CHAPTER 50

We did not go to our rooms.

Hey, we’re the Kidd kids. We live for action, adventure, and the adrenaline rush of finding something the whole world thinks is lost forever. Plus, not to brag, but when Mom and Dad were both out of the picture, the four of us did pretty well up against some fairly overwhelming odds and incredibly skeevy characters.

So we had our own powwow—with no adults—downstairs in the hotel’s super-fancy tearoom.

“All that talk about minibar food made me hungry,” said Tommy, eyeballing the spread of sweets, sausages, and smoked fish served alongside smoky-flavored black tea.

“I can’t believe Mom is even talking with weird Uncle Timothy,” said Beck.

“She kind of has to,” I said. “He might still be working for the CIA on a top secret project.”

“In a maximum-security prison cell?” said Tommy. “You’d think they’d give him a better office.”

“Yeah,” added Storm, “one without a concrete bed and pebble pillows.”

“We should go find the stolen paintings ourselves,” I said. “Like we found the Grecian urns and the paintings the Nazis looted in World War Two. We’d do a better job than Uncle Timothy, that’s for sure.”

“Fine,” said Beck. “Where do you suggest we start looking?”

“Russia!” I said. “That’s what the sixth clue said: the thief is a local!”

Beck narrowed her eyes and scowled at me. “Hello! That just means he or she is a Russian, Bickford.”

I narrowed my eyes and scowled right back.

Yep. We were launching into Twin Tirade 608.

“If he’s local,” I insisted, “then he has to be in Russia.”

“Not all Russians are in Russia at all times, Bickford,” said Beck.

“Well, Rebecca,” I replied, “there are more Russians in Russia than anywhere else.”

“So?” said Beck. “That doesn’t mean that the Russian we’re looking for is in Russia.”

“Maybe we should forget the Russian angle and concentrate on art haters,” Beck continued tirading.

“Why?”

“Because there’s only, like, two or three of them in the whole world!” said Beck.

“Are you kidding? Lots of people all over the world hate art!”

“Really?” said Beck, propping her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m not too crazy about them either.”

“Me neither!” I screamed.

“I know that.”

“I love your art!” I told her.

“Your writing’s okay too,” said Beck.

“Then why are we yelling at each other?”

“I forget.”

“Me too.”

“Want to go find an art-hating Russian?” asked Beck.

“Definitely. Let’s start in Russia.”

“Good idea.”

And just like that, our tempest in a teapot (or tsunami in a samovar) was over.

When we’d completely cooled down and Tommy had finished his sixth salmon and cream cheese slider, Storm finally piped up.

“Let’s go back to the scene of the crime,” she suggested. “There might be a clue in the museum that we missed the first time through.”

So the four of us hiked over to the Hermitage Museum. Just us kids, no grown-ups allowed. Like I said, we’ve done pretty well treasure hunting on our own without any adult supervision. Plus, children’s admission at the art museum was probably way cheaper than what they charged adults.

Anyway, what was the worst that could happen?