Read The Skeleton in the Smithsonian Online
Authors: Ron Roy
The Skeleton in the Smithsonian
This book is dedicated to
teachers everywhere.
—R.R.
Pizza with the President
“Why do I have to watch a bunch of disgusting bugs eat their supper?” KC asked. She and Marshall were in the O. Orkin Insect Zoo at the National Museum of Natural History.
“Because,” Marshall explained, “Spike has stopped eating, and I want to find out why.” Spike was Marshall’s pet tarantula. Marshall was crazy about anything with more than four legs.
“Okay, okay,” KC said. “But we can only stay for a few minutes. We have to be at the White House at five-thirty.”
They passed a beehive behind glass,
then an African termite mound. Some little kids were petting a huge cockroach held by a museum scientist. KC unzipped her backpack, pulled out her camera, and snapped a picture.
Marshall headed right for the tarantulas. A woman was dropping food into a glass-sided container. About ten people were watching. Marshall wriggled his way to the front. He saw two tarantulas pounce on the food. The black spiders were the size of Marshall’s hands.
“Gross,” KC muttered.
“My tarantula isn’t eating,” Marshall told the woman. “What can I do?”
“What have you been feeding it?” the woman asked.
“Mostly flies,” Marshall said. “And crickets, when I can find them.”
“It may be bored with that food,” the woman said. “Tarantulas like variety.” She put her hand on the tarantula tank. “These guys get beetles, grubs, crickets, cockroaches, moths, and other insects.” The woman wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Marshall. “Try this place in Florida. They sell live insects online,” she said. “They’ll send them right to your door.”
Marshall thanked the woman. “Good luck,” she called as he and KC walked toward the exit.
“Well, that was just super,” KC said in the elevator. “I may
never
eat again.”
Marshall grinned. “Spiders have to live, too,” he said. “What would the world be like without them?”
“Much better!” KC said. She gave him
a friendly bump with her shoulder.
Marshall returned the nudge as the elevator door opened. When they reached the exit, a family of tourists was staggering in. “It must be a hundred degrees out there,” the woman said, wiping her face with a hankie. The man smiled when he felt the air-conditioning.
“I wanna see the bugs!” their little boy said.
KC and Marshall stepped out into the heat. It was five o’clock, but the sun was still beating down on Washington.
A red-faced man in shorts walked up to the museum’s entrance. “Hope you’re not planning to go to the Smithsonian Castle,” he said to KC and Marshall. He tilted his head toward the red building across the Mall lawn. “The hottest day of the year
and the air-conditioning breaks down!”
KC glanced over at the stone building that looked like a castle. A stream of people hurried outside. Two guards stood at the exit, making sure everyone left. Near the entrance was parked a white van with ACE AIR-CONDITIONING on the side.
“They sure don’t look happy,” KC said as they headed for Pennsylvania Avenue. President Zachary Thornton was waiting for them at the White House. Ever since KC and Marshall had saved him from evil scientists, he’d been their friend.
“Is your mom coming tonight, too?” Marshall asked KC.
She nodded. “The president is sending a car to pick her up at work.”
Marshall smiled at KC. “President Thornton really likes her.”
KC blushed. “So? They just hang out together,” she said.
Marshall rolled his eyes. “KC, you and I hang out together. When adults hang out, it’s called dating,” he said.
KC was quiet for the rest of the walk to the White House.
They went to the special entrance where a marine guard stood on duty. He smiled when he saw the kids.
“Hi, KC. Hi, Marshall,” the marine said. “The president is expecting you.”
“Hi, Arnold,” KC said. “We’re having pizza with him and my mom.”
The marine winked. “Yeah, I know. She got here a little while ago. I think the president is sweet on her.”
“Told you,” Marshall said to KC.
“It’s not serious!” KC insisted.
They followed Arnold to the president’s private apartment. Arnold rapped on the door and a voice said, “Come in.”
The president and KC’s mom were seated at a table, drinking lemonade. President Thornton was setting up a Monopoly board. His fluffy cat, George, was purring on his lap. “Hi, KC. Hi, Marshall,” he said. “Have some lemonade. You look hot.”
“It’s roasting out there,” Marshall said. “And guess what? The air-conditioning broke in the Smithsonian building.”
“The Castle?” the president asked. “They’ll get it fixed by tomorrow, I’m sure.”
KC gave her mom a kiss. “Where’s the pizza?” she asked.
“The cook’s making it right now,” KC’s mom said. She looked across at the
president. “What is he putting on it, Zachary?”
KC couldn’t get used to hearing her mom call the President of the United States by his first name. KC called him sir or Mr. President.
The president grinned. “Rat tails and toad tongues,” he said.
The vice president, Mary Kincaid, walked into the room. She said hello, then handed the president a folded piece of paper. “I hope this is a gag, sir.”
President Thornton quickly read what was on the paper. When he looked up, his grin was gone. “Someone is claiming to be the heir to James Smithson,” he said.
“Who’s James Smithson?” KC asked.
“He was the man who started the Smithsonian Institution,” the president
said. “He was a wealthy British scientist who died in the 1800s. Mr. Smithson left his money to his nephew, about half a million dollars. Smithson’s will stated that if the nephew died without children, the money should come to the United States to create the Smithsonian Institution.”
The president scooted George off his lap and walked to a shelf. He pulled out a book and opened it to a picture of James Smithson. “When the nephew died without heirs,” President Thornton went on, “Congress received the money and the Smithsonian Castle was begun in 1847. Since then, many other buildings have been added.”
“And now someone is claiming to be an heir?” KC’s mom asked. “So that half a million dollars …”
“That’s right.” The president glanced down at the note. “This man—Leonard Fisher—claims that the money used to start the Smithsonian Institution really belongs to him. And with interest, it would be worth millions of dollars!”
Everyone stared at the president. “Can he do that?” KC asked.
“He can say whatever he wants,” the president said. He turned to the vice president. “Mary, I’d like to meet with Mr. Fisher tonight, if possible.”
A man in a white jacket entered the room carrying a pizza. “Put it next to the Monopoly board, please,” the president said. Then he picked up the dice. “Since I’m the president,” he said, “I get to roll first.”
The Unknown Heir
KC and Marshall were clearing up the pizza plates when Leonard Fisher and his attorney were announced.
“We appreciate your coming on such short notice,” the president told the two men.
“No problem,” Mr. A. C. Rook, the attorney, said. He smiled, showing a row of small, sharp teeth.
Leonard Fisher sat down on a couch. He wore a blue jacket over a white shirt with no tie. “Thanks for inviting us,” he said. “I want to get this settled so I can get back to work soon.”
“Oh, what do you do, Mr. Fisher?” Mary Kincaid asked.
“I’m a landscape designer,” he said. “When rich people want a nice garden, they call me.”
Just then Mr. Fisher sneezed. Grabbing a paper napkin, he wiped his eyes and nose. “Sorry, I’m allergic to those.” He pointed to a blue vase of flowers on the table.
“You’re allergic to flowers?” Mary Kincaid asked.
“Just those tall ones, the lilies,” Mr. Fisher said.
Mary Kincaid made a phone call. A few seconds later, a maid came and removed the vase.
“Well, why don’t we get started?” Rook said. “You’ve read Mr. Fisher’s claim.
Have you any questions, Mr. President?” “Yes, I do,” the president said. “Mr. Fisher claims to be James Smithson’s heir. Can you tell us, Mr. Fisher, just how you are related to him?”
Leonard Fisher nodded. “Sure. James Smithson left his money to his nephew, Henry Hungerford. What no one knows is that Hungerford had a child. A son. He was my great-great-grandfather. When Hungerford died, the money came to the United States.” Mr. Fisher tapped himself on the chest. “That money should be mine.”
“But it’s always been thought that Mr. Hungerford died without getting married or having children,” Mary Kincaid said. “That’s why the money came to the United States.”
Mr. Fisher shrugged. “I guess everyone thought wrong,” he said. He glanced at his lawyer.
The lawyer pulled a thick document from his briefcase. He placed it on the table. “These papers prove our claim,” Rook said, showing his teeth. “A direct line from Henry Hungerford to my client.”
“May I ask why you waited until now to come forward?” Mary Kincaid asked as she picked up the stapled pages.
“My client only learned about his connection to Hungerford recently,” Rook explained.
Mary Kincaid glanced at the first page, then passed the document to the president. “Our lawyers will need some time to look these over,” she said. “Naturally, the documents have to be examined very
carefully. We need to be sure Mr. Fisher really is related to James Smithson. We may require more than a few sheets of paper.”
“What other proof do you need?” the lawyer asked. “Mr. Fisher is directly related to James Smithson through Smithson’s nephew.”
“Our attorneys will decide that,” said the president. “No one wants to cheat Mr. Fisher out of what is rightfully his.”
The adults looked at each other.
“Um, how about DNA?” Marshall asked.
Everyone turned to look at him. Except KC. She was watching Mr. Fisher. He had a funny smile on his face.
Marshall blushed and took a sip of his lemonade.
“Well, I was thinking, why not compare James Smithson’s DNA with Mr. Fishers?” he asked. “If they’re related, the DNA will prove it.”
Mr. Fisher smiled at Marshall. “That’s a good idea,” he said, “except for one thing. We don’t have any of James Smithson’s DNA.”
“Yes, we do!” KC said. She pointed through a window. “His body is in the Smithsonian Castle.”
“It is?” the lawyer asked.
“Yes,” the president said. “Smithson’s remains are in a sarcophagus on permanent display there.”
“Then that’s perfect,” the lawyer said, beaming at Leonard Fisher. “My client will be glad to have the tests whenever you want.”
President Thornton was quiet for a moment. Then he stood up. “Right. We’ll open the crypt to take a DNA sample from James Smithson,” he said. “Mary, will you ask my secretary to arrange that for tomorrow?”
Mary Kincaid nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Rook snapped his briefcase shut. “My client is staying at the Dupont Inn,” he said. “We’ll wait to hear from you.”
Mary Kincaid stood up. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, walking them to the door. “Someone will contact Mr. Fisher for his DNA sample.”
After Mr. Fisher and his lawyer had gone, the president looked wearily at KC and Marshall. “If Mr. Fisher is Henry Hungerford’s heir, the United States may lose the Smithsonian.”
“Maybe the DNA won’t match,” said Marshall.
“You’re right, Marshall,” the president said, straightening up. “We should keep a positive attitude. Anyway, we’ll know one way or the other after we open that sarcophagus tomorrow.”
“Can we watch?” KC asked.
The president gave KC and Marshall a sly look. “Have you ever seen a hundred-and-seventy-year-old skeleton?”
