CHAPTER 41

We rented a car.

“Something sporty, like my great-nephew, Thomas, here!” Uncle Richie told the girl behind the counter.

Yes. You guessed it. Tommy had already tailspun into love again.

“I think she likes me, guys,” he told us later, when we all piled (make that squeezed) into our sporty Mustang convertible. “She gave us a free map!”

We were all super-happy to see Tommy smiling again (and glad to be rid of Ms. Pamela Johnston).

Storm, who can sound exactly like the lady inside a GPS device, gave us turn-by-turn directions to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—without even consulting the map. (Tommy was hugging it.)

We entered the building, which looked like a Venetian palace from the 1400s (not that I’ve ever been to Venice in the 1400s). We wandered around a little, with Beck gawking at all the art, and ended up in a beautiful garden courtyard.

“I suggest we initiate our expedition by consulting with the security personnel,” said Uncle Richie after we’d seen enough of the art on display.

“Good idea,” I said. “Maybe one of the guards was even on duty the night of the burglary.”

“Doubtful,” said Beck. “That was way back in 1990.”

“That’s not so long ago,” I said.

“Uh, hello?” said Beck. “Do the math. We’re talking three decades.”

“So? What’s three decades?”

“Thirty years!”

Yep. Right there, in the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum’s lush garden courtyard, we erupted into Twin Tirade 2004.

“Three decades?” I scoffed. “That’s nothing!”

“Nothing? It’s two and a half times our entire lives!”

“Did you do that math in your head?” I screamed. “Do you have a calculator hidden in your hair?”

“No, Bickford. I used my brain. Something you could do if you had one.”

“Well, I must say, Rebecca, I am impressed.”

“Thank you.”

“I divided thirty by twelve and somehow ended up with eighteen.”

“Probably because you subtracted instead of dividing.”

“Oh. Right. Duh. My bad.”

“No biggy.”

“We’re cool?”

“Totally.”

As always, our angry diatribe (Mom’s vocabulary word of the week last week) was over almost as soon as it began. However, throwing a loud tantrum in the middle of an art museum is never a great idea.

Unless, of course, you’re eager to meet some security guards, which we were. So, in this particular instance, our dumb mistake was genius.

“You kids need to pipe down!” whined this guard who looked to be about the same age as Tommy. It also looked like he’d borrowed his navy-blue blazer from his father, and his baggy gray slacks from Santa Claus. His name tag ID’ed him as Willard.

“Ah, good afternoon, Willard,” said Uncle Richie. “I wonder if you might be able to assist us?”

“And I wonder if you can ask these two kids here to pipe down!”

“Of course.” He turned to us. “Bick? Beck? Pipe down.”

“Yes, sir,” we both said.

“Now then, Willard, as I have honored your request, perhaps you will grant me a moment of your time?”

“I’m on the clock, pal. Not supposed to be fraternizing with the art patrons.”

“This will take but a moment.”

“I ain’t got but a moment.”

Storm stepped forward, her eyes narrowing and darkening with storm clouds, which, by the way, is how she earned her nickname.

“Then let me make this quick, Willard,” she thundered. “What can you tell us about the art theft that took place here in 1990?”

Willard quivered a little.

And then, just like Tommy, he started wiggling his eyebrows. I think Willard was flirting with Storm.

“I wish I could help you, ma’am,” he told her, very earnestly. “More than anything I’ve ever wished for in my whole, entire life.”

Great. Now the security guy was in a tailspin.

“But,” he continued, “I wasn’t here that night. I wasn’t even born. You need to talk to Bob.”

“Who’s Bob?” asked Storm.

“My boss,” said Wilbur. “He’s over there in the security office. And, if you ask me, he’s the luckiest man in the world.”

“Why’s that?” asked Storm.

“Because he gets to spend more time with you.”

Willard wiggled his eyebrows some more. Storm looked queasy.

But Tommy shot the love-smitten security guard a double thumbs-up. “Smooth moves, Willard. I’m going to borrow that line the next time I rent a car at the Boston airport.”

“Thomas?” said Uncle Richie. “We need to move along. We need to visit Bob.”