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three paintings in the exhibition were all owned by the same man. Beside each entry in the catalogue was a little thank-you note: Kindly loaned by Harold Green, Toronto .
    Harold Green, I suspected, was a rich man. You’ve never heard of Martin Johnson Heade. Don’t be embarrassed, most other people have never heard of him either. He was an American, died in 1904. He painted marshes, beach scenes, flowers, and birds, mostly in Florida. And today one of his hummingbird paintings could be worth $800,000.
    Wilfredo Lam? Only art students have heard of him. Still, he is the most important modern painter from Cuba. His best paintings—and the one Harold Green owned was pretty good—sell for around $1,000,000.
    That’s also what you’d have to pay for a Tom Thomson, at least one as beautiful as the painting Harold Green owned. Together, Harold Green’s paintings were worth almost $3,000,000.
    Who was Harold Green?
    It’s a short walk from the Art Gallery of Ontario to the Toronto Public Library. I spent the next two hours there, reading old newspapers and reference books, finding out all I could about Harold Green.
    Green had started in the army. Then he’d worked for the government, all over the world, but mostly in the Middle East. He could speak Arabic and also Farsi, the language of Iran. Now he was retired. He divided his time between homes in Toronto, the Bahamas, and Paris. I guessed his money came from his wife, the daughter of a billionaire real-estate developer.
    Most of these details came from Who’s Who , the reference book that tells you everything about important people. But I also read an article on Green and his art collection in the Toronto Star . He’d added a modern addition to his big brick house to hold his paintings. He painted, too. In one photo, he was standing beside an easel. “I’m terrible,” he had said, “but painting helps me understand and appreciate the real thing.”
    The real thing. Like the three paintings he’d loaned the gallery, the three paintings Zena was planning to steal.
    What else could I think?
    Zena and Victor were planning to steal Green’s paintings, and somehow my three pictures were involved.
    Zena the Beautiful; Victor the Crook. I sat back in my chair. How could she do it? “You’re crazy!” I blurted out loud.
    The librarian turned toward me with a frown and put a finger to her lips. “Shh!”

Chapter Four
    Coffee and Crime

    You’ve heard the expression, “running around like a chicken with its head cut off”? That was me for the next few days. I didn’t know what to do. I was completely confused. One morning, I went to Zena’s apartment building, hoping to catch her as she came out, but she didn’t. Next I went around to Victor’s shop—but at the last minute I didn’t go in. What would I say to him? Then I tried to forget about it. If Zena wanted to do crazy things, that was her business.
    But as I told you, this had nothing to do with money; it was all about love. I kept seeing those beautiful eyes! The day the exhibition at the gallery ended, I drove out to Harold Green’splace on my motorcycle. I watched the house for an hour. I don’t know what I was trying to prove. Rain began to fall. Soon, I was soaked. And to show you how crazy I was, I showed up again the next morning.
    But that was more interesting.
    The street was quiet, shaded by old maple trees. The big brick house had three stories, with lots of chimneys. At one end, the modern addition stuck out. It was low and made of varnished wood. I knew, from the newspaper story, that this was where Green kept his paintings.
    A police car came up the street, a van marked Security right behind it. They turned in at Green’s house. Two men got out of the van, and a cop got out the car. The door of Green’s house opened. With the cop watching, the two men carried the pictures inside: they were being returned from the gallery.
    Just then, a car pulled away from the curb, about half a block