“That horrible weeping clown painting you hung in the Hermitage,” said Beck. “Is that supposed to be a self-portrait?”

“I d-d-don’t know w-w-what you’re talking about,” Zolin blubbered. Then he blew his nose in a very frilly pillow.

“Cut the waterworks,” I said in my best tough-guy voice. “We know what you did.”

“W-w-what? What did I do?”

“You stole the four missing masterpieces from the Hermitage collection,” said Mom. “Then you pretended to be so upset about the missing paintings, you had us thrown in jail. You named my husband as the prime suspect. And you did all of that because you knew that the Kidd family always finds whatever treasure we’re hunting—no matter where that hunt leads or how long it takes.”

“Chya,” said Tommy. “We’re good, bro.”

“Admit it,” said Mom. “You were surprised to learn that Professor Thomas Kidd and his family were in Saint Petersburg on vacation. You didn’t want us investigating your crime so you tried to turn us into the criminals!”

Zolin sneezed into his pillow and wept some more. “But w-w-why?” he sputtered. “W-w-why would I do such a thing? I love art!”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “In fact, you hate it.”

“That’s why you hung those hideous paintings in the gallery,” said Beck.

“And,” I continued, “we know the reason you did all the nasty, evil, and despicable things you did. It’s extremely psychological. Storm?”

She stepped forward. “Would you like to hear your complete profile?”

“It’s pretty gnarly, dude,” added Tommy.

“No, thank you,” said Zolin, snapping his fingers. A servant hurried in with a gold-plated tissue box that was filled with silk scarves instead of Kleenex or Puffs. The young tycoon dabbed at his eyes and dried them.

“Come on,” I said, eager to prove that the theory I’d cooked up after reading that travel guide was right. “Art killed your parents. So you hate art! Bada-bing, bada-boom. Case closed.”

“Do you know what else I hate?” asked Zolin, totally composed.

“That cold pizza with all the fish and little red eggs on top?” said Tommy.

“No! I hate nosy treasure hunters. You are correct, Mrs. Kidd. When I learned that you and your meddlesome family were visiting Saint Petersburg, I pulled all the strings I could to have you detained. And, trust me, when you are a billionaire oil tycoon in Russia, you have plenty of strings to pull! All the strings money can buy.”

“We’re going to report you to the authorities,” said Mom, totally unruffled.

“Good luck with that,” sneered Zolin. “Half of the government officials in Russia are on my payroll. Half of the people in this room too.”

“Actually,” said Uncle Timothy, “more than half. There are seven of us, only five of them.”

Surprise, surprise. Uncle Timothy was still a no-good rotten traitor.

The three goons in the rubber masks finally yanked them off.

No wonder they’d been hiding their faces and not saying a word.

They were the same Zolin thugs we’d met on the icebreaker on our way up to the North Pole!