Another skiff soon came ashore carrying three of Blackbeard’s men. They rolled water barrels toward the Sweet Water Springs, which all sailors know for sweet water, and mark on their maps, as it is excellent for long voyages.
“That explains your map, you twit,” Attila said, glaring at Gabriel. “Those Xs marked springs! Not treasure! If I hadn’t been out there finding our trifling little treasures with that stupid metal detector, we would have found nothing.”
I read on:
The three pirates spied us—me with my long blond hair, Peg-Leg with his peg leg. They charged us, fumbling for their pistols, shouting, “Give up! Blackbeard put a price upon your heads for stealing his treasure, and if he can’t pay us in this world, he will pay us in the next!”
What could we do?
Peg pulled two pistols from his belt. I tugged mine from my cute little tapestry purse that goes with everything. We fired together, dropping all three pirates in their tracks and also killing the parrot Sweet Bart, whom I knew in happier days.
I am so, so sorry about the bird.
Dale blinked back tears.
We buried them in a nice spot. And we made a plan to bury our pasts by the springs, to keep us and our little son safe. We used Blackbeard’s own devilish technology as we dug.
So, to the brave soul reading this now: We assume you are family who found our attic clue and that you need funds. So here lies the last of Blackbeard’s treasures, the ones that put our own lives in peril but that may enrich yours. The vast unmarked treasure we kept hidden in our tidy little home—the gold coins, doubloons, and pieces of eight. We hope you’ve spent it well.
Love,
Mary and Peg-Leg
“Brilliant,” Dale said. “The coins they kept would have been like unmarked bills to them.” He frowned, tapping his lip. “I wonder if they changed their names when they went incognito. Daddy’s side of the family would have.”
I looked into Mrs. Little’s flashing black eyes. My blood went to ice.
Harm gulped. “Desperados, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“No,” Dale said. “Not unless you’re hungry too.”
“I’m thinking exactly what you’re thinking,” I said, and we rushed the evidence crate.
“Wait,” Dale whispered, burrowing between us. “What’s going on?”
“Here it is,” Harm said. He opened Mary’s blank journal and turned to the pressed daisy. He read the script underneath, his voice low: “A rose by any other name smells as sweet—William Shakespeare.” He looked at me. “We were right, Mo.”
I felt the blood fall from my face and heard myself swallow.
“Mo? Are you okay?” Dale asked. “Because you don’t look good. You never look neat, but now you don’t even look . . . right.”
I opened my clue pad and scrawled a note: Myrt Little = spawn of Blackbeard.
Dale read it and gasped. “What?”
“Mary and Peg-Leg never left Tupelo Landing,” I whispered. “They changed their look and changed their name—to Little. The Little family has been frittering away Blackbeard’s unmarked treasure for three hundred years.”
“I’ll take that silver cup,” Gabriel Archer said, striding forward. “And those jewels. It’s mine, and here’s my proof.” He reached into his pocket. “A map sketched by JRA,” he said, unfolding a copy of the same map Kat gave us weeks ago.
Finally, I thought. A book report pays off.
“JRA,” I said. “John Rose Archer, Blackbeard’s quartermaster on the Queen Anne’s Revenge.” I looked around the crowd. “Book report on a fat book. I even read the index.”
“You only read the index,” Dale said.
“Shhhh,” I said, glancing at Miss Retzyl.
Gabriel frowned. “As a former crew member, John R. Archer was entitled to his share of treasure. He was a distant relation of mine. Blood is blood, and I’m here to collect for him,” he said. He looked at Grandmother Miss Lacy. “Sorry, dear.”
“I wouldn’t be sorry yet, dear,” she replied.
“Back off,” Mrs. Little said, swishing her cane. “The treasure’s mine. By thicker blood than yours.”
“Allow me,” I said, and she nodded. I projected. “The Desperado Detective Agency is proud to present Blackbeard’s great-great-great-grandbaby—Myrt Little.”
The crowd gasped. Sal screamed.
“Finally, everything makes sense,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, looking from Mary Ormond’s portrait to Mrs. Little’s yellowish face and hawkish nose.
“Put the treasure in the Jeep, son,” Mrs. Little said.
“Hold it,” Gabriel said. “You can’t prove anything with an ugly face.”
“Take that back,” Grandmother Miss Lacy snapped.
“Actually we can prove it,” I said as Starr pushed between Gabriel and the treasure. I reached into the evidence crate and snagged Blackbeard’s curse. “This curse,” I said, “is sealed in Blackbeard’s blood—with his signature ring.”
“And here’s Mrs. Little’s childhood oath, also signed in blood,” Harm said, pulling it out.
“And if that isn’t good enough, I’ll open a vein,” Mrs. Little said.
I smiled. “Either way, I’ll bet your Jaguar it’s a DNA match, Gabriel.”
Skeeter stood to face the crowd. “Landowners own half the treasure by law, and then the Law of Finders Keepers kicks in. The Desperados and the Littles are rich!”
“Sixth graders who did extra credit pirate reports win too!” I shouted, and they cheered.
“Treasure’s worth nothing until you sell it,” Gabriel said. “I can set that sale up for you—for a percentage.”
“Piffle,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said. “History belongs to everyone. That treasure belongs here.” She looked at her old friend. “Myrt, we’re the richest people in town. I say we buy out everyone who wishes to sell, donate our own treasures, and start a museum.”
Brilliant.
“The Mary Ormond Museum of Blackbeard History,” I said.
Mrs. Little wavered. “Mother, it’s an election year,” the mayor whispered.
“Deal,” Mrs. Little said, and the crowd roared.
* * *
The Buccaneer Bash thundered into the night. “Welcome to pirate night,” I told table after table. “Tonight we got Barbaric-que, Psycho Potato Salad, and Blood-Red Slaw.”
“Devil’s food cake for dessert,” Harm called, swaggering by with a dessert tray.
As people dove into seconds, Detective Joe Starr stood to address the throng. “Attention, please,” he said. “This is a complicated case, and I want to thank the Desperados for their help.” He scratched his eyebrow with his pen. “Lana, Tinks trespassed on the inn’s property. Would you and Miss Thornton like to press charges?”
They shook their heads.
Starr flipped a page in his pad. “Mr. Red, Kat broke into your house. The charges probably won’t stick if you gave her a key, even if it was twenty years ago. But you can try.”
“Ask Harm,” Mr. Red said, very even. “He’s the detective in our family.”
“No charges, thanks,” Harm said, putting cake on Hannah’s plate.
“Desperados? Charges against Kat and Tinks for stealing your map?”
I hesitated. If Harm didn’t want charges against Kat, I didn’t either. On the other hand, I ain’t as highly evolved as some people think. I slipped over to Kat and whispered, “I’m not pressing charges because Harm loves you. And because I thank you for saving the photos that took me to Upstream Mother, even if you were just trying to set up Tinks. But mess with Harm again and I’ll kick you so hard, I’ll roll you up like a window shade.”
“Metaphor,” Dale said.
“Smile,” Sal said, and squeezed his hand.
I smiled at Starr. “No charges, thanks.”
<
br /> Starr looked at Harm. “You have good friends, Harm. And you have a well-loved son,” he told Kat. He looked at Gabriel. “I have a feeling you won’t be as lucky.
“Mrs. Little? Charges? Breaking and entering? Theft?” Starr offered.
“I’d like to blow Gabriel’s kneecaps off,” Mrs. Little said. “But I guess that’s the Blackbeard in me.”
“So are the five engagement rings from your safe,” Dale said, and she nodded.
“If I can’t shoot him, I’ll settle for pressing charges,” she said, and Starr pulled Gabriel’s hands behind his back and cuffed him.
“This is outrageous. Miss Thornton,” Gabriel cried. “Do something.”
“Certainly.” She lifted her camera. Click. “For the museum. Good luck, dear.”
Miss Retzyl watched Starr lead Gabriel out and stuff him in the Impala. “Dale,” she said as Dale and Sal each stuck a straw in Sal’s milkshake, “why did you think I was interested in marrying a man like Gabriel Archer?”
Dale wiped his mouth. “He sent you flowers at school. And he called the café to apologize for standing you up. I heard him. And treasure hunters are romantic,” he added, and Sal blushed.
Miss Retzyl shook her head, her normal auburn hair shining in the glow of the Winter Tree. “Dale, Joe sent me those flowers. And I did call here one morning and Gabriel did stand me up—on a school visit. I thought the class would like to hear him speak. Besides . . .” She looked at Starr as he walked in. “I couldn’t marry Gabriel if I wanted to. I’m already married. To Joe Starr.”
Miss Retzyl and Joe Starr? Married?
“Our valentines worked!” Dale shouted, high-fiving me.
“The cards were sweet, Dale,” she said. “But Joe and I got married on Ocracoke Island. In a civil ceremony.”
“Quicksand weekend?” Dale guessed, and she nodded.
“Took forever to get things set up,” Starr muttered. “Sorry to miss the robbery at your place, Red.”
“We’ll have a church wedding here,” she added. “And you’re all invited.”
* * *
When the party wound down, I pulled Dale and Harm aside. “We got one more treasure to open tonight, Desperados,” I said, and led the way to my flat.
Harm took the rocking chair, and Dale and Queen Elizabeth plunked down on the floor. “You’re the first to hear this after Miss Lana and the Colonel,” I said, pulling Upstream Mother’s letter from its jar and pushing the curtains back, to welcome the stars.
“It’s an honor,” Harm said, his voice going crooked.
I read slow and soft, the way Miss Lana reads it to me.
By now, we’ve read it a thousand times.
Dear girl,
If you are reading this, you’ve found me. I knew you would.
Letting you go was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Watching you spin away on that sign broke me a thousand ways. Every moment since I’ve prayed you’d come home to me.
Now you have. And you wonder how I survived.
As you swirled away, a wall of water swept me off our roof. I went under once. Twice. As I started down forever, my arm scraped something half floating. A timber. I clung to it and my world went dark.
I woke up in this bed, in Miss Bessie’s house, saved by a stranger who pumped a half-life into me.
Did you live? I know you did. I can feel your heartbeat in mine.
My name is Josie Barrow. Josie for my grandmother, Barrow for a river in Ireland—a river she knew and loved as a girl, but that I’ve never seen. I wrapped you in her sweater. I am 20 years old. I sing but can’t carry a tune. I wear colors that clash. I’m hot-tempered and I am strong.
When I love I never stop. And I do love you.
I wish I had something wise to tell you, but this is all I know. Love is both infinite and rare. Give it like there will always be more—because there will be. When someone offers it, grab it and don’t let go.
I am yours and you are mine, wherever we may go. My love for you bends my rivers and scatters my stars.
Your loving mother,
Josie Barrow
I put the letter back in the bottle that brought it home to me, and we sat together, wrapped in the courage of starlight.
Chapter Thirty-six
In the Loop
Dear Upstream Mother,
How are you? Tomorrow Miss Retzyl and Joe Starr get married in the Episcopal church, the church that played “Blue Suede Shoes” the day the Desperados decided to look for you.
I know you will be there because I will be.
The Colonel will stand up for Joe Starr. Miss Lana’s walking in for Miss Retzyl and so am I—Miss Moses LoBeau, Emergency Bridesmaid. A lifelong dream.
Grandmother Miss Lacy put flowers in the church, in honor of you.
Miss Rose will play the piano and Dale will sing Have-A-Maria. The rest of the sixth grade has a special place behind Miss Retzyl’s family, who’s coming from Rural Hall, just outside Winston-Salem.
Thank you for your letter, which I treasure. Thank you for bringing me into this world, which I love. Everything in my life flows from you. I am yours in any shape the universe takes until our paths cross again.
Today, in my messenger bag, I found the card Harm tossed on my desk Valentine’s Day. Inside he’d written a bad poem. When I thanked him he said, “I also brought you a pansy and fudge, LoBeau. Poem, flower, candy—check.”
Miss Lana says we will be a power couple by the end of the week.
The Desperados have a new case within our Bicycle Radius, and we still got one photo of Always Man to track down. I promise to keep you in the loop.
I love you like starlight loves star.
Your girl,
Mo
Acknowledgments
SO MANY PEOPLE TO THANK!
A lot of people helped with this book, and I thank you all.
Thanks to my husband, Rodney L. Beasley, who puts as much energy into these books as I do, for your love and support.
Thanks to the folks who understand when I disappear into the writing cave, and welcome me when I come out. My brother and sister—Michael and Allison Turnage—and their spouses, Susan Bowyer and Johnny Woodall. My nieces and their families: Karen, Alan, Vivian, Julian, and Lillian Boyd; Lauren, Elvis, Olivia, and Harrison Schreckengost; Haven, Nick, and Taylor Krarup.
Thanks Claire Pittman, Lauryn & Eric Sawyer, Mamie Dixon, and Catherine Walker.
A salute to my cousins, who understand barbecue can double as lip gloss, and who always show up for me. Thanks in particular to ace librarian Mary Jo Floyd and her students at Fuquay-Varina Middle School in Fuquay-Varina, NC.
Thanks to novelist Patsy Baker O’Leary and her Pitt Community College creative writing class. It’s good to have a writing tribe, and you are mine.
Thanks to Eileen LaGreca for the great maps, and to Gilbert Ford, for the cover art.
Turning now to sheep and yarn: Thanks to Ann Fay at Rising Meadows Farm, Liberty, NC; Jane Plaugher in Boone, NC; and Jeanne Shrader at Knitting Addiction in Kitty Hawk, NC, for sharing your thoughts and expertise with me.
And to Jo Ann Reed, thanks for talking sweet potato pies with me.
My gratitude always to my editor and publisher, Kathy Dawson, who loves Mo and Dale as much as I do. Thanks to so many people at Penguin Random House, but especially Claire Evans, Jasmin Rubero, Cerise Steel, Regina Castillo, Doni Kay and the other amazing sales reps, Jennifer Dee, Venessa Carson, and Carmela Iaria.
Thanks to my agent, Margaret Riley King, at WME, for the exciting projects on the horizon.
And finally back to family again: Thanks to my father, A. C. Turnage, Jr., whose story of his first kiss inspired Dale’s, in this book. And thank you to my mother, Vivian Taylor Turnage, who showed me how to stand up, speak up, and think for myself. I miss you every
day I open my eyes.
About the Author
Sheila Turnage is from eastern North Carolina, just like Miss Moses LoBeau, the protagonist from the Mo & Dale mystery series that began with Three Times Lucky. Three Times Lucky is a Newbery Honor Book, a New York Times bestseller, an E. B. White Read-Aloud Honor Book, and an Edgar Award finalist. It has been nominated for nineteen state awards, including the Texas Bluebonnet Master List, and has been licensed in five countries. Her follow-up book, The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing, also a New York Times bestseller, received five starred reviews and was a SIBA Winter 2014 Okra Pick and a Junior Library Guild selection. Sheila is also the author of two more books in the Mo & Dale Mystery series, The Odds of Getting Even and The Law of Finders Keepers, and the nonfiction adult books Haunted Inns of the Southeast and Compass American Guides: North Carolina, as well as one picture book, Trout the Magnificent, illustrated by Janet Stevens.
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