchors. Do you know where I could get something like that?”

  Tami looked at me like I was crazy. “Um, I am in the middle of something much more important than giving out fashion advice.” She turned toward the group. “Listen up, ladies. We are stopping this performance by any means necessary!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  An Unsettling Discovery

  EVERYONE IN THE ROOM CHEERED.

  “How are you going to do that?” I asked, but no one responded. In fact, I got the impression that I was being deliberately ignored. “We’d love to have one of you on our podcast discussing your plans,” I tried.

  The circle around Tami was tight, and there were frantic whispers going back and forth, but aside from the odd word, like “boycott” and “protest,” I couldn’t make anything out.

  I turned back to George and Bess and pointed toward the door. “Let’s go,” I said.

  The hallway felt like a cool relief when we stepped out of the overly crowded office.

  “Oh, thank goodness! I can breathe again!” George c
rowed dramatically. “I thought I was going to suffocate in there.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Bess said, wiping sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief. “Okay, maybe it was,” she corrected herself, seeing how wet her hankie was.

  “All right, Nancy,” George said. “What’s next?”

  “Well, Tami’s definitely on the suspect list. She wore the right type of clothes and she looked like she had physically exerted herself, but we need more proof before we move forward with any accusations. I think we should go and check out that teacher, Erica Vega,” I said.

  “Makes sense to me,” said Bess. “It seems like she’s the one really inspiring these people to protest.” She paused, then added, “You know, I feel like I’ve heard the name Erica Vega before, but I can’t remember from where.”

  “Well, according to this schedule online, she’s teaching a class right now!” George said, looking at her phone. “It looks like the classroom is just down this hall, too.”

  We started walking down the hallway. As we were heading that way, we passed a sign pointing to the museum.

  “Oh, Bess, I forgot to tell you,” I said. “They’re having a Dutch masters exhibit here. It opens this weekend. Here, I took a photo of the poster for you.”

  I handed her my phone with the photo on it.

  “Oh, wow!” Bess said. “This is amazing. It says they’re going to be showing The Zebra Finch, which is incredible.”

  “Why?” George asked.

  “Well, it’s supposed to be beautiful, and the detail of the light on the bird’s feathers is really intricate, but the big thing about it is that it’s part of a private collection and the owner almost never lets it be shown. I think it’s only been exhibited two or three times in the thirty years that she’s owned it. I didn’t think I’d ever get to see it, and it’s coming right to River Heights!”

  “Well, we’ll definitely have to go,” I said.

  We kept walking.

  “It really is neat how the classrooms and performance spaces are all in this one building,” George said.

  I agreed. “Which is why we need it to be successful and not have Brady’s performance sabotaged.”

  “Classroom 17. This is it,” George said, pointing to the door.

  I put my ear up against the door. I could hear a woman lecturing. “Let’s go for it,” I said.

  I creaked open the door. The classroom was a lecture hall with stadium-style seating. At the front was a woman with short blond hair holding court.

  “Freedom of expression comes with responsibilities,” Erica said.

  I pushed the door open farther, and Erica stopped talking to look up at us.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was hoping we could sit in.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Come in. Come in. Quickly.”

  Bess, George, and I found seats in the back and slid in as quietly as we could.

  “Artists and performers they think that they are a protected class. They think they can say whatever they want and they are covered by the fact that they make ‘art.’ But that is not the case. Artists don’t get a blank check where they can offend anyone they want and not get called out for it.”

  Erica was speaking more and more loudly. As I looked around the room, I observed that the attendees were rapt at what she was saying. I saw several people nodding their heads along with her.

  “Artists need to be held accountable. And who do you think needs to hold them accountable?”

  Several hands shot up in the air.

  “Kristen,” Erica said, pointing to a young woman in the front.

  “The people!” Kristen said enthusiastically.

  “That’s right!” Erica said. “The people! When an artist crosses the line, the people have to tell him or her. And how do they do that? Don’t bother raising your hands. Just shout it out.”

  “Boycotting!” someone yelled.

  “Organizing on social media!” someone else shouted.

  “Protesting!”

  “Showing them what it feels like!”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Erica said. “You do what you have to do to get your point heard.” She checked her watch. “All right. That’s all we have time for this week. Good luck tonight. Go out there and fight the good fight.”

  “Will we see you tonight protesting the show?” a student asked.

  “Unfortunately, I have somewhere else I need to be tonight,” Erica said, “but I will be there with you in spirit.”

  The students filed out and Bess, George, and I pushed to the front of the room to talk to Erica.

  “Hey, Nancy,” Bess whispered. “Do you mind if I take the lead on talking to her?” I looked at Bess in surprise. She is always a great help in my investigations, but she rarely asks to take the lead. She nodded at me, looking more determined than I’d ever seen her.

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  “Ms. Vega,” Bess said. “I’m Bess Marvin, and I just wanted to say I’m a big fan.”

  Erica Vega raised her eyebrows and waited for Bess to go on. George and I looked at Bess, wondering what she was up to.

  “I really loved the blog entry you wrote about The Zebra Finch,” Bess continued. “I thought your analysis of the brushstrokes was genius.”

  “Thanks,” Erica said, sounding genuinely impressed. “I haven’t met many people who have read that article.”

  “It’s one of my favorite paintings of all time. I read everything I can about it. I can’t believe I’m finally going to get to see it in person in River Heights!”

  “It’s an amazing thing to see in real life,” she said. “If you’ll forgive me, I need to run.”

  I looked down and noticed she was pulling a rolling suitcase.

  “Oh, are you headed to the airport?” I asked.

  “No, I have a meeting,” she said.

  I pushed forward. “I don’t want to hold you up, but we’re producers for a podcast and we’re looking for protesters to interview. Could you recommend any of your students?” I asked. “Who’s leading the charge here?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Erica said. “Tami Wright. She’s my star student, and she would be very articulate about her views. All the students look up to her. Now, I’m sorry, but I really need to run.”

  She headed out, leaving me and my friends alone in the lecture hall.

  “Wow. She is intense,” George said. “But, Bess, you were genius!”

  “Thanks,” said Bess. “It kept bugging me why I thought I knew her name, and then it hit me.”

  “You were great,” I agreed. “Tami is definitely our prime suspect.”

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to see a text from Ned: TAKING A BREAK FROM WORKING WITH BRADY. WANT TO MEET UP?

  I checked with Bess and George and then texted him back. SURE. SEE YOU OUTSIDE ARTS COMPLEX IN 5 MINUTES?

  Ned agreed, and Bess, George, and I slipped out of the lecture hall and made our way back out to the street, where I saw Ned rounding the corner.

  “Hey, how’d it go with Brady?” I asked him.

  “We made some progress. We got two pages of the notebook put back together. I don’t know if he’ll ever get it all back, but at least he’ll have some. The good news is he let me do the interview with him as a distraction while we were working on it.”

  “That’s great!” I said. “How was it?”

  “I think it went really well. Because he was working on this other task, I think he was more open with me in his answers than he would have been otherwise.” That made sense to me. I always liked when someone I was interviewing for a case was doing something else while we were chatting. They tended to be less guarded and more careless with their words.

  “In fact, would you guys mind if we went somewhere so I could back up the interview? It’s too good. I don’t want to risk only having it on my computer,” Ned said.

  “Can we do that somewhere there is food?” George asked. “I didn’t eat lunch and I’m starving.”

  I checked my w
atch. We’d already investigated for an hour and we’d made some progress, but I didn’t feel close to solving the case. I was going to argue that we push on, but the look on George’s and Ned’s faces told me that I needed to take this break if I wanted them working at their peaks. George was no good to me if she fainted from hunger, and Ned wouldn’t be able to focus if he was worried about losing his interview. “My house is closest,” I said. “I’m sure Hannah can make us something.” Hannah Gruen is our housekeeper. She’s been taking care of my dad and me since my mom passed away when I was little. She is, among other things, the best cook in River Heights, so my friends agreed readily.

  I called ahead to let Hannah know we were coming, and fifteen minutes later, we walked in the door to find four turkey sandwiches sitting on the kitchen table. Not only that, but they were each made exactly how we liked them. Mine had no lettuce. The crusts were cut off George’s. Ned’s had extra mustard. And Bess’s had cheddar instead of swiss.

  I gave Hannah a hug and thanked her. Ned set up his interview to download off the recorder and joined us at the table.

  Just as we started eating, my dad walked into the kitchen. I was surprised to see him home on a weekday. His eyes were glassy and his nose was red.

  “Hi, Dad. Your allergies acting up?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Kerri told me my sneezes were distracting the entire office and ordered me home.” Kerri was my dad’s assistant, and like Hannah, she didn’t let the fact that she worked for my dad stop her from bossing him around.

  “How’d the interview go, Ned?” my dad asked, sniffling loudly.

  “Well . . . it was a little more dramatic than I had expected,” Ned answered. We quickly filled him in on everything that had gone on.

  “Wow. Brady just can’t stay out of trouble. Typical Brady, though, to stick his foot in his mouth by calling out that heckler the way he did.”

  “But don’t you think his job as a stand-up comedian is to push boundaries?” Ned asked.

  “Well, tell me, what boundary was Brady pushing?” my dad asked Ned.

  Ned opened his mouth to answer but quickly shut it, as he tried to think of what to say. I contemplated too. I believed that art should make people uncomfortable, but I also couldn’t answer my dad’s question.