The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed by Bruce Coville

research.
    â€œJust tell me what you know about Phoebe Watson,” he said. “That will do for now.”
    We told him a shortened version of our visit to Phoebe’s house—more about what Phoebe was like and how the painting was displayed than about what had happened there.
    â€œWhy is Phoebe so important to you anyway?” Chris asked when we were done. “I thought your paper was about Cornelius Fletcher.”
    Marcus gave us a knowing smile. “I guess you still have a few things to learn yourself,” he said. “Phoebe Watson is Cornelius Fletcher’s daughter.”
    He could see by our faces that he had scored with that piece of information. He let it sink in for a while, then told us that if we went over to the Everson Museum, we could see some more of Fletcher’s work.
    I wasn’t all that eager to see more paintings like “Early Harvest.” On the other hand, I couldn’t think of anything else we should do next. So we left the library and headed for the museum, which was about three blocks away.
    The quickest way to the museum was through Columbus Circle, which is this little plaza with a big statue of Christopher Columbus. It also has a nice fountain, a lot of pigeons, and a mix of business people and bums.
    â€œThat Marcus was a nice guy,” said Chris as we crossed the circle.
    â€œHe seemed to be,” I said. I was still a little boggled by what he had told us about Phoebe—and a little worried by what we had told him. “You don’t suppose he’s up to anything, do you?” I asked at last.
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œI don’t know—trying to find the Lost Masterpiece or something? Why else would he spend two years trying to get an interview with Phoebe?”
    â€œCollege students are like that,” Chris said. “Especially graduate students. One of my aunts spent three years studying fish intestines.”
    â€œEeuw!”
    I was still feeling disgusted when we got to the museum.
    â€œHey, this place is fabulous!” exclaimed Chris as we walked up to the building. I happened to agree with her. The Everson Museum looks like four big concrete boxes stuck together. The artwork starts before you even get inside; there are lots of big sculptures in a courtyard outside the building, including some you can walk through, and even a few you can climb on.
    My favorites aren’t for climbing, though. My favorites are these five clay towers, each about ten feet tall, that look as if they were made by some giant kindergarten kid who was losing his mind. I always get upset when I see them, though, because the green one has repair lines where they had to fix it after some jerk knocked the top off.
    Chris spotted the towers as we were heading for the door. “Wait!” she cried. “I want to look at these!”
    â€œHaven’t you ever been here?” I asked, after she had examined them for a while.
    She shook her head. “My parents aren’t big on this kind of thing.”
    â€œYeah, but I thought every kid in Syracuse got dragged through here on a field trip by the time they hit sixth grade.”
    â€œMaybe I was absent!” snapped Chris.
    I decided to drop the matter.
    We went inside.
    When you enter the Everson, you find yourself in a huge space with an extra-high ceiling. A wide concrete staircase that looks as if there’s nothing holding it up curls to the second floor.
    We asked a guard where to find the Cornelius Fletcher paintings, and she sent us off in the right direction. “If you’re lucky, you might even see Dr. Bond there,” she said.
    When we entered the room where Fletcher’s pictures were hanging, I caught the smell of peaches. It wasn’t until that moment that I connected the name Bond to the woman we had met at Phoebe’s house on Saturday. I think it was the “Dr.” part that threw me off.
    Carla Bond seemed as surprised to see us as