Teenage Treasure Hunter
By
DANIEL KENNEY
Trendwood Press
Copyright © 2015 Daniel Kenney
All rights reserved.
Published by Trendwood Press
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.
The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.
To my father, who taught me to love history
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
ABOUT THE AUTHOR—DANIEL KENNEY
Chapter One – The Dolls
Curial ran to the top of the steps and read the pink Post-it note again.
I gave this to you because I knew you could do it.
Trust me,
Mom
After three days of staring at the note, Curial still had no idea what it meant. Gave me what? Do what? He shook his head and entered the museum.
A security guard unfolded the New York Times and flashed an easy smile.
“Do you know where Claude is?” Curial asked, while tapping his foot against the polished marble.
“Just passed by here a couple minutes ago. You want me to call him up?”
Curial shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. He can’t be too far.”
The guard shrugged while Curial gripped the note tightly and practically sprinted down the corridor. He stopped when something caught his eye to his left. Something important. Finding Claude could wait a minute.
He turned and made his way toward a rectangular portrait hanging in the corner. Curial stopped, drew his breath and sat down on a shiny wooden bench. Then he loosened the grip on the note and looked up at the painting. At the woman in the painting. She wore a full-length grey dress, appeared to be in her early thirties, and stood between an armed soldier and a boy. Her lips curled into a subtle smile.
Curial’s mom had loved this painting. She loved how the anonymous Dutch painter alternated his use of heavy and light brush strokes to add layers of interest to the piece. She loved how the woman and the boy were people of color like themselves. But mostly, his mom loved how the woman protected the little boy—and how, in the midst of everything looking so dark and hopeless, she still found a reason to smile.
This woman knew something.
Curial turned away from the picture when he saw a familiar man approaching: MAC Art Director Claude Von Kerstens. Claude was the only employee of the Manhattan Art Collective who did not wear a burgundy blazer; instead, he wore a perfectly tailored black suit and black tie every day. Claude’s fashion style was matched in sharpness by his professionalism; and even though he took his clothes, his manner, and his museum quite seriously, Claude never did take himself too seriously. That’s why Curial’s mom had liked him so much. And why Curial still liked him.
“I see you’re spending time with our lady friend?” Claude said, nodding toward the portrait.
Curial gave him a nervous smile. “Looks like she’s due for that cleaning.”
“As soon as we finish the renovation and have the grand opening, you have my word: your lady with the smile will get a much-needed rest.”
“Mom would have liked that. Listen Claude, I wanted to check back with you, see if you found…?”
Claude raised a finger. “Almost forgot. Yes, I looked around twice, spoke to my staff, and unfortunately, nobody can recall your mom leaving anything here for you.”
Curial had been afraid of that.
“If I might ask, Mr. Diggs, was there anything in particular you were looking for?”
Truth was, Curial had no idea. Three days ago, his butler, Hank, had found the Post-it note between the grates of an air conditioning vent in his mom’s study. He’d brought it to Curial thinking it must have meant something.
But Curial had no idea what it meant. He and his mom had been so much closer than he’d ever been with his father. And even though Curial knew it was selfish, he thought she might have left him something to remember her by. Something special.
But she hadn’t. She hadn’t left him anything other than a framed picture. And now this note. This strange note.
Curial shook his head. “Did she tell you anything… about me?”
Claude scrunched his face and tilted his head. “Come again?”
“Like, did she ever talk to you about something she wanted me to do, something like that?”
Claude’s face slowly unscrunched and his eyes looked apologetic. “No, Mr. Diggs. I am sorry, she did not.”
Curial let out a slow breath. Claude gave him an understanding look, then raised his finger again. “But I do have something I could show you. You wouldn’t mind taking a sneak peek at the renovation?”
Curial dropped his shoulders. He had spent the last three days searching every inch of the mansion, trying to find whatever it was his mom had referenced in her note. She had wanted her son to do something.
He just had no idea what.
Curial followed Claude through a maze of small galleries, through the center lobby, and up to a large entrance that was covered with orange barricades, half-inch plywood, and plastic sheeting. Claude lifted up the plastic sheeting, and the two of them slipped behind the temporary plywood doors and into the main gallery.
Curial craned his neck upward and looked around. The ceiling was different—somehow higher. And there were now four large skylights letting in natural light, which bathed the gallery floor.
“Your mother always dreamed of a vaulted main ceiling with natural light flooding in. She thought it was the kind of treatment our biggest and best works deserved. I daresay she was right.”
Curial walked around the perimeter of the room, admiring the work that had been done, and then surveyed the far end.
“The addition makes this place seem enormous.”
“Indeed, Mr. Diggs. Finally, a proper home for our best pieces.”
Curial made his way to the center of the room, where a large plastic tarp covered what appeared to be a display case. He fingered the
plastic tarp, then looked over at Claude.
“What is this?”
“Where is my head? I guess I have something else to show you.” Claude nodded. “Go ahead.”
Curial pulled off the sheeting to reveal a large glass display case sitting atop an ornately carved marble pedestal. But something was wrong with it. It was empty.
“There’s nothing in it.”
Claude gave Curial a funny look and danced the tips of his fingers together. “Ahhh, but there was something in it long ago. Something very important.”
What could be so important that Claude would show him an empty… wait a second. Curial had seen this display case before. In old pictures. He tensed up.
“The dolls?”
Claude smiled. “The dolls.”
“The dolls” were of course the Romanov Dolls—once the Manhattan Art Collective’s greatest treasure. They were matryoshkas, better known as nesting dolls, the kind where the largest doll can be opened to reveal a smaller one, which in turn contains a still smaller one, and on and on. Unlike typical Russian nesting dolls, which were carved out of wood, the Romanov Dolls were made from precious metals and the finest jewels. To Curial’s mom, there was nothing more perfect or beautiful in all the world. And when her grandfather would bring her to the MAC as a little girl, their visits would begin and end in front of the grand display that held the Romanov Dolls.
And then, in 1970, in an incredible art heist, the Romanov Dolls were taken—and as happened with so many stolen pieces of art, they completely vanished, probably never to be seen again.
“And I have good news.” Claude tightened the knot in his tie. “Very good news for this grand old display.” He set his hands carefully on the glass and leaned forward, then turned his head, a smile plastered across his face. “I have successfully negotiated the terms by which Queen Sefronia’s Egyptian burial jewels will be kept at the MAC for the next five years.”
“Seriously?”
Claude nodded. “After months of going back and forth, I finally convinced the director of the Cairo museum that the MAC was a suitable long-term home for their beautiful treasure.”
“That’s amazing, Claude, truly. Mom would be so happy.”
“I know it’s not the dolls, Curial; God knows, if they still existed, I’d do whatever it took to have them back here at the MAC. But Chairman Nelson and the rest of the Museum’s board figured we needed something special to commemorate the opening of our new space. Something beautiful.” Claude blew out a long breath. “And honestly, getting those jewels was a bit of a coup for me. They can’t get here soon enough. Nelson’s been looking for a way to force me out as director; says the museum game has passed me by.”
Nelson wasn’t just a fool, he was an idiot. Curial’s mom had said as much on numerous occasions. “For what it’s worth, I think Jacob Nelson smells like a wet dog; and he has the brains of one as well,” said Curial. “There is no MAC without you, Claude.” Curial tapped the glass of the display case. “Those jewels will be stunning. Is the opening still on schedule?”
Claude looked at his watch and crossed his fingers. “Eight days from today exactly. Think you can manage to get your father here? We’d love to have him.”
Curial looked at Claude like the museum director had just said the craziest thing in the world. “Dad doesn’t do art. Not unless it’s a painting made out of hundred-dollar bills. I’ll come alone.”
Claude lifted one eyebrow. “I could set you up with my—”
“I don’t need a date for an art show. I don’t need a date for anything.” Curial looked around, and his eye landed on another display: a long white canvas storyboard stretching nearly the length of one wall, lined with old black-and-white photos.
Claude followed his gaze. “Yes,” he said, stepping toward the display. “This is new as well. A photographic archive of the museum, going back to its founding.” He pointed to a photo on the far left, then made a big sweeping gesture with his hand. “It details virtually every change this museum and its walls have gone through in the last one hundred and twelve years.”
“Do you have photos from every year?” asked Curial.
Claude shrugged. “Not all, but most. Why?”
Curial ignored the question. He went to the far left side of the display, which held a plaque honoring former museum employees who had passed away. Then he walked alongside the storyboard, using his finger to check the dates. There was a photo from 1968, from 1969, and… there. There it was. A picture just like the one he’d seen so many times when growing up.
The Romanov Dolls.
Claude stepped up beside Curial and tapped on the picture. “The last big renovation of the main gallery took place in 1970, right around the time of the heist.”
Curial looked carefully, and sure enough, past the doll exhibit and beyond where the main gallery led into the center lobby, he could see signs of construction work. A new extension was being made to the original wall.
Curial looked on with wonder, then finally turned away from the photos and gazed out again at the main gallery. “My mom always said, if only these walls could talk. It sure would be nice to know what really happened that day.”
“Indeed, Mr. Diggs. Indeed it would. In fact, if you are willing to invest the money, I can be sure to have talking walls for our next renovation.”
Curial felt a buzz in his pocket. He grabbed his cell phone and saw a text from his driver. “Sorry Claude, I’m needed in an important meeting.” He extended his hand and Claude took it.
“Not sure how you do it,” said Claude. “When I was your age, I didn’t take meetings. I played baseball.”
“You get used to it. Congratulations again. I can’t wait to see the queen’s jewels.” Curial backed away as Claude folded his hands behind his back.
“Eight days, Mr. Diggs. Give me eight more days.”
Curial hurried through the galleries, his footsteps echoing in the grand space, and exited through the large front doors. At the bottom of the broad granite steps, Mike stood in front of the black Lincoln wearing his usual uniform: a dark black suit and derby. He opened the back door for Curial. “Any luck?” Mike hollered from the curb.
Curial bounded down the stairs towards Mike when out of nowhere, a kid on a skateboard sideswiped him causing Curial to spin around and fall. Curial climbed to his knees and watched as the skateboard kid race off. The kid looked back and smiled.
Son of a gun. Curial knew that kid. He was that con artist punk who used to set up outside his house and trick him out of money. He watched the kid swerve back and forth until he became a tiny dot.
Mike helped him climb up.
“Sorry about that sir. Kid’s got no respect. But did you, um, have any luck in there?”
Curial took one last look at the skateboarder then climbed into the Lincoln. “No luck. Claude couldn’t find anything.”
“Sorry about that, sir.”
Mike took the driver’s seat, honked his horn at a taxi, and pulled out into the busy midtown traffic. “Maybe you’ll have better luck at your next meeting?”
His next meeting. Even now, the phrase made him laugh. And not a good laugh. Other kids played catch with their dads, went to movies, learned how to fix cars. And Curial? Since his dad was one of the wealthiest black men in America, and the head of an international bank, the two of them didn’t play catch or wrestle or go out for ice cream.
They had meetings.
But maybe Mike was right. Maybe his father had found something. Something that might make sense of this note.
Chapter Two – Mr. Diggs
Mike dropped Curial off in front of Diggs Tower five minutes before his meeting was scheduled to start. Curial said hello to the first set of security guards as he stepped inside his family’s iconic building, then put his right hand on the security scanner to open up the next set of doors. He jogged up the main stairs two by two until he reached the fast elevators. He pushed the button for the forty-second floor and rode all
the way to the top.
The elevator swooshed open onto a pair of enormous glass double doors, with “Diggs Bank” written across them in fancy lettering. As Curial pushed through the double doors, he was greeted with a smile by a red-haired woman who was tapping a pen back and forth on her desk. She looked at her watch.
“Hey Curial, your dad won’t be in for another—”
“Two minutes, I got it Louisa.” Curial skipped past her desk, gave her a high five, then walked straight back to the end of the hallway, passing the cherry wood doors of some of the most powerful banking executives in the world. He pushed open a pair of large wooden double doors and stepped into the conference room where once a week his father and these executives made the kinds of financial decisions that had the power to influence the globe.
Sitting in the middle of the large conference room was a slab of wood that looked more like a wooden aircraft carrier than a table. Thirty or so chairs sat on either side, with one on each end. Curial walked toward the large glass windows that looked over Manhattan. Stopping a foot away from the windows, he closed his eyes and clenched his fists, then opened them and looked down. As usual, his heart started beating furiously, even inside a building. He backed up and took his seat at the far end of the table, then looked at his watch and waited. He had exactly one minute and twenty-three seconds until this meeting would start. Curial knew this, because his father, Robert Mercury Diggs IV, was the most efficient and responsible man Curial had ever known. As Chief Executive Officer of Diggs Bank, the man everyone called “Mr. Diggs” wasn’t one to be late.
Neither, Curial guessed, as he spun in his chair and looked up, were the other men whose pictures hung on the wall of the conference room. From right to left he saw the portraits of his father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather, and, finally, the man who started it all, his great-great-grandfather, the original Robert Mercury Diggs. The man who started out life born into slavery on a Virginia cotton plantation, and ended life a free man, leaving a small bank to his oldest son. It was these men who watched over the proceedings of this conference room at all times.
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