All-American Adventure Read online

  “Aw, they’re just fakes,” said one of the Civil War reenactors, pulling out his pistol.

  “Mine fires blanks,” said another.

  “Mine’s made out of wood,” said the third. “Whittled it myself.”

  “Well,” cried Milton T. Mosby, brandishing a very nasty, very modern-looking handgun. “My revolver is real!”

  “Show him your weapon, Poppie!” said Ms. Johnston.

  “Actually,” said Uncle Richie, “I never carry weaponry. Never saw the point of it.”

  Until now, I wanted to say, but didn’t. Uncle Richie looked embarrassed enough.

  So, we all held up our hands—including the three Civil War reenactors—while Milton T. Mosby scampered into the ditch with one hand aiming his pistol, the other one scooping up all of what used to be our treasure.

  CHAPTER 38

  Mr. Mosby stuffed all the treasure into a duffel bag.

  “This comes at a most convenient time,” he said. “Dr. Hingleburt needs more financing for his research into the original Bill of Rights.”

  He tapped an app on his phone.

  “My car will be here in five,” he said, keeping his pistol up. “No way am I riding that crazy horse out of here. Gentlemen? For services rendered.”

  He tossed a gold coin to one of the mounted Civil War reenactors who snatched it in midair.

  “What’s this for?” the guy asked.

  “Your payment, idiot!”

  The guy side-armed the coin back at Mosby and dinged him in his riding helmet.

  “Don’t want it,” he said. “That treasure ought to go into a museum or something.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Uncle Richie.

  “Fine,” said Mosby, pocketing the gold coin. “More for me to donate to Dr. Hingleburt.”

  He looked at Tommy, Storm, Beck, and me.

  “Wait a second. If he’s Richie Luccio, you four must be the Kidd brats.”

  “We prefer ‘the Kidd kids,’” I said. “It has a certain zing to it.”

  “This old fool is your great-uncle!” laughed Mr. Mosby. “And your mother is the one giving the good professor, Dr. Hingleburt, so much grief about his incredible new finds.”

  “That’s my niece,” said Uncle Richie, proudly. “Susan Luccio Kidd. Smartest kid in her class, from kindergarten to graduate school.”

  “Only because she never had a class with me!” bragged the little blowhard. “And, if she’s so smart, tell her to back off. There’s a new America dawning. She could get hurt, sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Oh, I don’t tell Susan anything,” said Uncle Richie, smiling broadly. “She can handle herself quite well without any assistance from me. Why, I remember this one time, when she was only six years old, we were together in the land formerly known as Persia, searching for Ganj-e Badavard—‘the treasure brought by the wind’—which, of course, was the name of one of the legendary eight treasures of the Sasanian king Khosrow II…”

  Uncle Richie didn’t get to finish that story.

  A rumbling SUV came crashing through the forest.

  “So long, fools!” said Mr. Mosby. “My ride is here.”

  “Is that an Uber?” I asked. Because I had to.

  “Ha! Uber is for ordinary people. And, as you know, I am extraordinary! This is a Suber-Duber! They’ll pick you up anywhere, even in the woods.”

  Milton T. Mosby tossed his duffel into the backseat of the SUV, climbed in, and took off.

  “You folks want us to chase after him?” asked one of the reenactors on horseback.

  “We could turn him over to the police,” said another.

  “We know the sheriff,” said the third.

  “No need,” said Ms. Johnston, sort of surprising the rest of us. “Let him enjoy his treasure. It’s small potatoes.”

  “Small potatoes?” I said.

  “Hello?” said Beck. “Earth to private jet lady. That loot is worth millions!”

  “Five and a half million dollars, to be precise,” I reminded everybody.

  The three horsemen whistled.

  Ms. Johnston grinned. “Like I said, small potatoes.” She turned to the reenactors. “Good night, gentlemen. I would suggest you not answer any more of Mr. Mosby’s phone calls.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said one. “We’re sorry for any inconvenience and loss of treasure we may have caused you and your friends. Y’all have a good rest of your night.”

  The three men rode off into the Virginia night.

  Ms. Johnston waited to make certain they were far enough away that they wouldn’t hear what she said next.

  “This is our lucky day!” she finally announced.

  “Seriously?” I said. “We just found one of the long-lost American treasures…”

  “And then we lost it,” said Beck.

  “My lucky day was when I met you,” said Tommy, trying his best to get his groove thing going.

  Ms. Johnston ignored him. Again.

  “That bag full of coins and candlesticks is practically worthless compared to your next assignment,” Ms. Johnston said with a laugh.

  “Assignment?” I said. “What is this? School? Treasure Hunting 101?”

  “No. I texted a photo of our find to the Enlightened Ones the minute you dug it up. They were mightily impressed. They want your help recovering one more lost treasure. Find it, and the twenty-million-dollar recovery fee will be yours. Except, of course, for one third of it, which will be mine!”

  CHAPTER 39

  “You sent them photographic evidence of our discovery?” Uncle Richie asked Ms. Johnston. “Already?”

  She nodded.

  “I was going to send them one of my selfies,” said Tommy, pouting a little.

  “Time is of the essence!” said Ms. Johnston. “Besides, reporting on your treasure-hunting capabilities is what they hired me to do.”

  “Excuse me?” said Beck.

  “Yeah,” I said, “excuse me, too. You’re working for the Enlightened Ones?”

  Ms. Johnston shot me a wink. “I’ll work for anybody who pays well and on time.”

  “So,” said Uncle Richie, “that’s why Nathan Collier was using your airport facility services as well?”

  “You guessed it, Poppie. He was in the running for this gig, too. But you guys totally knocked Collier and that newbie Dirk McDaniels out of the competition with your Lost Ship of the Desert score. Then you dig up Mosby’s treasure? Poppie, I’ve got to tell you. Even I’m impressed.”

  Uncle Richie gave her a look like he wished she would quit calling him by his nickname. “Poppie” was what his friends called him. I had a feeling that Ms. Johnston wasn’t a friend anymore. She was just a mercenary, selling out to the highest bidder.

  “So, what’s our new assignment?” I asked. “What do the Enlightened Ones want us to find for them next? A needle in a haystack?”

  “A polar bear in a snowstorm?” said Beck.

  “Waldo?” said Tommy.

  “How about a priceless piece of missing or stolen art?” asked Storm.

  “Bingo!” said Ms. Johnston.

  Storm just shrugged. “We’ve dealt with these E-Ones before. They’re art buffs. They like adding to their private collection—especially if it’s a priceless painting that has fallen off the face of the earth, preferably through theft.”

  “Well, this one fits the bill,” said Ms. Johnston.

  “Um, can we talk about this somewhere besides the deep woods?” I said, swatting the back of my knee. “I think my bug spray is wearing off.”

  So we hiked back to the Dixie Dipper.

  The gangly guy wasn’t working behind the counter anymore.

  “A customer pulled into the drive-thru and gave him a solid-gold coin as a tip,” explained the girl who had taken his place. “I wish somebody would give me a solid-gold coin. All I ever get in my tip cup are quarters, nickels, and dimes.”

  We ordered some snacks and beverages, tipped her with several dollar bills, a
nd headed back to the van for a meeting.

  “Very well, Pamela,” said Uncle Richie, slurping on his milkshake, “tell us what missing American treasure we will be hunting down next for your mysterious friends.”

  “It could be your most difficult quest ever,” said Ms. Johnston.

  “Doubtful,” said Storm. “But do go on.”

  “Are you familiar with Vermeer’s painting The Concert?” she asked.

  The rest of us turned to Storm.

  She did not disappoint.

  “Vermeer’s The Concert is considered to be the most valuable stolen painting in the world,” she replied. “It was taken as part of the largest art heist in history, which took place on March 18, 1990, when two thieves disguised as police officers stole thirteen pieces of art from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. The combined worth of all the art stolen that one night is estimated to be five hundred million dollars. None of it has ever been recovered.”

  CHAPTER 40

  “We need to find that painting!” I exclaimed.

  Yes. I get stoked whenever someone mentions a new treasure in need of hunting.

  “Wait a second,” said Beck. “How much is the Vermeer worth?”

  “Two hundred million,” replied Storm.

  “Wait a second,” said Beck. “Two hundred million? And the Enlightened Ones only want to give us twenty million for finding it?”

  “I’m sure we could negotiate the price point,” said Ms. Johnston. “After we find the painting.”

  “That Vermeer has been missing for nearly thirty years,” said Storm. “What makes you think we can find it?”

  “Because we’re the Kidds, Storm!” I declared. “Finding stuff that nobody else can find is what we do!”

  “When others say stop,” added Beck, “we say go.”

  “Unless we’re at a dangerous intersection,” I noted.

  “True,” said Beck. “But, otherwise, we are flat-out treasure-hunting maniacs!

  “Chya!” said Tommy. “It’s in, like, our DNA.”

  “And with your amazing brain power,” I said, buttering Storm up, “we’ll probably find it by this time next week.”

  Storm nodded. “True. My brain is awesome. Okay. Let’s do this thing.”

  “Bully!” said Uncle Richie, suddenly reinvigorated. “Pamela? Might we impose upon you to fly us up to Boston first thing in the morning?”

  “You don’t want to fly up there tonight?” she asked.

  “We all need our rest,” said Uncle Richie. “A night off might restore our bodily vigor for the quest ahead!”

  “A night off sounds like a great idea,” said Tommy, wiggling his eyebrows at Ms. Johnston. “How about you, me, and a pizza?”

  “Tommy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  Bright and early the next morning, we jetted from Virginia to Boston. When we disembarked from the plane, Uncle Richie had a surprise announcement for Ms. Johnston.

  “This is where we bid you adieu, Pamela,” he said.

  “Pardon me?” She sounded stunned.

  “It means ‘so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good-bye,’” said Storm.

  Ms. Johnston started stammering. “B-b-but…”

  “Do not fret,” said Uncle Richie. “We will honor our previous financial agreement and provide you with one third of the gross proceeds at the end of this meandering and somewhat convoluted treasure hunt. However, you have not been dealing honestly with us, Pamela. And as Theodore Roosevelt once said, ‘Honesty first; then courage; then brains!’”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Poppie.”

  “Well, I feel worse,” said Tommy, who had the sad puppy dog look he usually gets when the loves of his life say “buh-bye.”

  As for me? I was glad to see Ms. Johnston go. She was a little too cozy with the Enlightened Ones and would probably sell us out to anybody if it meant a bigger slice of the pie for her. And, on this particular treasure hunt, the pie had twenty million bananas in it.

  “Let me give you a number to call,” said Ms. Johnston.

  “Awesome!” said Tommy, perking up.

  “It’s not mine.”

  Tommy’s face flipped back to sad puppy dog.

  “If and when you find the Vermeer, make contact with the Enlightened Ones immediately.” She pulled a business card out of her flight suit. “Text this number. They will organize the pick-up of the painting and the delivery of our twenty million dollars.”

  “You mean your six million, six-hundred-sixty-six-thousand, six-hundred-and-sixty-six dollars, and sixty-six cents,” said Storm. “Which, if you behave, we could round up to sixty-seven cents.”

  Ms. Johnston smiled. It wasn’t a very nice one. Reminded me of those snarling beagles we met down in Virginia.

  “I’ll take that,” said Uncle Richie, plucking the business card out of Ms. Johnston’s fingertips. “I’m sorry we must part this way, Pamela, but you leave me no choice. We cannot have a paid snoop reporting our every move to the highest bidder. I wish you good luck in all your future endeavors. Good day.”

  “But, Poppie—”

  “I said, ‘Good day’!”

  Ms. Johnston reluctantly returned to her plane.

  “Now then,” said Uncle Richie, “I suppose we should go into the terminal and arrange a car rental.”

  “I’ll try,” said Tommy. “But I don’t know how far I can walk with a broken heart.”

  “Tut, tut, Thomas,” said Uncle Richie. “You’ll find another fair maiden, one far worthier of your attentions. Remember: there are plenty of fish in the sea.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And not all of them are sharks!”

  CHAPTER 41

  We rented a car.

  “Something sporty, like my great-nephew, Thomas, here!” Uncle Richie told the girl behind the counter.

  Yes. You guessed it. Tommy had already tailspun into love again.

  “I think she likes me, guys,” he told us later, when we all piled (make that squeezed) into our sporty Mustang convertible. “She gave us a free map!”

  We were all super-happy to see Tommy smiling again (and glad to be rid of Ms. Pamela Johnston).

  Storm, who can sound exactly like the lady inside a GPS device, gave us turn-by-turn directions to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—without even consulting the map. (Tommy was hugging it.)

  We entered the building, which looked like a Venetian palace from the 1400s (not that I’ve ever been to Venice in the 1400s). We wandered around a little, with Beck gawking at all the art, and ended up in a beautiful garden courtyard.

  “I suggest we initiate our expedition by consulting with the security personnel,” said Uncle Richie after we’d seen enough of the art on display.

  “Good idea,” I said. “Maybe one of the guards was even on duty the night of the burglary.”

  “Doubtful,” said Beck. “That was way back in 1990.”

  “That’s not so long ago,” I said.

  “Uh, hello?” said Beck. “Do the math. We’re talking three decades.”

  “So? What’s three decades?”

  “Thirty years!”

  Yep. Right there, in the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum’s lush garden courtyard, we erupted into Twin Tirade 2004.

  “Three decades?” I scoffed. “That’s nothing!”

  “Nothing? It’s two and a half times our entire lives!”

  “Did you do that math in your head?” I screamed. “Do you have a calculator hidden in your hair?”

  “No, Bickford. I used my brain. Something you could do if you had one.”

  “Well, I must say, Rebecca, I am impressed.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I divided thirty by twelve and somehow ended up with eighteen.”

  “Probably because you subtracted instead of dividing.”

  “Oh. Right. Duh. My bad.”

  “No biggy.”

  “We’re cool?”

  “Totally.”


  As always, our angry diatribe (Mom’s vocabulary word of the week last week) was over almost as soon as it began. However, throwing a loud tantrum in the middle of an art museum is never a great idea.

  Unless, of course, you’re eager to meet some security guards, which we were. So, in this particular instance, our dumb mistake was genius.

  “You kids need to pipe down!” whined this guard who looked to be about the same age as Tommy. It also looked like he’d borrowed his navy-blue blazer from his father, and his baggy gray slacks from Santa Claus. His name tag ID’ed him as Willard.

  “Ah, good afternoon, Willard,” said Uncle Richie. “I wonder if you might be able to assist us?”

  “And I wonder if you can ask these two kids here to pipe down!”

  “Of course.” He turned to us. “Bick? Beck? Pipe down.”

  “Yes, sir,” we both said.

  “Now then, Willard, as I have honored your request, perhaps you will grant me a moment of your time?”

  “I’m on the clock, pal. Not supposed to be fraternizing with the art patrons.”

  “This will take but a moment.”

  “I ain’t got but a moment.”

  Storm stepped forward, her eyes narrowing and darkening with storm clouds, which, by the way, is how she earned her nickname.

  “Then let me make this quick, Willard,” she thundered. “What can you tell us about the art theft that took place here in 1990?”

  Willard quivered a little.

  And then, just like Tommy, he started wiggling his eyebrows. I think Willard was flirting with Storm.

  “I wish I could help you, ma’am,” he told her, very earnestly. “More than anything I’ve ever wished for in my whole, entire life.”

  Great. Now the security guy was in a tailspin.

  “But,” he continued, “I wasn’t here that night. I wasn’t even born. You need to talk to Bob.”

  “Who’s Bob?” asked Storm.

  “My boss,” said Wilbur. “He’s over there in the security office. And, if you ask me, he’s the luckiest man in the world.”