CHAPTER 55
“We wanted to ask that security guard over there if she knew who donated the four repulsive paintings,” said Beck. “But Uncle Timothy’s six comrades with the rubber Putin pusses chased us out of the room before we had the chance.”
“They didn’t chase you,” said Uncle Timothy. “They executed a flanking security maneuver known as the flying hex box to set up an impenetrable perimeter of protection.”
“Nah,” said Beck. “They chased us.”
“And,” I added, “three of them wouldn’t take off their masks. It was almost as if they were afraid to show their faces.”
“Do they have bad zits?” Tommy asked Uncle Timothy. “Because, I remember when I broke out, I didn’t want anybody to see me. I even covered up all the mirrors and shiny surfaces on our ship—”
“Stay here, you guys,” said Mom. “I’ll go talk to the nice lady.”
Uncle Timothy touched his earpiece. “I’ve got a call to make.”
“Um,” said Tommy, “I thought we were supposed to do foolish stuff together from now on?”
Mom smiled. “You’re right. Let’s all go.”
So all of us, including Uncle T, shuffled across the room in a bunch and surrounded the burly security guard.
“Excuse me, madame,” said Mom, super-politely.
“Da?”
“Can you tell us, when were the cat, clown, dog, and Elvis paintings added to this gallery?”
“Recently.”
“They don’t really seem to fit with the other paintings on display.”
The guard shrugged. “I do not understand art. I like to watch TV. Love Masha and the Bear. Is cute.”
“I see,” said Mom.
“But do you know who contributed these four new works to the museum?” asked Beck.
“Da. Anonymous. He donates many pieces. Paintings, statues, ancient artifacts. When Anonymous heard we had lost four paintings, he gave us four more.” She shrugged again. “For me, a painting is a painting.”
“But the substitute paintings are horrible!” shrieked Beck. “Why would the Hermitage, one of the greatest art museums in the whole world, agree to hang such ugly eyesores on its walls?”
The security guard grinned and rubbed two fingers back and forth across her thumb, giving us the universal sign for Money! Money! Money!
“Mr. Anonymous?” she said, checking to make sure no one was eavesdropping on our conversation. “He is very, very rich. One of our most eccentric and generous Russian billionaires. If he wants to donate pictures of Elvis, cats, dogs, and sad clowns, they will let him. They also say he does not really like art. In fact…” She looked around one more time to make absolutely certain her superiors couldn’t hear. “I have heard that Anonymous hates art and hopes to one day see all of these other masterpieces disappear!”
As soon as she said that, a museum official came into the room. She abruptly left us and went back to standing by the doorway looking bored.
Sensing we wouldn’t get any more information from the guard, we left the museum and headed back to the hotel.
“So,” said Mom when we were all gathered in the living room of her suite, “how do we find an art hater?”
“Easy for me,” joked Uncle Timothy. “I just look in a mirror.”
Beck glared at him.
“Sorry, Rebecca. I like action movies. Football. Drawing pictures and painting them in? That’s for kindergartners.”
After Uncle Timothy said that, Beck whipped out her sketchbook and drew this:
