Click Here to Start (17 page)

As we are about to enter the pizzeria, I turn and notice that the black Jaguar is already parked in front. Clark Kent waves from a corner, where he is sitting with a laptop open in front of him. We approach the table.

“Hey, Ted,” Kent says affably. “How nice to meet your friends.”

He jumps up and closes his laptop, making room and chatting away, seeming somewhat distracted.

“Aren't you going to introduce me? What is everyone having? A slice? A drink? It's on me.”

“No, we're fine,” I say coolly. The three of us sit down, facing Kent.

“I thought you wanted to meet here because— Ahem, I see.” Kent regards us sitting stone-faced across the table. “All business, well, well!” he jokes, and laughs nervously.

“This is Caleb Grant, and this is Isabel Archer.”

“Someone's parents like Henry James!” exclaims Kent, nodding.

Isabel reddens a little. “My father is an English professor.”

“Just like Ted, huh? Something in common. That's nice.”

Now it's my turn to feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “Look, we're here for a reason, so maybe we could just talk about that.”

“Fine,” agrees Kent a little too quickly. “So what did you remember?”

“Actually,” Caleb says, “that's not why we're here.”

“Oh?” Kent sounds less annoyed than nervous.

Isabel takes a breath and then blurts out, “Why do you say you're from the
Honolulu Star-Advertiser
when they've never heard of you?”

Kent looks stricken, his eyes going from one face to another, finally landing on me.

He laughs sheepishly. “You know, they say kids are always the hardest to fool. I'm actually doing this article freelance and was hoping to sell it to the paper—”

“Then why make up a lie so easy to expose?” Isabel insists.

“And why are you so concerned about Ted's great-uncle?” adds Caleb.

“Who are you really?” I ask.

Kent takes out a handkerchief and mops his now sweating brow. “I never was a good liar. It's written all over my face, I guess.”

I know how that feels.

“The truth?”

“That would be refreshing,” Isabel answers.

“Okay, this is kind of complicated. First, my name isn't really Clark Kent.”

I want to say “No duh” but feel that doesn't sound all that mature. What would Isabel say?

“So we gathered,” Isabel says coolly.

Great. Now I know.

“My name. I'm actually Stan Kellerman, with the MMFPA.” He hands us each a card with a logo of a laurel wreath next to the words
Monuments Men Foundation for the Preservation of Art: Continuing the Work of the Monuments Men.

“Monuments Men—?” I ask, holding the card.

“It's a long story,” says Stan Kellerman, who seems visibly more relaxed now that the truth is out. “And please call me Stan. Actually, I'm glad you other kids are here, as not enough young people know about our work,” he continues, opening his laptop.

Stan types an address onto the browser bar, and a website with the same logo appears. There are individual articles trumpeting new finds of artwork, and the discovery of a ledger containing valuable information that turned up in the Library of Congress.

Above these articles is a photo of a group of older men holding out the ledger, with a few younger men behind them. Stan points to one of the older men in the front, stooped and bald.

“That's my dad, Lieutenant Morton Kellerman. He's one of the last remaining original Monuments Men.” Behind Lt. Kellerman in the photo, clearly beaming, is Stan.

Stan looks fondly at the photo. Then he seems to remember his guests. “Oh, I still haven't explained who they were. Are you sure I can't get you anything to drink?”

We look at each other.

Isabel smiles. “I'll have a Coke.”

Off Caleb's look, I say, “Make that three.”

“While I'm gone, feel free to poke around the site—I'll fill you in when I get back,” Stan says, getting up and moving toward the counter in front.

We gather around the laptop. Isabel reads from the page:

“ ‘Preserving the legacy of the unprecedented and heroic work of the men and women known as Monuments Men, who served in the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives—MFAA—section during World War Two, by raising public awareness of the importance of protecting civilization's most important cultural treasures from armed conflict.' ”

Stan returns with the drinks.

“So your dad was in World War Two?” I ask.

“Yep. You see, most of these men and women were museum directors and art historians who went over to Europe during the war to try to help preserve historically important buildings, but some of them were like my dad, who was just a military guy who fell in love with art while working with them.”

“Okay, I get that,” I say impatiently. “But what does that have to do with my great-uncle?”

“I'm getting to that,” Stan continues. “One of the most important parts of the Monument Men's work was after the war, when they set out to discover the hidden locations of all the artwork that had been looted from museums and private citizens in the countries the Nazis had invaded.”

Stan takes a sip of his soda.

“We're talking about thousands and thousands of priceless paintings, sculptures, jewelry, some of the greatest works of art ever created, hidden away in castles and even buried in salt mines. Da Vincis, Michelangelos…the greatest treasure hunt in history!” Stan concludes, his eyes gleaming.

I realize none of us have touched our drinks, we're so into the story Stan is telling.

“And people like my dad have helped recover most of it,” Stan continues proudly.

“And my great-uncle fits in how, exactly?” I ask again. I still can't make a connection from this incredible story to the wooden box, black remote, and key sitting in my knapsack at this moment.

Stan shifts uneasily in his seat.

“You see, I, well…a lot of soldiers passed through these areas during the war. And it was quite common for them to take souvenirs home. Or even ship them back.”

Isabel has been staring off, lost in thought. “Are you suggesting Ted's great-uncle stole one of these pieces of art?” she finally asks.

“No, not deliberately,” Stan says quickly. “I mean, a lot of these guys had no idea of the value of the objects they took. Which is where I come in.”

“I don't understand,” I say, not meeting Stan's gaze.

“My dad's in his eighties. He can't really do this sort of work anymore. So I go out and see if I can recover anything that might have been, oh…how do I say this?”

“You
are
saying my great-uncle stole something from over there, aren't you?”

“It's my job, Ted. I have to determine whether it was a simple mistake or—”

“—or
what,
exactly? Is that why you lied about who you are?” I snap.

Now it's Stan's turn to look uncomfortable. “The thing is, after you do this for a while, you find out that if you come right out and ask about these things, people get very…emotional…and it's harder to get information about the whereabouts of anything that might have been…relocated…especially if the person is deceased.”

“So you lie and try to trick people who are grieving into giving you what you need,” Isabel says, her voice cold and hard.

“Do you think I like to lie?” Stan protests. “You see how bad I am at it? It was my dad who insisted we do it this way, okay? You don't know how much I wanted to do something else, but my dad…”

Stan is whining now, sounding more like a kid our age than a grown-up.

I find myself feeling sorry for the guy. Still…“But why my great-uncle?”

Stan opens up a small notebook and refers to it, reading from his notes.

“The thing is…after the war, your great-uncle had a very prestigious job at one of the top labs in the country. It was about that time that we began this side project of trying to locate American GIs who might have brought these items of value home with them. Up until then, we had concentrated on Europe and hidden caches of artwork there. As soon as we started this operation here in the States, your great-uncle quit his job and went underground. We subsequently discovered that he had been running a liquor store in downtown Los Angeles. By the time we had this information, he had retired. We had no idea where he was living. It wasn't until his obituary appeared in the local paper, written by a”—Stan peers at the page—“Mr. Yamada, and after your great-uncle's will was filed, that we were able to locate where he had been all this time.” He sighs.

“We had hoped to find him before his passing, as it would have made things a little easier. I was able to talk to Mr. Yamada and some people at the hospital, but it seems he kept his private life
very
private. I was hoping you'd be able to fill in some of the blanks. But I guess I'll just have to tell my dad this was another dead end.”

Stan flips the pages in his notebook and snaps it shut.

Caleb has been staring at the screen of Stan's laptop through much of this.

“So it wasn't you who trashed Ted's great-uncle's apartment?”

“Someone went through the apartment?” Stan asks, a slight quaver in his voice.

“The police think it was just bored kids who saw an open window and decided to have some fun. Who do
you
think it was?” Isabel asks pointedly.

“Yeah…kids…probably…,” Stan says softly. He licks his lips.

Caleb leans in. “Are there…other people…who might be after something that Ted's great-uncle—”

I cut him off with a glare. Caleb corrects himself. “—that they
think
Ted's great-uncle might have taken?”

“Not this ‘enemies' thing again,” I sigh.

“I don't know,” says Stan, none too convincingly. He takes a napkin from the table and wipes the sweat from his forehead. He looks spooked.

“You really are a bad liar,” says Isabel, smiling.

“I really don't. But it's certainly possible that there are…others…who would be curious about what your great-uncle did or did not have up there.”

I push away from the table and get up. “There's only one thing. My great-uncle didn't take anything.”

Stan closes his laptop. I notice his hands are shaking.

“Ted, I'll probably be leaving as soon as I clear up a few loose ends. If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

He turns to go, then adds, “And I'd also like you to consider one other thing: how well did you actually know your great-uncle?”

We watch as the beautiful black Jaguar oozes out of the parking lot and Stan Kellerman drives off to his hotel.

“Can you believe that guy?” I fume.

“Well…you really
didn't
know your great-uncle Ted, did you?” Caleb asks quietly.

“So what are you saying? That he's hidden some treasure for me to find that was stolen from some museum in Europe during the war?”

“Ted's right, Caleb. Why would his great-uncle send him off on this whole chase, figuring out all the puzzles and stuff, knowing that in the end what he found would be taken from him?” Isabel reasons. “He would have asked Ted to keep it a secret.”

I look gratefully at Isabel. “Exactly. All he asked me to do was not to give up. To ‘Go for broke.' ”

“But what if he didn't know it was stolen? What if he just thought it was valuable?” Caleb asks.

“That still doesn't explain why he quit such a prestigious job as a scientist and hid out as an anonymous liquor store owner,” Isabel adds. “It's all very mysterious.”

We talk as we ride our bikes slowly back to my house, the late-afternoon sun turning the road a brilliant orange.

“I don't have any answers for that. Maybe it's in the notebook.”

Isabel holds up the battered paperback. “I'll look through this tonight.”

Caleb makes a face. “I guess I have to go through the other notebook you gave me.”

“What's wrong with that?” Isabel asks in annoyance.

“It's like having homework,” Caleb grumbles.

“You're right! I guess it is!” Isabel answers happily.

“Let me guess,” Caleb groans. “You're the one who always does the extra-credit stuff, right?”

Isabel laughs. It's her regular twelve-year-old girl laugh. “What do you think? Hey, there's my ride.”

As the Archermobile pulls up to my house, I reach out and touch Isabel's arm, stopping her. “Tell me honestly. Do
you
think my great-uncle was a thief?”

Isabel is silhouetted by the setting sun, and her face is impossible to read, hidden in shadow. “Well,” she says after a pause, “I guess that's what we're going to find out, isn't it?”

A shy wave, a small smile, a deep
clunk
of the door and she's gone as the Archermobile roars off to take her back to her palace in Treemont Oaks.

For most of dinner tonight I'm not really paying too much attention.

My mind is on the key we found, what Stan Kellerman said this afternoon, and the new
Game of Ted
that's sure to be on my laptop, which I am going to start as soon as the meal is over.

I get up to help clear the dishes, when I hear Dad call out to my mom, “Amanda, do you remember the name of the lawyer who handled your uncle's estate?”

I turn to see my dad with the local paper in his hands. Nothing strange about that—Dad usually glances through the paper after dinner. But I can't quite read the expression on his face.

“It was Mr. Huang, Dad,” I say helpfully. “I don't know how you could forget him—with that tacky office and—”

Dad looks past me. “Is that right, Amanda? Was it Mr. Huang? Ben Huang?”

My mom comes to the kitchen door and leans out. “Yes, Mr. Huang. All I remember is that horrible aftershave and how he had that annoying habit of calling Ted ‘Dear Uncle' and—”

My dad motions her over. “Take a look at this.”

Mom comes around to the other side of the newspaper and peers down. Her hand flies to her mouth and she lets out a small gasp. I wander over, curious.

There on the page is a photo of Mr. Huang, under the headline:

“Oh my heavens,” my mom murmurs.

“He's been missing for a week,” Dad reads from the paper. “Apparently his office was untouched, though some files are missing, and a lot of his clients' money is missing.”

“Ohhh…,” Mom says, and she and Dad exchange looks.

“You think he took it?” I ask.

“My uncle sure picked a winner for a lawyer.” My mom laughs and shakes her head. “We're lucky he did this after we settled the estate. Who knows what would have been left.” She folds the newspaper and sighs. “I guess you never know about people.”

“I knew he was bad news when I saw that pinky ring,” Dad says.

“You're right about not knowing about people, Mom,” I say. “Remember that guy from the paper?”

“Oh, right!” my mom says. “The man from Hawaii. How did that go?”

“Well, it turns out he isn't actually a reporter.”

Dad sits down. He doesn't look happy. “Why didn't you tell us this before?”

“Because I only just found out this afternoon!”

“So who is he, exactly?” Mom asks.

“It's a little complicated…,” I begin.

“We're listening,” Dad says, folding his arms.

“This is unacceptable, Ted. You really needed to tell us the second you knew,” Mom admonishes. Before she can finish her lecture, I get up from the table and stalk away.

“You come back here this instant!” Mom calls after me.

I return to the table, carrying my laptop and the business card.

“Isabel was suspicious, so she checked, and no one at the
Honolulu Star-Advertiser
had ever heard of him. This is who he really is.”

I throw the business card on the table. My mom picks it up and reads Stan's information out loud.

Then I dramatically turn the laptop around so that she and Dad can see the foundation website (yeah, I checked first this time to make sure it wasn't another senior dating site).

Mom and Dad peer at the screen, absorbing the information in front of them. For some reason, they don't seem all that excited.

“Hmm…so this guy was somehow involved with this art restoration thing?” my dad asks.

“No! His
father
was part of the other stuff they were doing. Tracking down missing pieces of art looted by the Nazis.”

Mom looks perplexed. “I'm confused. What does this have to do with Uncle Ted?”

“It's pretty simple. It seems some soldiers brought home stuff as souvenirs, and they didn't realize that these were actually priceless treasures,” I explain.

“Or…more likely, they
knew
they were priceless treasures,” suggests Dad.

“Are you accusing my uncle of being a thief?” Mom demands. Her jaw tightens as she glares at Dad.

“I'm just saying you could say a lot of things about your uncle, but he wasn't stupid or naive. If he
did
find something—”

“He would have turned it in,” my mom says firmly. “I can't believe you'd think he would—”

“Are you sure?” asks Dad.

“Why would he take anything?” My mom's voice is rising.

Dad speaks calmly and looks directly at Mom. “Hey, I wouldn't blame him. Maybe he thought he deserved it, considering how the Japanese Americans were being treated on the mainland over here.”

“My uncle never took a dime that wasn't his. And he was the most generous, giving person—” Mom is now close to tears.

I decide to step in. “Besides, we didn't find anything of value in the apartment.”

“Think hard,” Dad says, sitting next to me. “No treasure, no paintings or jewelry or anything?”

“Yeah, like I'd keep that from you. All we found was his lighter and some old notebooks and some paperbacks,” I answer truthfully.

Dad nods. “So that's that. And you think there's a connection with this disappearance of Mr. Huang?”

“Doesn't it seem weird to you that the apartment was all messed up, and now this?”

Mom looks at me. “Honey, we've gone through that. Those were kids. And Mr. Huang's office was in a terrible part of town. Like your father said, he was dealing with a lot of dangerous people.”

I gather up my laptop and head out.

“Yeah, you're probably right,” I call over my shoulder, trying to believe it's true.

Once upstairs, I close the door behind me. I sit at my desk and tentatively call up the site where I've bookmarked
The Game of Ted.

Wouldn't you know it? No more Tom and Barb. Of course, now that I'm alone.

I'm faced with a screen saying: “Coming soon!
The Game of Ted 1.3!
”

I make a sour face. Clearly someone doesn't have their act together here. Where is the “Solve the mystery of the key” game?

I pull open my drawer and examine the key once again. It isn't small and old-looking. It's big and made of a steel-like metal. This isn't a key for a box. On the back is written, in black marker, “P 14.”

I wonder where it is. Find the room. Solve the mystery?

My phone buzzes and I see it's Caleb.

“Dude, what's up?” I ask.

“Um, just wanted to ask you something,” he begins.

But I figure my news is bigger. “Hey, you remember that creepy lawyer guy my uncle used for the will?”

“The ‘Dear Uncle' dude?”

“That's the one. He was in the newspaper. He's been missing for a week.”

I hear a swallowing noise from the other end of the phone.

“What? But, but—” Caleb's words are coming out in small gasps.

“Caleb, calm down,” I say, as much to myself. “The police think he made off with his clients' money. Nothing to do with us.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Caleb sounds unconvinced. He goes on. “But the reason I called is that there's something else.”

“Yeah, what?” I yawn. Just by saying it out loud, the story of the lawyer's disappearance is sounding more and more probable.

“Isabel isn't answering her phone. And I've texted her and she hasn't answered those either.”

“Hunh,” I grunt. So Caleb has gotten over his callingIsabelphobia?

“Since when have you two been talking?”

“She asked me to recommend some good comics for her to read. I'm sorry, I think she said graphic novels. So I wanted to tell her my picks. Have you spoken to her?” Caleb asks. There's a little fear in his voice.

“No, I haven't. Get a grip, Caleb. What do you think happened to her?”

“It's just not like her to not return a text or a call, that's all.”

“You've known her, what? Three days? How do you know what's ‘like her' or not?” I say. Now I'm getting annoyed.

“Okay, you're right,” Caleb admits. “I don't know about you, but I think I need some sleep. This whole thing is getting to me.”

“I'll make you a deal,” I promise. “If you still haven't heard from her by tomorrow morning, I'll bike over to her house with you and we'll find out what this is all about. I'll call you when I wake up, and we can meet in front of your house.”

“Good plan.” Caleb sounds relieved. “Don't stay up playing games, okay?”

“Yes, Mom,” I sigh, and click off.