Read Online Who Are You? (9780307823533) by Joan Lowery Nixon - Free Book Online Page A

curious?”
    “I’m not paid to be curious.”
    “Didn’t Mr. Merson say
anything
to you about why he wanted pictures of me?”
    For a moment loud static crackles against my ear. Then his voice slides back, flatter than ever. “No, and if he did, do you think I’d tell you?”
    “I need to know.”
    “Tough luck, kid,” Mr. Zigurski says, and ends our phone call.
    Is Douglas Merson the only one who can tell me the reason for the folder? I can think of one other person who might know about it, since she seems to know Merson well—Ms. Chase.
    I turn back to the A–L yellow pages. This time I search through the listing for art galleries, but there’s nothing called Chase Galleries. She spoke about
her
gallery. Is she an employee at one of the galleries? Or does she really own an art gallery?From the expensive way she dressed and the car she drove, I’m guessing she’s an owner. But what is the gallery’s name?
    There are more than six columns of listings in the yellow pages. I’ll see how many I can eliminate. I take a pencil and go down the columns, crossing out the galleries that don’t fit, like the Fine Toon Cartoon Art Gallery. I’ve been to that gallery, and I love it, but I can’t picture Ms. Chase there. There are galleries with small ads that state they specialize in framing prints and photos. I cross them out, along with the galleries with cutesy names. Ms. Chase is definitely elegant, not cutesy. Last, I cross out the galleries that carry the names of the owners. I’m betting on Ms. Chase being the owner.
    I’m still left with a long list to call, so I sit down with the telephone and get to work. I don’t want to talk to Ms. Chase on the phone. She could put me off as easily as Mr. Zigurski did. So when someone answers my first call, I don’t ask to speak to Ms. Chase. I just say, “Could you please tell me if Ms. Chase works at this gallery?”
    “No, she doesn’t. Sorry,” the voice says, and the person hangs up.
    “Ms. Who?” the second voice asks.
    But the woman on the phone at the third gallery says, “Are you looking for Alanna Chaser?”
    “I think so. Tall, dark-haired, very attractive—” I begin.
    The woman makes some kind of noise I can’t quite figure out—sort of a snort or grunt. “Alanna’s an owner of the Royal Heritage Gallery of Art,” she tells me.
    Royal Heritage.
If Alanna named the gallery herself, I should have figured that one out. “Thank you,” I answer. “I appreciate your help.” Excitement swells like a bubble in my chest.
    The Royal Heritage Gallery of Art is listed in the phone book. I circle the name and copy down its phone number and address. It’s on Westheimer, close to the Galleria. It won’t take me long to get there.
    I check the garage, and Mom’s car is parked inside, just as I’d hoped. She and Dad have been keeping the same long hours, working hard to finish their clients’ income taxes on time, so they’ve been driving to their office together. I don’t bother to leave a note telling them where I’m going. I’ll get home long before they do. I take a small notebook and pen with me, just in case I need them.
    When I arrive at the address I miss the drive and have to circle the block. I look for a gallery sign, and there isn’t one. Instead, there’s a tall office building. I manage to find a parking slot in the covered parking area behind the building and enter the lobby.
    I find myself swimming in a vast pool of reflected light that shimmers over sea-green marble flooring and walls. A receptionist with long hair sits behind a low mahogany desk at a far end of the room. She’s the only human being in sight. With soft, piped-in music surrounding me, I walk to her desk and ask, “Where will I find the Royal Heritage Gallery of Art?”
    “Seventeenth floor, suite seventeen hundred,” she tells me in a clipped Eastern accent.
    “Thank you,” I say. At the elevator bank I punch a button to summon an elevator and am soon