The Empress's Tomb Read online

  While Dr. Jennings, Oona, and Lester Liu forged ahead, I paused to watch the workers finish preparing the crates. As a beefy man bent over to hammer a last nail, his shirt came untucked from his pants, exposing a spectacular plumber’s crack—and the tattooed head of a crosseyed dragon. It was Fu-Tsang. I spun around to see if anyone else had noticed and found Oona staring at me from across the room, her eyes daring me to speak.

  “Are you coming?” she growled.

  • • •

  Had my mind not been dancing with dragons, I might have been struck with the same awe the grave robbers must have felt when they first entered the tomb of the Empress. I stepped into a dark room that featured brightly lit glass boxes set on tall black pedestals. Inside each, a miniature world appeared to float four feet above the floor. There were perfect porcelain replicas of ancient palaces, mansions, and courtyards—each so detailed I could see the tiles on the roofs. Another case displayed a sprawling farm inhabited by bite-sized pigs, chickens, and ducks. These were the Empress’s supplies for the afterworld. Anything a woman of her rank might have needed had been carefully copied and buried alongside her. Peeking into the next gallery, I saw an army of foot-high clay servants, all still awaiting orders from their mistress. Each room of the exhibit was designed to guide visitors deeper and deeper into the Empress’s tomb, until at last they reached the magnificent chamber where her mummy would be on view.

  “The Empress is due to arrive on the day of the gala,” I heard Lester Liu announce. “I apologize for the delay. She and her coffin are extremely fragile. I have taken Mr. Hunt’s advice and hired a team of experts to transport her from my home to the museum.”

  “Of course, Mr. Liu. The Empress’s room will be ready when she is,” Dr. Jennings assured him. “Shall we take a look?”

  “Oh, Lillian!” Lester Liu called out. Oona shot me a warning look and hurried off in pursuit of her father. When at last she was out of sight, I slipped back to the entrance and watched the workmen load one of the crates onto a dolly. The tattooed man wheeled it away. As his coworkers shifted their attention to the next work of art, I followed the crate out the door.

  I’ve done dumber things, but not many. Despite countless lessons from Kiki, my tailing abilities remained laughably bad, and I had only two drops of Fille Fiable to save me from the trouble I knew I was stirring. As the man pushed the crate through the empty hallways of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I kept a safe distance, ducking behind columns and accidentally groping a statue or two. My brain was working at double speed, and things were beginning to make sense to me. Rather than attempting to deactivate the museum’s motion detectors and silent alarms, the Fu-Tsang were stealing paintings as they were moved from place to place. And there was no longer any doubt in my mind that Oona was involved.

  The man turned a sharp corner, and I waited several seconds before peeking around the bend. The painting was nowhere in sight, and I could hear the creak of the dolly’s wheels growing fainter.

  “It’s about time!” I heard someone exclaim. The voice seemed to come from the last of several galleries on the hall. “I’ve been waiting all night. Let’s go!” I inched down the hallway, begging my shoes not to betray me. A floorboard creaked, and I froze in midstep. I slid off my flats, tiptoed to the gallery’s entrance, and slowly poked my head around the corner. The crate lay open and the Fu-Tsang thug and three other men were hoisting the painting into the air.

  “Now take it over there.” A man stood in the center of the room, directing the action with the self-importance of a pharaoh commanding an army of slaves. “Let’s try to get it on the wall before dawn, shall we?” My head spun. The painting hadn’t been stolen. It had only been moved. Once it was flat against the wall, I could see a plump nude with a massive derriere lounging in a Turkish setting. But there seemed to be something peeking over her shoulder—something that seemed out of place. When I shifted my stance, the object vanished. There was no way to get any closer. I’d have to return in the morning.

  I slinked back down the hall and tried to remember which way I’d come. Bad luck struck, and the turn I chose led me straight to Mr. Hunt.

  “Who are you?” he demanded as if he’d never laid eyes on me. “Come here this instant. Where in God’s name are your shoes?”

  I walked over to the man, hoping to get close enough to give him a whiff of my perfume.

  “I’m Mr. Liu’s assistant, sir. I was just looking for the bathroom, and I got lost.” I prayed the perfume could compensate for my pitiful excuse.

  “You are no longer in my employ, Miss Fishbein.” I shriveled when I heard Lester Liu’s voice. He’d come to look for me. “Mr. Hunt, would you mind asking security to deal with this troublemaker so that I can return to my work?”

  “Not at all,” replied Mr. Hunt, with far more enthusiasm than the situation merited.

  Given the choice, I would have preferred to spend the night in jail. Instead, the museum security staff called my mother. As I waited by the coat check for her to arrive, Oona and her father passed me on their way out. Lester Liu refused to acknowledge my existence, but once her father was out the door, Oona couldn’t resist having the last word.

  “What did you think you were doing?” she snarled. “This isn’t a game. If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead by now.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” I spat back at her. “I don’t associate with traitors.”

  TEST YOUR DETECTIVE SKILLS

  A good detective never lets even the tiniest detail slip past her. When solving crimes and saving cities, even the name of someone’s pet chicken could provide a vital clue. (Though it doesn’t in this book.)

  The following test will help you determine whether you’re ready for action—or could use a little more practice. Keep in mind—in real life, there are no multiple-choice questions.

  1. What is the name of Howard Van Dyke’s pet chicken?

  a. Nugget

  b. April

  c. Thelma

  d. Extra Crispy

  2. What time did your next-door neighbor leave his house this morning?

  a. Exactly ten minutes and eleven seconds later than yesterday

  b. Who knows? I decided to sleep in

  c. I would never intrude on someone’s privacy!

  d. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him in weeks. Maybe I should knock at his door

  3. Which of the following cannot be found in your trash?

  a. The identity of your secret crush

  b. Your best friend’s unlisted phone number

  c. Several empty jars of Marshmallow Fluff

  d. That rather unpleasant note from your principal

  4. Which statement best describes the hot dog vendor on the corner of Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue?

  a. Purveyor of the tastiest processed meats in Manhattan

  b. Spy for the Mongolian government

  c. Criminal wanted for crimes against the animal kingdom

  d. Friend of the squirrels

  5. Which of the following will prevent you from seeming mysterious?

  a. Scar- and tattoo-free skin

  b. A name like Tiffany

  c. A big mouth

  d. The lack of a criminal record

  6. Finish the following sentence: Based on what I’ve read so far, Oona Wong is a …

  a. Dastardly double agent

  b. Sweet-tempered girl with a heart of gold

  c. Poltergeist

  d. Pseudonym

  Extra Credit

  Create a disguise that’s good enough to fool an acquaintance using only the contents of your handbag or backpack.

  You’ve been caught snooping on a suspicious relative (for the second time). Craft an appropriate non-apology. (Feel guilty later, if you like.)

  Pull on some rubber gloves and remove the trash can from your sister’s room. Examine the items inside and compose a list of her activities over the past two days.

  ANSWERS:

  1) b


  2) a

  3) If you’ve been paying attention, none of this should be in your trash.

  4) c

  5) c

  6) d—You haven’t read ahead, have you?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Prisoner of Cleveland Place

  I’ve always admired movie heroines who, when captured by the enemy, refuse to divulge their secrets. Threaten, torture, or taunt them, and all you’ll receive in return is a soul-stirring speech about honor, integrity, and the high price of freedom. In the end, they either escape from their tormentors or die heroically, leaving behind a handsome, heartbroken lover and inspiring an entire nation with their courage. As I waited for my mother to drag me home from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I promised myself I would behave with the utmost dignity. There would be no crying or pleading or begging for mercy. (And tragically, no devoted heartthrob to witness my bravery.) I carefully crafted the single response I would give to my mother’s questions: One day you’ll understand.

  The problem was, there weren’t any questions. And one glimpse at the disappointment on my mother’s face reminded me that she wasn’t the enemy. She was the mother of a sneaky, lying, untrustworthy girl who couldn’t or wouldn’t explain her actions. On the ride home from the museum, there were no lectures and no talk of boarding school. My mother stared silently out the window, watching Fifth Avenue fly past. I saw what my secrets had done to her, and I wished I could tell her the truth. But I knew I had waited too long.

  I felt slightly less sympathetic when I found two large suitcases on the floor of my bedroom, along with a note informing me that the next two days would be my last at the Atalanta School for Girls. My phone was confiscated, and my computer was missing. Even the windows had new locks. There was no way to contact the Irregulars. Until I could break free from Fishbein Fortress, Oona’s treachery would remain a secret.

  • • •

  The next morning, things only got worse. When I started for school, I found my mother dressed and waiting by the door.

  “You’re not!” I uttered in disbelief.

  “How else can I be sure that you get to school?” She smirked, holding the door open for me.

  There are few things in life more humiliating than being escorted to school by your mother. What annoyed me most was that she had managed to foil the only escape plan I’d devised. She sat next to me on the subway and watched me out of the corner of her eye as we passed several newsstands hawking the morning papers. Assassin at Death’s Door! screamed the cover of one. Hero Doctor Tells All! shouted another. When my mother delivered me to the front door of the Atalanta School, several witnesses started to titter. Fortunately, Molly Donovan had been lingering outside, waiting for another chance to be tardy. With one look from Molly, eyes were averted, lips were zipped, and I was allowed to walk into the school with what little was left of my self-esteem.

  “Whaddya do this time?” Molly and her curls bounced along beside me.

  “I got caught sneaking around the Metropolitan Museum last night.”

  “The museum? You’re kidding!” If I hadn’t had her respect before, I certainly earned it then.

  “I wish.”

  “You must be telling the truth. You’re being watched, you know. They probably have you down as a flight risk.”

  “Who’s watching me?”

  “Shhh. Just look around. Don’t be too obvious. Let them have their fun. This is the most excitement these teachers have all day. Makes ’em feel like Nancy Drew.” One quick glance to both sides proved she was right. Every teacher we passed was stalking me with her eyes. I began to understand what it was like to be Molly Donovan.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be seen together right now,” I murmured, trying to keep my lips from moving.

  “Yeah, I guess hard-core gangsters like you can’t afford to be seen slumming around with two-bit criminals like me,” Molly jested.

  “Sorry. I don’t know what I was saying. It doesn’t matter anymore if I get expelled.”

  “Funny, that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about. You know that promise you made me? Do you think you could speed things up a bit? I’m getting a little desperate.

  I’ve attracted the attention of a graduate student who works for my shrinks. She seems to think I’m her ticket to fame and fortune.”

  “Her name wouldn’t be Shiva, by any chance?” I asked.

  “You’ve met the she-beast?” I nodded. “Well then you know what I’m talking about. My parents let her put cameras in my bedroom so she can study me in my natural environment. So you better act fast, ’cause if this goes on for long, I may have to kill her.”

  “I don’t know, Molly. I’m a little overwhelmed right now.”

  “You have time to break into the Metropolitan Museum, but you don’t have time to help out a friend?”

  “Believe it or not, I have other friends who are in worse trouble than you.”

  “Let’s see what you think at the end of the day,” Molly challenged me, holding open the door of my first-period class. “There’s nothing worse than losing your privacy. Have you ever heard of the observer effect?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you ever listen in class? The observer effect is one of those weird scientific phenomena. When people are put under observation, their behavior changes. It’s like when you go into a store and a security guard starts following you. You know you’re not going to shoplift anything, but you start feeling guilty, and then you start acting suspiciously. That’s the observer effect. So here’s my question. How can you know who you really are if you’re being watched all the time?”

  • • •

  I didn’t need the whole day to get Molly’s point. When first period ended, I caught myself slinking through the hallways like an escaped convict on the run from the law. By second period I was clinically paranoid. Wherever I was, I could feel a thousand eyes crawling all over me. If I went to the bathroom, I’d emerge to find a teacher loitering outside. If I happened to pass within fifty feet of the school’s exit, the sound level would dip as if people were holding their breath to see what would happen. I might have started hearing voices by third period, but when I took a seat in Mr. Dedly’s classroom, the day began to look a little brighter.

  The person sitting behind the desk at the front of the room didn’t possess Mr. Dedly’s copious nose hair, pained expression, or penchant for mismatched tweeds. Instead, it was a pretty Indian woman dressed in a shimmering turquoise sari. A tiny diamond set in her left nostril sparkled, and her gold bangles tinkled like a wind chime when she rose to address the class.

  “Mr. Dedly was called away this morning. I am Ms. Mahadevi. I will be your substitute teacher today. Before I begin the lecture, I must speak with one of the students in this class.” She studied the roll book, her finger scrolling down the list until she stopped somewhere in the middle. “Ananka Fishbein. Please come to the front of the room. The rest of you may talk quietly amongst yourselves.”

  My classmates were too busy gossiping to notice the strange new teacher take me by the arm and lead me out the door.

  “Ananka,” she whispered without any trace of a Bombay accent. “It’s me.”

  “Betty?” I started to laugh till she shushed me. “What did you do with Mr. Dedly?”

  “A couple of hours ago, the Amateur Archaeologists of Manhattan got a tip that a construction crew in Coney Island had discovered the remains of a pirate ship and were trying to hide the evidence. Your teacher’s the president of the club, so he had to go check it out. Pretty good, huh? It was Luz’s idea. We heard what happened at the museum last night. Kiki asked me to come see you. She thought you’d be under strict surveillance.”

  “That’s the least of it. My mother’s shipping me to a boarding school in West Virginia on Thursday. Don’t worry,” I added when Betty’s face fell. “I’ll come up with a plan. Who told you guys about the museum?”

  “Oona. Who else? She said you got caught snooping around. I’v
e never seen her so mad. I thought she was going to start foaming at the mouth.”

  “Oh really? Did she tell you why I was snooping around?” Betty shook her head. “Yeah, I thought she might have left that part out. I was snooping around because there were Fu-Tsang at the museum.”

  “No!” Betty’s bracelets jangled as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Yes. I saw a guy with a dragon tattoo on his butt. He was moving the paintings from an earlier exhibit. I thought he might be stealing them, so I followed him.”

  “Was he?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Turns out he was just taking them to another part of the museum. But I swear there’s something weird going on over there. And the worst part is—Oona’s got to be in on it. She saw the guy with the tattoo just like I did. She knows the Fu-Tsang are involved, and she didn’t tell anyone. I think she’s stepped over to the dark side.”

  Betty winced. “I wish I could say I was surprised. I’ll call Kiki as soon as class is over.”

  “Somebody needs to visit the museum, too. I’d go myself, but they said I was banned.”

  “I’ll go. My next period is free, and the museum’s only a few blocks away. What do you want me to do when I get there?”

  “Have a look at the painting I saw being moved last night. I’ll find out what it’s called. There was something strange about it, but I can’t put a finger on what it was. It was a picture of a naked woman lying with her back to the painter. It looked like there was something peeking over her shoulder.”

  “Sounds creepy. We should go online and look up the name of the painting as soon as I finish my lecture.”

  “Perfect. So does that mean you’re really planning to teach this class? Do you know anything about New York history?”

  “There’s one thing I know pretty well.” Her voice had already begun to adopt the mellifluous rhythm of an Indian accent. “Let’s go inside. We’ll talk again after class.”