All-American Adventure

by James Patterson

  CHAPTER 46

  The gallery was closed when we arrived, so we were forced to spend the night at a hotel. Beck said it was a good thing because I was starting to stink more than usual. The next morning we were walking to Walnut Street, when Uncle Richie received an urgent video call from Mom and Dad.

  “How’s Boston?” asked Mom.

  “Actually, Susan,” said Uncle Richie, “we’re in Philadelphia.”

  “And I still haven’t had a cheesesteak!” said Tommy, dipping in to photobomb the call.

  “How ironic,” said Dad.

  “Tommy’s craving for a cheesesteak?” said Uncle Richie.

  “No. The fact that you’re in Philadelphia, birthplace of the United States Constitution.”

  “We saw Independence Hall!” I shouted.

  “It’s still there,” added Beck.

  “Good to hear,” said Dad, with a heavy sigh. “And least some part of this country’s historic embrace of freedom isn’t under attack.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Storm.

  “Professor Hingleburt has produced yet another long-lost copy of the Bill of Rights. It, too, amends the freedoms we historically know to have been spelled out in the First Amendment.”

  “What?” I said. “Where’d Hingleburt find it?”

  “He didn’t,” said Mom. “Nathan Collier did.”

  “Collier!” said Tommy. (And, yes, he pounded his fist into his palm again.)

  “How’d he find a missing copy of the Bill of Rights?” I said. “Collier couldn’t find a rash at a poison ivy convention!”

  “He couldn’t find his head with both hands!” added Beck.

  It was my turn. “He couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag!”

  And back to Beck. “He couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the heel!”

  “Be that as it may, Bick and Beck,” said Dad, “Collier claims he discovered the long-lost document mounted behind a painting at a garage sale near Schenectady, New York.”

  “Is the Bill of Rights authentic?” asked Storm.

  It was Mom’s turn to sigh. “It appears to be. But, again, Dr. Hingleburt is being stingy about access to his discoveries. There are all sorts of tests we’d like to run.”

  “Wait a second,” said Tommy. “How could Nathan Collier find anything in New York when he was out in California chasing us?”

  “He has a very large staff,” said Mom.

  “For sure. One of his main goons, Dirk McDaniels, is actually here in Philly, chasing us around. Well, he was chasing us. Now he’s chasing a pigeon.”

  Mom and Dad looked confused.

  “Long story,” said Uncle Richie. “But, rest assured, we are all safe, sound, and fit as fiddles. We’re following up on a lead related to the infamous Gardner Museum heist in Boston. Once that mission is complete, we shall redirect all our energies to proving that Professor Hingleburt and his bogus Bills of Rights are a sham, a fraud, and an abomination to all that America stands for!”

  “As always,” said Dad, “we’d welcome any assistance you might be able to offer, Uncle Richie.”

  “But, frankly, Poppie,” said Mom, “there’s not much any of us can do. Unless, of course, we can find proof that Dr. Hingleburt is having these very convincing documents counterfeited by a master forger.”

  We all wished each other good luck and carried on with the tasks at hand.

  For us, that meant gaining access to Miss Bouffant’s art gallery on Walnut Street.

  When we arrived, the door was wide open.

  But Miss Bouffant had done a pigeon imitation.

  She’d flown the coop.

  CHAPTER 47

  “Those old guys must’ve called her!” said Tommy, examining the remnants of a half-eaten sandwich sitting on a work table. “The steak on this thing is still warm. The cheese, too. And the roll’s kind of soft and squishy…”

  “Tommy?” said Storm, shaking her head. “Step away from the half-eaten cheesesteak.”

  “But…”

  “Thomas?” said Uncle Richie. He shook his head, too.

  “Fine,” said Tommy. “Whatever.”

  “So, this is super bad luck,” said Beck. “Miss Bouffant was our only lead and she vanishes.”

  “Yes, it is, indeed, unfortunate that Miss Bouffant is not here to answer our direct questions,” said Uncle Richie, his eyes flitting around the gallery, taking in the artwork. Most of it was contemporary. You know—lots of paint splashes and weird geometric shapes.

  “We should be back in DC,” said Beck. “Helping Mom and Dad.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “This whole expedition has been a waste of time. California, Virginia, Boston, Philadelphia. And nothing to show for it. Sort of like whatever happened down in Australia.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Uncle Richie.

  “We heard Dr. Hingleburt talking, Uncle Richie,” said Beck. “Back in Washington. Outside the bookstore.”

  I chimed in. “He said you donated a bunch of so-called treasures to a museum in Australia.”

  “And then,” said Beck, “you had to take them all back because they were fakes.”

  “If only someone would admit the same thing about all these Bills of Rights that Professor Hingleburt keeps finding,” said Storm.

  “Uncle Richie?” said Tommy, super-seriously. “We like you. We totally do. But are you a true treasure hunter or are you, like, a total phony?”

  Uncle Richie grimaced. “I’d always hoped I’d never have to discuss this matter with you kids.”

  “Why not?” asked Storm.

  “I feared you might find it traumatic.”

  “Hey,” said Tommy, “if it’s the truth, we can handle it.”

  “What happened in Australia?” I asked.

  Uncle Richie sat down on a very modern-looking chair. Or it could’ve been a spindly sculpture. Hard to tell.

  “Your parents and I thought it best that we keep this secret, well, secret. This all happened thirteen or more years ago. You, Thomas, were, I think, four. And Stephanie—I mean, Storm—was a newborn infant. Your mother and father were only just becoming famous. They’d discovered a pair of sunken ships off the coast of Florida. Everyone assumed they’d struck it rich. They had, of course, but translating treasure into wealth takes time. However, the kidnappers didn’t believe them when your parents tried to explain that they didn’t have a million dollars immediately on hand for ransom.”

  “Wait a second,” said Tommy. “Who were they trying to ransom?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Who got kidnapped?”

  Uncle Richie pursed his lips. Considered his answer. “Thomas and Stephanie.”

  “No way!” said Tommy. “I don’t remember that.”

  “I’m glad,” said Uncle Richie. “The whole ugly episode would be so much worse if you did. That’s why we never told you or Storm what happened to you when you were so young. Anyway, Special Agent McKenna was working the kidnapping case for the FBI out of their New York office. Your mother suggested he contact me, to see if I could come up with the money for the ransom. I had just donated a treasure trove to a museum down under. I asked for it back. Pretended that it was all fake and that I was an embarrassing fraud. I then sold the merchandise to the highest bidders and easily raised the ransom money.”

  “Whoa,” said Tommy, sounding stunned.

  “That’s why Special Agent McKenna owed you a favor,” I said.

  “And why you called Storm ‘Stephanie’ when you joined us in DC,” added Beck.

  Uncle Richie nodded. “The FBI used the ransom money as bait and caught the kidnappers. I could live with the shame of the false story of what happened in Australia—if it meant Tommy and Storm would be home safe and sound.”

  “You are so cool!” said Beck. Then she, more or less, leaped across the room and hugged Uncle Richie tight. I joined in. So did Tommy and Storm.

  “Uncle Richie?” said Storm when we broke out of our group hug.
>
  “Yes, Storm?”

  “You can call me Stephanie anytime you want. You saved our lives.”

  Uncle Richie grinned. “And I’d do it again. In a heartbeat. But, now, we need to snoop around. There’s treasure to be hunted in this art gallery. I can sense it. Spread out, children. Look in every nook and cranny. Try the walls for secret panels, like we did at the Mansion on O Street! This expedition is not over yet!”

  We spread out.

  We searched the nooks and crannies.

  We probed for secret passageways.

  We found nothing.

  For an hour.

  And then, Tommy yawned and leaned against a very white wall.

  It swung open.

  “You guys?” he called out. “I might have found something.”

  We all joined him and stepped into a black and empty space where, even though we couldn’t see anything, we were bombarded by smells. Turpentine. Canvas. Wood. Glue.

  Uncle Richie dug out his phone and fired up the flashlight feature. Its beam swung through the darkness, illuminating a whole lot of nothing.

  Until it spot-lit a row of oil paintings stacked against a far wall.

  And right there, at the head of the line, was Vermeer’s The Concert.

  The most valuable stolen painting in the world!

  CHAPTER 48

  “Woo-hoo!” I shouted. “The FBI’s been searching for this painting for more than thirty years!”

  “And we found it in one day!” cried Beck, slapping me a high-five.

  “One. Day,” said Storm—not sounding nearly as enthusiastic as Beck and me. In fact, she sounded serious. She also had a super-serious look on her face. (There was a lot of squinting and brow-furrowing involved.)

  “We should call that FBI dude!” said Tommy. “Collect the reward. Five million bucks is nothing to sneeze at unless, you know, you’re allergic to money, which, hello, I’m totally not.”

  Beck, our resident art expert, bent down to examine the Vermeer more closely.

  “This is so beautiful!” said Beck, admiring the canvas. “Look at those masterful brushstrokes. The purity of light and form conveying a timeless sense of dignity.”

  “The piano looks pretty cool, too,” said Tommy. “But the girl playing it could use a better hairdo.”

  “Actually, Tommy, that’s a harpsichord, not a piano,” said Storm.

  I looked over at Uncle Richie. He had Storm’s serious/pained expression on his face, too. He was also stroking his chin, so Storm started stroking hers. Those two were definitely related.

  “You sure we shouldn’t do the deal with the Enlightened Ones, Uncle Richie?” said Tommy. “Their reward offer is way bigger…”

  “Very sure,” mumbled Uncle Richie. I could tell—his mind was somewhere else.

  “Hey,” I said, “maybe Miss Bouffant has some more of the stolen Boston paintings stashed in here, too!”

  “Way to think, little bro!” said Tommy.

  He and I started flipping through the line of oil paintings stacked up against one another.

  “You guys?” said Beck, who was so excited, she had to fan herself to stop from fainting. “I’m pretty sure this is authentic. This is a real Vermeer!”

  “Um, how about this one?” I said.

  Because, four paintings down the row of paintings, I’d found another copy of The Concert.

  “And here’s another one of that stolen painting we saw hanging in the card room of the Phinnister Club,” said Tommy. “Actually, there’s two of ’em. I guess Manet really liked painting that dude with the hat.”

  “And Vermeer must’ve had a thing for harpsichords,” I added, after finding two more copies of The Concert. “Either that, or he had an excellent color copier.”

  “And that’s why we were able to find in one day what the FBI couldn’t for more than three decades,” said Storm. “These are all forgeries.”

  “And darn good ones,” said Beck. “If you guys hadn’t found all those extra copies, I would’ve sworn that this was a real Vermeer.”

  “Of course!” said Uncle Richie. “Simone Bouffant must be La Brosse!”

  “La Who?” I asked.

  “La Brosse. It means, ‘the brush.’ La Brosse has long been rumored to be the finest, most expert forger to have ever taken up the brush or pen. She could paint Michelangelo’s frescoes on your kitchen ceiling and you’d swear you were cooking in the Sistine Chapel.”

  “And this must be the secret door to her secret studio,” said Tommy.

  He was at the end of the line of stacked paintings.

  They had all been leaning against a small metal doorway, maybe four feet tall and two feet wide.

  Those smells of turpentine, wood, and paint? They were even stronger near the hidden doorway.

  CHAPTER 49

  “Bick? Beck?” said Uncle Richie. “How’d you like to go exploring in La Brosse’s secret lair? I believe you two are the only members of our party small enough to squeeze through that doorway.”

  “We’d love it!” Beck and I said together.

  “Bully!” said Uncle Richie. “Did you pack your headlamps?”

  “Of course,” said Beck.

  Beck and I pulled our LED-lamps-on-a-headband devices out of our back pockets and strapped them on.

  “This must mean La Brosse is short, too!” said Tommy.

  Uncle Richie nodded. “An astute observation, Tommy. ‘Short.’ We’ll keep that description in mind when alerting the authorities.”

  “Wait a second!” I said. “Do you think Milton T. Mosby, the short guy on the horse who we met down in Virginia, could’ve been La Brosse in disguise?”

  “Doubtful,” said Storm. “If La Brosse ever wanted fast cash, she wouldn’t need to ride around searching for buried treasure with Civil War reenactors. She’d simply whip up another Rembrandt knockoff.”

  “True,” said Beck. “But Milton T. Mosby is so short…”

  “How short is he?” asked Tommy, setting Beck up for a punch line.

  “He’s so short, he’s always the last person to know when it rains.”

  “Bully for you, Beck!” said Uncle Richie. “Comic relief is always welcome in tense treasure-hunting situations such as these. Now, off you go. Tell us what you find behind that door!”

  Beck and I squeezed through the doorway, one at a time.

  “And twins?” said Uncle Richie, behind us. “We’re counting on you two to help us get to the bottom of this forgery operation!”

  “Well,” I said, “I guess that means we need to get to the bottom of this spiral staircase, first!”

  CHAPTER 50

  Beck and I descended the twisting set of narrow steps.

  “Careful, you two!” coached Uncle Richie, his voice growing fainter and fainter as Beck and I made our way down the tight spiral staircase. The stinky smell of paint supplies wafted up from down below.

  It took us five full minutes to reach the bottom of the stairs, which ended in a dank subterranean vault. We looked around, swinging our headlamp beacons through the darkness. There were paint-splattered easels. A drawing board. Rolls of aged and antique canvas. Mason jars jammed full of brushes and old-fashioned quill pens.

  “What’s this?” said Beck, pulling a crinkly tan sheet out of a bin. “It’s not canvas.”

  “You’re right. Feels more like parchment. You know, like they would’ve used for writing the Declaration of—”

  Beck looked at me. I looked at her.

  Then we looked at those quill pens.

  And the parchment.

  We both reached the same conclusion at exactly the same split second (it’s another twin thing).

  “La Brosse also forged those fake Bill of Rights documents!” we shouted.

  Our voices echoed under the arches of the low, stone ceiling.

  “We need proof!” I said.

  “Well, let’s look for it,” said Beck.

  We riffled through stacks of paper and piles of sketchpads
and mounds of file folders.

  “Look at this!” said Beck, pulling a sheet of paper out of a crisp folder.

  It was a printout of an e-mail, with the top part torn off. We couldn’t tell who had sent the message to La Brosse, but we could clearly read their instructions:

  “Rewrite the First Amendment to read: ‘Congress shall make laws respecting an establishment of religion, prohibiting the free exercise thereof; abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.’”

  The “shall”—the small but major change to the original “shall not”—was boldfaced and underlined.

  There were more instructions: “You will be paid four million dollars. One for each of the four forgeries you will complete for me.”

  “Do you think Professor Hingleburt is behind this?” I wondered out loud.

  “Maybe,” said Beck. “But we can’t prove it. Unless…”

  “La Brosse confesses!” I said, finishing Beck’s thought for her.

  We knocked knuckles and felt pretty awesome about how clever we were.

  Until we both realized something: before “The Brush” could confess, we had to find her!

  CHAPTER 51

  Beck and I clanked up the spiral of metal steps as quickly as we could, bringing the evidence with us.

  “We’re pretty sure that La Brosse is the forger behind these fake Bill of Rights that Professor Hingleburt keeps finding,” I said, showing Tommy, Storm, and Uncle Richie the sheet of parchment we’d found down in the basement art studio. “And this is probably the quill pen she used to do it!”

  “And check this out,” said Beck, opening up the file with the incriminating e-mail. “Word-for-word instructions on what the revised First Amendment should say.”