by E. S. Farber
On our way across the yard, Dude started winding himself around our legs. He was purring as loud as a washing machine. Fish is number one on his favorite food list. He jumped up in the air, trying to reach the plate with the fish.
“Kitty cat want the fishy?” Roger teased. He held the plate down lower.
Dude jumped. Roger barely got the fish away in time.
“Dude, you’re one fast dude!” said Roger.
“I’ll take that,” said my dad. He had seen Dude nab a fish faster than you can say holy mackerel!
I threw the paper in the garbage can. We were just sitting down to eat when there was a loud CRASH. Seconds later, Dude raced across the grass, batting the fishy newspaper between his paws. Shrimp barked and ran after him.
“Bad kitty cat!” yelled Feenie. “Bad doggie!”
“Wow!” said Roger. “That Dude is one determined dude.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he were a Capricorn,” remarked Venus Star. “They tend to be quite goal-oriented. Is his birthday in December or January?” She smiled at my mom.
“I . . . don’t . . . know exactly. We found him on the porch one day,” said my mom. She was blinking a lot, the way she does when she doesn’t know what to say.
“I don’t normally cast horoscopes for animals, but I know other astrologers who do.”
My mom’s blinking turned into mad eyelash batting. Behind us, Dude yowled as Shrimp pulled the newspaper from him.
“Fish, will you throw away that paper, please?!” asked my mom.
“No problem, Mrs. F.,” said Roger, jumping up.
I sighed and got up, too.
Roger and I reached for the paper at the same time. It ripped in half. I was wadding up my half when my eye caught the headline: LAST ROAR FOR LYONS ISLAND!
“Hey, Rog, lemme see your half!”
I brushed off the gooey fish gunk and read:
“Eugenia Lyons, wife of the late Winthrop Lyons, may be forced to sell Lyons Island, as its upkeep as a nature preserve has become too costly. The state will only supply funds if it is declared a historic landmark. Stories abound of the burial of pirate treasure there by the notorious Captain Kidd, but such treasure has never been found. Some claim he hid a treasure map in a trunk with—”
That was it. Uncle Norman must have thrown away the rest of the paper.
“Who would buy Lyons Island?” I asked.
Roger rubbed his fingers together. “Someone with mucho dough.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You know—benjamins, moolah, cash. You get my drift.”
I sighed as we sat back down. “I know dough is money. The question is, will the Lioness really sell Lyons Island?”
All the adults looked up at my question.
“She’ll have to,” said Uncle Norman. “Unless it’s confirmed as a landmark. Then the state will fund its upkeep.”
Uncle Norman knows a lot about land. He worked for a surveyor, like, a million years ago. That was before he was captain of a yacht, head of a lobster boat in Central America, and a rock star. He finally wound up becoming a plumber like my dad.
“I heard she’s having a garden party to prove her case to the mayor,” said my mom. “And an expert on the history of the island is going to speak.”
“Lyons Island,” said Venus in a dreamy voice. Her eyes had a faraway look. “Strange.”
“What’s strange?” Uncle Norman asked.
“Something I saw when I was there. It’s just coming back to me now.”
“You went to Lyons Island?” I asked. It wasn’t like anyone could just go there. You had to be invited.
Venus blinked and nodded. “Once, a long time ago.”
“What did you see?” asked Roger.
Venus’s eyes got that faraway look again. “An old map, like a treasure map, with an island in the middle of it.”
Roger and I looked at each other. “Map?” he mouthed.
“And there was a chest,” she went on. “One of those old-fashioned ones with an iron padlock that sailors used to take to sea.”
“Like a treasure chest?” I said, my heart beating faster.
Venus nodded.
“So, where was the map?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Venus. “I saw it in a vision as I was walking through the house.”
“A vision?” repeated my mother, her eyebrows shooting up again.
“I sure hope Mrs. Lyons doesn’t have to sell the island,” Uncle Norman said, after a quick glance at my mom. “It’s almost the same as it was when Chief Wyandanch gave it to the first Lyons almost four hundred years ago. It was called something different then, of course.”
“Yes,” agreed Venus. “The Native Americans gave the land such beautiful names. It started with an M, I think.”
I was about to ask about the map again when I realized she was right. I remembered reading the Native American name of the island when I was in the library. It had something to do with death. And it did begin with an M. What was it? It seemed very important to remember.
“Murdo . . . ” I began. “Monko . . . Muncho . . . ” My eyes opened wide as it hit me.“Munch Eggs!”
Everyone stared at me. Roger started to grin.
“T. J. was right! He said it was called Munch Eggs. But it was really called Monchonake.”
“Monchonake,” agreed Venus.
“You know what Monchonake sounds like?” I said.
“Munch Eggs!” Roger jumped up to high-five me.
“Egg-zactly!”
Seagulls Don't Eat Pickles
"Remind me why we’re going to Lyons Island?” asked T. J.
It was the next morning, and I had called the guys over for an emergency meeting.
“We’re going because that’s where the treasure map is,” I said. “And the treasure, too, I bet. You were right all along.”
“You can say that again,” said T. J., grinning.
“That,” said Roger.
T. J. threw a malt ball at him. Roger ducked, and Shrimp opened his jaws and caught it. Then he swallowed it, closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.
“We have to figure out a way to get there before Mystery Man and his partner do,” I said.
“You mean trespass,” said Roger, “since last time I checked, no one was allowed to go to Lyons Island without an invite.”
“What about the man-eating alligator that guards the place and the lion in the basement?” asked T. J. in a low voice. “Mickey told me—”
“When was the last time you saw an alligator outside an aquarium, T. J.?” I asked. “That’s just a made-up story to scare kids away. Alligators can’t live in water as cold as the Atlantic Ocean. And lions need to live in a hot, dry climate like Africa.”
Just then a siren started to sound from inside my house. T. J. and Roger looked at me.
“Dude, what was that?!”
“Finelli & Finelli’s Plumbing and Heating emergency hotline,” I said. “Now listen. We’ve got to figure out how to get a boat quick. If only I had the Seagull . . .”
T. J.’s watch buzzed all of a sudden. “Gotta go!”
We stared at him in surprise. T. J. is never in a hurry for anything. “What’s the big rush?” I asked.
“Pancakes. I don’t want to be late, or Mickey and Mmm will eat all the fluffy ones. My dad always burns the last couple of batches.” He shoved another malt ball in his mouth and took off down the steps.
Just then someone screamed so loud Roger and I nearly fell off the porch. We stared at each other. “Roger Huckleton, you are SO DEAD!”
“Sounds like Summer just discovered the rubber tarantula I hid in her fuzzy pink sli
ppers. Sur-prise! Sur-prise!”
LION
The second-largest cat, after the tiger. The males have manes. The females hunt in packs. They live mostly in Africa.
Like I said, driving Summer crazy is one of Roger’s favorite activities. And he pretty much always gets in trouble for it. Seconds later, Mrs. H. started yelling for him.
I sighed and watched Roger vault over the hedge. It looked like our emergency meeting was officially over. I got up and banged through the back door into the house. It was up to me to figure out a way to get to—
“Lyons Island,” my dad said. It was as if he had read my mind. I blinked and stopped in my tracks.
“. . . the garden party just started and the bathroom flooded,” he said into his phone. “I don’t know, but we’ll have to go to Lyons Island right away. I’ll pick you up in fifteen.” He flipped his phone shut.
Whoa! My dad was going to Lyons Island!!!
“I forgot that party was today,” said my mom. “I wonder if the expert will really be able to convince the mayor that—”
“Have you seen my new work gloves?” interrupted my dad. He pulled a yo-yo and a headless Barbie out of the drawer next to the fridge.
“In the microwave.”
“Microwave?!”
“I was drying them. How are you going to get there?”
“We’ll take Norman’s boat. And by the way, these gloves are still wet.”
“Oh,” said my mom. “It was just an experiment. Next time I’ll use the dryer.”
I had to talk to Roger. We had no time to lose.
Less than an hour later, Roger and I were lying under a pile of blankets in the cabin of Uncle Norman’s boat. It was hot and stuffy under there, and it smelled like perfume and fish. Even worse, every time the boat hit a wave, we rolled into each other.
We were stowaways . . .
“I’m suffocating,” whispered Roger.
“Technically, you are not,” I whispered back, “since you are getting some air through the blanket. To suffocate, you have to be completely deprived of oxygen and only inhale the carbon dioxide you exhale.”
“Well, this sure is the stinkiest oxygen I ever inhaled.” Roger pulled back the blanket and stuck his head out.
“Be careful.”
Uncle Norman’s boat wasn’t big. In fact, the cabin was really just about big enough for Roger and me and a few fishing rods.
“Oh, man. They’re eating lunch. I’m starving.”
“Get back under here,” I said. “They might see you.”
“Just a sec.” His arm shot out of the blankets and grabbed something, and then he wriggled back under. He took a bite and handed the rest to me. It was cold and wet.
“Mmm, mmm, good,” said Roger. “Nothing like a dill pickle.”
“Norm, did you eat my pickle?” my dad said a second later.
Roger and I looked at each other, eyes wide.
“No,” said Uncle Norman. “Why?”
“It was here just a second ago.”
Uncle Norman laughed. “You must have eaten it and forgotten.”
“I sure don’t remember eating it.”
“Well, it had to be you because there’s no one else here who could have, except a seagull, and we both know . . . ”
“SEAGULLS DON’T EAT PICKLES!!!”
They laughed as if that was the funniest thing in the world. It happens to be true, by the way. See, seagulls will eat anything in the world except for pickles. Once when Uncle Norman was midnight fishing for stripers, he had a sandwich all wrapped up with a pickle. These seagulls landed on his boat and grabbed the whole thing. They gobbled up his turkey club—even the paper it was wrapped in. But they tossed the pickle right back.
Seconds later, I felt the blankets being yanked off. The sunlight was blinding. I had to blink a few times before I could see anything.
“Aha! It’s the pickle thieves,” said Uncle Norman. His lips were curling up like they wanted to smile. My dad had a big frown on his face.
“Hi, Dad,” I said.
“And just what are you doing here?” My dad got right to the point.
“Well, you see, Mr. Finelli and Mr. Finelli . . . ” Roger began.
“We just wanted to go for a . . . a . . . boat ride,” I said before Roger could spill the beans about the treasure.
My father and Uncle Norman looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.
“Mr. Finelli, here’s the rest of your pickle.” Roger yanked it out of my hand and gave it to my dad.
My dad took a bite. “Since we don’t have time to take you boys back, it looks like you’re going to have to come with us.”
I gave Roger the thumbs-up behind my back.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “We didn’t mean to be sneaky.”
“Don’t thank me,” said my dad. “Uncle Norman and I should be thanking you.”
Roger and I looked at each other.
“This is a big emergency, and we couldn’t be happier to have two assistants to do the dirty work.”
My dad winked at Uncle Norman.
“Dirty work?” repeated Roger.
He gave me the stink eye—you know, he bugged out his eyes and kind of closed one like he was going to wink. Then he scrunched up his nose and frowned, all at the same time.
“You’ll see,” said my dad. “Nothing like having some extra hands to help with the mess. Right, Fish?”
Plumbers, Ahoy!
"Wait over there!” My dad pointed.
Roger and I carried mops, buckets, and toolboxes to the side porch.
“Whoa!” Roger looked around.
“Uh-huh!” I said.
The Lioness’s backyard was huge. There were gardens everywhere with all kinds of flowers. There was a pond filled with koi, those fat orange fish that look like supersized goldfish, but they’re really carp. An orchestra was playing. Waiters in uniforms walked around with trays of food and drinks. There were people dressed up in fancy clothes. In the very center was a giant ice sculpture.
“Boy, I sure wish I could take a chunk of ice off that eagle,” said Roger. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes.
OSPREYS
Also called sea hawks, ospreys are raptors that eat mostly fish. They are up to 2 feet tall, with a wingspan of up to 6 feet.
“It’s not an eagle,” I said. “It’s an osprey, also called a sea hawk.They’re endangered, and Lyons Island has the largest population of—”
“You know who’s endangered?” Roger interrupted. “Me! I’m about to faint from hunger and thirst.”
A waiter passed by with a tray of tiny hot dogs. My stomach rumbled.
“Pigs in blankets are the best!” said Roger. “I could eat the whole tray.”
My mouth watered.
“Excuse me!” Roger called out to the waiter.
“Roger!” I elbowed him.
“What? I’m hungry.”
The waiter turned. Just then I saw the last person in the world I wanted to see.
“Yo-ho-ho, find the treasure yet?” asked Bryce. “I swear, that will be the easiest fifty bucks I ever make.” He sauntered up to us with a nasty grin on his face. He was wearing his mirrored sunglasses and he was all dressed up in a white shirt and white pants. He snagged a pig in a blanket off the tray.
I glared at him.
“Gonna look for the treasure down the sewer?” Bryce pointed to the mops and plumbing supplies. “That’s where you belong, with the rats and cockroaches.”
I had to bite my lip so I wouldn’t start yelling.
“Excuse me!” Roger called out to the waiter again.
“That food’s not for you,” said Bryce. “You weren’t even invited
to this party.”
“How do you know?” I was starting to get mad.
“Duh!” said Bryce. “The plumbing equipment is a dead giveaway. I was invited because my dad’s a successful real estate developer, and you weren’t, because your dad’s a dumb old plumber, so—”
“Take back what you said about my dad!” I glared at him.
“No way!” retorted Bryce. “Especially since it’s true.”
My ears started burning. I was so mad I felt as if my whole face was on fire.
“Is not!” I shouted. “Plumbers are supersmart. My dad knows all about engineering and math and—”
Heads turned. Conversations stopped. Waiters halted with trays in their hands.
Bryce just laughed. A waiter walked by carrying a tray of glasses filled with punch. Bryce reached for a glass.
“Whatever, loser! Just make sure you have my money ready, since you know I’m going to win the bet.”
“You don’t know that!” I yelled.
“Oh, yeah,” smirked Bryce. He took a sip of punch. “Like you and your loser friends have a clue how to find that treasure.”
“Quit calling us losers!” I said.
“Losers!” said Bryce.
Before I could think about what I was doing, I grabbed the closest weapon I could find. Then I stepped closer and waved the mop at him.
“Fish!” said Roger in a warning voice. “Don’t.”
“Oooh, a mop,” sneered Bryce. “I’m so scared!”
He jabbed me in the chest with his finger. I was so mad that I pushed him back pretty hard. Bryce lost his balance and toppled backward right into the waiter. His glass of punch flew up in the air. The waiter’s whole tray tipped. Punch got all over Bryce.
“I’m going to get you for this.” Bryce’s white outfit was splattered with red punch. It looked as if his clothes had developed a bad case of the chicken pox.
Someone gasped. Someone else laughed.
Before I could say a word, a stern voice said, “Boys, that’s enough. This is a garden party, not a boxing ring.”