Jonathon Wart and The Hand of Doom



  Jonathon Wart and The Hand of Doom

  By Terence O’Grady

  Copyright 2016 Terence O’Grady

  Cover by Boris Rasin

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Jonathon’s Brainstorm

  Chapter Two: Mr. Thumbs and Felicia

  Chapter Three: Meeting with Mr. Thumbs

  Chapter Four: Plotting with Felicia

  Chapter Five: The Grand Deception (Part 1)

  Chapter Six: To the Art Institute

  Chapter Seven: The Grand Deception (Part 2)

  Chapter Eight: The Curse of Doom

  Chapter Nine: Butting Heads

  Chapter Ten: The Séance

  Chapter Eleven: Danger Ahead

  Chapter Twelve: Unraveling the Mystery

  Chapter Thirteen: On to the Next Adventure

  Chapter One: Jonathon’s Brainstorm

  Jonathon pushed himself away from the computer keyboard, grabbed his phone off the desk and smiled. No question about it, he had come up with another idea. And it was a good one. In fact, it was quite possibly a brilliant one.

  Now he leaned back in his chair, as far as the flexible back of the seat would stretch, his fingers flying over the keyboard of his phone. There was no doubt about it. He was sure his new plan would work perfectly.

  ”So Jonathon,” said his sister cheerfully as she strolled into his room, “what are you up to? And how's your latest risky get-rich-quick scheme going?"

  Jonathon turned toward Lizzie and smiled. "I think you mean, get richer quick, don't you?"

  "Well, if we're so rich, why don't I ever get to spend any money?” Lizzie asked, flopping down on a brown leather sofa in the corner of the room.

  "What do you mean? You get an okay allowance."

  “Okay for what? Buying a stick of gum at the supermarket?"

  “Sure. Or buying some tacky bracelets in one of those bright, shiny little mall stores you love so much."

  “Hey, do I insult your miserable taste in comic books?”

  “No, but only because you never read anything so you’re easily impressed.”

  “You don’t have to be insulting. I read a lot. They just don’t happen to be your kind of books. Besides, I’m not trying to start a fight here. I just want to know why we aren’t allowed to spend any of the money you’ve made with your crazy schemes? I mean, Uncle Wart left us a fortune. And you’ve made even more money since then. So how come it’s all locked away in some vault somewhere and we can’t touch it?”

  “It’s not in a vault somewhere, Lizzie. It’s in a bank. And some day we will be able to touch it. Think of it as building for the future. We’re both going to turn twenty-one eventually, you know. And when we do, with any luck we’re both going to be pretty wealthy.”

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but only if you keep coming up with those risky but brilliant new ideas to increase Uncle’s fortune, right? And you haven’t had one of those for a while, have you?”

  Jonathon grinned broadly. “Well, it just so happens that I do have a new plan…very new as a matter of fact. Stick around for a couple of minutes. Emma’s going to be here any second now and I’ll explain my newest brainstorm to you both at the same time.”

  Seconds later, Emma Wang, who acted as Jonathon’s and Lizzie’s tutor (as well as helping Jonathon realize his sometimes crazy schemes) ambled casually into the room.

  “So what’s up?” Emma asked perkily. “I just got your text.”

  “What’s up is his newest stroke of genius, Emma,” Lizzie said, stifling a yawn. “And I’ve got a feeling that Jonathon’s going to tell us about it whether we like it or not.”

  “A new idea?” Emma asked. “Is it as ridiculous as the South African diamond mine?”

  “Much worse,” said Jonathon, smiling broadly as he turned around in his seat to print off a page on his printer. “Take a look at this article,” he said, grabbing the page out of the tray when it appeared and handing it to Emma.

  Emma stared intently at the picture inserted into the article. “Okay,” she said slowly. “I’m looking at it, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “It’s a painting, or at least a reproduction of one,” said Jonathon.

  “A painting?”

  “Right.”

  “If it’s a painting, it’s a horrible painting,” Emma said.

  “Maybe not horrible…” replied Jonathon.

  “Horrible enough,” said Emma.

  “Let me see it!” said Lizzie, grabbing the page from Emma’s hands.

  “Oh ick!” she said making a face. “It is horrible.”

  “I like to think of it as atmospheric,” said Jonathon. “The painting is called ‘The Hand of Doom.’”

  “I believe it,” said Emma, now studying the picture over Lizzie’s shoulder. “Who on earth painted it?”

  “An eccentric billionaire—A Mr. Samuel Diggersby,” said Jonathon. “Even richer than Uncle Wart, or so I’ve read.”

  “He may be rich, Jonathon, but he’s a horrible painter,” said Emma, taking the page from Lizzie. “That strange arm stretching across the front of the painting and that decrepit looking hand, pointing with those bony fingers…was he trying to make it ghastly?”

  “Sure,” said Jonathon cheerfully. “Doom is always supposed to be ghastly, isn’t it?”

  “I see your point,” said Emma,” but I still don’t think he’s much of a painter. The background part is pretty nice, though. But anyway, why do you care about this painting?”

  “Because I’m going to buy it. Mr. Diggersby passed away last month and there’s going to be an auction that includes many of the paintings in his estate.”

  “That’s right,” said Emma. “I’m starting to remember him now. Very rich old guy who collected paintings. Some very famous paintings, right?”

  “Yes, some very famous paintings worth millions of dollars,” agreed Jonathon. “But he was also an amateur painter himself and some of the paintings that he created are also going to be on sale at the auction.”

  “And this horrible painting is one of them?” asked Lizzie.

  “It sure is,” said Jonathon. “And this is the one I’m going to buy.”

  “But why this one, Jonathon?” asked Emma. “It seems to me to be next to worthless. I mean, the guy might have had great taste when it came to buying famous paintings, but his own work seems pretty sad.”

  “I don’t think ‘sad’ is the right word, Emma,” said Jonathon. “I actually think that this particular painting could turn out to be very valuable.”

  “Wait a minute!” said Lizzie, grabbing the page from Emma. “I remember this one now. The newspaper article talked about this a lot.”

  “Right.”

  “But Jonathon...according to the newspaper, that painting’s not just horrible, it's actually cursed! I mean, the newspaper article said....”

  “Don’t be so gullible, Lizzie. They’re just trying to generate interest in the estate sale. There’s nothing cursed about it.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure,” said Emma. “If it’s not cursed, it’s certainly been unlucky for its owners. I read the same thing that Lizzie did. The newspaper article says that old Mr. Diggersby actually gave the painting away when he was still alive. Three times as a matter of fact.”

  “Maybe he was just being generous…sharing his art with his friends,” said Jonathon.

  “That’s not what the article is implying,” said Emma. “According to that article, he gave it as a gift to one of his business competitors about three years ago. Within a year, the competitor’s business had completely fallen apart and the guy was left penniless.”

  Jonathon shrugged. “That
happens in business. Could have happened to anybody.”

  “So old man Diggersby got the painting back,” continued Emma. “And then he gave it away again…to another business competitor.”

  “Still being generous, of course,” said Jonathon.

  “And this time the guy’s factory went up in flames three weeks later. Strangely enough the painting—which was hung in the lobby of the reception area—was completely untouched by the fire.”

  “Bad luck,” said Jonathon calmly. “Let’s hope the poor guy had insurance.”

  “So Mr. Diggersby gets the painting back again,” said Emma. “And he gives it away again, this time as a Christmas gift to an Italian inventor who apparently beat Diggersby to the punch in registering some patents for an invention similar to one of his.”

  “Don’t tell me,” said Jonathon, cracking a smile, “there was a great flood and it washed away the other guy’s entire operation.”

  “You’re close,” said Emma. “There was a devastating earthquake. First one in that part of Italy for five hundred years. Everything was destroyed.”

  “Tough luck,” said Jonathon, forcing a yawn,” but you can’t expect me to take all this seriously…a bunch of random coincidences.”

  “That’s not what the newspaper says,” interjected Lizzie. “Some people were quoted as saying that the old miser knew his painting was cursed and he purposely gave it to people he wanted to ruin. Besides, the paper said that Diggersby’s own children, when they were growing up, reported that weird and crazy things happened in the house whenever the painting was displayed in the main dining room.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Really, Lizzie? That may be a bit too much. I don't think you can really believe a story like that. I mean, I can see how that horrid painting could give somebody indigestion if they spent too much time looking at it while they were eating, but anything more than that...it’s pretty difficult to believe. Does the paper say what sort of weird and crazy things happened?”

  “Well, no, it doesn't,” said Lizzie, quickly scanning up and down the page. “But if you combine what his kids said about the painting with all of the horrible things that happened to the former owners, you get...”

  “You get the overly imaginative ravings of an underpaid newspaper reporter who is desperate to sell a few more copies of the daily edition or get a few more hits on his newspaper’s website on the unlikely chance that the editors are going to give him a raise,” said Jonathon, shaking his head slowly.

  “So maybe that story is a little far-fetched, Jonathon, but still…” began Emma.

  “Hey, look,” said Jonathon, giving his shoulders a slight shrug. “I’ve seen the photograph. I know what it looks like. Although Diggersby was a reputable art collector who had some famous works in his collection, I know his own paintings are probably not that great. And I know that ‘The Hand of Doom’ is actually kind of spooky with this old, decaying hand stretched out over an old-fashioned landscape. But I have my reasons for wanting to buy it. Who knows? I might be able to get it cheap.”

  “That’s not what the newspaper says,” said Emma, shaking her head. “It says that some local art critics were projecting it to go for at least a couple of thousand.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Lizzie, staring more intently at the photograph. “I could have painted this. If this is really worth a lot of money, then I’m going to become a painter…today!”

  “I don’t think it will be very expensive,” Jonathon said thoughtfully. “The famous paintings in his collection will have a number of bidders, but the paintings he did himself…well, let’s just say that most people tend not to be too impressed by them and see them mostly as curiosities. I’m thinking that the bidding will stop at a few hundred dollars.”

  Emma shook her head. “But a few hundred bucks isn’t exactly free, is it? I mean, if the painting is worthless, a few hundred bucks is far too much.”

  “True, Emma, but I have a strong hunch that this painting is more valuable than it seems to be on the surface.”

  “Huh?” murmured Emma. “Explain please.”

  “I can’t. Not right now. I have more research to do. And as soon as I’ve completed my research, I’ll explain the whole thing to you. But right now, everybody’s just got to assume that I know what I’m doing.”

  Emma sighed. “I don’t know about this, Jonathon, but I have to admit that your track record is pretty good on this sort of thing.”

  “Do you think Mr. Thumbs will approve the purchase, Jonathon?” asked Lizzie as she popped a wad of gum into her mouth.

  “That’s right,” said Emma. “Your financial advisor will have to approve all such expenses…even for a few hundred dollars.”

  “Sure he will,” said Jonathon confidently. “Old Thumbs is obligated to approve any venture I come up with as long as there’s an element of risk in it—those are the terms of Uncle Wart’s will. And who could deny that buying the painting of an eccentric old rich guy, who everybody thinks is a horrible painter, is a risky proposition?”

  Emma smiled. “You’re right of course. Mr. Thumbs will approve this because he’ll think that the idea is nutty and will make you look bad. And there’s nothing Thumbs would like better than making you look bad. If you prove to be an incompetent guardian of Uncle Wart’s fortune, the terms of the will state that the authority to handle Wart’s fortune can be taken from you and handed to his daughter, Felicia. And that’s just what Thumbs wants. He wants you to fail so that Felicia can get control of Uncle Wart’s money.”

  “Sure,” said Jonathon, “because if she has control of the fortune, than he gets control of the fortune as well. And I can always rely on Mr. Thumbs to do the greedy thing.”

  Chapter Two: Mr. Thumbs and Felicia

  “He’s on to something, I just know it,” said Mr. Thumbs as he paced quickly back and forth over the expensive Oriental rug in his study.

  Felicia yawned. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Thumbs. You’re giving the boy more credit than he deserves. He isn’t on to anything. So he’s gotten lucky once in a while with his crazy investments and they’ve paid off. That kind of luck can’t go on forever. I’m telling you, the boy is just not that smart.”

  “You don’t think so, Felicia? Well, Jonathon’s outsmarted us more than once. And I think he’s plotting something right now. I can see it in his eyes. He’s smiling too much of the time.”

  “Look, Thumbsie, you worry too much. One of these days he’s going to take a big stumble and one of his hair-brained schemes will flop miserably. And when it does, according to the conditions attached to Daddy Dearest’s will, the control of Daddy’s fortune will come right back to me. I’m sick of living on that lousy allowance you give me.”

  “It’s all according to the will, Felicia. There’s nothing I can do about it. Jonathon has control of your father’s fortune until he makes a mistake—until one of his risky ventures fails miserably. Then, as you say, you’ll become the rich one and Jonathon will have to live on the measly allowance.”

  “And how about his stupid sister, Lizzie? I can’t stand her any more than I can stand Jonathon. Will she get an allowance?”

  “A very small one, my dear. I can assure you she’ll be absolutely miserable.”

  “That’s what I want to hear! But when? When will all this happen?”

  “We must be patient, Felicia. Jonathon is up to something right now, I know he is. In fact he’s scheduled a meeting with me tomorrow to discuss his latest risky venture.”

  “Will you approve it?

  “Certainly I will…if it’s stupid enough and bound to fail. And with any luck at all, that’s just the sort of scheme that little Jonathon will bring me.”

  “And when Jonathon’s latest scheme fails and I get control of the money, do you know what I’m going to do, Thumbsie?”

  Mr. Thumbs broke into a conniving smile. “I think I can guess, dear Felicia, that it has something to do with the beach.”

  “Yes! That’s it e
xactly,” said Felicia, bouncing enthusiastically to her feet. “I’m going to buy myself some wonderful beachfront property on some tropical island somewhere and I’m going to swim and get a tan, and buy fun little things at all of the island’s best shops, and get a tan, and swim and…”

  “Yes, yes,” interrupted Mr. Thumbs, “I think I get the idea.”

  Felicia collapsed into a nearby chair, a satisfied expression on her face. “And how about you, Thumbsie? What are you going to buy once we get our hands on Daddy’s fortune?”

  “Really, Felicia,” Mr. Thumbs said in his most dignified voice. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to…”

  “Oh, Thumbsie! Don’t be such a wet blanket! We’re having fun here…dreaming about all the things we’re going to do when we get rich. You must have some dreams…something you’ve always wanted to do.”

  Mr. Thumbs sighed and sank further into the sofa. Then his eyes perked up. “A sports car! That’s what I always wanted! Something red, sleek…and Italian.”

  Felicia grinned at him. “Are you sure you’re not talking about a new girlfriend?”

  Mr. Thumbs sighed again. “A man of my age? No. My desires are simpler than that. Give me a sports car—an Alpha Romeo perhaps. And maybe one of those vintage muscle cars on the side…you know, for trips to the supermarket and things like that.”

  “You are a scream, Thumbsie. But I really don’t think you’d look that good riding in a convertible. I mean, maybe if you had a little more hair.”

  Mr. Thumbs cracked a thin smile. “When you’re driving down the street in a red convertible, my dear, it doesn’t matter how you look. It matters only how you think you look. And I can imagine myself quite the dashing fellow. And who can tell? I might find a dashing young Italian lady who thinks the same way.”

  “Good luck to you on that one, Thumbsie. But if we want any of this to happen, we’ve got to stay one step ahead of Jonathon. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Young lady, I promise that I will have Jonathon completely under my control. Yes, he’s bright enough for a young kid and he’s had his successes, but we both know that in the long run he can’t match wits with someone of my experience.”

  “I sure hope you’re right about that because we have a lot riding on it.”

  “I’m telling you, Felicia, this won’t even be a problem. I’m meeting with him tomorrow morning and I’ll have outwitted him by dinner time.”