Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

            “The van is upside down?” exclaimed Paul, after Jack and Cable dragged him out into the parking lot.

            “On its side, technically,” said Cable.

            “And he’s fine?” asked Paul.

            “He says he is.”

            Paul leaned up against his van and crossed his arms.

            “If he’s fine, do we all have to go?” asked Jack.

            “We don’t have to, I have to,” said Paul. “The van’s in my name. I mean, assuming he really is fine and that all we’re dealing with is the van, that is. There will be tow trucks and maybe police. This just happened a few minutes ago?”

            “Right after you told me to watch Lee,” said Cable.

            Paul looked at the clock on his phone. “There’s no way I’ll be back before the sale starts.”

            “We can handle the sale,” said Jack.

            Paul just looked from one to the other.

            “Yeah, we’ve got it,” said Jack. “For the Queen Mary shelves anyway.”

            “Have you even looked at the rest of the catalogue?” asked Paul.

            Jack shook his head.

            “I have,” said Cable. “I haven’t seen the books, but I did some research based on the descriptions online.”

            “Well, I can’t stand here and talk about it,” said Paul. He handed his notebook and catalogue to Cable, “I’ve got notes on some of it. The numbers in blue ink are my numbers, OK? The pencil notes are just notes. Ignore them. And also, make sure to take a look at the actual books for the things I’ve highlighted with the yellow marker. Those are lots that might be interesting, but I really needed to see them. Don’t go crazy on those, but—you know what; that’s too much – just forget it, it doesn’t matter. How could he flip the van?”

            “He said it was fresh pavement and there were no lane lines. Cars were racing all over the place and he just lost control,” said Cable.

            Paul climbed up into the bookstore van. “I guess I’ll be back to get you at some point. I don’t know if I’ll have to go back to Fredericksburg with the tow truck or what.”           

            “Just go,” said Jack, “we’ll take care of things here. Call us.”

            “Right,” said Paul.

            The van sputtered off, towards the highway. The boys turned back to the auction house.

            Just inside the front door, they were met by the Iron Sheik. His reading glasses rested low on his nose. He looked over their rims at Jack and Cable as they entered.

            “Is he leaving?” he asked.

            “Our brother’s having car trouble,” said Cable.

            The Iron Sheik looked as his watch. “I hope he’ll be able to make it back for the sale.”

            Cable didn’t quite understand what the older man was driving at. His face was inscrutable.

            “We’ll be handing it tonight,” Jack interjected.

            “Are you with Riverby?” he asked.

            “Yup,” said Jack, “Paul brings us in for a certain specialty we have.”

            Cable turned to look at his brother, startled.

            “When Riverby himself needs a specialist?” repeated the Iron Sheik. “Is that so? Do you mind my asking what your specialty is?”

            “Actually, we don’t really –“ began Cable, before Jack cut him off.

            “It’s private collection work, mostly,” interrupted Jack, “I’m not supposed to talk about it—“

            “No, you’re not!” snipped Cable, “Come on, Jack.”

            Jack continued, in a stage whisper to the Iron Sheik, “it’s sort of a royal commission.”

            “Pardon us,” said Cable, pulling Jack by the arm.

            “Lot’s still to do,” Jack whispered over his shoulder to the Iron Sheik as Cable led him back to the book room.

            “What are you doing?” said Cable angrily as they ducked through the curtain. “Are you crazy?”

            “What?” protested Jack, “I’m just messing around with him.”

            “And the reason for that would be what?” asked Cable.

            Jack shrugged. “Since when do I need a reason?”

            Cable shook his head. He opened Paul’s auction catalogue.

“I’m going back to work. I suggest you do the same,” he said. He squeezed between a couple other people over to the computer station they’d set up on the map case. There, he took his first good look at Paul’s catalogue. These descriptions, for the more than the three hundred lots in the sale, had been mailed out weeks earlier. Paul had researched the books and made notes in the margins. Some were in blue ink, some in black, some in pencil. There were lots that were circled in highlighter and others where just a word or the starting bid was highlighted. A few had stars beside them. Cable flipped from page to page. The notes continued all the way through. There were 64 pages. He had less than an hour. But Cable did not mind research, especially when it was computer work.

With his headphones on, this to block out distractions, he dove into the project, starting with the lots that Paul had marked with stars. Getting to the books themselves meant jockeying for position with some of the other people who were examining titles in the glass cases. Once or twice he ended up pulling down a book that Lee also seemed interested in. Cable made a note of that as he went.

Jack had already looked through the books he needed and just as he had hoped, there was nothing valuable or unusual amongst the shelves and shelves of bestsellers. Since that was all that he was hoping to buy, he turned his attention to other people in the room. His competition. The Fat Man, still clutching his canvas tote bag under his arm, was in earnest conversation with Benson White.

“No that’s not what I’m saying,” the Fat Man laughed nervously, “it’s your auction house and you can do what you want. But I’m sure that it was there before. I saw it with my own eyes.”

Benson, with his hands in his pockets, was backed up against one of the glass fronted cases. There was a smile on his face, but it looked like it was left over from a previous conversation. His eyes flitted around the room and when he met Jack’s gaze, he nodded slightly.

“I’m almost sure that no one has taken it out of the room,” said Benson. “Bud or Mr. Wembley or myself have been in the room all week long.”

“Probably not,” cajoled the Fat Man, “but if none of us can find it, that doesn’t do you or me much good. If it was on shelf 50 yesterday and someone slipped it onto shelf 150 today, with a bunch of magazines that aren’t worth anything.”

“I understand,” said Benson, “I do. Really I do. I’ll tell you what, if it doesn’t turn up before the sale, I will ask Mr. Wembley to make an announcement. How would that be?”

The Fat Man twitched his bangs out of his eyes. “Fine, fine. Like I said, it doesn’t really matter to me. I’d just think that you’d want to know where your books were. People could be taking advantage.

“I’m going to have Bud take a look. You said it was Max Ernst?”

“Klimt,” said the Fat Man, “Klimt.”

Benson stepped sideways to get around the Fat Man, and repeated, “Klimt” to himself as he ducked through the door to the front room. The Fat Man continued talking, as if the whole exchange had been a monologue.

“It’s just that, one of these days when something good does turn up, there’s nothing to stop someone from turning the dustjacket inside out or hiding it or something like that.”

When the Fat Man noticed Jack watching him, his lowered his voice, but didn’t stop muttering to himself. Jack made another circuit of the room and was interested to notice that someone else had shown up while he’d been outside – a female someone. Apart from the loud-whisperer, she was the only woman in the room. She was crouched down looking at a low shelf. The blue swirls of a tattoo were visible on her back where her maroon shirt and black pants didn’t quite meet. Jack couldn’t see her face because she was facing the other way. Long strands of hair blocked her face and her ponytail hung low to the floor. When she stood up abruptly and brushed her hair back, she knocked her glasses askew. Her face was flushed. She had the auction catalogue in one hand, a bouquet of brightly colored post-it notes blooming from nearly every page.

“Oh gosh sorry,” she said, straightening her glass, “am I in your way?”

She was slim and pretty, in a bookish way. Her eyes were sharp and blue, her features fine and birdlike without being fragile. A pen protruded from the knot of hair funneling into her ponytail.

“What?” stammered Jack, “hunh?”

“Are you trying to get past me? “ she asked, “I’m not really paying much attention, am I? You’ve probably been standing there forever.”

“D-um. No – guh,” was all Jack could manage.

She tucked her hair behind her ear.  “I’m just so excited.” She emphasized the middle syllable.

“Um, me too. For what?” said Jack.

“This set of Henty,” she said, pointing to a half shelf of books down low. “Oh gosh, that’s not what you’re here for too, is it?”

“No,” said Jack, than repeated himself with a bit more conviction and, he hoped, nonchalance. He forced a knowing twinkle into his eye and may even have raised an eyebrow, “No, I’ve got my eye on something else.”

She blushed at him, almost a red as her shirt. Jack suddenly realized that she might have thought he meant her, and he blushed too.

“Yes well,” she said awkwardly, “there’s lots of good things here.”

“Yes,” Jack blurted out, “the books. Lots of great books.”

“I’m Rachel,” she said, extending a hand n a very matter of fact manner.

“Jack Bonney,” said Jack. He took her hand. It was small and strong. She gave him a surprising squeeze then let go abruptly.

“Are you a dealer?” she asked him. She gestured at the middle aged men in the room, seeming to scan and remind herself of each of them in a split second.

Jack’s mind raced. Was it good or bad to be a dealer, in this context?

“I’m just helping out my uncle,” he settled on. Non committal.

“One of these guys?” she asked. Apart from the fact that her glasses were still not straight and that Jack yearned to prolong this conversation, he would have found a way to bail out at this point. He did not like to be questioned so directly.

“No,” said Jack, “he’s not here. We’re, uh, we’re handling the auction for him tonight.”

“So a dealer, then?” she persisted.

He felt his ears start to heat up again and knew they were reddening as well. He looked down at his hands and then noticed once again that her catalogue had more notes protruding from it than Paul’s had. She must be a dealer as well; who else would mark up the catalogue that way?

“Yes,” said Jack, nodding, “a dealer. Like you.”

She looked down at her own catalogue, and then waved it between them and bobbed her head. “Guilty,” she said, smiling.

Jack smiled too. He nodded. But he could think of nothing to say. She opened her eyes wider, seeming to wait for him to speak. Jack was glad to have her attention on him, but what had happened to his vocabulary?

            “So the Henty set?” he blurted out.

            “Oh gosh yes,” she said. She put a hand on his arm and lowered her voice. “please tell me that you’re not bidding on it.”

            Jack was about to answer, but she continued.

            “No of course, I couldn’t ask you not to bid on it. Don’t answer that. But promise me that if you buy it, you’ll let me come to you shop and visit it.” She released his arm with a gentle shove that nearly knocked Jack off balance. “But seriously, if there’s anything you are interested in that you want me to stay away from…”

            She cocked her head and gave him a knowing glace. Or what he assumed would have been a knowing glance if Jack had any idea what he was supposed to know. He nodded eagerly and, he feared, a bid stupidly, and said, “Definitely.”

            “Miss Rachel,” said Bud loudly, from behind Jack.

            “Hello Bud,” she smiled broadly and stepped past Jack to give him a hug.

            “How’s Winston?” said Bud, “how come we don’t see him any more.”

            “You know why,” she said.

            “That’s what I was afraid of,” said Bud. After every sentence, his mouth moved once or twice more like he was chewing gum (which he wasn’t) or was being dubbed in English. Jack smiled at him.

            “You go easy on her,” Bud said to him.

            “I will,” he said.

            “I’m supposed to be looking for a –“ Bud looked at his little spiral pad, “—Klimt. You seen it?”

            “The Krakow monograph?” said Rachel.

            “Little thing,” said Bud, “In with the art books,”

            “I thought I did,” said Rachel, “Over here.” She took Bud by the arm and started to lead him away. “It was nice to meet you,” she said to Jack, “we should talk before the sale.”

            “Definitely,” said Jack again.

            He watched her go to the shelf of art books where the Fat Man’s drama was unfolding. Then, gradually, as her attention was gone and its after-effect fading, his mind filled with all sorts of interesting and funny things to say. He was glad that Cable, still plugged into his headphones, had not witnessed that exchange.

            Benson had slipped back into the room and was talking with the man at the library table, who was still poring over the old engravings in a book Jack hadn’t seen yet. “So I told the widow,” he was saying, “I can’t do anything with your records, but if you want me to sell those golf clubs, I think you’re looking at close to ten thousand dollars.”

            Jack phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Quinn.

            Jack headed back out towards the parking lot to talk.

            “What’s going on?” Jack asked.

            “This sucks,” said Quinn. “Is Paul still there?”

            Jack said he wasn’t.

            “I didn’t buy the insurance from the rental agency and the police say that our gold cards don’t automatically cover it.”

            “Are you OK, though?” asked Jack.

            “Of course,” said Quinn, “why wouldn’t I be?”

            “I’m not going to answer that,” said Jack. “So the cops are there? Is the van totaled?”

            “Most likely,” said Quinn.

            Jack stood out on the front steps with his phone. The only other person out there was a plump, gray bearded man, smoking a cigarette. He wore an olive green shirt and a silk lavender tie. He gazed towards the sunset and breathed deeply of the poisonous smoke. Jack coughed.

            “Paul should be there soon,” said Jack, “He’ll take care of it.”

            “It’s not going to be pretty,” said Quinn, “he told me to get the insurance.”

            “Don’t worry about it,” said Jack.

            The plump man dropped his cigarette and stamped it out. Then he picked it up and put it carefully in the ashcan by the door. He caught Jack’s eye and said, “Beautiful sunset. Exquisite. Don’t dawdle now, we’re going to be starting in just a few minutes.”

           

           

           

            

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

            It was easier for Jack to work hard and fast when he was doing it ironically. He loved this Queen Mary project. It was he who, months earlier, had persuaded Paul to let him and his brothers take over this peculiar tangent to the book business. Now, in the final week leading up to setting sail, he could hardly sleeps night for the excitement. He loved that here, at the swanky auction house, among experts in various esoteric fields, he was turning water into wine. And he loved that he could do in right under their very eyes. Here he was, dressed like a book dealer, acting like a book dealer, for all anyone knew, trying to be a book dealer. While all the while, he was just measuring shelves and buying books by the foot. He went through the motions – consulting his printout of auction lots, pulling books from the shelves and flipping to the title pages, ostensibly looking for autographs and indications of edition. It was the same things everyone else was doing, except Jack was making sure that those indicators of value and scarcity were absent from the books on his most-wanted list.

This was the third time Riverby had been tapped to update the library on the Queen Mary. The ocean liner made much of its library in its advertising literature, but when his uncle had been on board a decade ago, he came home unimpressed. He had contacted the company and offered his services – to keep the library fresh and current, in exchange for a state room on board from time to time – and a relationship had begun.

It was vacation reading. The literary equivalent of an all you can eat buffet, which the ship also provided. Books for people to lay open on their chests while they napped pool-side or to set on their bedside tables like hard covered teddy bears for grownups with dispensable income. Or yes, perhaps ever to read and then inadvertently to steal when they disembarked. Two thousand dollars for a week crossing the Atlantic, they must figure, what’s one little paperback book? You’re supposed to take the soaps and the towels, right? So why not a book? That’s why they put the gaudy QM2 stickers on them so prominently.

But this past winter, for some reason, the boys had had the hardest time finding the right sort of books. Their usual sources, library sales, auctions, flea markets, had all been inexplicably barren. With the deadline just days away, they had only 45 boxes of books. They needed at least twice that many. In the 27 auction lots in this sale that were glossy hardcovers or appropriate paperbacks, Jack saw the answer to their worries.

As he looked over the books, he also saw that no one else in the room was paying any attention to this part of the collection. The couple with the spiral notebooks were still talking in not-quite-hushed tones about their discoveries. There was a large pear shaped man with bowl-cut hair looking furiously through the art books. He clutched his canvas tote bag under his arm as he worked, as though it were full of secrets that he was afraid would spill out if he set it down. He was wearing a ribbed black sweater and dark blue pants that were wrinkled in all the places that bent and disconcerting threadbare in all the places that rubbed or stretched during the bending. Jack knew him as The Fat Man, from Paul’s stories of auctions past. He was an art book specialist and a very conservative bidder. He only bid on things that he knew he could sell quickly. He put one book back on the shelf and pulled out the next. He flipped through the pages without looking at them, then took out the next book and repeated the operation.

“Did you see a little monograph on Klimpt in here?” The Fat Man asked another browser standing near him. “I know it was here before. I saw it before. I think someone may have taken it.”

The other man, a thin, bald professorial type shook his head.

“That’s the thing about this arrangement,” continued The Fat Man, to no one in particular, as he pulled out the next book and rifled through it, “you leave all the books out like this and some things are going to walk away. It was a five hundred dollar monograph.”

As he looked through more volumes, his agitation seemed to grow. He muttered, “I knew I should have told Benson to put it in the case. You know, I try to play by the rules here, but this is just what happens. I’ve seen it before, too. Things either get lost or damaged.”

The professorial type, who was sipping white wine from a glass and not really handling any of the books, glanced his direction again and the Fat Man used the opportunity to direct his rant at him.

“One time it was an original drawing by Dali. During the preview it was tucked inside a book and then after the sale, it was gone. Another time a set mysteriously got split up so that volume one was on one shelf and volume two was on another shelf and volume three on a third. The only was you could reunite them was to buy it all, so right away that’s more than most of us can afford.”

“What are you looking for?” asked the bald man.

“Oh nothing,” said The Fat Man, “it doesn’t matter now, does it?” He laughed a nervous, high pitched laugh.

“Should I get someone?” asked the bald man.

The Fat Man didn’t answer. He only continued to work his way down the shelf of oversized books, shaking each one as he went. The bald man used the moment of silence to slip out of the book room, back into the main gallery.

Jack counted volumes and made notes on his printout. 40 volumes on this shelf… pay $20-$30 for them.  65 volumes here… try to get them for less than $35. When it was books like this, there wasn’t much skill or expertise involved. That was why Cable was drawn to the better, rarer books. Cable was always more comfortable, if not outright happier, when subtlety and complexity played a role. His penchant for obscure details and deep research gave him an edge in those situations. When it came to appearances and snap judgments, though, Jack was unparalleled.

“Franklin, what are you looking for?” The black man with the Wembley polo shirt came in from the front room. “That man said something is missing.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Bud,” said The Fat Man, “it seems like it’s always something, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what you say,” said Bud, cheerfully, “Maybe I’ve seen it. What are you after?”

The Fat Man’s hair hung down into his eyes. He got it out of the way not by brushing it aside with his fingers, but by shaking his head – twitching his head – to rearrange his bangs. If the new arrangement were no better than the previous, he’d just do it again, until he could see.

“It was a little monograph on Klimpt,” he said, “32 pages. Printed in Poland in the fifties. About this big.”

“Klimpt,” repeated Bud. “He’s the one that did the mosaics, isn’t he?”

The Fat Man laughed his nervous laugh. “Among other things, yes.”

“Yeah, I know him” said Bud, “Somebody else was asking me about that. It was on the shelf you’re looking at, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” said The Fat Man, “but it isn’t now. Obviously. That’s why I’m looking for it.”

Bud took a small notepad out of his back pocket. “Lot number one oh two.”

“Did you see it yourself, before?” asked The Fat Man.

“No, I just wrote down the bid for this other guy,” said Bud, “I didn’t see it.”

“Well if you’ve got a bid for someone on this lot, I’d call them up if I were you and tell them the Klimpt piece is missing,” said The Fat Man.

“Yeah?” asked Bud.

“Or you’re going to have a disappointed customer,” he laughed.

“You tell me if you find it, OK?” He made a note in his pad. “I’ll ask Benson if he’s seen it.”

Jack worked his way to the end of the row of low shelves running down the center of the room. He’d filled in prospective prices for about half of the lots he wanted. In looking around the room at the other people, he was surprised to realize that he seemed to be working harder than most of them. The majority appeared to be more interested in chatting with each other than in looking at the books.

“Oh, with the ebooks selling so cheap now, I’m just glad I don’t have to make a living off this anymore,” said one paunchy middle aged man.

“I’ve been having good luck with digitizing,” said another. “At 99 cents a copy, I can sell the same file a dozen or more times if it gets a seller ranking over 200,000 on Amazon.”

“But isn’t that still just $12 dollars?” asked the first man.

“Before their commission, it is. They’re taking thirty percent now!”

“And for twelve times the work. Not for me,” said the first man.

Jack moved to the other side of the low bookcases, and in so doing moved into range to overhear another conversation. This one was between a gray haired man who was seated at a table with an old leather bound book open to a detailed engraving and a darker skinned man with a striking beard. It was black beneath his chin and silver everywhere else. His moustache, which stood out from his face and curled up at the ends like a true handlebar, was jet black. His hair, swept back from his face and worn a little longer than was fashionable, was silver. He stood with his arms crossed over his barrel chest and with his feet far apart. Jack would not have been surprised to see him wearing shiny blue boots that turned up at the toes and ended in tassles. Instead he was wearing a gray oxford shirt and black pants. He wore a dark green silk scarf around his neck, with a twist and a loose knot at the neck, and a matching pocket handkerchief. The silk had veins of gold in it which, unfurled, might have been Arabic writing, or which might as easily have been paisley. The man matched, in all detail, the description of Paul’s longtime nemesis at the auction house, the fearsome Iron Sheik. Jack positioned himself as close to the two men as he could get, without attracting attention.

“It’s not what it used to be,” said the seated man. “It seems just a matter of money now. When was the last truly great discovery? Take this, for example.” He pointed to the engraving in the book in front of him. “It’s beautiful. 1525. All the plates present except the Satanic one, of course. But it’s become just a commodity. You can buy ten of them online any hour of the day. I remember the first time I saw one of these. I’d been searching for ten years in bookstores all over the continent. This little man came shuffling out of the back with his copy and I knew what it was before he even put it down. That one had the Satanic plate but not the Resurrection.”

“Is the Resurrection rare?” asked the The Iron Sheik.

“What, this?” the seated man pointed to the illustration. “They’re all rare, whatever that means nowadays.”

The Iron Sheik stepped closer and looked down at the engraving. He pulled his reading glasses down from where they had been perched on his head and looked closer. Then he opened his auction catalogue and made a note beside the photo of that book.

“What do they sell for?” asked The Iron Sheik.

“Five, six, sometimes seven,” said the seated man, leaning back. He held up his hands in dismay, “and to whom? People who never read them. They’re just ticking books off their checklists. And no doubt this one will go in that range as well. And yet here we are two hours before the sale and where are those people? I can remember when having a book like this come to town, come to a museum in town would have people standing in line just to see it.”

“Really?” said The Iron Sheik.

The seated man nodded and let out a long sigh, “I don’t know why I even bother. It might as well be socket wrenches, for all they care. Some internet bidder in Texas or Nevada is going to get it, anyway.”

The Iron Sheik opened his catalogue again and Jack could see him circle the listing for this book. Then he closed the catalogue and moved slowly over to where The Fat Man was. The Fat Man, meanwhile and for all his bulk, continued to work like a squirrel trying to unearth nuts he’d buried long ago. The Iron Sheik leaned in and took note of the lot number that The Fat Man was fretting over. Then he jotted that down in his catalogue as well.

Jack turned his attention back to the books in front of him, but before he could make any more headway, Cable appeared next to him and took his arm. Jack could tell by the look on his face that something was wrong.

Cable still had his earpiece in.

“We’ve got a bit of a problem,” he said. 

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

            Quinn Bonney stared at the long curve of brake lights stretching out in front of him on the highway. He could see flashing emergency lights in the distance and he hoped that that meant the end of the traffic jam. He played the padded steering wheel like a drum, enjoying the echo and the thrum of the top 40 music countdown in the empty cargo van.  He rocked back and forth to try to get the van to sway to the music on its fancy rental-van hydraulics. At six foot two, had been the tallest kid in his class ever since ninth grade. Now a senior in high school, with thick sideburns and a mop of curly oatmeal colored hair, he had had no trouble at all convincing the woman at the car rental agency that he was twenty five years old, thereby avoiding the $75 surcharge on under age renters. He pocketed the extra money Paul had given him to cover that expense and pondered whether to use it in the casino on board the Queen Mary 2 or to take Madison out for a decent dinner before he left.

            On the one hand, Madison was still under the impression that he was rich and a $75 dinner would go a long way towards maintaining that illusion. They could get the full fondue extravaganza with three kinds of meat and double dip chocolate dessert at the Melting Pot. If they went on a Monday night they could get bottomless virgin pina colada lemonades for free. $75 might even get them into a matinee movie before dinner, if they skipped Odyssey of the Mind and left straight from history class. It’d be a pretty nice flourish, thought Quinn, to surprise her with a going away date like that, before setting sail on the luxury liner. Who knows where that might lead.  He hadn’t mentioned to her that he was going on board to work nights cataloguing library books for his uncle. He preferred to leave her with the impression that it was a black tie affair, all high tea and how-do-you-do.

            On the other hand, she was going to find out eventually that those treasure chests at the end of the famous Bonney Boys adventure stories were not so boundless after all. His own college savings, Jack and Cable’s tuition, various gifts and whatnot that his parents had forced him to put away for the long term, left him better off than some people, to be sure, but he was hardly sleeping on a mattress stuffed with gold coins. If she only liked him for his money, she was going to find out eventually what the true state of affairs was. She’d put the pieces together – the tandem bicycle with a stuffed animal strapped to the back seat, the jeans with holes in the knees, the family vacations to ‘rustic camps’ in ‘out of the way places.’ Even if she thought now that it was all an elaborate ruse to mask his embarrassing wealth with conspicuously grungy behavior, she’d see through it before prom, wouldn’t she? You didn’t get to be captain of the glee club by being stupid, after all.

            Then again, it was March now. Prom was only two months away. If he could play up this Queen Mary trip for a few weeks, maybe actually ask her to prom when he got back. Make a big deal about renting a limo and then see if he could unload the last of those Confederate banknotes on eBay to spring for a class ring… So what if she did only like him for his money? There were worse things. Like not having anyone to go to prom with.

It was all unfolding perfectly. Unless she went digging around on the internet and found his embarrassing old Amazing Race blog, he’d covered his tracks pretty well. No sign of him on the RPG message-boards any more. He’d deleted most of his dad’s family blog from the web (though he’d left it intact on the hard-drive and hacked the computer to lead his own family to that master file when they logged in, so they wouldn’t know it wasn’t getting out of the house any more). If Madison hadn’t googled him yet, there was no reason to think she’d do it now. Not with sectionals coming up in three weeks.

            Traffic squeezed from four lanes down to two as they neared the emergency lights. It didn’t look like an accident at all. It was a crew of line-painting trucks. At four o’clock on a Thursday. Quinn shook his head in disgust. He knew he was going to be in the doghouse when he got to the auction late. When he finally eased the van past the work crews, he noticed that they weren’t even working. Other drivers noticed it too, and there was a steady blast of horns as cars squeezed past. Then it was off to the races. Cars shot out of the congested lanes into the open road ahead like they were fired from a cannon. Tires burned as frustrated drivers floored the ignition pedals and raced their engines to make up for lost time. The rental van didn’t have much in that department, so Quinn checked his mirrors to try to slide over into the right lane. He couldn’t see well with the van’s solid sides. A wailing horn blared from his right as a silver BMW passed him on that side. With the blinker on, he stole a glance back over his shoulder, out the little rear window of the van. Nothing in sight. He started to change lanes, but there was another horn. A green Honda, again passing on the right. Quinn tried to straighten out back into his own lane, but a pickup truck from his left was already veering in front of him. He tapped the brakes. The empty van squealed in protest and started to skid. He straightened the wheel. The van leaned forward – those wobbly rental van shocks again – and Quinn thought he had it under control. Then the pickup trunk in front of him hit its own brakes hard. He was too close for Quinn to stop short. He had to change lanes to avoid contact. It was too crowded on the left. He swung to the right, into the next lane. There was a blare of horns. Quinn kept it steady into the right lane, speeding around the braking pickup. The van drifted slightly onto the shoulder and he heard the fine grit kick up in the wheel wells. In his mirrors he could see cars in his wake braking and swerving, but everything seemed OK. There were no lane lines on the new blacktop on this side of the paint crews. Quinn’s heart was beating fast, as he let the van roll back down to 50 then 45 miles an hour.

            All of a sudden, there was a blast of some sort from the road beneath him. Had he hit a pot hole? The van veered hard left. He wrenched the wheel to the right. He heard a scraping just beneath his feet. The van canted forward again. He couldn’t straighten it out, so he twisted hard right. As the van angled roughly onto the shoulder, Quinn saw a tire bounding ahead of him down the road. The grinding and scraping beneath his feet told him that it was his own tire. He tried to brake again, on the shoulder, but the three wheeled van skidded sideways. It was all in slow motion now. He had all his weight on the brake, as the van fishtailed on the loose gravel on the side of the new blacktop. Then, just as it seemed it would stop safely, something underneath the van gave way. Its front end lowered itself another notch towards the road. The stump of the missing front tire planted itself in the soft shoulder, and the van, pivoting on it, tipped ever so slowly onto its side.

            As the ground rose up towards him, Quinn hung onto the steering wheel. The van rolled gently, almost all the way onto its top. Then it settled down on its side with the driver’s side door on the ground. His backpack which had been on the passenger seat fell on top of him and his phone and notebook and bottle of iced tea fell out. The radio had somehow stopped and Quinn could hear cars racing past. He wasn’t the slightest bit hurt; he could tell that instantly. But he lay still, muscles tensed, for what seemed like a long while. Beneath all the sounds outside and the pounding blood racing in his head, he could hear another buzzing of some sort. At first he thought he might have hit his head. But it wasn’t coming from his head. It was coming from near his head. At his left shoulder, which was resting on the van door – the glass wasn’t even broken – his phone, set on vibrate, was alerting him to an incoming call. 

Chapter 1

 
Chapter 1
 
“Alright, listen carefully,” said Paul as he eased the old green van into a parking space near the entrance to the auction house, “I’m not going to have much time to explain everything once we get in there. And when the auction beings, it’s going to go much too fast.”
“Lay it on us, boss,” said Jack Bonney, from the passenger seat. He peered eagerly towards the entrance, then pulled down the sun visor and adjusted the mirror so he could see himself. He tightened his tie – a thin black one that he’d bought new -- and smoothed his hair, making sure the part was crisp and even.
“Cable, are you with me?” asked Paul, glancing in the rear view mirror.
Cable looked up from his iPad and nodded without removing his headphones.
“Is that a yes?” asked Paul, “or are your live-blogging?”
“Hang on,” said Cable into the receiver on his headphones. He tugged on the wire leading to his right earpiece and it dropped out into his hand. “What’d you say?” he asked.
Paul shifted the van into park and killed the motor, just before it stalled on its own. “According to the web preview, there are 200 shelves of books in there. Figure 50-75 books on each shelf. That means we’ve got ten to fifteen thousand books to look at in the next two hours. Cable, do the math. How long is that per book?”
“Eighty three books a minute, or one book every three quarters of a second,” said Cable.
“Right,” said Paul. “And that’s to do everything: look at the entire collection, appraise what’s good, figure out what we can sell and what we can sell it for, for all three stores and more importantly for the Queen Mary Collection, sort out what the other people know that we don’t, and make a master list. Then they kick us out of the room with the books and seal it up so no one can move anything around. The auction is in the next room and once it starts, we’ve got only our notes to rely on. They’ll be selling two to three lots a minute. The whole thing will be over in less than two hours.”
“And then we’ve got a two whole vans full of books for the greatest library afloat,” said Jack.
“If Quinn ever gets here with the other van,” said Paul. “Have you heard from him, Cable?”
Cable tapped his screen and flicked to a GPS app. “Looks like he’s still on the beltway. Moving at less than ten miles per hour.”
Paul looked at his watch and shook his head.
“Do you think the Iron Sheik will be here again?” asked Jack, again looking towards the entrance. “Or the Admiral?”
“They usually are,” said Paul. He grabbed his satchel from the wheel well beside Jack, “let’s go.”
“Who is the Iron Sheik?” asked Cable. He had to ram his shoulder into the door to get it to open. The hinges popped like a gunshot as it opened.
“One of the big buyers,” said Jack, hopping to the ground. “He sells at a upscale flea market in Georgetown, so he’s got deep pockets. Also, he’s a poacher.”
​“What does that mean?” asked Cable.
​“It means he picks out people who he thinks are smarter than he is and he bids against them, without even knowing what he’s bidding on.”
​“Is that allowed?”
​“There’s no way to police it,” said Jack. “No one has to explain why they’re bidding. If he thinks that you’ve found something he hasn’t, he just poaches. Or if he knows that you always leave yourself room to triple your money when you buy something, and if he’s happy just to double his money, then there’s no way to beat him.”
​“Except to bid on things you don’t want from time to time,” said Paul.
​“Just to throw him off?” asked Cable.
​“Let him outbid you and then get stuck with trash now and then,” said Paul.
 
​The three of them crossed the parking lot and bounded up the six concrete steps leading to the Wembly Auction Gallery. From the outside, the building did little to suggest that it was one of the leading rare book and antique auction houses on the east coast. It was a flat fronted warehouse that shared a parking lot with a Korean church and a light fixture distributor. A wrought iron ‘W’ taller than a person was mounted over the door. It had once been painted black, but rusty flakes showed through. There were no other signs to indicate what went on inside, except a small red flag on a pole slipped into a holder on the whitewashed wall. “Auction today,” said the flag. But the lettering could not be read by anyone except someone already most of the way inside. And there was no street traffic in this neighborhood, anyway. It was an industrial complex from the 1970’s, tucked just inside the Washington D.C. beltway.
​Paul held the door for Jack and Cable. Cable, who had never been to the auction house before, let out a low whistle. The room they entered had high ceilings sparkling with a mish mosh of chandeliers – a crystal one near the door, a trio of spidery brass ones a little further along, and something near the back that seemed to be made from moose bones or antlers or something. There were glass cases along one long wall on their right, but some of them were blocked by high backed medieval looking chairs and a harpsicord balanced with the keyboard end down was leaning against another. A row of grotesque African masks leered at them from atop the glass cases, and a few particularly grusome ones grinned from within brightly lit showcases set up as centerpieces on two dining tables fully laid with porcelain place settings for twelve and tarnished but elaborate looking silverware at every place. Artwork in heavy wooden frames was displayed up to the very ceiling on every available piece of wall and on easels strategically angled in corners and blocking private areas. The rugs on the floor were layered two or three deep in places, angled to show each one to its best advantage. Paul strode through it all without looking around. He called out a greeting to someone behind a counter halfway back, “Hello Bud,” before disappearing through a velvet curtain in the back or the room. Jack was right on his heels.
​Cable walked over to the nearest of the showcases and leaned forward as far as he could to see the gargoyle inside. It had shards of shiny white shell or quartz for teeth, projecting menacingly around an unnaturally wide grin. The eyes were blanks, but Cable thought he could see sinew or thread of some sort, as if the eyes were sewn shut, or sewn to something inside. Was it real skin? It was smaller than a human head, darker. There were wisps of hair at the temples and holes where the ears should have been. Cable couldn’t tell if it was attached to a rounded wooden head-shaped block of wood or if was only resting on it.
​“It’s something, isn’t it?” offered a clean cut man in dark blue shirt and striped tie. He smiled eagerly and nodded towards the mask. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and, despite smelling slightly of cigarette smoke, he seemed genuine enough. His hands were in his pockets.
​“What is it?” asked Cable, “or what was it?”
​“Our expert at the African Art Museum says that it’s from the Congo,” he said. He pushed up his sleeves, even though they were already up, and put his hands back in his pocket. “She would not confirm that it was human skin, which is to say, we didn’t press her to confirm that, so we’re going to say that it’s monkey. Or gorilla.”
​“It’s disgusting,” said Cable.
​The man nodded eagerly. “Isn’t it?” He extended a hand, “I’m Benson. Benson White.”
​Cable shook his hand.
​“I saw you come in with the Riverby contingent,” said Benson.
​“Do you work here?” asked Cable.
​“Oh, yes. Yes,” said Benson. He rocked up on his toes before seeming to push himself back down to his normal height, which was several inches shorter than Cable, by plunging his hands once again into the pockets of his triple pleated black pants. “I’m the head of the books and prints departments, so Paul and I go way back.”
​Cable only nodded.
​“I, uh, took the liberty,” said Benson, handing Cable a slip of paper. It was twice the size of a dollar bill, stiff ivory paper. The number 512 was written on it in large letters. “Registered you guys when I saw you drive up. More time to spend back there and less waiting in line, when people start to arrive.”
​“Thanks,” said Cable. He didn’t know what the paper meant, but he tucked it carefully inside his iPad case.
​“Let me know if you have any questions,” said Benson. He smiled and Cable glimpsed for a split second a surprising earnestness in the man. Cable had been braced for a slick and maybe sleazy salesman-type, and was steeling himself to throw up the sort of wall that would encourage such a person to leave him alone. But in that short smile, Cable sensed that Benson only wanted to be liked. And before Cable could thank him, he’d backed away and was out of sight, behind an ornate screen of salvaged wrought iron railings.
​From the back of the room, Paul called out, “Cable, where are you?”
​“Coming,” said Cable. He hurried down the open path between tables and chairs and pedestals towards the back of the large room. There was an old African American man sitting at a counter near the back. He had on a maroon polo shirt with the auction house logo on the chest.
​“Good afternoon young man,” boomed the man.
​Cable nodded.
​“Cable,” repeated Paul, coming out from behind the curtain with his phone in his hand. “I can’t get through to Quinn. Can you try him?”
​Cable tapped his screen and slipped the earpiece into place. He got no answer, but the GPS beacon showed that Quinn was still on the beltway. The man with the maroon polo shirt watched with some interest, though he remained seated on his stool, leaning back with his fingers interlocked across his belly.
​Shaking his head, Cable said, “Nothing. Not moving at all now.”
​Paul clenched his lips and clicked his tongue. “Come on back here. We need all hands on deck. It’s a bigger sale than I thought.”
​He led Cable back past the curtain, which hung down in front of the back wall of the room, obscuring a plain glass doorway. Through the door was the book room. It was smaller than the front room, but fully as large as the first floor of the bookstore back in Fredericksburg. There were high shelves all the way around the edges of the room and lower shelves across the center. On one wall were fancy glass fronted wooden shelves, but all the rest were industrial metal shelving units. All were packed full of books, some double stacked, some larger volumes layered in sideways. The room bustled with shuffly intensity. A dozen or more people were in varying states of study. Some were running their hands slowly along the spines of the books, their heads tipped to scan titles. Others were crouched to look at lower shelves. There were eight or nine laptop computers balanced on the tops of bookshelves or on the two long tables in front of the glass fronted shelves, though only a couple currently had people in front of them. Their power cords were draped here and there across the aisles, vying for the too-few outlets. A man and woman – Cable noted that she was the only woman in the room – were murmuring together over notes jotted in a spiral notebook in the corner nearest Cable.
​“But Sabin calls for two maps, not three,” said the man.
​“I know,” said the woman excitedly, “that’s what I’m wondering about. Should we call Jeremy?”
​“Definitely not,” exhorted the man, “not until after the sale, anyway.”
​They noticed that Cable was listening and both looked at him ominously and held up their notebooks in front of their faces a little higher. They did not drop their voices, though. “Do you think the third map is the McPherson survey?” asked the man.
​“I didn’t unfold it all the way,” said the woman, “Too many people around.”
​“Cable,” said Paul, in a tone that indicated that he’d said it before, perhaps more than once.
​Paul’s laptop was set up in the far side of the room, on top of a wooden map case. Jack was already poking at it, with a stack of books piled beside him. When Cable joined them, Paul leaned between them and spoke in a low voice, “there are way more people here than normal. I’m not sure if that means there’s something good here somewhere, but it does mean we’re going to have our work cut out for us. The online catalogue doesn’t look like it was particularly well done, judging from what I’ve seen so far. Usually that happens when a ton of books get consigned right near the consignment deadline and Benson just accepts everything and fills up all the shelves. Even he doesn’t know what’s here.”
​“So it’s good for the Queen Mary library?” asked Cable.
​Paul looked around and then gestured to a section of books in the middle of the room. “It’s pretty much just what we need. Bestsellers, even some new looking paperbacks. What is it, twenty, twenty five lots, Jack?”
​Jack glanced at the printout of the sale lots. “Twenty seven,” he said.
​Paul nodded. “This will be a real life saver, if we can get them.”​
​“Solid gold for the finest library at sea,” said Jack. He snapped shut the cover a glossy dustjacketed copy of a spy thriller. “Not signed, not a first edition. No one here will want to come within ten feet of it.”
​“But it’s just junk,” protested Cable, “it’s exactly the sort of books you’ve been telling us not to buy ever since high school.”
​“That’s why it’s so brilliant,” grinned Jack, “it’s the perfect anti-strategy. We’re the only ones here who want books that aren’t worth anything.”
​“I’m pretty sure that’s not the strategy,” said Cable.
​Jack raised an eyebrow and looked at Cable over the tops of his black rimmed glasses.  “Cable, were your even listening when we agreed to this project? This time it’s not about rare sixteenth century editions of Aristotle and signed copies of the Constitution. It’s about finding five thousand popular titles, that people on vacation will want to read and slapping some library stickers on them, in exchange for an all expense paid vacation.”
​Cable shook his head disgustedly. “Five thousand little bar code stickers, five thousand little rubberstamps, five thousand more library pockets... If we just concentrated on that stuff over there – “ he pointed to the glass fronted shelves, “we could just buy tickets for the Queen Mary and then it would be an actual vacation.”
​“Vacation?” said an old man’s voice, “since when to book dealers take vacations?”
​The voice belonged to a little white haired man with a spry step. His shoulders were slightly hunched, but carried high, as though he were wading through high water. He wore wide waled corduroys cinched tight halfway up his chest.  In his hand he carried a battered, green cloth briefcase, which he set down on the map case next to where Jack was working. He squinted his eyes mischievously at Cable, then smiled at Paul.
​“Hello Lee,” said Paul, “you’re not just getting here, are you?”
​“Oh no,” said Lee, “I was here all day yesterday. I’ve looked through every page of every book. I’m just here to distract everybody else.”
​“Lee, these are my nephews, Jack and Cable Bonney,” said Paul.
​“Nice to meet you fellows,” said Lee. He squinted up at them, and it seemed to Cable that he made a dozen or more quick assessments in the time it took him to smile at each. He nodded his head affably, as if to clear it of whatever conclusions he may have drawn. “Taking a stab at the family business, are you?” he asked.
​“We’ve worked at the bookstore for a long time,” said Cable.
​He immediately wished he hadn’t said it. What seemed like a long time to Cable, four or five years on and off, probably didn’t rate for much with this little old man. He looked like a house elf from the old Harry Potter movies, except with clean skin and sparkling blue eyes.
​“I will defer to you, then,” said Lee without a trace of condescension. He unzipped his bag and removed a legal pad covered with pencil notes. From the chest pocket of his shirt, practically even with his belt, he fished out a stubby pencil. He held the pencil up to check the point, and said, “now then, if you’ll excuse me.”
​Jack grinned at Cable as Lee high-stepped away from them towards the glass fronted cases.
​“Lee used to own the auction house,” said Paul, before Jack could make a remark. “He sold it about ten years ago and has been coming back as a customer ever since.”
​“What does he buy?” asked Jack.
​“You never know,” said Paul. “He claims that he’s only buying for his research library, or for his wife when it’s garden books. But then you turn around during the sale and find him sitting there with three or four different bidder numbers, sometimes even bidding with two of them against each other, eight, ten thousand dollars.”
​“On what?”
​Paul shrugged, “On whatever. He says it’s not for him, that he’s just executing bids for other people.”
​“But you don’t believe him?” pressed Jack.
​“I’m just glad that I don’t end up bidding against him too often,” said Paul.
​“Why not?”
​“He doesn’t lose very often.”
​“I don’t understand,” said Cable, “it’s an auction. Can’t you just outbid him?”
​Paul nodded, “In theory, yes. But keep an eye on him tonight. See how many times he backs off something.”
​“Does he just have more money than anyone else?” asked Cable.
​“I don’t know,” said Paul.
​“So what, you just stop bidding when it’s you against him?” asked Cable.
​“Usually.”
​“But doesn’t he have to resell for a profit too? That doesn’t make sense,” insisted Cable.
​“Alright,” said Paul, “you’ve got almost three hours. Watch him. See what he’s looking at. Do some research on the books he seems interested in. That way you’ll know what there is to know about those books and then let’s see what happens in the sale.”
​“Seriously?” asked Cable, “in the glass cases?”
​“If that’s where he’s spending his time,” agreed Paul.
​“Tremendous,” said Cable. “Thank you.”
​“But first call your brother,” said Paul, “I’m beginning worry.”
​
​
 
​​

The Bonney Boys return to action Christmas Day 2010.
Stay tuned...

The Lost Souvlakis Mystery: Epilogue

Epilogue

            The Bonney Boys were the guests of honor at the Grand Reopening of the National Gem Collection just before Christmas. The Director of the Museum presented them with lifetime memberships to all the Smithsonian museums. As the boys turned the little laminated cards over in their hands, they caught the eye of Detective Deffenbaugh standing in the back of the room. “You’re right,” they said, “it’s pretty nice.” He grinned at them and took a big bite of a frosted pastry that he’d swiped from the dessert buffet.

           

            All the gems had been returned to their places and the exhibit looked beautiful. Meyers, whom the boys had come to like during the time they’d spent with him during the Franklin trial, told them the stories of the various stones. “One of the ironic things about these is,” he said, “when they were in private hands, they were never worn. The owners would commission jewelers to make perfect replicas for them to wear out in public. The real ones usually never left the safety deposit boxes. And yet it’s the stories of the thefts and curses and famous defacements that give them their names and to a large extent, their values.”

            “You’re just telling us this to justify having a fake Hope Diamond in the main display case,” grinned Quinn.

            “Maybe,” said Meyers. “Or maybe knowing that there will be another chapter in the story of the Tavernier Blue isn’t such a bad thing.”

           

            Two letters arrived at the bookstore the following same day, just two days before Christmas. Both were addressed to the Bonney Boys.

            The first was postmarked from an island they’d never heard of in the South Pacific. When they opened the envelope, the stationery was a familiar shade of blue. And the handwriting was instantly recognizable. It said,

            “I have enjoyed following your adventures in the newspapers, but I long for something else to read. Through all these months, I have held out hope that you might have kept my collection intact. If you have, please ship any and all of it to the address below. Many thanks, for what you have done and for what you are surely still to do. Most Sincerely, Anthony Souvlakis.”

            The other letter was a Christmas card from Otis. There was a photograph of him and his wife at a formal ball of some sort, both of them dressed to the nines. Inside, there was no handwritten message, just a preprinted Christmas greeting, “Wishing you and yours a Happy Holiday Season, Peace on Earth, Goodwill toward man. Love from Otis and Grace.”

The Lost Souvlakis Mystery: Chapter 29

Chapter 29

            The next fifteen minutes passed in a heartbeat. RANA VENENOSA was the Emerald Poison Frog. LEPIDOTHRIX IRIS was a bird called the Opal-Crowned Manakin. CERCOPITHECUS KANDTI was the Golden Monkey. TANGARA-NIGROVIRIDIS was the Beryl-spangles Tanager. CHRYSOLOPUS SPECTABILIS was the Sapphire Weevil. CHRYSOCHROA FULGISISSIMA was the Jewel Beetle. SUCCINEOIDEA was the Amber Snail. There were more than a dozen others. All of them were animals named for gems or jewels.

            “This has to be it,” said Quinn, “It has to be. He’s hidden them right there in the mammal hall.”

            “Most of those aren’t mammals,” observed Ellie.

            “Who cares!” said Cable. “Jack, get Max on the phone. Is he up there?”

            Jack dialed Max’s number. When Max answered, Jack wasted no time, “Max, go to the mammal hall. I need you to check something…. Right now!... call me when you get there.”

            While they waited for Max to call back, Cable said, “let’s just go. We’re going to want to be there anyway.”

            Jack agreed immediately. “Can we take your car?” he asked Emily.

            She nodded. “Go go go!”

            “Can I come?” asked Ellie.

            “Absolutely,” said Cable, “Come on!”

           

            They headed onto the highway going as fast as they dared. Max called back.

            “I’m here,” he said, “what do you need?” he was out of breath.

            Jack switched him onto speaker. “Look for birds, snakes, beetles.”

            “In the mammal hall?” said Max.

            “Just do it,” Jack almost screamed.

            “OK,” said Max, “I’m walking around. There’s nothing like that. Wait, did you say snakes?”

            “Yes.”

            “There’s a snake, I think. Does a dead snake count? There’s a dead snake over by the mongoose. You know what I mean; they’re all dead, but this one is made to look dead.”

            “What kind of snake is it?” asked Jack.

            “How should I know?” asked Max. “Brown.”

            “Look on the signs or something,” said Jack.

            “Jack, are you OK? You sound like you’re about to lose it.”

            “Max!” Jack did shout this time.

            “OK, OK” said Max. “I’m looking. Mongoose. Tapir. Oryx. There’s no snake listed on here.”

            “But you’re looking at a snake?” asked Jack.

            “Yes, definitely.”

            “What about any birds?”

            “Hang on.”

            “Dum-te-dum,” hummed Max as he walked around the exhibit.

            “There’s a little blue bird in the mouth of a bobcat type thing,” said Max.

            “OK, Max,” said Jack, “stay where you are. Do not leave the Mammal Hall. Do you understand?”

            “Yes, but why?” asked Max.

            “No wait, go to the information desk and get whatever brochures they have about the mammals. There’s got to be a list of what’s on display there. Get that. Wait for us there.”

            “Which one?” asked Max, “Go get a brochure or stay here?”

            Jack didn’t answer. He’d already hung up the phone. He pulled the business card that Detective Deffenbaugh had given him out of his wallet and dialed the number.

            “Hello?”

            “We figured out where the jewels are,” said Jack, “can you meet us at the Smithsonian?”

            “You did what?” said Deffenbaugh, sounding surprised for the first time since they’d met him.           

            “We know where the jewels are,” repeated Jack.

            “They’re here at the museum?” asked Deffenbaugh.

            “Are you there now?” asked Jack.

            “Yeah.”

            “We’re on our way up now, but we’re probably an hour away. “

            “Where are they?” asked the detective.

            “Just meet us by the elephant,” said Jack, “and make sure we’re not going to get arrested when we get there.”

            They raced up Route 95 in record time. When the museum came into sight, they turned right into the delivery entrance and parked the element in the spots set aside for the construction company, right near the door. The four of them piled out and dashed inside.

            The detective was waiting by the elephant, with Meyers. The latter was visibly distraught. His suit was neatly pressed, but his hair was messy and he looked like he hadn’t shaved since the boys had last seen him.

            “I hope you’re right about this,” he said, by way of greeting.

            The detective eyed them and seeing their enthusiasm, simply held his palms up and said, “it’s your show.”

            The boys led them all into the Mammal Hall. Max saw them at once and hurried over.

            “What’s this all about?” he asked.

            “Did you get the list?” asked Jack.

            Max handed him the brochure. “None of the things you asked me about are listed anywhere,” he said. “Not even in the species guides. In fact, I’m pretty sure the mongoose and that rattlesnake don’t even live on the same continent.”

            “It’s a rattlesnake?” confirmed Quinn.

            “It looks like it,” said Max.

            Jack stepped off the path and started towards the stuffed snake.

            “Hold it!” said Meyers. “you can’t just do that.

            Jack looked at Deffenbaugh for permission. Deffenbaugh shook his head. “Do you want to explain what you’re doing. Or maybe we should go get some tarps?”

            “There’s the ruby-throated hummingbird,” said Ellie, pointing up to where a domesticated cat had it pinned to the ground.

            Jack returned to the path.

            “Souvlakis left those riddles, remember,” said Cable, “we’ve figured them out. There were animal names that matched the names of gems. And they’re here! They’re in the displays. That’s a diamond backed rattlesnake! Get it? A diamond backed rattlesnake. A Ruby throated hummingbird?”

            “And what? You think the gems are inside them?” asked Meyers.

            “There’s only one way to find out,” said Jack.

            Meyers looked concerned. He looked at all the people passing through the exhibit. Some were already looking at them, since Jack was standing with one foot in a tableau featuring a mule deer. He began to shake his head.

            “The snake isn’t even supposed to be here,” said Max. “It’s not a mammal and it’s not in the brochure.”

            “What’s it doing here, then?” asked Meyers.

            “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said Jack.

            “Look!” said Cable, “there are snails – snail shells anyway – in the shrew nest.”

            Before Meyers could say anything, Cable reached over and picked up a yellow snail shell from the nest of twigs. He cracked it open like a nut. A yellow gemstone the size of a blueberry fell out in his hand. Meyer’s eyes went wide, as Cable held it up for him to see.

            “Convinced?” asked Cable.

            “I am,” said Deffenbaugh. He raised his arms and his voice and said, “Excuse me people, We’re going to be shutting down this exhibit for a few hours. If you’ll all just make your way to the exits. Thank you.” Deffenbaugh escorted the crowds out into the mail hall. It took no time at all.

            A couple Smithsonian security guards came over, but when they saw Meyers and Deffenbaugh, they nodded and went back to their posts.

            “May I?” asked Jack.

            He ducked under the mule deer and made his way to the snake. He picked it up and turned it over. A pattern of triangles repeated down its back. He looked at its face and in its mouth. Then he saw that there was a bump in its throat that looked like it had just eaten a mouse or an egg. He squeezed it. The snakeskin was solid.

            “Can I break it?” he asked.

            “Yes,” said Deffenbaugh, just as Meyers said, “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

            Jack snapped the head off the snake. The lump in the throat was a pink diamond.

            “We’re looking for frogs and bugs and birds,” said Quinn, “anything that’s not a mammal is suspect, right?”

            “And a golden monkey,” said Jack.

            “Everybody spread out,” said Deffenbaugh, “but don’t crack anything open. Let me take pictures, at least.” He looked up at the security camera nearest where they were standing, “J.J. are you recording all this?” he said to the camera.

            Meyers had pulled out his cell phone and was talking to Mr. Newman’s secretary. Jack and Cable and Quinn and Ellie and Max scoured the exhibit. They found dozens and dozens of little critters that were not on the placards. As Cable tried to pry the little blue bird from the mouth of the bobcat, he said, “there was no missing word, Jack.”

            “What?” asked Jack.

            “In that first riddle,” said Cable. “There was no missing word. The last two lines. It didn’t say ‘Keep an Eye on the Blank, Pray my friend this had a happy end.’ It said ‘Keep and eye on the prey, my friend. This has a happy end.’ Prey with an ‘e’ not pray with an ‘a.’”

            “The other one said something about pray also,” said Quinn. “What was it? The rest is safe though tucked away, In vulnerable but in visible prey.”

            “Otis was right,” said Jack, “Souvlakis didn’t even take them out of the building.”

            “Where is he?” said Quinn, “we should get him up here.”

           

            A few minutes later, Otis joined them in the Mammal Hall. He was overjoyed to discover what was happening. “I told you so,” he said, “I told you so. Atta’boy Tony.” He clapped his hands in delight. “I can’t wait to tell my wife.”

            The director of the Smithsonian arrived shortly thereafter. Though he’d been told on the phone what was happening, he still had to hold onto a wall for support when he saw the seven of them skipping around the brand new exhibit snapping off pieces of small stuffed animals as they went.

            An assistant brought Meyers a list of the missing gems. Cable and the detective piled up everything they’d found on a bench and began crossing the off one by one, as Meyers looked on. With each missing gem crossed off the list, Meyers face relaxed perceptibly. After an hour of searching, the only thing still missing was the Hope Diamond itself, the famous and infamous 45 carat blue diamond necklace in a platinum setting, surrounded by 16 smaller diamonds

            They searched high and low. In the middle of the afternoon, Quinn got a call from Chad.

“I’m the hero!” said Chad. “Emily told me I solved the final puzzle! Forget Robert Downey Jr, I want Johnny Depp, baby!”

The search went on and on. They cross referenced every animal in the exhibit with the brochures and the original schematics. Everything was accounted for, and still no Hope Diamond. Finally they concluded that it simply wasn’t there.

            “Do you think he kept this one for himself?” asked Quinn.

            “It’s impossible to sell,” said the director of the museum, “it’s one of a kind. No jeweler would touch it. In that sense it has no value at all.”

            “Don’t be so sure, said Deffenbaugh, “I can think of a dozen jewelers who would take it, right here in D.C.”

            “It’s true,” said Meyers, “what we know of as the Hope Diamond was once called the Tavernier Blue. It was more than twice the size it is now. It’s been cut before.”

            Cable shook his head, “It’s got to be here somewhere.”

            But no amount of searching could turn it up. Not that afternoon and not in the following weeks when every animal in the mammal hall was scanned with powerful x-rays. It was simply nowhere to be found.