Thankfully, Mei-Ling had stocked up on New York City travel guides. Randi had almost asked her to take them back to the store. After all, she had lived in Brooklyn almost her entire life. But as it turned out, the guides were proving quite useful.
“Where in Brooklyn do the gangsters live?” D.C. asked. He had a map of the five New York City boroughs open in front of him. “Can we go there?”
“The gangsters?” Randi tried not to laugh.
“You know,” D.C. said. “Wise guys. Made men. Mafia types.”
“You watch way too much television,” Pudge told him.
“I don’t think we want to hang out with gangsters. And I’m pretty sure they don’t want to hang out with us,” Randi said. “But my aunt lives right across from the Brooklyn Museum. They’ve got an amazing collection of Egyptian mummies. And there’s usually some sort of cool exhibit. Let’s see what they’ve got going on while we’re in town.” She used her smartphone to call up the Brooklyn Museum’s website. “Oh,” she said with disappointment. “Looks like it’s an exhibit of Fabergé eggs.”
“What’s a Fabergé?” D.C. asked. “And what’s so great about its eggs?”
It might have been the first time that Randi had ever heard Colonel Taylor laugh. “Fabergé was a man, not an animal,” he informed D.C. from the driver’s seat. “He made beautiful jeweled Easter eggs for the last Russian tsar and his family. Most of them are priceless.”
“Sounds awesome,” Randi droned. The last thing in the world that she wanted to see was a bunch of fancy-schmancy Easter eggs. “I think I’d rather spend time with the mummies.”
“I don’t usually go for the froufrou stuff myself,” said Colonel Taylor. “But I had an interesting experience at a Fabergé exhibit once. Since then, they’ve always felt a bit magical and mysterious to me.”
Randi knew the start of a good story when she heard one. The three kids in the backseat put down their phones and magazines.
“What happened?” Pudge asked his dad.
“Well, it was before any of you kids were born. I was a security expert for the US Army, and I was sent to New York on an assignment. The Russian government was lending some Fabergé Imperial Eggs to a museum there called the Frick.”
“I know that place,” Randi said. “The museum is in a beautiful old mansion. My mom used to take me there sometimes when my dad was out of town.” Randi remembered skipping across the lush carpets and around the centuries-old furniture as she and her mom had passed from one stunningly beautiful room to the next. Randi had loved the museum’s little bronze gods and goddesses best, while her mother had spent most of their visits admiring the Frick’s priceless paintings in their gilded frames. Olivia-Kay Rhodes had been an artist herself, and she’d never seemed more content than when she was surrounded by art.
“The building wasn’t always a museum,” Colonel Taylor confirmed. “It was originally a wealthy man’s home. That’s one reason the Russians were so keen to have the electronic security systems inspected. The eggs are the perfect things to steal. They’re small, so they are easy to transport and hide. And each one of them is worth millions.”
“Were there weaknesses in the security system?” Randi asked.
“None that I could find at first,” Colonel Taylor admitted. “Which is why I was so surprised by what happened.”
“There was a robbery?” D.C. asked.
“No,” Pudge’s dad responded. “But there was a break-in the evening after the Fabergé exhibit opened. The crowds had been incredible all day, but by eight o’clock, I finally had the building almost completely to myself. The only other people who were supposed to be in the museum were three security guards who were constantly making their rounds. I had already finished my assignment, and it was my last night on the job. All of the museum’s doors were locked and the alarms were activated. I’d learned how to avoid tripping them, but it wasn’t an easy feat. You had to know where to step—and what not to touch.
“The room where the Fabergé eggs were displayed was quite eerie at night. There were two dozen glass displays, each with a single egg inside. The room itself was dark, but the glass boxes were lit up. It made it very easy to see the eggs—and very difficult to see anything else. So that night, when I entered the room, I didn’t spot her at first, and I’m certain she didn’t see me either.”
“Who was it?” Pudge asked.
“A burglar?” Randi asked.
“A ghost?” D.C. asked.
“It was a young woman,” said Colonel Taylor. “She was wearing a black trench coat and a short black wig. And she was sketching one of the eggs on a pad of paper.”
“What did you do?” Randi asked.
“Well, I approached her, of course. She smiled and kept on drawing. I asked her what she thought she was doing, and she told me to wait a moment while she finished her sketch.”
“And you let her?” Pudge sounded shocked.
Colonel Taylor shrugged. “She seemed like a nice young lady. And her art was exceptional. I thought it deserved to be finished. When she put down her pencil, she kindly answered my question. She said she was doing research for a book. The egg she was drawing was going to play an important role. She claimed she’d tried to visit the museum during the day, but the exhibit had been too crowded to do any sketching.”
“She said that was the reason she’d broken into a museum at night?” D.C. asked. “To do some sketching? And you believed her?”
“I was a bit skeptical at first,” Pudge’s dad admitted. “But then I asked how she’d managed to get in without setting off any alarms, and she was more than happy to tell me. You don’t know about the secret dumbwaiters, do you? she said. Turns out, she had examined the original building plans and had found the perfect place to hide until the museum closed. The dumbwaiters were little elevators that the servants used in the old days to transport necessary items from one floor to the next.”
“Wow,” Randi said. “And she figured out where they were? I’m starting to like this lady.”
“I guess you could say she saved my behind,” Colonel Taylor said. “If a real crook had found that hole in the security system, it could have caused a whole heap of trouble.”
“That’s such a great story,” D.C. said. “Kinda makes me want to have a look at those Easter egg thingies.”
“And I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet,” said the colonel. “I let the woman go, of course, but I did take down her name and phone number. Guess what name she gave me?”
The kids waited breathlessly for the answer.
“She said her name was Glenn Street.”
Randi laughed. “That’s hilarious!”
“It’s not that funny if you think about it. I’d never heard the name before. Remember when this all happened, Randi. When did the first Glenn Street novel come out?”
Randi felt like she’d been walloped. “It came out when I was one year old,” she whispered. “My dad started writing the book after I was born.”
“Whoa!” Pudge said. “I think my mind just got blown!”
“Wait.” D.C.’s brow was furrowed. “Does that mean that the woman’s name really was Glenn Street?”
“To this day, I haven’t figured it out,” Colonel Taylor said. “A few years after the incident at the museum, I walked into a bookstore and saw a novel with the name Glenn Street on the cover. I was convinced it was the book the woman had been writing—until I opened the jacket flap and saw Herb Rhodes’s face. I even bought it, thinking the woman might have used a pen name. There wasn’t a single mention of Fabergé eggs in the entire novel. But that, Miss Rhodes, is how I became such a big fan of your father’s work.”
“Maybe my dad knows who it was,” Randi said.
“That was one of the first things I asked him when he and I met in Deer Creek.”
“And?” Randi asked.
“And Herb said he had no idea. He didn’t seem to want to talk about Glenn Street, and I didn’t want to pry.”
<
br /> “Really?” Randi had never known her father to turn down an opportunity to discuss Glenn Street. He might have stopped writing about her, but she was still one of the great loves of his life.
Then a bolt of inspiration struck. Randi pulled her wallet out of her backpack. Tucked into one of the pockets was a picture she took with her wherever she went.
“Sir?” she asked. “Does this look like the woman you saw in the museum?”
Colonel Taylor took a quick glance at the photo Randi had placed in his hand. Within seconds, he had pulled to the side of the road. Once the car had stopped, he took out his reading glasses and had a closer look at the picture.
“That’s her!” he exclaimed. “She has different hair in this picture, but I’m almost positive that’s the mysterious woman at the Frick!”
“That’s my mom,” Randi told him.
The photo she had handed Colonel Taylor showed Olivia-Kay Rhodes sitting on a stoop in Brooklyn, proudly holding a two-week-old Randi.
* * *
Go to Appendix B to complete the Ninja Task!
* * *
CHAPTER SIX
* * *
GIGI
It was six o’clock when the Taylor family SUV rolled to a stop in front of the colossal apartment building where Randi’s aunt Gigi lived. The three kids hadn’t spoken a word for half an hour. That’s when they had spotted the Statue of Liberty standing in the New York harbor with a blazing torch in her hand. Behind the statue were the magnificent skyscrapers of Manhattan’s financial district. D.C. had whistled appreciatively. He’d never seen anything like it. Randi had, but the beauty of it still had the power to render her speechless. She was finally home, she thought, and she wiped away a tear before anyone could see.
Now the daylight was slipping away. Across the street from Gigi’s building, the Brooklyn Museum was lit up like a lantern. It resembled an ancient Greek temple, complete with columns and statues and a giant dome on top. But a modern glass addition on the ground floor now served as an entrance. Long cloth banners were hanging above, swaying and fluttering in the strong autumn winds. Each banner featured a different brightly colored bejeweled egg. Together, the banners read, FABERGÉ: SECRETS OF THE TSAR.
“What does that mean?” Randi asked Colonel Taylor. Now that there might have been a connection between Fabergé and her mom, she couldn’t get enough of the subject.
“Tsar is the Russian word for king,” he explained. “The rule of the last tsar ended in 1917. He and his family were executed when the Communists took power.”
“And what about the ‘secrets’ part?” Randi inquired. “What do the tsar’s secrets have to do with Easter eggs?”
“They weren’t just Easter eggs,” Colonel Taylor said. “Fabergé made fifty Imperial Eggs. Each and every one of them had a treasure hidden inside.”
“What kind of treasures?” Pudge asked.
“I remember one opened up to reveal a tiny palace carved in gold. It was a perfect replica of one of the tsar’s palaces. Other eggs had miniature paintings or figurines.”
Randi could smell a mystery. “Do you remember which egg my mom . . . I mean the lady in black . . . was sketching when you saw her at the Frick?”
“I don’t,” Colonel Taylor admitted. “But maybe if you visit the museum you can try to guess which one caught her eye. Looks like the Fabergé exhibit opens this Sunday.”
“Can I go too?” Pudge begged.
“No,” Colonel Taylor said, his voice getting gruff again. “We’ll be in Boston with your grandmother. We won’t have time for fun.” He stopped, as if he’d found his own words strange. “What I meant to say is that we’re on a tight schedule. We don’t have room to add anything else to the itinerary. Now, everyone out of the car. Let’s get this luggage upstairs.”
“It’s true. We never have time for fun,” Pudge grumbled once his father was out of the car.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Rannnddddeeeeee!” Gigi threw open the door, grabbed her niece, and spun her around the room. “I’ve missed you sooooooo much!”
She set Randi down and had a good look at her. Randi stumbled a step backward, dizzy from the spinning. “Oh my goodness. You’re all grown up and dangerous!” Gigi proclaimed. “Please tell me you’re still fighting crime and kicking bad-guy butt!”
Randi laughed. Gigi always knew what she wanted to hear. The spunky blonde was a younger, fairer version of her sister, Olivia-Kay. There had been almost eight years between them. Randi’s mom had practically raised Gigi, and Randi had always felt that Gigi was more like a sister than an aunt. Unfortunately, they’d never had a chance to spend much time together. Gigi had been away at school for most of Randi’s childhood. She’d returned to Brooklyn when Randi’s mother had died—and left to work overseas a few months later.
“Gigi, I’d like you to meet my friends D.C. and Pudge,” Randi said. “And this is Pudge’s dad, Colonel Taylor.”
D.C. held out a hand, but he got a hug. Much to their surprise, Pudge and his dad got hugs, too.
“You have a lovely apartment,” Colonel Taylor said, admiring the spacious living room with its stunning view of the museum across the street. “And quite large by New York standards.”
“It belonged to my parents,” Gigi explained. “My sister and I grew up here, and I moved back in after I got out of school. It’s way too big for me, but I couldn’t bear to give it up. And I love having guests. I’m so thrilled that you could join me for Thanksgiving,” she said, putting to rest any suggestion that Gigi might feel inconvenienced. “I was heartbroken when I thought you might not be coming.”
“Ms. Daly, I think there’s been a—” Colonel Taylor started to say.
“Come on. Come on! We’ll catch up later.” She was grabbing her coat. “The museum closes at eight tonight. We just have enough time to say hello to the mummies. Then we’re going to hop in a cab and head to this amazing Ethiopian restaurant I know.”
Colonel Taylor didn’t budge. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Daly,” he said. “But I’m afraid my son and I must get going. We’re trying to reach Boston tonight, and we have five hours left on the road.”
But Gigi wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Then we’ll skip the mummies and head straight to dinner. You’d have to stop to eat anyway, wouldn’t you?”
Gigi didn’t know that Colonel Taylor budgeted exactly fifteen minutes for meal consumption during road trips. Randi still had indigestion from gulping down a salami sandwich at lunch.
“Please, Dad?” Pudge begged.
Randi expected to hear Colonel Taylor say no. But he looked down at his son’s face and, for once, the army man surprised her. “I do have a soft spot for Ethiopian food,” he admitted. “All right, then. Dinner. But after that, Pudge, we’re back on the road.”
“Thank you, Dad!” Pudge did his signature victory dance, which made him look like a robot with a few gears missing.
“You’re welcome, Pudge.” His father sighed and rolled his eyes. There was nothing he despised more than the victory dance.
“Wow, that was amazing!” Gigi exclaimed. “You’ve got some serious moves, kid. Will you teach me some of them later?”
“Sure!” Pudge cried.
~ ~ ~ ~
From the outside, the Ethiopian restaurant looked like a regular storefront on a rather dingy avenue in the heart of Brooklyn. But as soon as the kids set foot inside, it was clear they had entered another land. Mouthwatering fragrances wafted through the air. Diners sat around circular tables, sharing food from a single giant platter set in the middle. Each platter held a number of brightly colored dishes that Randi had never encountered. There were no plates and no utensils—just a stack of purplish, spongy pancakes that the diners were using to scoop up their food.
“Everyone here is eating with their hands!” D.C. whispered.
Gigi giggled. “That’s what you’re supposed to do at an Ethiopian restaurant,” she explained. “That soft, flat bread they give you is
called injera. You use it instead of a fork.”
When they were taken to their table, Gigi and Colonel Taylor were seated side by side.
“What sort of work do you do?” Randi heard Colonel Taylor try to make small talk with Gigi. She smiled. She could tell the colonel was expecting to hear that Gigi was busy living off the fat of the land.
“Me?” Gigi answered in her childlike voice. “I’m a doctor.”
If he’d been sipping water at that moment, the colonel would have done a spit take. “You’re a doctor?” he sputtered. “What kind of doctor?”
“I’m a neurosurgeon,” Gigi replied.
“You cut open people’s heads and operate on their brains?” D.C. asked. “Cool.”
“Thanks! I think so,” Gigi said. “I just got back from a year-long tour in Cambodia with Doctors Without Borders. I need a little rest, so I’m taking a few months off to write a book.”
“Fiction?” Colonel Taylor seemed to be too shocked to utter more than one word.
“Nope,” Gigi said. “It’s about the latest advances in clinical electromyography. I know it sounds like a snooze, but for neurologists, it’s practically a thriller.”
“Very impressive,” Colonel Taylor said. “I would have assumed you were an artist of some sort.”
“Oh, I am!” Gigi replied. “I’m working on a ceramics project now. I’m doing a modern take on canopic jars—you know the vessels the Egyptians used to store organs after they were removed from mummies during the embalming process. That’s one of the reasons I loved growing up across from the museum. It’s an endless source of inspiration. You know, it’s too bad that Pudge won’t have a chance to see the mummies. . . .”
She continued to talk, but Randi was stuck on two little words. The museum. It took Randi back to the story she’d heard on the drive to New York.
The Sweetest Heist in History Page 4
