“Been trying to suss it out for twenty years,” said the AFP detective. “Haven’t had a fair dinkum clue or nibble for years. And then, crikey, your world-famous treasure-hunting parents turn up out of nowhere with one of my missing jewels rattling about in their pre-Columbian cookie jar.”
“Because Charlotte Badger, which probably isn’t her real name, dumped it there,” said Tommy. “She wanted to slow us down. We’re in, like, this major race to find Lasseter’s Gold.”
The old man nodded. “So I have been told.”
“She’s a pirate!” I shouted.
“Said so herself,” added Beck.
“That’s why she calls herself Charlotte Badger!” I yelled.
“She called her crewmates pirates, too,” added Storm, who remembers everything. “Their names were Banjo and Croc. They had very distinctive tattoos and way too many nose- and earrings.”
“Those names are probably made up, too, Detective Des,” suggested Tommy, trying to be helpful. “Unless, you know, one guy likes to play the banjo and the other one wrestles crocodiles or wears those goofy plastic shoes called Crocs…”
Now the detective looked confused. That happens sometimes when Tommy speaks. The detective held up a firm hand to silence all the yabbering.
“Perhaps what you children and your parents say is true,” he announced. “However, the thief, or thieves, who stole the Black Prince of the Inland Sea also stole two other black opals that are even more valuable: The Pride of Australis and the Black Galaxy.”
“Well, sir,” I said, “your customs guys only found one opal on board our ship! Where are the other two? See? That proves we’re not the thieves.”
“Unless,” muttered Storm, “we’d already sold the other ones.”
“Oh, right. My bad. Forget I said that.”
“I’ll try, mate,” said Detective Superintendent Ruggiere as he creaked back in his chair. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I pride myself on being a reasonable bloke. However, I am also impatient and eager to retire. My wife wants to see your Grand Canyon. And Disneyland. I should’ve taken her there years ago but, well, I’ve been obsessed with hunting down the Lightning Ridge Opals. I can’t just up and quit the Australian Federal Police without closing the one case that’s been a boil on my bum for twenty years. Also, here in Australia, we believe in speedy trials. Especially when the lead investigator wants to retire and see Disneyland. So, I will make you treasure hunters a deal.”
Uncle Richie rubbed his hands together, eagerly. He likes deals.
“Do go on, good sir,” he said.
“If you four children and your elderly friend…”
“I’m their great-uncle Richie,” he explained.
“He’s Mom’s uncle,” I explained. “That’s what makes him great. Well, that and the fact that he’s pretty cool.”
Uncle Richie nodded elegantly in my general direction. “Thank you, Bickford.”
The detective started nervously fidgeting with one of the hair strands clinging to his scalp. “So this truly is a family business, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dad. “It truly is.”
“Very well,” said the detective superintendent. “We will schedule Dr. and Mrs. Kidd’s trial for one week from today. If you five assorted family members can bring me exculpatory evidence…”
“Huh?” said Tommy.
“That means evidence favorable to Mom and Dad,” Storm explained.
“Precisely,” said the detective. “If, within the week, you five can furnish me with the other two purloined opals as evidence exonerating your parents, I will gladly drop all charges, release your mother and father, and arrest this Charlotte Badger character. After seven days, however, I cannot help you. Because, my friends, I have already put in my retirement papers. These are my final seven days with the force. This time next week, it’s, ‘Hello, Disneyland.’ You’ll have to deal with whomever takes over my caseload. So, do we have a deal?”
“Bully!” cried Uncle Richie.
The detective looked confused again. “Is that a yes?”
“Definitely!” we all said together.
We hugged and kissed and said good-bye to Mom and Dad faster than we ever had.
Because the clock was ticking.
We only had seven days to catch the real opal thieves!
CHAPTER 14
We booked a bunch of rooms at a hotel right off Darling Harbour in the heart of Sydney.
“We’ll only be staying one night,” Uncle Richie told the clerk as we checked in.
We couldn’t sleep on board The Lost, which was docked with the customs people. Our ship had been “impounded as evidence of high crimes on the high seas.”
Since we were all kind of hungry and clagged out (another Australian phrase Storm taught us) after our exhausting afternoon, Uncle Richie suggested we head off to an early dinner at a nearby restaurant.
“We need to strategize,” he said. “Something that’s extremely difficult to do when you’re so hungry you could eat a horse and chase the rider.”
So, we went to a restaurant called Hunter and Barrel on Cockle Bay Wharf. There weren’t many vegetarians in the place. The menu was full of stuff like beef skewers, crispy pork belly, and something called “eye of rump.” (I don’t even want to think of a buttocks with eyeballs. Neither does Beck.)
Tommy ordered the fried squid. Maybe because it reminded him of that octopus we tangled with off the coast of Tonga. Storm went with the hot cheese dip while Beck and I devoured a platter of crispy chicken wings. Uncle Richie had a cheeseburger. None of us wanted to even think about eating the second item on the “Fare Game” menu: Tasmanian kangaroo.
“We’ll definitely want to try Vegemite while we’re here,” said Storm.
“What is it?” I made the mistake of asking.
“A thick, black food paste made from mashed yeast extract that you can spread on toast for breakfast.”
Beck urped. “Sounds yummy,” she said.
“They even make a Vegemite smoothie,” said Storm.
“Bully,” said Uncle Richie. “Perfect for washing down some witchetty grubs.”
“What are those?” asked Tommy.
“Nutty-tasting little bugs. Actually, they are the wood-eating larvae of moths. Very crunchy.”
After that, none of us felt like ordering dessert.
We pushed away our plates and started hatching a plan.
“Storm?” asked Uncle Richie. “Did you by any chance memorize the maps and drawings pinned to the corkboards in The Room?”
“You mean the ones pinpointing what Mom and Dad both thought to be the precise location of Lasseter’s Gold?”
We all nodded.
“Well, duh,” said Storm. “Of course I did.”
“Excellent,” cried Uncle Richie, giving the table a good silverware-rattling thump with both of his fists. “We must do what we can with what we have and where we are!”
“So where do we need to go?” I asked Storm.
“The Outback,” said Storm. “The vast, remote interior of Australia. It’s even more isolated and inaccessible than the bush, which is what Australians call anything that’s not near a main population center. By the way, did you know that eighty-five percent of the Australian people live along the continent’s coastline and within thirty-one miles of a beach?”
“No way,” said Tommy. “Surfing must be the national sport.”
“No,” said Uncle Richie. “I believe that would be cricket.”
When he said that, we all urped. We were, once again, thinking about those grub worms he said Australians liked to eat.
CHAPTER 15
We headed back to our hotel and gathered in Uncle Richie’s room around a large map of Australia that we’d purchased in the lobby gift shop.
“Lasseter discovered his reef of gold at the turn of the nineteenth century,” said Storm. “But, he, more or less, forgot where it was.”
“Guess he didn’t have a photographic
memory,” said Tommy.
Storm nodded. “He tried to go back but he could never retrace his steps or find his gold reef again. Most experts who have studied Lasseter’s journals, including Mom and Dad, agree that, if the long-lost treasure actually exists, it would be located somewhere around here.” She tapped the map. “Right along the edge of the MacDonnell mountain ranges, putting it west of Alice Springs, a remote town in the deserts of the Northern Territory.”
“Alice Springs it is!” said Uncle Richie. “We shall charter a swift aircraft, the swiftest we can find, and fly there tomorrow at first light. Once in the Outback, I feel confident we will quickly overtake Ms. Badger and her associates, Banjo and Croc. We will firmly insist that they immediately turn over the two other opals Detective Superintendent Ruggiere has been hunting down for lo these many years.”
“And, if they say no,” said Tommy, “then we’ll steal the stolen stuff back from them!”
“Agreed,” said Uncle Richie. “We need those opals, children. Never forget—the clock is ticking. We only have seven days to save your parents from what, I’m certain, will prove to be a long and severe prison sentence. Thomas?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Make some phone calls. See who will rent us a private jet of some sort.”
“Um, okay. But how are we going to pay for it?”
“With this!” He pulled out a shiny black credit card.
“Whoa,” said Tommy. “Is that yours?”
“No. It’s your mother’s. However, in her perpetual pursuit of preparedness, she recently added me as a signatory to the account. This card is available by invitation only and has no spending limit. We can charge whatever we need.”
“So, I could buy that Lamborghini I mentioned earlier?”
“Will we need such a vehicle for our current expedition, Thomas? I suspect it might not fare well on the rough and rutted roads of the rugged Australian Outback.”
“True. Maybe after we grab Badger and the opals, I’ll ask Mom about the Lambo.”
“That’s the spirit, Tommy! Now, if you children will excuse me, I must disappear for the evening.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Well, as you might recall, I have many friends, associates, and acquaintances here in Australia, due to my earlier expeditions on the continent. Several of those colleagues will be meeting tonight around a circular table lined with green felt. I thought it might be wise to spend some time with them to see what intelligence I might be able to gather on our nemesis, Charlotte Badger.”
“In other words,” I said. “you’re going to another card game?”
“Yes,” said Uncle Richie. “Texas Hold ’Em poker is very popular here, even though we are very far from Texas!”
CHAPTER 16
Uncle Richie put on a snazzy vest with two rows of silver buttons the size of quarters. He also wore what Storm called a silk cravat (it’s a swanky bandana).
He looked like a riverboat gambler from an old-fashioned Western movie.
“Wish me luck,” he said, giving us a jaunty two-finger salute off his eyebrow. “I hope to come home with actionable intelligence on Ms. Charlotte Badger—as well as a little extra pocket change.”
As soon as he was gone, Tommy went to work. He was on the phone arranging to lease a Falcon 900C business jet.
“I checked out your website. The Falcon comes with a Magnastar satellite phone and an Airshow 400 entertainment system, correct? Cool, man.”
There was a pause as the person on the other side of the conversation asked a question.
“With my mother’s credit card. It’s the black one, dude. You could buy a Lambo with it.”
Another pause.
“No, we don’t need any pilots. My Uncle Richie has his Australian license. We might need a flight attendant, though.”
Storm shot Tommy a dirty look.
“On second thought,” Tommy said into the phone, “cancel the flight attendant. We’ll pack our own peanuts and soda.”
Storm was busy transferring the data from her brain to her laptop, creating a computer-generated map to Lasseter’s Gold that would mirror the one locked up in The Room on The Lost.
That left Beck and me with nothing to do, except launch into a Twin Tirade. This was number 2,015, in case you’re counting, which we were. In fact, we’ve actually had several dozen tirades about which number tirade we’re on.
“This is such a stupid plan!” said Beck.
“I think it’s brilliant!” I shouted back.
“What? We’re going to fly to the middle of nowhere, and track down Charlotte Badger, a pirate with a fake name?”
“We’re treasure hunters!” I screamed. “Finding stuff, or in this case, people with fake names, is what we do best!”
“And then, once we find them, what are we going to do? Politely ask Charlotte, Banjo, and Croc to turn over the precious jewels they probably stole from someone who stole them twenty years ago!”
“Politeness is a sign of dignity,” said Storm, “not subservience. Theodore Roosevelt said that.”
“Well, bully for him!” shouted Beck.
“Yeah,” I shouted at Storm. “And why are you butting into our argument? This is a Twin Tirade!”
“You’re not being very polite, Storm,” added Beck. Then she spun back on me. “What are we arguing about?”
“Our stupid plan to snatch the opals off a bunch of pirates,” I said.
“Well, it could work,” said Tommy. “If we sneak up from behind and conk them in the heads with coconuts.”
“Hello?” shouted Storm. “Earth to Tommy. There are no coconuts in the middle of the Australian Outback.”
“Not even in the produce section of a high-end grocery store?” said Tommy.
“There aren’t many grocery stores in the Outback,” said Storm, sounding exasperated. “High-end or otherwise.”
“You want to conk them with coconuts?” shrieked Beck. “They probably have pistols!”
“And guns,” I added.
“A pistol is a gun!” shouted Beck.
“But is a hot dog a sandwich?” demanded Storm.
“If you put two lasagnas on top of each other,” shouted Tommy, “is it two lasagnas or just one big one?”
“Who cares?” shouted Beck.
“Me!” said Tommy.
“Is cereal soup?” I wondered.
And then we all argued and screamed about that. For the first time in Kidd family history, a Twin Tirade had turned into a Quadruple Diatribe, a four-way free-for-all. I don’t think our family unit has ever been so un-unified.
Unlike a Twin Tirade, this Quadruple Diatribe didn’t fizzle out like the final birthday candle on your cake after you give it one last mighty blow. We kept going for what seemed like hours. We were arguing about everything!
“Toilets swirl backward in Australia!”
“Barbie should be a doll, not a barbeque!”
“I don’t care what Australians say. Chewy isn’t chewing gum! It’s a character from Star Wars!”
Again, I don’t really remember who was screaming what at whom. I think we were all angrier at the situation than one another. Our parents were locked up. They were looking at a long sentence for grand theft jewelry. And the only way for us to save them was to find a bunch of pirates, who had at least a one-day jump on us, and snatch away their opals. And we only had seven days—make that six (because we sure wasted the first day)—to get the job done.
We only stopped screaming at each other when, somehow, we heard a knock on the door.
Things got quiet, fast. We figured a hotel guest had complained and security had come up to toss us out into the street.
Tommy opened the door.
“Thank you, Thomas. Forgot my key.”
It was Uncle Richie.
“What was all the shouting about?”
“We were, uh, watching Australian TV,” I said because I’m good at making up stories. “They’re way louder than Amer
ican shows.”
“And their toilets swirl backward,” added Beck.
“Fascinating,” said Uncle Richie. “Were you able to secure us a private jet, Thomas?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wonderful. We’ll fly south, tomorrow!”
“South?” said Storm. “But Alice Springs is west and north of here.”
“Ah, so it is. But we’re not going to Alice Springs anymore. No, indeed. For I bear new, highly reliable information!”
CHAPTER 17
“So, we’re not going out back?” said Tommy.
“It’s the Outback, Tommy,” said Storm. “Like the steak house.”
“Riiiight.”
“Change of plans,” said Uncle Richie. “One of the fellows sitting around the card table this evening was a gent known as Squinty Eye Joe.”
“Does he squint?” I asked.
“Not that I noticed. Then again, the room was rather dark. Anyway, Mr. Joe and I fell into talking. He’s best mates with Digger McDaniels, who helped me years ago when I was in the country, searching for a rare Aboriginal artifact. Digger vouched for me and Squinty Eye Joe told me that he has, as they say, ‘done work’ for Ms. Charlotte Badger in the past.”
“What’s Charlotte Badger’s real name?” asked Beck.
“The last time she worked with Mr. Joe, she was Catherine Hagerty.”
“Because,” said Storm, “Catherine Hagerty was a convict sent to Australia by the British who did some pirating with Charlotte Badger.”
We all gawked at her.
She shrugged. “I figured I needed to add more Australian pirate trivia to my mental memory chips since I missed that first Charlotte Badger allusion on The Lost.”
“That’s the spirit, Storm,” boomed Uncle Richie, clapping her on the back. “But don’t be too hard on yourself, dear. A person who never made a mistake never tried anything new!”
“So, what are we going to do?” asked Beck.
Treasure Hunters--The Plunder Down Under Page 4
