Walls within Walls

by Maureen Sherry

  “Oh,” said CJ. “Too bad.”

  “It’s really quite a mess in here,” said Lily, looking around the room. “Can we help you fix it up?”

  CJ hadn’t picked anything up after yesterday’s wrestling match. Boxes were everywhere, and the room appeared ransacked. Still, Brid thought, what sort of kid was bothered by a mess?

  “No, that’s all right,” said CJ.

  “Well,” said Lily, “our nanny is taking us to the Metropolitan Museum of Art later this morning. We’d love for you to join us in an hour if you’re available. It doesn’t open until nine thirty AM.”

  “That’s okay.” Brid came to the rescue. “As you can see, we have a lot of unpacking to do.”

  CJ looked at his sister with relief. Who goes for an outing with friends to the museum? he wondered. Who dresses up to go to a museum, unless they always dress like that? And why does every kid around here seem to have a nanny? The thought made him shudder.

  “One more thing,” said Lukas. “Our two apartments share a storage room in the basement. It used to be servants’ quarters, but we don’t need the space. You can use it as you wish. Our servants have bedrooms in our apartment.”

  “The what?” asked CJ and Brid together. They remembered their mom saying something about a storage area, but they hadn’t paid attention at the time.

  “The servants’ quarters,” Lukas said, obviously having no clue that the Smithfork family didn’t have live-in servants. “Most buildings from the twenties had them.”

  “So what exactly happened in servants’ quarters?” Brid asked, pulling out a pink spiral notebook. Brid liked to write things down, and this habit often helped keep the Smithfork family organized.

  “Servants’ quarters were small bedrooms for staff to live in,” said Lukas. “Now people use them to store things. They’re in the basement level—no view, or anything. Hard to believe people would let their staff live in such dismal conditions.”

  “So you say we can use that space?” Patrick asked.

  “What I meant is that should you need space to store things, you can use it. You would need to clean it up a bit, as the previous owners, the Post family, left some belongings there.”

  “Maybe you can show it to us sometime?” CJ asked.

  “Yes, with pleasure. Well, good-bye, then,” Lukas said abruptly, stretching out his arm to shake hands, while simultaneously swinging his blue blazer over his shoulder. “Until next time.”

  The kids all shook hands, the Smithforks feeling uncomfortable and formal, the Williamsons looking smooth and used to this.

  Two hours later, CJ and Brid were riding the M1 bus down Fifth Avenue to the library. They had told Maricel they had an orientation afternoon at their schools, and their mother had left earlier to meet with a decorator. Without their parents around, Maricel had nobody to check their story with. They felt badly about leaving Patrick behind, but they knew that Maricel could never be convinced to leave Pat in CJ’s care.

  On the bus, CJ read a book, covered up with a magazine. He was always reading—manuals, mysteries, technology magazines, sports guides, anything. He got embarrassed when other people commented on what he read, so he had learned to never let people see such titles as How Does Aspirin Find a Headache? Brid understood why he read in secret, but she still hated that he did it. She liked to know everything that was going on with her family, including what book CJ was reading. She peeked over his Mad magazine and thought she saw a poetry book inside. Hmm.

  New York City’s main library was a huge marble structure that stretched for two whole city blocks and had enormous lion statues out front. “It opened in 1911 and has fifteen miles of shelves,” CJ said as the kids stood in front of the massive building, feeling small. “During the Great Depression, the mayor named those lions Patience and Fortitude.”

  “Why the fancy names?” Brid asked.

  “Those were the traits he thought people needed in order to get through that difficult time,” CJ said.

  As they swept through the revolving doors into the grandest lobby they had ever seen, they had to open their bags to be checked by a security guard. It was then that Brid saw the real title of CJ’s book: Poetry for Dummies.

  “Whatcha reading?” she said innocently.

  “Just trying to understand something in my room,” CJ said. “You know those poems on my moldings? I’m wondering why they are there.”

  “You mean, like, what’s their story?”

  “Like what story the poem is trying to tell the reader,” he said simply.

  “You don’t even like poetry.”

  “I know, but the guy who used to live in our apartment did.”

  “That’s weird that you care.”

  “A little weird,” CJ admitted. “I mean, he probably just did it for decoration, but still, I like when people can say a lot with the least amount of words. That’s one good thing about a poem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like maybe you could say more by talking less,” CJ snapped.

  Brid just rolled her eyes at CJ as they waited in line to be checked in. People with backpacks, tourists, a lady in a wheelchair—all seemed to move with purpose, knowing exactly where to go. When the security guard took Brid’s backpack, she asked him, “Where are the returns?” The guard was tall and big-bellied; his shirt buttons looked as if they might pop.

  “Return of what?” he said.

  “An overdue book.”

  “Overdue? Honey, that book must be from somewhere else, because this library is a research collection. It’s not a lending library.”

  “It has to be,” Brid said.

  “It’s not,” he said sternly.

  Brid stamped her foot, which is not something anyone should do in a library. “It says right here, it’s overdue.” She flipped open the book cover to show the guard the handwritten card listing the borrower’s name, the date it was taken out, and the due date. The name was written in a clear cursive with little flourishes. It read, Mr. Lyon F. Post.

  The guard pulled reading glasses from the lapel of his blazer and held the book away from him in the way grown-ups do when they read small print.

  “Well, I’ll be.” He pulled a walkie-talkie from his coat. “Shimmy, come in,” he said into the radio.

  “Shimmy here,” a voice answered almost immediately.

  “Some kids here with an overdue book from this library.”

  “Can’t be.”

  “Was due in 1937.”

  “You’ve got one slow reader there.” Shimmy cracked up loudly at his own joke, while the people in line behind CJ and Brid tsked with annoyance.

  “What year did we stop lending?” asked the guard, looking irritated.

  “1970.”

  “Where’ve you kids been since 1970?” the guard asked, not even smiling.

  “Not born?” said CJ.

  The guard finally grinned, and spoke into his radio again. “They were not members of the planet Earth at that time, Mr. Shimmy. What should they do?”

  A long pause followed, then Shimmy said, “Take it to the head librarian’s office, third floor.”

  CJ and Brid soon found themselves on the third floor, face-to-face with an efficient-looking woman sitting behind a large, clean desk. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she had droopy jowls that jiggled when she spoke. Her name tag read MISS CASSIDY.

  “May I help you?” she said, peering at the children over pointy glasses. She rubbed her lips together, as if making sure her lipstick was covering all parts of her mouth.

  “We need to return this,” CJ said. He expected her to be surprised and thankful. But he didn’t expect the reaction he got.

  The woman flipped open the book. Thankfully, she didn’t look at the inside title page, where someone had written in pen. She simply typed the title into her computer, as if this were a routine matter. When the overdue information came up on her screen, she sat there for a long minute, reading. Then she closed the book and g
ave the children a meaningful stare.

  “Let’s see,” she said. “This was due on April twenty-ninth, 1937, and today is September first, 2010, so that would be three thousand eight hundred fourteen weeks when we charged two cents per week.” Her fingers moved quickly over the calculator. “Your fine is seventy-six dollars and twenty-eight cents, and be happy I’m not adjusting that for inflation.”

  “Are you kidding me?” said Brid. “It’s not ours; we’re just returning it! It looks like a valuable book, and my brother thought we should bring it back. We shouldn’t have to pay this!”

  “So you’re saying you found this? This is a rare edition, so I’m sure the police would be interested in knowing where you ‘found’ it,” Miss Cassidy said.

  CJ was dumbfounded. “Let me get this straight. We do a good deed and return something, and now we have to pay for it?”

  Brid piped in, “What if we were just to take it back home, and then we could keep both the book and our money. You don’t make any sense.”

  “Well, you could leave with the book,” the woman snipped, “but then I would have to call security, who would in turn call the police. Or you could return it, pay the fine, and collect the package that was to be given to the people who returned it. Pick your poison,” she added, snapping her gum and punching some keys on her computer.

  “Package of what?” asked CJ.

  The woman didn’t look up from her screen as she replied. “When Mr. Post borrowed this book seventy-three years ago, he left something behind at the checkout counter. According to our records—which are impeccable—he left word that the package should be given to whoever returned the book, whether he or someone else. His wife was very generous to this library, so we couldn’t just ignore his simple request. Now that you are returning the book, I guess you are entitled to the package—if, that is, the fines are paid up.” She pushed up her glasses and waited.

  CJ said, “Ah, we need a minute here.” He motioned to his sister to step into the hallway.

  “She is just trying to get our money,” said Brid.

  “Either that, or she is playing some game with us.”

  “We don’t have that sort of cash anyway,” said Brid.

  CJ looked at the floor.

  “Do we?” Brid asked.

  “Mom gave me ninety dollars today to buy two sets of Saint James’s school uniform.”

  “What if you bought only one uniform?”

  “Hello, did you hear me say I only have ninety dollars? One uniform is forty-five dollars, and the fine is seventy-six dollars and twenty-eight cents.”

  Brid was silent.

  “Brid, did you bring some money?”

  “C’mon, I have to get my uniform, too!”

  “You are so busted. Give it up. We’ll both just have one uniform,” CJ said.

  “And we’ll both be doing laundry every night,” Brid replied.

  They grinned at each other and returned to the woman at the desk.

  “Good thing you came back. I’d hate to have to call security,” she said.

  “Aren’t you curious where we found this book?” Brid asked.

  “Not at all,” she said, though the kids didn’t believe her. How strange it was that they were about to fork over so much money for someone to take a rare book off their hands.

  Miss Cassidy took their cash and disappeared into another office. Ten, then twenty minutes ticked by, and the children wondered if they had been duped.

  Just as Brid was about to go looking for her, the woman returned, holding a package the size of a large book. It was wrapped in yellowed paper and red-and-white string, the type a bakery wraps its boxes in. She looked reluctant to give it to the children.

  “Listen, kids, I’m not looking to make any friends here, but there is something you two should know. Something fishy is going on with the Post estate. An elderly man has been here many times over the years requesting this, and believe me, I’d much prefer to give it to a gentleman than you two. But he never had the book, and these instructions are crystal clear,” she said, nodding at her computer screen. “No Treasure Island, no package.” She shrugged.

  “Who else knows about the package?” CJ asked.

  “How should I know?” Miss Cassidy said snippily. “Just some old guy, says he is a relative of the Post family. It’s possible that someone working here let it slip that this package was here. I have to say, something about giving this to you children doesn’t seem right either.” She sniffed. “What’s going on here?”

  “We don’t know,” said Brid. “We really don’t know.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Sitting on the steps of the magnificent library, Brid held the package to her chest. Something felt sinister in the air, and everyone around her suddenly seemed suspicious. The guy selling hot dogs was looking around too much. A construction crew taking a lunch break acted like spies in a movie.

  Brid said, “Patrick was the one who found the book. Let’s go home and open the package there so he can see it.”

  “Are you kidding me? Since when do you care so much about Pat’s feelings?” CJ said. “Nobody is looking at us. Let’s open it now.”

  “CJ, something is telling me to go home,” Brid said ominously.

  “Nobody is watching, and nobody is thinking about some fraidy-cat nine-year-old and her package. Open it!”

  “I’m not afraid,” Brid said through clenched teeth. “I’m cautious. Can we at least go somewhere discreet?” She walked over to the north end of the stairs, at the base of a giant cement urn above the lion statues. She sat down and gingerly began pulling back the brown paper, which was glued down. “It looks like a seventy-year-old loaf of bread from the bakery,” she joked nervously.

  “Yeah, that we paid seventy-six dollars and twenty-eight cents for!” CJ said, feeling a little guilty about making his sister do something against her will. “Look how yellow the glue marks are.”

  “Probably from before the days of Scotch tape,” Brid muttered.

  “Actually, Scotch tape came along in 1930, so I’m not sure why Mr. Post didn’t use it,” said CJ.

  “Only you and Mr. Scotch would know that.”

  “Actually the guy who invented Scotch tape was named Richard Drew. Can you open that thing a little faster?”

  Brid was never really surprised about the facts CJ had in his brain. She sometimes thought it was like having a computer follow her around.

  “Brid, pick up the pace!”

  Irritated by her bossy brother, Brid pulled what seemed to be another book from the packaging, but something metal fell out, too, clanging its way down the steps. The object stopped falling when it landed near the giant pedestal that held one of the stone lions. CJ went barreling after it.

  “CJ,” Brid called to him. “Here’s a note from Mr. Post! I mean, I think it is, and it’s addressed to whoever has this package! That’s us! And this letter is written on the same stationery the other note was written on.”

  CJ ran back up the stairs, panting and holding the metal object. “What other note? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m saying there is a note inside this book that’s written on the same stationery the other note was on, the note that said we should return Treasure Island.” Brid held up a yellowed piece of paper and a slender leather-bound book. “Listen to this,” she said, reading aloud.

  Dear Treasure Hunters (hopefully Eloise and Julian),

  Welcome to the last will and testament of Lyon Post, also known as your father. I was going to leave you your inheritance the way everyone else does, wrapped up with a bow in an office of law, but that would be boring! Think of our rather unconventional family, our life of puzzles and poetry. Think of how much we love architecture, history, New York City, and a good mystery.

  So, my sweet children, instead I have left you one final treasure hunt through some of our favorite places in New York. The directions for the hunt are all at home, so this will be easy for you. I just wanted you to have fun wi
th it. Think of me when you visit these magnificent structures again, and know that I wish I were with you.

  In this book you will find poems we all loved. Just go to the places they are about and follow the instructions at home. Revisit our favorite sites, my children, revisit the works of Hughes, Millay, and others. Let them lead you long after I am gone. Let them lead you to my second greatest treasure after yourselves, and know that I still reside inside your hearts.

  With great excitement,

  Mr. Lyon Post (your father)

  “So,” said Brid, disappointment in her voice, “we paid all that money to read poems about New York City? How boring! And who are Hughes and Millay?”

  “They’re poets. I guess they’re some of the poets in this book,” CJ said as he flipped through the pages. “But this letter says it’s a puzzle that leads to his treasure.”

  “You mean his treasure was never found? That was seventy years ago; of course it was found.” Brid’s voice was rising.

  “Mr. Post said these poems are about places in New York that he liked to visit with his children,” said CJ, still flipping pages. The book seemed to contain just a few poems, each printed in an ornate script. “And those places will lead to his treasure. We just have to find them.”

  “Don’t you think someone has already solved the mystery?” Brid asked.

  “Maybe not. They didn’t have this book, and they didn’t have this,” CJ said dramatically as he slowly unfolded his fingers from the metal object that had rolled down the steps. It was a large brass key. “Mr. Post’s collections were famous. If someone found them, people would know about it. Honestly, Brid, I think this was never solved, and all because…” His voice trailed off.

  “All because his kids didn’t return his library book?” Brid asked.

  “Maybe it’s really that simple.”

  “That’ll teach his kids to do their chores.” Brid laughed. “But why would he make things so complicated when he wanted his kids to have their inheritance anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I guess he just wanted them to obey him or something. I mean, it makes sense now why he wouldn’t want the walls of the apartments to be renovated. He obviously needed the spaces behind the walls.”