“Why’s that?” asked Storm.
“Because he gets to spend more time with you.”
Willard wiggled his eyebrows some more. Storm looked queasy.
But Tommy shot the love-smitten security guard a double thumbs-up. “Smooth moves, Willard. I’m going to borrow that line the next time I rent a car at the Boston airport.”
“Thomas?” said Uncle Richie. “We need to move along. We need to visit Bob.”
CHAPTER 42
“Aya, I was on duty that night,” said the security guard named Bob, who was kind of ancient.
If someone stole a painting while he was on duty today, I wouldn’t count on Bob to catch the guy. Especially if there was any running involved.
“March eighteenth, nineteen-ninety,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Worst day of my life. It was early in the morning. My partner and I buzzed in two police officers responding to a disturbance call. Well, we thought they were police officers. Turns out, they were crooks!”
Bob’s face turned clown-nose red. He wheezed a little.
“Take it easy,” urged Uncle Richie.
“Sorry. Where were we?” He looked around, confused.
“The morning of March eighteenth,” said Storm. “Nineteen-ninety.”
“That’s when the museum was robbed!” shouted Bob, his face going even redder. His head looked like a radish.
“We know,” I said.
“Those two thieving robbers tied me and my partner up and spent an hour taking paintings off the walls. Good stuff, too. The Concert by Vermeer. Three different Rembrandts! Masterpieces by Manet and Degas. An ancient Chinese gu!”
“They stole some goo?” I said. “And it was Chinese goo?
“Like in moo goo gai pan?” asked Tommy.
“A ‘gu’ is a ritualistic bronze vessel or vase from the Shang or Zhou dynasties,” said Beck.
When it comes to art, my scribbling sibling can out-Storm Storm.
“The museum is offering a five-million-dollar reward for the return of everything,” said Bob.
We all nodded. None of us mentioned the fact that the Enlightened Ones were offering us twenty million dollars to find just one of the paintings.
“If you find all that art, will you give me a call?” said Bob, handing Uncle Richie a business card with a shiny silver sheriff’s star embossed on it. “They’re brand-new business cards. A gift from a friend. I feel so bad about what happened. Why, I don’t think I’ve had a decent night’s sleep in nearly thirty years.”
“Have you tried herbal tea?” suggested Storm.
Bob nodded. “Didn’t work. Nothing will work until all that art is safely home here in Boston.”
“Is anyone still working the case?” asked Uncle Richie.
“Aya. The FBI’s Boston field office. Special Agent Joel McKenna is in charge. He and I talk sometimes. Mostly about natural sleep remedies…”
“Joel McKenna?” said Uncle Richie. “Did he ever work in New York City?”
“Aya,” said Bob. “You know him?”
“Indeed, I do. I helped him out on a major case, back in the day. Thank you for your invaluable assistance, Robert.”
Apparently, Bob uses his full name on the business cards with the shiny silver star.
We headed out to the parking lot.
“Uncle Richie?” I asked. “Do you really think an FBI special agent will drop everything he’s working on to talk to us?”
“Joel McKenna will. As I said, I helped him close a major case several years ago.”
“What kind of case?” asked Tommy.
“An international episode involving kidnapping and ransom.”
“Really?” said Beck. “Where?”
Uncle Richie took a moment before he answered. “My portion of the mission took place in Australia, if you must know. The land down under.”
“Isn’t Australia where you—” Storm blurted before Beck and I cut her off with frantic “zip it, sis” gestures.
You know how the art heist at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum was the worst day in Bob the security guard’s life?
I have a feeling that whatever happened in Australia (with the fake art objects he had to take back from the museum he’d donated them to) might’ve been the worst day in Uncle Richie’s.
CHAPTER 43
We shoehorned ourselves back into the sporty Mustang and headed over to 201 Maple Street in Chelsea, Massachusetts—the FBI field office for all of New England.
We had to stop for visitor badges in the lobby but Special Agent McKenna saw us right away.
“Richie ‘Poppie’ Luccio!” he said as we stepped into his office. “It is so good to see you again!”
“Likewise, Joel,” said Uncle Richie, shaking the crew-cut and buttoned-up agent’s hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice.”
“Happy to help. I still owe you one from that thing down in—”
“Yes,” said Uncle Richie.
Wow. He really didn’t want anybody talking about whatever happened all those years ago in Australia.
“And you must be the famous Kidd kids—the legendary young treasure hunters! I’ve worked with your parents in the past. I take it you’re Tommy?”
“Chya.”
“And you must be Stephanie!”
Storm’s eyes started to darken into thunderclouds again.
“We call her Storm, now,” said Uncle Richie, quickly.
“Oh,” said the special agent. “My apologies.”
Storm nodded. “Apology accepted.”
“Joel,” said Uncle Richie, “you might wonder what brings us to your office today…”
“A totally awesome Mustang,” said Tommy. “Got a sweet deal on it at the airport. The counter lady liked me.”
“Very true,” said Uncle Richie, “but the reason we are here is because we would like to chat with you about the nineteen ninety art theft at the Gardner Museum.”
“Excellent. It’d be great if the Kidd Family Treasure Hunters could help us find the stolen art.”
“We’ll do our best, sir,” said Storm.
“I have to warn you—this has been one of the most frustrating, baffling, and mysterious cases the FBI has ever dealt with,” said the FBI agent. “This file has been open for nearly thirty years.”
“Dude?” said Tommy, probably forgetting he was talking to an FBI agent. “We’re all about hunting treasures. Especially the ones no one else can find.”
“So, what can you tell us?” asked Uncle Richie.
“Not much,” said McKenna. “We’re pretty certain the art was transported out of New England to either Connecticut or Philadelphia. Maybe both. Stolen property this hot, the thieves would be smart to split it up.”
“Totally,” says Tommy. “That’s what I’d do if I were a thief who stole five hundred million dollars’ worth of art, which, hello, I didn’t.” And then he started sweating. “I wasn’t even born in nineteen-ninety. I swear. You want me to take a lie detector test or anything?”
Special Agent McKenna shook his head. “No, thank you, Tommy. That won’t be necessary. But, here…” He pulled a bulging binder out of a filing cabinet. “Take a good look at these pictures. These are the treasures you’ll be hunting for.”
“Remind me,” said Uncle Richie. “What is this smallish painting called? The one with the gentleman in the top hat.”
“Chez Tortoni,” said Beck, our resident artiste. “It’s by Manet.”
“And it’s worth a lot of Monet!” I quipped. Nobody got the pun, except Uncle Richie.
“Bully, Bick. Bully. Well, thank you, Joel. We won’t take up any more of your time. Children? Come along. It’s time to go.”
“But we just got here,” I said.
“And the FBI is quite busy. They have crimes to investigate. We mustn’t take up any more of Mr. McKenna’s valuable time. Off we go, then.”
Uncle Richie hustled us all out the door.
“Quickly, Bick. Put
a spring in your step.”
“Why the rush?” I asked.
“Because,” said Uncle Richie. “I recognized one of those paintings. The Manet that Beck identified for us. I’ve seen it before.”
“Was it a print?” asked Beck.
“No. It was oil on canvas. And, as Beck pointed out, rather small. Perhaps ten by thirteen inches. Most important, it was hanging on the wall in the cards room of a very posh and exclusive private club.”
“And why, exactly, is that so important?” asked Storm.
“Because, my dear Storm, that club is in Philadelphia!”
CHAPTER 44
“If we can discover where the folks at the Phinnister Club in Philadelphia obtained that one stolen painting,” said Uncle Richie as we raced back to the Boston airport, “we might be able to figure out how to locate the rest of the missing masterpieces!”
“Awesome!” said Tommy.
Uncle Richie purchased plane tickets for all of us. I ended up in the seat next to his.
“This hopping around the country was a lot easier when we had your plane,” I said. “Or Ms. Johnston’s jet.”
“True, Bick. But flying commercial has its advantages, such as free peanuts and pretzels!”
“I just remembered something,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“You parked your plane at Ms. Johnston’s hangar, out there in the desert.”
“Indeed, I did.”
“But you kind of kicked her off the treasure hunt.”
“I thought it best for all concerned.”
“Aren’t you worried that she’ll keep your plane?”
“I suppose it’s a possibility. But the stakes in this quest are too high to worry about one antique airplane.”
“Well, she’ll probably give it back to you, anyway. Right after we give her one third of the Enlightened Ones’ twenty-million-dollar finder’s fee.”
“Bick?”
“Yes, sir?”
“If and when we locate the missing treasures from the Gardner Museum, we will not be turning them over to these so-called Enlightened Ones.”
“We won’t?”
He shook his head. “Of course not. These world-class works of art were not meant to hang in some consortium of billionaires’ secret and mysterious private collection. No, my good boy, we will return all the stolen objects to the museum in Boston, where art lovers from all over can, once again, see them on display.”
I was kind of glad Uncle Richie felt that way.
Treasures like Rembrandts and Manets are meant to be shared, not hoarded.
When we landed in Philadelphia, we took a taxi to the private Phinnister Club where, once again, Uncle Richie had a friend.
“Ah, Poppie!” said a man in a tuxedo, who practically pumped Uncle Richie’s arm off when they shook hands. “So good to see you again. Are you looking for a friendly game of cards?”
“Not today, Charles. In fact, I’m actually here on a fact-finding expedition.”
“Then how may I be of assistance?”
“We’d like to look at your Manet,” said Beck, because she was eager to eyeball the painting up close. Probably so she could count the brushstrokes. She did that sometimes.
“Do we have a Manet?” said Charles.
“It’s that small painting of the man in the hat,” said Uncle Richie. “In the card room.”
“Really? Will wonders never cease? Follow me. And children?”
“Yes, sir?” I said.
“Don’t touch anything.”
We were escorted into a very fancy room with a high ceiling, lots of velvety drapes, and a tinkling crystal chandelier. I counted six felt-topped card tables. Only one was occupied. Two elderly gentlemen were grumbling at each other and angrily flipping down cards, playing a very heated game of war.
“There it is!” gushed Beck, pointing to a smallish framed oil painting on the wall.
We rushed over to examine it.
“That looks exactly like the missing Manet!” I said as we crowded around the miniature masterpiece.
“It sure does,” said Beck.
Storm whipped out a magnifying glass and handed it to Beck. Yes, she never leaves home without one.
“Notice the loose brushstrokes, simplification of details, and, of course, the suppression of transitional tones,” said Beck. “I’d love to do some further tests and scans but, I am ninety percent certain this is the real deal.”
“Woo-hoo!” said Tommy. “This is why we’re the best treasure hunters in the world! Painting’s missing for thirty years? Boom! We find it in one day. Who’s more awesome than us?”
Uncle Richie turned to his friend Charles.
“Do you know where this painting came from?”
Charles shook his head. “It’s just always been there…”
“I know where it came from!” shouted one of the old men flipping cards at the table. “I won it in a game of high-stakes go fish from a lady named Simone Bouffant. It was such a pretty little painting, I decided to donate it to the club.”
“Do you know where we might find Ms. Bouffant?” asked Uncle Richie.
“No. Though I wish I did. For she was a fascinating and fetching woman.” Then he wiggled his shaggy eyebrows the way Tommy does when he’s flirting. I guess it’s something guys learn and never forget.
“Miss Bouffant runs an art gallery over near Society Hill,” said his card partner. “Fourth and Walnut.”
“How do you know that?” snapped the first old man.
“Simone and I dated for a little while!”
“Why, you rascal! We were dating, too!”
They started flinging cards at each other.
“Children?” said Uncle Richie, ducking. “I believe we need to leave here. Immediately.”
“Yeah,” said Beck. “Let’s go find Miss Bouffant before her two boyfriends decapitate us with flying ninja playing cards!”
CHAPTER 45
We grabbed the subway on the Market-Frankford line to the Independence Hall station.
“Might as well take in a few tourist attractions along the way,” said Uncle Richie.
“Might as well grab a Philly cheesesteak, too,” said Tommy. “And maybe some cream cheese. I’m starving.”
“First things first,” said Uncle Richie, as we dashed by the Liberty Bell.
“Yep,” said Beck, glancing at it as we rushed past. “It’s still cracked.”
“No time to stop and savor the historical significance,” said Uncle Richie. “I fear one of those two elderly gentlemen in the card room might call Miss Bouffant. Alert her that we are coming. Storm? What can you tell us about Independence Hall?”
We were speed-walking past it.
“Declaration of Independence. US Constitution,” huffed Storm, giving us the quick bullet point version of her usual info dump. “Both debated. Signed. Inside.”
“Bully!” said Uncle Richie. “Kudos on your concise and informative description, Storm.”
“Thank you, Uncle Richie.”
“Um, you guys?” said Beck, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder. “We’re not the only ones racing past Philadelphia’s most famous tourist attractions.”
I checked behind us.
Dirk McDaniels and three beefy guys in black leather jackets were following us in hot pursuit.
“Those dudes were in the helicopter that followed me when I went to Joshua Tree National Park to dig that fake hole!” said Tommy.
“What are they doing here?” I wondered out loud.
“Following us,” said Beck. “Duh.”
“I know that!” I snapped back as we all picked up our pace. “But how could they even know we were in Philadelphia?”
“Follow me!” said Uncle Richie.
We ducked into a leafy park across the street and hid inside a small, Tudor-style maintenance hut.
Thirty seconds later, we saw Dirk McDaniels studying his phone and pointing into the park.
“He’s
tracking us!” I said. “He’s using some kind of app.”
“Impossible, little bro,” said Tommy. “To do that, one of us would need to be carrying a tracking device.”
“One that we brought with us from the desert, to Virginia, to Boston, to Philadelphia,” said Storm. “Or picked up somewhere along the way.”
Uncle Richie pounded a fist into his open palm. “Bob!”
“Huh?” I said before everybody else could.
Uncle Richie pulled out the business card that the museum security guard had given him. The one with the shiny silver star.
“He said his flashy new cards were a gift from a friend,” said Uncle Richie. “I suspect that friend was your parents’ archrival Nathan Collier, Mr. McDaniels’s boss.”
“Collier!” said Tommy, pounding his fist into his palm.
“Of course,” said Beck. “He’s still trying to beat us to the treasures the Enlightened Ones want.”
“Is anyone carrying a crumb of bread?” asked Uncle Richie, peering out the windows of our hiding place in the park.
“I have a sort of half-nibbled protein bar,” said Tommy. “It tastes like peanut butter and chalk.”
“It might do the trick,” said Uncle Richie.
Tommy handed over his crinkled and smooshed bar.
Uncle Richie cracked open the shed door and cooed at some nearby pigeons, sprinkling protein bar crumbs on the ground. The birds pecked their way closer. Uncle Richie scooped up one of the birds, gently petting its feathers, and attached Bob’s rolled-up business card to its left leg with a rubber band that he, apparently, kept in his safari vest pocket at all times for just such carrier-pigeon emergencies.
“Fly, my friend, fly!” he urged the bird.
The pigeon took off.
So did Dirk McDaniels and his crew of rough-looking thugs.
“I wonder where that homing pigeon will take them,” I said.
Uncle Richie smiled. “Hard to say. But, hopefully, it will be far, far away from Miss Bouffant’s art gallery and the answer to the mystery of the missing masterpieces!”
All-American Adventure Page 10
