The Mystery of the Third Lucretia by Susan Runholt

able to go check out what Gallery Guy is doing.”
    â€œGood thinking,” I said. “And sometime tonight I’ll let her know we have our own plans for the afternoon and don’t want to be stuck in the British Museum all day.”
    So we pulled out the little tablet Lucas used for a sketch pad and one of her soft lead drawing pencils and started making our list.
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    On the bus I’d been thinking I’d absolutely hate the time we had to spend in the restaurant, because I wanted to be talking to Lucas about our plans for the next day. But believe it or not, when we actually got there, there were so many other things to think about that I almost totally forgot about Gallery Guy.
    Mom and I had met the chef and one of the waitresses the last time we were in London, and this was the first time we’d eaten there on this trip, so everybody kept coming over to our table and making a fuss over us, and bringing over tall nonalcoholic drinks with pieces of fruit on little sticks.
    What with everything going on, I forgot all about Gallery Guy until we were in the middle of the meal. When I did remember him, I got a little shiver of excitement thinking about being in the gallery with him again, even though I was still worried that he’d remember us from that time in Minneapolis. Then I thought of something that totally spoiled my appetite.
    What if Gallery Guy remembered us from Minneapolis and also happened to look at us yesterday when we weren’t watching him? He’d recognize us right away and figure out we were spying on him. Even though we had a right to be in the museum, I had the feeling he’d find some way to make sure we didn’t find out what he was up to. The thought gave me the shivers.
    â€œAren’t you going to finish the rest of your chicken?” Mom asked as I arranged my silverware on my plate. “I thought you said it was delicious.”
    â€œIt is. But I’m full.”
    â€œWell, you’re going to have to eat more of it than that if you want dessert,” she said. Typical. I knew what desserts were like at Robert’s, so I shoved in a few more mouthfuls.
    Mom had been asking where we’d gone before the National Gallery, and Lucas was telling her all about the Tower of London.
    While they talked, I was in my own private world, thinking about how to spy on Gallery Guy without having him recognize us. Then I thought of another thing: the guard.
    If you go to museums, you know there are usually guards in uniforms hanging around, keeping an eye on all that expensive artwork. Well, the Rembrandt room had one of those guards. A balding guy. I’d noticed him right away because he had such a prissy expression. He had a long, pointed nose, and he held it high up in the air and looked down over it to let you know that he thought he was better than everybody else. He stood by the door scoping out everybody who came and went.
    What if he saw us hanging around, trying to see what Gallery Guy was working on? Would he make us leave the museum? Would he tattle to Gallery Guy? That gave me the shivers again.
    Then I came up with an idea. I don’t want to brag, but I think it was pretty brilliant.
    Disguises.
    Even after we’d weeded out the clothes Camellia had bought, we still had enough clothes to disguise ourselves as most of the Justin Timberlake fans from an average ninth-grade class. Plus there was that whole three-section bag full of cosmetics.
    What’s more, Camellia had provided us with the perfect excuse to use them all.
    I waited until Lucas had stopped telling Mom about what they had on the McDonald’s menu.
    â€œYou know, one thing we haven’t done yet is to get any pictures of Lucas in those clothes Camellia wanted her to wear. Maybe we should take a couple of outfits along tomorrow, and after we’ve finished at the British Museum”—I kicked Lucas under the table—“we could go get some shots