“Since when do you carry a calendar?” I asked.
“Bill says it might help keep time in a straight line. Lavender, Harm and me are singing at the café Valentine’s and you’re invited. I can reserve for you.”
Lavender gave a quick nod. “Table for two.”
“Sal and me can movie date on February twelfth,” Dale said, studying the calendar. “On the thirteenth I help Harm with harmonies, and I’ll kiss Sal on Valentine’s Day. If I don’t stroke out.”
“You won’t, little brother,” Lavender said. “And I’ll keep an eye on the movies.”
* * *
“Arctic dip,” Thes shouted as we unloaded our bikes at school. “Deadly cold,” he called as we pushed our bikes to the bike rack. “Enjoy it while you can.”
Jake looked side to side, leaned down, and licked the metal bike rack. He pulled. His tongue stretched. “Elp!” he bellowed, flapping his arms. “Elp!”
Harm slipped his bike into the rack. “Why did he do that?” he asked Jimmy.
“Thes said it would stick, but it seemed wrong,” Jimmy said, his round face worried. “Will Jake die?”
“Maybe,” I said, and did a double take as Attila hopped off the school bus. Attila never rides the bus. She Cadillacs everywhere. She minced over, her chlorine-colored snow coat dull in the morning light. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said, thumping Jake’s ear. “How can I park my bicycle when your stupid head is stuck to the rack?”
“You didn’t ride your bike,” I said. Attila only rides her show bike in parades.
“Well, I could have,” she said. She hesitated. “But maybe you’re right, Mo. Let me know if I can help you today. We treasure hunters have to stick together.”
“Stick with Attila? I don’t think so,” Dale muttered as Sal strolled over, sipping hot chocolate. She dribbled a little on Jake’s tongue.
“Pull,” she said, and dribbled a little more. Jake ripped free, blinking back tears.
“I owe you, Sal,” Jake said.
Sal winked. “Let’s stay in touch,” she said, and she and Dale walked inside.
I looked at Harm, who’d worn a jacket for once. “Harm . . .” He blew into his hands and looked at me. He has long lashes, like Lavender.
“We got to figure out where to dig,” I said, “before Gabriel beats us to that treasure.”
* * *
After settling into my desk, I propped my math book open and slipped my brain in neutral, like Miss Lana meditating in the living room. I breathed deep, pinched the air, and floated our clue through the cosmos: Pace until dogwood bends thirsty knee . . .
I unlocked my mind and let the images flutter through: Lavender driving, Miss Lana styling a wig, the Colonel flipping a burger, Harm winking, Dale singing, Mr. Red dowsing.
Nothing.
I invited the images again. Nothing.
Again. Bam!
“I got it!” I shouted, slamming my palm against my desk.
The class turned. Miss Retzyl frowned. A blush crept up my neck.
So, I thought. This is what it feels like to be Dale.
“Leg cramp,” I said, hobbling to Dale.
“I got it,” I whispered to him. “I know where to dig.”
Before he could answer, the intercom crackled on. “Attention,” Skeeter boomed. “The school’s heater’s broken again. School’s dismissed.”
Miss Retzyl cheered. Interesting.
As every kid in school bolted outside, Attila shouted from the door: “Desperados, wait!”
“Fly like the wind, Desperados,” I said. We hunched over our handlebars and flew.
* * *
At the bluff, I cut a dogwood branch. “Pace until dogwood bends thirsty knee,” I said. “Dowsing’s hundreds of years old. Mary knew about it—she could maybe even do it.” I walked the arc we’d traced earlier, holding the dowsing rod like Mr. Red showed me.
It swayed and bobbled, like minnows nibbling a fishing line.
I walked a few steps more: Nothing. Could I have been wrong?
The rod bent sharp to the ground. “Here,” I said. “We dig here.”
“I don’t know,” Harm said. “We’re looking for treasure, Mo. Not water.”
“Pace until dogwood bends thirsty knee. Reverse three, dig deep, riches find thee,” Dale said. “Back up, Mo.”
I took three steps back, to the place the dowsing rod stayed absolutely still, and dropped it as a haalloo drifted to us. Attila trudged up, puffing. “Didn’t you hear me call you after school? I need your help.”
“We’re busy,” I said. “And you ain’t allowed here.”
She looked at Dale. “I didn’t ignore your cries for help when you were in quicksand.”
“Touchy,” Dale said. “How can we help?”
“He means touché,” I told Attila, and sighed. Dale always pays his debts.
“I had Mother drop me by Gabriel’s camp early this morning so I could use the Ground Penetrating Radar,” she said. “That’s why I caught the school bus this morning. Hideous. Anyway, the GPR slid down the bank, to the water. I need people like you to drag it back up.”
“People like us?” I said.
She looked around like the trees might hear. “Detectives. The GPR tipped because I jumped, and I jumped because of the image on the screen.” She edged closer. “I found three graves,” she whispered. “Only I don’t know if they’re old graves, or the graves of somebody . . . new.”
* * *
Four of us sprinted for three bikes. Harm pedaled away. I looked through Attila like she was water. Dale sighed. “You can ride on my handlebars. Hop on.”
Attila frowned. “How?”
Several ugly minutes later, we stood on the riverbank, looking down a four-foot drop to the river’s edge. The GPR lay on its side, its computer screen muddy, two wheels in the water.
“What happened?” Dale panted, clutching his side.
“It fell, obviously,” Attila said, and then looked sheepish. “I woke up last night thinking we hadn’t searched that little bit of land. And what a nice surprise for Gabriel if I found the treasure. He’s flown to Williamsburg, to do some research, but he’ll be back soon.”
Dale put his hands on his knees and took a deep breath. “That was sweet of you.”
She scuffed her shoe. “Not really. Mother invested in Gabriel’s dig. I get a bigger percentage if I find the treasure.”
Finally. Attila the Intern made sense.
“Where are the graves?” I asked.
“Up on the bank. Help me and I’ll show you.” We heaved the GPR upright. Attila and I scampered up the bank to pull as the boys shoved. With the GPR in place, Attila flipped a switch and the screen blinked on. A sketchy outline filled the screen. “That’s definitely a body—and a pistol,” Harm said.
We pushed. The screen blinked again.
“Grave number two,” Attila said. “With a pistol, metal buttons, musket balls . . . And here’s grave number three.”
We stared at a tiny form over the body’s shoulder. A roundish blob with an outstretched . . . arm? A wing?
Dale gasped. “No! They killed a chicken!”
We waited. Dale edged closer. “It’s a parrot,” he announced, his voice sad. “These are pirate graves, then. But who killed them?”
“Blackbeard, obviously,” Gabriel boomed, swooping in behind us. “Do you think he’d let the men who buried his treasure live to tell about it? Step away from my GPR, thieves.”
“We’re not thieves,” Harm said. “Anna asked us to help. Tell him, Anna.”
Attila smiled at Gabriel. “I found these pirate graves for you, Gabriel.” She looked at me and curled her lip. “Go find your own clues, Desperados.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Only One Way to Find Out
“What a
double-crossing weasel,” Harm fumed as we grabbed shovels from the inn’s storeroom. “But why were the graves back there if the treasure’s up here? Maybe Gabriel’s map is right. Maybe the treasure isn’t up here at all.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” I said. “Start digging.”
A half hour later, we were two feet down. “We should have hit clay a foot ago—only this dirt’s mixed up,” Dale said, eyes glowing. “Somebody’s dug here before.”
I tipped my shovel in and pounced. It scraped something hard.
Dale chopped along the side of the pit, fell to his knees, and dug with his hands. “A copper sheet, like the one Mary left for us in the church. Only huge. And up-and-down.”
“Vertical, like a wall?” Harm said. “Hold on.” He headed for his backpack. “Check this out,” he said, grabbing a book. “There’s a chapter about a pit on Oak Island, Canada, that may hold some of Blackbeard’s treasure. Six people have died there, and they’ve dug over a hundred feet deep. It had a lot of built-in stuff. Floors, shafts, copper wires. This is some kind of pirate technology, maybe . . .”
“Six people died?” Dale asked.
“Booby-trapped,” Harm said, turning a page.
I studied the lay of the land—and considered the springs flowing into our springhouse, just downhill. “This isn’t a wall, it’s a dam. To keep Mary and Peg-Leg safe while they worked—and to keep us safe while we strike it rich.”
“The Canada pit was booby-trapped?” Dale muttered again, picking up a shovel. “Mama’s going to kill me.”
* * *
At sundown, I dragged into the café, muscles screaming like bobcats. Tinks sat at the counter, talking with the Colonel. Miss Lana polished the cash register, the Winter Tree’s colors softening the scene. “It’s like a neon Norman Rockwell painting, isn’t it, sugar?” she said. “Any luck?”
I collapsed into a chair. “We found the right spot. This time tomorrow, we’ll be rich.”
Miss Lana froze. “Really?”
“Harm’s standing sentry. I got guard duty tomorrow night,” I said as the Colonel plunked my supper plate down. “Want to go, Colonel? It’s warmed up. We could camp out, build a fire, talk with the stars.”
He poured my milk. “You’re on, Soldier. Who’s with Harm?”
“Nobody. We found a treasure shaft. It’s got a wall to hold the water back. We already dug it elbow deep.”
“Who else has been there?” the Colonel asked, frowning.
“Kat and Attila. Gabriel knows about it too.”
The Colonel picked up the phone and dialed. “Red? Harm’s camping up by the old springhouse tonight, and I thought you might like to join him. . . . Right-o,” he said, and hung up shaking his head. “Red’s sick as a dog.”
He looked at Miss Lana. “I don’t want Harm out there alone if Gabriel shows up. Or Kat, for that matter. I’ll grab the sleeping bags.”
“And I’ll pack some food,” she said, grabbing a takeout bag.
Tinks hopped up as she tossed in a bag of marshmallows. “I got a backhoe on my tractor, Mo, if you want to use it. It digs real deep real fast. I’d love to see you kids strike it rich.” He stretched. “Like me to pick up supplies for you tomorrow, Colonel? I could use the work.”
The Colonel needs help picking up supplies like Miss Lana needs help ordering costumes. Still, he nodded. “We’re having pork chops tomorrow. I’ve already called the order in,” he said, and hurried out to get his camp gear together, and to keep Harm safe.
The Colonel ain’t a people person, but if every Tupelite he ever helped stepped forward at the same time, the town would slide off the map.
* * *
The next morning—Saturday—the Colonel and Harm rolled in smelling like smoke. Dale flew in next, his hair still damp from his shower. “Who’s standing watch while we help at the café?” Dale asked, heading for the ice machine.
I looked at Miss Lana. “Take the weekend off, sugar,” she said. “The Colonel and I can manage. You kids eat breakfast and go get rich.”
“It might take longer than a weekend,” Harm said.
She frowned. “You can’t take many days off without failing sixth grade.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said. “Repeating sixth would be a double dip of doom, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And if we leave our dig unguarded, Gabriel will be on it like white on snow.”
The Colonel frowned, but I saw a smile teasing his thin lips. “We could ask Myrt Little to tutor them, Lana. Just to catch them up if it takes longer than the weekend.”
Dale went pale, but I stuck out my hand. “Deal.”
Miss Lana laughed. “Three days, Mo, counting today. No more than that. And you’ll need adult supervision if you dig over nose deep.”
“I’m in,” Lavender said, swaying toward the cash register. “I can be there by lunch.”
“Count me in too,” Tinks added, from the other end of the counter. “Lana, are you sure this bacon’s done?”
“You should be a vegetarian,” the Colonel muttered, but he carried the bacon back to the kitchen.
Harm grabbed the phone. “I’ll call Gramps and tell him we’re going to be rich.”
* * *
By lunchtime we’d dug chin deep. Dale heaved a shovel of dirt up and out, and closed his eyes as a small avalanche rained back down on him.
“My turn,” I said. “Climb out.”
Dale looked up at me. “How?”
“Good question,” Lavender said, strolling up.
Lavender! For Adult Supervision, he’d gone Garage Chic—perfectly yet truly ripped jeans, boots, red wool shirt, denim jacket.
“Welcome to our excavation,” I said, very sophisticated.
“Thanks, Mo. It’s a doozy.” He beamed at Dale. “I’ve seen men paint themselves into a corner, little brother. But this is the first time I’ve seen a boy dig himself into a pit.”
Dale looked up, his face smudged. “Get me out.”
Lavender held a hand down to Dale. “You need a ladder,” he said as Dale scrambled up.
“On it,” Harm said, walking up with Miss Lana’s new ladder over his shoulder. “Rope and buckets too.”
“I’m next,” I said. I sat on the side of the pit and avalanched in, landing loud.
“Graceful.” Harm grinned, sliding the ladder into place.
Dale had dug us down neat as a tabletop. I started digging, and filling Harm’s buckets. Moments later, I tapped the shovel in, and jumped on it. Cloingggggg. The impact sang through me like middle C through a tuning fork.
“The treasure chest!” Dale cried, dropping beside me light as a kitten.
We worked like maniacs for a couple hours—me and Dale digging, Harm and Lavender hauling up dirt until we reached a rough wood floor about eight feet down.
“Just like the Canada pit,” Harm said. It had a wooden floor every eight feet—and the timbers were thick. “We need a chainsaw.”
Lavender glanced at his watch. “I have a customer in thirty minutes, and I can’t afford a no-show reputation. You all take a break. Tinks has a chainsaw. I’ll call.”
I made an Executive Decision. “Ask him to bring his tractor with its digging claw too.”
* * *
Tinks and his chainsaw made fast work of the heavy timbers in our floor. “They’re thick—just like in the pit in Canada,” Harm called up, pulling our chain to the first timber.
“What’s under them?” I asked.
“Dirt,” Tinks said, scurrying up the ladder. “Somebody filled in the pit, to keep us out.” He jumped onto his old green tractor, which he’d parked between the pit and the edge of the woods. He fired the tractor up, jammed the clutch to the floor, and edged the back wheel closer to the pit’s edge.
Harm hooked the chain. “Go,” he shouted.
The engine whined as Tinks lifted the jagged metal claw, the timber dangling from the chain.
We lifted the timbers one by one, and slung them aside. “Ready to dig?” Tinks called.
“Don’t hit the copper wall!” I shouted.
He nodded and turned backwards on his tractor seat, lining up the claw. He swooped it down, swiping out a trench maybe two feet wide. Tinks lifted the claw, and dumped the soil next to the pit.
A half hour later, with our formerly neat pit a small crater, he hit the second floor.
“Chainsaw,” Harm called, lowering the ladder, ready to clean the earth off the pit’s floor and copper wall. “I’ll cut this time.”
“Nope,” Tinks said, hopping off the tractor and grabbing the saw. “But give me a hand.”
“It’s my turn to help,” I said. “And Mo LoBeau always takes her turn.”
Cleaning the pine floor took time and muscle. The copper seam along the floor leaked slightly as Tinks grabbed the saw. It whined through the thick planks, spewing bright red sawdust. I swept the chips aside with each cut, clearing the path to the next cut.
“Chain!” I shouted. Dale dropped our heavy chain down to haul up the boards as Tinks and me stepped onto the last, uncut timber.
I looked up at Harm—his crooked smile, smudged face, bright eyes.
A sharp crack at my feet set my world spinning as the timber tilted beneath us.
Tinks and me danced like marionettes. As our end of the plank dropped, the other end sliced up through the copper wall like a little kid’s seesaw.
The pent-up water behind the wall roared free, slamming me into Tinks, spinning me down, down, down and into a pool of ice-cold water—helpless as a twig.
Even underwater, my lungs caught fire.
Help me, I prayed, twisting and kicking, bumped by timbers and Tinks’s flailing arms and legs.
The Law of Finders Keepers Page 18