The Empress's Tomb (37 page)

“No, but I wasn't surprised. He watches his family in the evenings. When the lights go on in their house, you can see their every move. Howard calls it hobo TV. The squirrels prefer to stay in the park. They have bad memories of the Upper West Side.”

“Howard has family in Manhattan?” Betty asked. “Why doesn't he live with them?”

“But I thought you …,” I started to say before it finally hit me. There was one other person who could have had the heart-to-heart with Howard. I should have realized sooner that the benevolent Chinese movie star who'd urged him to go home had been none other than Oona Wong.

“His wife and kids live on Seventy-fifth Street,” Kaspar said. “He ran away from them last summer. He always cried when he talked about it, but he never told me why he left.”

“He told
me
,” I said. “And I have a hunch that Howard's gone home.”

•     •     •

Howard's family lived on a charming, tree-lined street in a picture-perfect brownstone with a big bay window. An impish little boy stood with his nose pressed piglike against the glass. Betty waved to him, and he stuck out his tongue. When we rang the bell, a plump, pretty woman in pearls came to the door. The boy peeked out at us from
behind her skirt, his face contorted into a hideous gargoyle grin.

“Mrs. Van Dyke?” Kaspar inquired.

“Yes,” she answered cautiously, rubbing her hands together to stay warm.

“Hello, ma'am. My name is Kaspar.” He didn't have a chance to explain any further before Howard's wife flew outside and wrapped her arms around him. Betty giggled with surprise.

“Kaspar!” the woman cried. “Howard's told me all about you. Thank you for keeping him alive all this time. I've been frantic for months!”

“You have?” Kaspar's voice was muffled by the woman's sweater.

“I nearly died of joy when I saw him,” Mrs. Van Dyke said. “I was beginning to think he'd never come home.”

“So you're not angry at him anymore?” I blurted before I realized I was getting a little too personal. “I'm sorry. It's just that Howard told me that he lost all your money.”

Mrs. Van Dyke released Kaspar and checked over her shoulder to see if anyone was listening. When she caught her son making faces at us, she shooed him inside and gently closed the door. “I was mad at first,” she said softly. “But I'll tell you all a little secret. I knew when I married Howard that he wasn't the world's best stockbroker. And believe me, that isn't his only fault. He's a tremendous slob, too. I found his dirty underwear in the bread box once, and he goes through a case of those vile Vienna sausages every month. But he was the most wonderful
man I'd ever met. So I did what I had to do. I stashed money away every month, just in case something happened, and I never told him about our savings. With the interest I earn, we'll get along just fine.”

“But I heard they took your furniture away,” I said.

“They came for it, that's true. But I took care of the bill on the spot.”

“So Howard ran away for nothing,” Betty marveled.

“If only I'd known …” Kaspar groaned.

“You're not to blame,” Mrs. Van Dyke assured him. “Howard didn't have his pills with him the day the men came for the furniture. Otherwise, I don't think he'd have hidden for so long. As you may have noticed, he gets a little confused without his medication. He suffered a rather nasty head injury a few years back. He was showing off and dove into the kiddie pool at a resort in Acapulco,” she confided. “But that's enough ancient history for today. I imagine you three came to see Howard, not me.”

•     •     •

In the Van Dykes' living room, we found a man sitting on the floor less than ten feet from the television. If April the chicken hadn't been by his side, I might not have recognized Howard. Clean, beardless, and odor free, he was wearing a natty blue blazer and striped Harvard tie.

“Hello there!” He jumped up when he saw us and shook our hands. “I can't believe what I've missed! I've been catching up on the news for two days straight. Did you hear about the two-headed calf in Minnesota? Wait
one second …” He stopped and sniffed the air around us. “Kaspar, you smell practically human! Have you gone home as well?”

“If my home were like
this,
I would have gone back ages ago,” Kaspar told him. “But I'm still on my own. Well … not exactly.” He winked at Betty.

“This must be the young lady you used to rattle on about,” Howard noted. “Has she come round at last?”

“I think so,” said Kaspar.

“I have.” Betty blushed.

“Glad to hear it! Who needs a home when you have a good woman? Have a seat, all of you. Anyone care for some sausages?”

“Actually, Howard, this isn't a social call,” Kaspar explained. “I would love to catch up, but we have something urgent to see to today.”

“Does it have anything to do with Cecelia Varney's cat?”

“So you've heard?”

“My wonderful wife kindly saved the newspapers from the past four months. She knows how I like to keep up on current events. I'm almost up to September now. I was petting little Fang when I read about the missing heirs to the Varney fortune. Oh—I hope you don't mind that I named him. A tough-guy name might bolster his self-confidence, don't you think?”

“Seems reasonable,” Kaspar agreed. “Is Fang still here?”

“Of course! But he stays in the bedroom most of the day. He's terribly afraid of April. She can be a little
snippy at times. By the way, what do you intend to do with him?”

•     •     •

Lester Liu's mansion was mobbed with reporters, sightseers, animal rights activists, and mummy lovers. Television vans had blockaded Fifth Avenue and traffic was backed up for blocks. Kaspar, Betty, and I watched as Adam Gunderson from Channel Three News filmed a report.

“Good evening, Janice. I'm here on the Upper East Side of Manhattan where, just last night, a wealthy philanthropist was unmasked as one of the most brazen criminal masterminds this city has ever seen! Lester Liu, whose mansion you see behind me, was charged this morning with an appalling list of misdeeds, including kidnapping, art theft, and attempted murder. Channel Three has also uncovered evidence that Mr. Liu is the secret leader of the Chinatown Fu-Tsang gang, a band of bloodthirsty smugglers who've terrorized lower Manhattan for decades.

“While the Fu-Tsang gang is said to have smuggled everything from counterfeit handbags to illegal drugs, people smuggling appears to have been the primary source of Lester Liu's wealth. Police have already closed seven illegal sweatshops owned by Mr. Liu, and just hours ago, ten Taiwanese
teenagers appeared at the Fifth Precinct police station in Manhattan, claiming they were smuggled into the country and held captive by Mr. Liu and a man named Sergei Molotov. Once their statements have been taken, the teenagers will be returned to their parents overseas.

“But perhaps the most remarkable aspect of this story is the person who brought Mr. Liu to justice—his fourteen-year-old daughter, Oona Wong. Miss Wong has not been available for interviews, but witnesses at last night's gala describe her as an attractive if poorly dressed girl with an excellent grasp of the English language.

“For the full story and latest revelations, tune in at five for a Channel Three Special Report. For now, this is Adam Gunderson reporting live from Fifth Avenue.”

“That was wonderful, Mr. Gunderson! My name's Tiffany Thompson, and I'm your
biggest
fan,” I gushed.

Adam Gunderson lowered the mirror he'd been using to check his hair and offered me a smug smile. “Thank you. It's great to know there are still a few kids watching the news these days.” He made it sound as if most young people spent their evenings mugging old ladies and vandalizing graveyards instead of enriching their minds with his reports.

“Oh, I watch you every single night. That's why I wanted to make sure you were the
first
to know what I found in the park.”

Adam Gunderson's eyes glazed over. “I appreciate it, young lady, but I'm quite busy right now. We're filming a special report on Lester Liu. Why don't you stand over there out of the way while I tape this next segment?”

“Maybe this can be a part of it?” I held out the kitten. When its fur brushed his suit, the reporter leaped backward.

“Somebody get me a lint brush!” he screeched. “I've got cat hair all over me. Would you please take that thing away?” he hissed.

“But I thought you might want to have a peek at its toes,” I whined. “They're very unusual. Aren't cats supposed to have only five?” In an instant, Adam Gunderson's face went from annoyed to ecstatic. He snatched the cat out of my hands and examined its toes.

“Where did you find this animal?” he asked, trying to hide his excitement.

“Right here in the park, across the street from that big house. I saw a bunch of cats being loaded into a delivery van, but this little one snuck out.”

“Do you remember the name on the delivery van?” the reporter inquired. His lips moved silently as he waited for my answer, and I knew he was praying.

“Sure,” I said. “It was from a company called Tasty Treasures.”

“Somebody get me an address for Tasty Treasures!” he shouted.

As a frantic assistant pushed past me, I happened to glance up at the Varney Mansion. One of the shutters on the second floor swung open, and a hazy figure briefly appeared in the window. I'll be the first to admit that it
could have been the glare of sunlight on the glass, or one of the many police officers still roaming the building. In fact, there are hundreds of possible explanations that all make perfect sense. But I'd like to think it was Cecelia Varney.

•     •     •

“That should do it,” I told Kaspar and Betty. “You can always depend on Adam Gunderson. He's not very bright, but he's incredibly persistent. He'll make sure the cat gets the mansion and the animal smugglers get a cage of their own.”

“So now that we've done our good deed for the day, where to?” Kaspar asked as the three of us strolled down Fifth Avenue. “Should we drop in to the Carlyle Hotel for a spot of tea?”

“Very amusing,” I said, though the thought of a cucumber sandwich was very enticing. “It's time for me to go home and take my punishment.” Since we'd come from Howard's house, I was almost looking forward to it.

“Me, too.” Betty sighed.

“Why don't you guys come stay in the park with me?” Kaspar offered. “We could start our own colony.”

“You can't live in the park forever,” Betty told him. “You have to go home sometime.”

“If only to shower,” I advised.

“Howard went home and look how well that worked out,” Betty tried.

“I will never go back to my parents' house,” Kaspar declared. “It's not my home. It's just a laboratory with overpriced furniture. You know, just because I'm related
to Arthur and Jane doesn't mean I belong with them. They've spent my whole life trying to make me into the perfect child, and I'm tired of being their guinea pig.

“I guess meeting Mrs. Van Dyke settled it for me. She doesn't care if Howard's less than perfect. She's crazy about him anyway. You know what my mom would do if she found my underwear in the bread box? She'd call in a team of experts to analyze my aberrant behavior.”

“I'm sorry.” Betty reached for Kaspar's hand and his dark mood instantly brightened.

“So am I,” I said. “But I refuse to let my friends date vagrants. We've got to find someplace for you to go.”

“I think you both have your own problems to worry about. You'll probably be grounded for the next decade or two.”

“We'll see.” I was feeling strangely optimistic. “When I ran into my principal at the museum last night, she promised to talk to my parents. If anyone can save me, she can. So why don't you tag along with me? There's an extra bedroom in our apartment. If I don't get shipped off to boarding school maybe my parents will let you stay till you figure things out.”

I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up, but I already had a plan.

•     •     •

Every lamppost in my neighborhood was plastered with the same missing-person poster. The unfortunate girl in the picture looked bloated, pasty, and slightly cockeyed. Kaspar was kind enough to assure me that I was much better looking in person. We hid in a doorway across the
street from my building and waited for Principal Wickham to arrive. At 12:00 on the dot, a taxi pulled up and the tiny old woman hopped out. We rushed across the street to greet her before she could buzz my apartment. The squirrels stayed behind, rummaging through a neighbor's trash can.

“Thank you for coming, Principal Wickham. But before we go inside, I'd like to take a second to introduce you to my friend Phineas Parker.”

The principal took off her glasses and studied Kaspar.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Parker,” she said. “You look a great deal like your father. How are Arthur and Jane?”

“You know my parents?” Kaspar couldn't hide his distaste for the subject. “I'm sure they're doing well, but I haven't seen them in months. I've been living alone.”

“In Central Park,” I added.

Principal Wickham's brow wrinkled with concern. “My, that sounds rather unpleasant,” she said. “Were things that bad at home?”

“Worse,” Kaspar admitted.

“I wanted you meet Phineas because I think you may be a fan of his artwork. He was the one who painted the squirrels all over town.”

“Is that right? I miss seeing your creatures. They added a certain spark to my day. Why did you stop?”

“I was kidnapped by Lester Liu and forced to replicate two of the paintings he stole.”