All-American Adventure, Page 3

  The cop turned to us. “Gus here is ninety-two,” she said. “Oldest park ranger in DC. If he tells you to move along, you move along.”

  Storm’s eyes grew dark and cloudy. Seriously. That’s why Mom nicknamed her Storm. When she gets mad, it’s like an angry typhoon billows up inside her and blows away everything in its path.

  “Excuse me, officer,” said Storm, taking a bold step forward. “Since I don’t see any no trespassing signs, aren’t we within our constitutional rights to walk across the grass and open a manhole cover so we can gaze down into a sewer?”

  “It’s actually more like a buried chimney,” I said. “Or a well…”

  The police officer hiked up her gun belt. “Where are your parents, little lady?”

  Oh, no.

  The police officer called Storm “little lady.”

  Storm finds that very demeaning, patronizing, and condescending.

  So, if you do it, prepare for the fury of what we call the Category Five Storm (where there will be severe anger, drenching rage, and serious damage to anything in her path).

  And that’s how we ended up riding over to see Mom and Dad at the Smithsonian in the backseat of a police cruiser.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Thank you, officer,” said Dad.

  “It won’t happen again,” said Mom.

  Dad shook the officer’s hand. “We’ll keep a better eye on them. We promise.”

  “See that you do,” said the officer.

  Storm was still mad. If she were a cartoon, whistling steam would be teakettling out of her ears. “But the other ranger… Rachel…”

  Dad held up a hand. “That’s enough, Stephanie.”

  Yes, that’s her real name. But only Mom and Dad can call her that.

  “We’ll be keeping the children on a shorter leash,” said Mom.

  “Wha?” said Tommy, rubbing his neck. “We have to wear leashes?”

  “It’s only a figure of speech, son,” said Dad.

  “Ohhhh. One of those. Got it.”

  The police officer finally left. When she was gone, Dad announced, “Family meeting.”

  “Here?” I asked, because there were workers crawling all over the Paititi exhibit, gluing tiny Incans to the miniature mountains. Usually, we like to keep our Kidd family business private. Especially when we’re about to be disciplined, which I figured we were.

  “No,” said Mom. “Back at the apartment. Let’s take a break, Thomas.”

  Dad nodded. “Right you are, Sue.”

  They packed up their briefcases and we hiked the seven blocks in silence.

  We filed into the apartment and found our usual seats in the living room. By the way, we’ve never really had a living room before. It’d be a waste of space on a boat. When we were on adventures, we were too busy actually living to need a room dedicated to it.

  “Children,” said Dad, “here’s the situation. Your mother and I must remain here in Washington for at least six more weeks.”

  “We have to repair and complete the exhibit,” added Mom. “Plus, we promised the Smithsonian and our friends in Peru that we would host a series of lectures about the plight of the Amazon rain forest.”

  “Therefore,” said Dad, “we cannot take you kids on another grand exploration.”

  “Although we certainly wish we could,” said Mom.

  Dad nodded. “I, like you, chafe at city living.”

  Tommy raised his hand.

  “Yes, Tommy?”

  “Does that mean you don’t like it?”

  “Indeed. I’d much rather be on board The Lost, sailing to parts unknown. Or in the jungle. Or scaling a mountain.”

  “But,” said Mom, “commitments are commitments.”

  “So,” said Storm, “we’re stuck here, too?”

  “We’re just supposed to sit around and do nothing?” I said.

  Mom looked at Dad, who had just turned to look at her.

  “Not necessarily,” said Dad.

  “I have an uncle,” said Mom.

  “A spy?” said Beck. “Like weird Uncle Timothy?”

  Mom shook her head. “No. This is a real uncle. My father’s brother. We’ve never officially introduced him to you kids because, well, he’s… quite the world traveler.”

  The way Mom said it, I figured this uncle was “quite” some other stuff, too.

  “He’s also a gambler,” said Dad.

  “Yes,” said Mom. “There’s that. He’s also, well, let’s just say he’s a bit eccentric.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Richie,” said Mom. “Uncle Richie ‘Poppie’ Luccio.”

  “‘Poppie’?” I said.

  “It’s his nickname.”

  “So, you could’ve called him Uncle Poppie?” said Tommy.

  “No,” said Storm. “That would just be confusing.”

  “True,” said Mom. “Uncle Richie took me on my first dig back when I was younger than Bick and Beck. It just so happens that he’s in Washington right now.”

  “Cool!” I said. “Is he here on another big dig?”

  “No,” said Mom. “It, uh, has something to do with another big card game.”

  “Which he lost,” added Dad.

  “So,” said Storm. “He needs the babysitting money?”

  Storm. She always blurts out whatever’s on her mind whenever it happens to be there.

  “Yes,” said Mom. “He does. And you four need adult supervision.”

  Great, I thought. A wacky great-uncle who just lost a ton of money playing poker. I couldn’t wait to meet the guy.

  And guess what?

  We didn’t have to.

  CHAPTER 11

  Two hours later, Uncle Richie strode into the room, toting a sack of groceries.

  “Came as swiftly as I could, Susan,” he said to Mom. “Even though it meant I had to leave the table earlier than I might have chosen, if you catch my meaning.”

  “You lost?” said Dad.

  “Again?” said Mom.

  “Tut, tut. Buck up, you two. It is far, far better to dare mighty things and fail than to rank among those poor souls who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in a gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat!”

  Uncle Richie was a swaggering, blustery man who sort of reminded me of Teddy Roosevelt. You could tell he was a treasure hunter at heart because he was dressed for his next expedition, even if it was just running out to the grocery store.

  Uncle Richie puffed up his chest and addressed Mom and Dad as if he were giving a speech. “Thomas? Susan? Although I have no children of my own, rest assured I am fully prepared to shepherd and safeguard your young charges during your extended stay here in the District of Columbia.” He turned to us. “Children, as my personal hero, Theodore ‘Teddy’ Roosevelt…”

  (Nailed it.)

  “… once said: ‘Keep your eyes on the stars and your feet on the ground!’”

  “He also said: ‘It is hard to fail, but it is worse to never to have tried to succeed,’” said Storm.

  “Bully for you! You’re Storm, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. A kindred spirit if ever I saw one. Oh, we shall accomplish great things together, you and I. Daring, courageous, magnificent things!”

  “Like skinny-dipping in the Potomac River?” said Storm.

  “Ah! I see you know of the particulars of President Roosevelt’s time in the White House.”

  “Yes. He’s my hero, too. Well, one of them.”

  “Bully for you! Bully!”

  “Uh, Uncle Richie?” said Mom.

  “Yes, Susan?”

  “We don’t want the kids skinny-dipping in the Potomac.”

  “Of course not. The Chesapeake Bay would be much more invigorating!”

  “Awesome!” said Tommy.

  “Uncle Richie?” said Dad, shaking his head.

  “Right. No skinny-dipping. Understood.” He crisply saluted Dad. “Consider that
suggestion erased from my memory. Forget I ever said skinny-dipping. Drat. I said it again!”

  I raised my hand.

  “Yes, Bickford?”

  “You can call me Bick.”

  “Very well. I shall endeavor to do so.”

  “How come we’ve never met you before?”

  He gave Mom and Dad a quick glance. “Been busy, lad. Very, very busy. In fact, I was all set to embark on another grand expedition when I received the call from your father and mother.”

  “We thought you were playing cards,” said Beck.

  Uncle Richie tapped the side of his head. “For mental stimulation, only, my dear. Mental stimulation.”

  “Well,” said Dad, “we were hoping to head back to the Smithsonian this afternoon… work on our exhibit…”

  “As well you should, Thomas. For the best prize that life has to offer is the chance to work hard at work worth doing! Off with you, then. You too, Susan. Your children are in good hands. There’s no need to fear, Uncle Richie is here!”

  From the look on Mom’s face?

  I don’t think she was totally buying it.

  CHAPTER 12

  Dad and Mom went back to work. (After giving Uncle Richie all sorts of emergency phone numbers and showing him where the first aid kit and fire extinguisher were located.)

  The rest of us went for a brisk hike through the streets of Washington, DC, led by Uncle Richie, who moved at a very vigorous pace. We were all huffing and puffing, just trying to keep up.

  “Never, throughout history, has a man who lived a life of ease left a name worth remembering,” proclaimed Uncle Richie, pointing one finger to the sky.

  “Except for La-Z-Boy,” quipped Beck.

  “Who?”

  “The guy who invented the recliner.”

  “Happy to say I never met the man,” replied Uncle Richie.

  “Actually,” said Storm. “La-Z-Boy isn’t a person. It’s a furniture manufacturing company based in Monroe, Michigan.”

  “Ah! James Monroe. Now there was a president! He really knew how to write a doctrine.”

  “He also helped negotiate the Louisiana Purchase,” added Storm.

  “Somebody bought Louisiana?” said Tommy, sounding shocked. “Did they get New Orleans and Mardi Gras, too? Bummer…”

  We just ignored him. We sometimes have to.

  “Well, now,” said Uncle Richie, “it is after noon. The lunch hour draws nigh. However, having never had children of my own, I relied upon my treasure-hunt-honed research skills to locate a suitable, child-friendly restaurant for our dining pleasure. In my quest, I stumbled upon a list of Washington, DC’s most kid-friendly eating establishments on the internet.”

  “That’s cool,” said Tommy. “We have our own category on the web. Kidd-friendly.”

  Beck rolled her eyes. “They probably didn’t spell it with two Ds, Tommy.”

  “Well they should’ve. Because that’s how we spell our name.”

  “What establishment topped your list, Uncle Richie?” asked Storm.

  “A quaint place called Firefly seemed promising. It’s over near Dupont Circle. Thirteen-ten New Hampshire Avenue, if memory serves.”

  Uncle Richie stuck two fingers in his lips and whistled. It was shrill enough to shatter glass. Six taxis screeched to a halt. He opened the door on the first one.

  “Well done, good fellow,” he said to the driver. “Victory goes to the swift! Pile in, children. Be quick about it. We’re off to Firefly!”

  The restaurant was nice. There was even a tree in the middle of the dining room.

  It was also extremely kid-friendly. The menu included peanut butter, jelly, and banana sandwiches, mac and cheese (with fries or veggie sticks), plus meatballs with buttered noodles.

  Every kids’ meal also included a cookie to decorate, which you could eat after the server whisked it away to have it baked in the kitchen.

  We all just sat there. Looking glum. We let Beck, our family artist, decorate our four cookies. She gave them frowny faces.

  “I take it you children are not delighted with my choice of luncheon location?” said Uncle Richie.

  “This place is great,” I said. “I’m sure the cookies will be delicious.”

  “But,” said Beck, “we’re Kidds, not kids.”

  “There’s a difference,” said Tommy. “And it’s bigger than an extra D.”

  “I see,” said Uncle Richie. “Well then, if you children truly crave excitement more than macaroni and cheese, might I offer a suggestion?”

  “Go for it, dude!” said Tommy.

  “Let us settle up with our server, leave a generous tip, and hurry over to the Mansion on O Street! I suspect you’ll find it much more, as you say, Kidd-friendly!”

  CHAPTER 13

  Turns out the Mansion on O Street was more than a mansion.

  The Mansion was more like a museum! A series of five interconnected town houses, it had more than one hundred rooms, including a two-story log cabin. The ceilings were hand painted in all sorts of styles. There were stained glass windows everywhere, an Art Deco penthouse with a private elevator, plus all sorts of memorabilia, including guitars autographed by rock stars like the Rolling Stones.

  “This mansion is steeped with history,” said Uncle Richie. “Nearly every president since my favorite, Teddy Roosevelt, has visited. J. Edgar Hoover’s G-men lived here at one point. And the mother of the civil rights movement, Rosa Parks, called the Mansion her home whenever she visited DC. The Mansion is an excellent place to sharpen one’s treasure-hunting skills. There are seventy secret doors and many hidden passages. The Mansion is a veritable maze! However, there is no map! You must find your way through the zany labyrinth using nothing but cunning, wit, and guile!”

  Uncle Richie quickly arranged for us to take a self-guided tour even though we were last minute drop-ins.

  “The manager is an old friend of mine,” he told us. “Let’s just say he owes me a favor and leave it at that, shall we?”

  We started roaming around, going through secret doors that led to other rooms, staircases, and closets.

  One door was a bookcase filled with knick-knacks that led us into the house next door. Another was a pantry that slid sideways. A bunch were mirrors. We found about eight doors each. Way above average. But, then again—we are professional treasure hunters.

  When we were exhausted from exploring all the nooks and crannies and Beatles memorabilia and chandeliers and the Rosa Parks room and EVERYTHING, we headed down to the restaurant where they let us eat waffles and bacon for a late afternoon snack.

  Seems Uncle Richie knew the restaurant manager, too.

  “Was that a bit more to your liking?” asked Uncle Richie with a sly grin as he speared a wedge of waffle.

  “Totally,” said Tommy, wolfing down six pieces of bacon because he, like all of us, was starving after running around the Mansion (not to mention up and down all its staircases) for a couple hours.

  “But,” said Beck, “as fun as it was…”

  Uncle Richie nodded. “I know, Rebecca. I know. There’s nothing like the thrill of an actual adventure! To be out in the field, chasing down clues, finding a true treasure that most consider lost to the ages. Why, I remember when I discovered the mummy of Kittentomen…”

  “Whoa,” said Tommy. “You discovered a mummy?”

  “Indeed. And his whole tomb. Filled with riches. Gold vessels. Jewels. Precious objects. All of which, of course, I donated to the nearest museum.”

  “Was that the dig you took Mom on when she was a kid?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is she the one who made you donate all the treasure to the locals?”

  Uncle Richie nodded. “Yes. And she was only seven years old. Your mother looked up at me with those big, blue eyes and, well, how could I refuse her anything? Besides, it was the honorable and virtuous thing to do!”

  “Uncle Richie?” I said.

  “Yes, Bickford?”

 
“You’re supposed to call me Bick. Remember?”

  “Ah, yes. My bad.”

  “And I’m Beck.”

  “Right you are, Rebecca. What was your question, Bick?”

  “Were you really about to set off on another expedition? A treasure hunt?”

  Uncle Richie rubbed his hands together. “Indeed so. For certain information has recently fallen into my possession. Information that could very well lead me to…”

  He paused dramatically. In my head, I could hear the dun-dun-duns.

  “The Lost Ship of the Desert!”

  CHAPTER 14

  “There’s a treasure ship?” I said. “Lost in the desert?”

  “Well, duh,” said Tommy. “If it’s a boat and it’s in the desert then it’s totally lost, little bro.”

  “There are several legends about maritime vessels stranded in the deserts of the American Southwest,” said Storm.

  “But how’d they get there?” asked Beck.

  “Bad boat drivers,” said Tommy, who is excellent at skippering our ship, The Lost.

  Uncle Richie got a twinkle in his eyes and leaned across the table to recite a memorized verse.

  A mountaineer, storm-stained and brown,

  From farthest desert touched the town.

  And, striding along, held up,

  Above his head, a jeweled cup!

  “Whoa,” said Tommy. “Pirate poetry! My fave.”

  Uncle Richie kept going.

  “He whispered wild, and said with lifted hand,

  ‘Doubloons are sown along the sand!’”

  “Seriously?” said Beck. “Some wheezy old sunbaked geezer stumbled into a town and started rhyming at people about doubloons lying in the sand?”

  Uncle Richie gave her a mischievous grin. “So it is written in Joaquin Miller’s 1875 book The Ship in the Desert! But what I am searching for is the lost pearl ship of Spanish Explorer Juan de Iturbe. It was a shallow-drafted caravel—”