REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 86: Chapter 86
You are reading REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS, Chapter 86: Chapter 86. Read more chapters of REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS.
“I swear it’s Dorothy,” she huffed over group chat, sending twenty blurry photos of a woman in red heels taken from across a parking lot. “Or her mafia friend. The one who smells like regret and hairspray.”
“Or,” Jhing Jhing chimed in, “this is way bigger. I'm talking conspiracy, elite drama, high-society curses. I'm wearing contour strong enough to win a duel. I'm infiltrating the Elite Gossipers Club tomorrow—with pearls and war paint.”
“I’m scared,” I replied.
“You should be,” she said.
With that settled, I took the girls to the museum that afternoon.
I had a more grounded mission: the museum. With Maya, Aliya, and Jaya in tow, we marched through the grand double doors like a chaotic little army. Aliya was wearing a trench coat two sizes too big, claiming she was “Detective French Toast.” Jaya had a backpack full of snacks and two invisible dragons. Maya? Headphones in, attitude on full charge.
We had barely reached the foyer when the girls scattered like cats near water. Maya disappeared toward the modern art section, muttering something about existential sculpture. Aliya and Jaya bee-lined for the dinosaur exhibit because obviously.
That left me—and the painting. Joe called last night about an urgent intel about my painting in the museum.
My painting. The museum had placed a blown-up version of it in the new exhibit titled “The Darrow Legacy: Secrets and Scandals.”
Oh, subtle.
A well-dressed museum docent stood nearby, rearranging leaflets. He looked scholarly, annoyed, and like he only trusted cats.
“Excuse me,” I said, flashing my most innocent smile.
“Yes?” he asked, one eyebrow already skeptical.
“That painting,” I pointed. “The one with the red tree and the girl in a neon dress. Who submitted it?”
“Oh, that?” he said. “Came in through a private estate sale. Darrow Mansion—surprisingly intact. Apparently, someone found an entire attic of old artworks hidden behind a false wall.”
My jaw ticked.
“Who donated it?”
He flipped his clipboard. “Anonymous. Just said it was part of the Darrow ‘final batch.’”
I nodded, pretending to care about art while I was mentally screaming.
Then my phone buzzed.
Group chat, again.
Jhing Jhing: “Girls. Just overheard something juicy. Dorothy’s spa membership was revoked because she allegedly used a facial steamer to interrogate someone. Gossip level: medium-well.”
Mylene: “Confirmed from my café source—Dorothy was seen arguing with a man in a velvet jacket outside an antique bookstore. Possibly The Velvet Vampire? The code name writes itself.”
I tried not to laugh out loud.
But inside, my pulse was racing. I am Leon Darrow for a reason. I loved mystery and sass.
I wasn’t just looking at a mystery anymore. I was staring at a past that refused to stay buried. And this time, it had museum lighting.
Later, I had barely survived the museum’s gift shop (where Maya insisted on buying a novelty mug shaped like a screaming statue) when Joe called.
He didn’t even say hello.
“Her father,” he said flatly. “It was Dorothy’s father who donated the painting.”
I stopped in the middle of the museum café, right next to a family debating if $11.50 was too much for a croissant.
“Excuse me?”
“Charles V. Dandridge. Also goes by ‘Charlie V’ in the underground circuit. He used to be a fine arts dealer in Europe. Now? He's—how do I say this politely—the treasurer for one of the three local mafia rings.”
I blinked. “Polite was not required.”
Joe sighed. “He kept a low profile for years. Moved here to ‘retire’ after Dorothy’s marriage to Alec failed and she ran back to her maiden name. The man’s been slipping artifacts into museums and auctions like Easter eggs from hell.”
“Well, one of his eggs was my childhood painting,” I hissed. “The one my dad said had something hidden in it. And now it's hanging in the public like it never knew trauma.”
Joe paused. “So... that attic we thought had rats and broken dreams...?”
I winced. “Probably has more than that. I'm going back.”
“Oh great. Just what I needed,” he muttered. “Another cursed attic adventure.”
Meanwhile, in the group chat:
Mylene: “Dandridge? That old creep with the mafia cufflinks?! I once spilled wine on him at a charity ball! I THOUGHT HE SMELLED LIKE CRIME!”
Jhing Jhing: “Good. This calls for red lipstick and emotional espionage.”
Mylene: “Operation Lipstick is now Operation Mafia Daddy. This is not a drill.”
By Thursday, I had roped everyone into the attic plan. Maya was still skeptical (“We’re doing this why? Because a mug and a hunch?”), but Jaya and Aliya were already packing a ‘detective kit’ made of colored pencils, a headlamp, and fruit snacks.
We arrived back at the Darrow Mansion around noon. The sky was suspiciously cloudy—perfect for plot twists and property trespassing.
I unlocked the back entrance like I hadn’t done it a dozen times as a moody teen. The kids tiptoed like spies. Jhing Jhing and Mylene arrived in matching tracksuits “for mobility” and armed with a backpack full of baby wipes, gossip magazines, and pepper spray.
“Where’s the attic?” Mylene asked, tying her hair into a battle ponytail.
“Up the deathtrap stairs, past the haunted chandelier,” I said, heading up.
“You joke, but that chandelier moved last time,” Jhing Jhing muttered.
The attic was... worse than I remembered. Dust blanketed everything like passive-aggressive snow. Spiderwebs hung with a sense of entitlement. The air was stale, thick with secrets and probably asbestos.
I dropped to my knees, heart pounding.
“Maya,” I called. “The box cutter?”
“Are you seriously letting a child hold a knife—?”
“I’m almost twelve now and emotionally stable,” she said, handing it over like a queen.
I sliced open the backing.
Silence.
We all leaned in.
And then—thud.
A small, tin compartment dropped out from the canvas. Inside, wrapped in decaying paper, was a tiny metal key and a folded note. The handwriting? My father’s.
Mylene gasped. “Plot device.”
Jhing Jhing screamed, “I KNEW IT. I KNEW THIS WAS NATIONAL TREASURE BUT WITH YOGA PANTS.”
The note read:
“If you found this, you’re either in danger—or about to be very rich. The truth is under the fountain. Don’t trust anyone who smells like clove cigarettes.”
We all stared.
Then Maya deadpanned, “Anyone else suddenly smell cloves?”
I pocketed the key, my fingers shaking. Whatever lay under that fountain… it had waited a long time.
And someone—maybe Dorothy, maybe her mafia dad—wasn’t going to let us take it easily.
“Or,” Jhing Jhing chimed in, “this is way bigger. I'm talking conspiracy, elite drama, high-society curses. I'm wearing contour strong enough to win a duel. I'm infiltrating the Elite Gossipers Club tomorrow—with pearls and war paint.”
“I’m scared,” I replied.
“You should be,” she said.
With that settled, I took the girls to the museum that afternoon.
I had a more grounded mission: the museum. With Maya, Aliya, and Jaya in tow, we marched through the grand double doors like a chaotic little army. Aliya was wearing a trench coat two sizes too big, claiming she was “Detective French Toast.” Jaya had a backpack full of snacks and two invisible dragons. Maya? Headphones in, attitude on full charge.
We had barely reached the foyer when the girls scattered like cats near water. Maya disappeared toward the modern art section, muttering something about existential sculpture. Aliya and Jaya bee-lined for the dinosaur exhibit because obviously.
That left me—and the painting. Joe called last night about an urgent intel about my painting in the museum.
My painting. The museum had placed a blown-up version of it in the new exhibit titled “The Darrow Legacy: Secrets and Scandals.”
Oh, subtle.
A well-dressed museum docent stood nearby, rearranging leaflets. He looked scholarly, annoyed, and like he only trusted cats.
“Excuse me,” I said, flashing my most innocent smile.
“Yes?” he asked, one eyebrow already skeptical.
“That painting,” I pointed. “The one with the red tree and the girl in a neon dress. Who submitted it?”
“Oh, that?” he said. “Came in through a private estate sale. Darrow Mansion—surprisingly intact. Apparently, someone found an entire attic of old artworks hidden behind a false wall.”
My jaw ticked.
“Who donated it?”
He flipped his clipboard. “Anonymous. Just said it was part of the Darrow ‘final batch.’”
I nodded, pretending to care about art while I was mentally screaming.
Then my phone buzzed.
Group chat, again.
Jhing Jhing: “Girls. Just overheard something juicy. Dorothy’s spa membership was revoked because she allegedly used a facial steamer to interrogate someone. Gossip level: medium-well.”
Mylene: “Confirmed from my café source—Dorothy was seen arguing with a man in a velvet jacket outside an antique bookstore. Possibly The Velvet Vampire? The code name writes itself.”
I tried not to laugh out loud.
But inside, my pulse was racing. I am Leon Darrow for a reason. I loved mystery and sass.
I wasn’t just looking at a mystery anymore. I was staring at a past that refused to stay buried. And this time, it had museum lighting.
Later, I had barely survived the museum’s gift shop (where Maya insisted on buying a novelty mug shaped like a screaming statue) when Joe called.
He didn’t even say hello.
“Her father,” he said flatly. “It was Dorothy’s father who donated the painting.”
I stopped in the middle of the museum café, right next to a family debating if $11.50 was too much for a croissant.
“Excuse me?”
“Charles V. Dandridge. Also goes by ‘Charlie V’ in the underground circuit. He used to be a fine arts dealer in Europe. Now? He's—how do I say this politely—the treasurer for one of the three local mafia rings.”
I blinked. “Polite was not required.”
Joe sighed. “He kept a low profile for years. Moved here to ‘retire’ after Dorothy’s marriage to Alec failed and she ran back to her maiden name. The man’s been slipping artifacts into museums and auctions like Easter eggs from hell.”
“Well, one of his eggs was my childhood painting,” I hissed. “The one my dad said had something hidden in it. And now it's hanging in the public like it never knew trauma.”
Joe paused. “So... that attic we thought had rats and broken dreams...?”
I winced. “Probably has more than that. I'm going back.”
“Oh great. Just what I needed,” he muttered. “Another cursed attic adventure.”
Meanwhile, in the group chat:
Mylene: “Dandridge? That old creep with the mafia cufflinks?! I once spilled wine on him at a charity ball! I THOUGHT HE SMELLED LIKE CRIME!”
Jhing Jhing: “Good. This calls for red lipstick and emotional espionage.”
Mylene: “Operation Lipstick is now Operation Mafia Daddy. This is not a drill.”
By Thursday, I had roped everyone into the attic plan. Maya was still skeptical (“We’re doing this why? Because a mug and a hunch?”), but Jaya and Aliya were already packing a ‘detective kit’ made of colored pencils, a headlamp, and fruit snacks.
We arrived back at the Darrow Mansion around noon. The sky was suspiciously cloudy—perfect for plot twists and property trespassing.
I unlocked the back entrance like I hadn’t done it a dozen times as a moody teen. The kids tiptoed like spies. Jhing Jhing and Mylene arrived in matching tracksuits “for mobility” and armed with a backpack full of baby wipes, gossip magazines, and pepper spray.
“Where’s the attic?” Mylene asked, tying her hair into a battle ponytail.
“Up the deathtrap stairs, past the haunted chandelier,” I said, heading up.
“You joke, but that chandelier moved last time,” Jhing Jhing muttered.
The attic was... worse than I remembered. Dust blanketed everything like passive-aggressive snow. Spiderwebs hung with a sense of entitlement. The air was stale, thick with secrets and probably asbestos.
I dropped to my knees, heart pounding.
“Maya,” I called. “The box cutter?”
“Are you seriously letting a child hold a knife—?”
“I’m almost twelve now and emotionally stable,” she said, handing it over like a queen.
I sliced open the backing.
Silence.
We all leaned in.
And then—thud.
A small, tin compartment dropped out from the canvas. Inside, wrapped in decaying paper, was a tiny metal key and a folded note. The handwriting? My father’s.
Mylene gasped. “Plot device.”
Jhing Jhing screamed, “I KNEW IT. I KNEW THIS WAS NATIONAL TREASURE BUT WITH YOGA PANTS.”
The note read:
“If you found this, you’re either in danger—or about to be very rich. The truth is under the fountain. Don’t trust anyone who smells like clove cigarettes.”
We all stared.
Then Maya deadpanned, “Anyone else suddenly smell cloves?”
I pocketed the key, my fingers shaking. Whatever lay under that fountain… it had waited a long time.
And someone—maybe Dorothy, maybe her mafia dad—wasn’t going to let us take it easily.
End of REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS Chapter 86. Continue reading Chapter 87 or return to REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS book page.