by Delia Ray
Hildy took off her glasses and wiped her eyes with the bottom corner of her apron. “Doesn’t that beat all?” she said. “That little stinker. How’d he find the combination? I’d have never known it was in that drawer if the last principal hadn’t come by for a visit and pointed it out to me.”
“So you’re not mad?” I asked in disbelief.
Hildy pulled herself up disapprovingly. “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I think you kids were way out of line to open that safe without permission and then read a letter that wasn’t addressed to you. But”—she lifted her shoulders in a resigned shrug—“I suppose what’s done is done, and at least you had the courage to own up to what you did.”
“And, Hildy, now that you know the truth, we can help you,” I told her. “Hugh and I. We can help you find your missing treasure, and then maybe you could sell it and use the money to finish the museum.” I leaned forward, my voice rising with excitement. “It’s pearls, isn’t it?”
“Shhhhh.” Hildy held her finger against her lips, cocking her head to listen. “Tucker might be down there,” she rasped, “and I don’t want him to hear any of this.”
“How come?”
Hildy listened a few seconds longer, and then murmured, “Because he might tell his father. And Jack already thinks I’m senile enough as it is. He’s heard me talk about the missing pearls for years, but he doesn’t want to hear about it anymore. He hates to think I might have bought this place just because I think they’re still hidden here.”
I glanced uneasily over my shoulder. “Where is Tucker, by the way?”
“He’s sorting through my shell collection today and taking the ones we don’t want out to Garrett. So he’s probably out back at the labyrinth.”
“So what does your son think happened to the pearls?”
“Oh, he has all sorts of theories. He thinks maybe one of the students stumbled across them, or maybe my father found Tom’s hiding place after all. But his favorite theory is that Mr. Bonnycastle took them.”
“What? Wasn’t Mr. Bonnycastle your brother’s good friend?”
“Sure was. But Jack likes to remind me that greed does funny things to people. Tom’s letter didn’t show up at school until a few months after he’d been killed. I’m not sure why it took so long to arrive. But by the time it did, Bonny had moved on, supposedly to a teaching job out east somewhere. Jack’s convinced that Tom must have accidentally let something slip before he left for basic training and that Bonny had figured out where the pearls were hidden, then skipped town as soon as he found them.”
“How’d you get the letter then? If Bonny was already gone?”
“The school secretary delivered it to me. After graduation I worked in a little secondhand shop in town. Thank heavens she brought it there instead of dropping it off at the house with Pop. He would have opened it for sure.”
“So you never got to talk to Mr. Bonnycastle and ask him what he was doing that day when Tom came to the school to say goodbye?”
Hildy shook her head sadly. “I tried for years to track him down. There were no computers or Internet back then, remember, so I put advertisements in the big city newspapers. Talked to everyone who had known him.” She scratched at her forehead in concentration, tugged her wig back into place, and then went on. “But Bonny had always been a bit of a mystery.”
“What do you think? Do you think Mr. Bonnycastle took the pearls?”
“No, I don’t,” she replied firmly. “All the kids here used to adore Bonny. He was such a sweet young man … not much older than Tom, but he had a heart condition so they wouldn’t let him join the service. He’d stride up and down the aisles, reading out loud and using different voices for the characters in his favorite books. He did a wonderful Sir Lancelot … and King Lear.” Hildy smiled to herself, remembering. “And you should have seen us shiver when he read Edgar Allan Poe stories on Halloween. That old skull you discovered would always make an appearance. And at Christmas he played carols for the pageant. He was quite a piano player, that Bonny, in addition to being a good artist. He used to spend hours in the music room tinkling away.” Hildy had crossed her arms stubbornly. “No sir,” she declared. “I don’t think there was a shifty bone in that man’s body. And my brother, he was a good judge of character. He’d never have chosen a friend who would turn on him like that.”
“So that means we should keep looking,” I insisted, thumping my fist on my knee. I knew I was supposed to be there to help in the museum, but weren’t the pearls more important right now? Especially with Hildy on the verge of giving up? “We should start over again and make sure you didn’t miss anything. What did the box look like?”
“It was plain. Made out of old pine wood. About this big.” Hildy held her hands half a foot apart. “If you saw it, you’d never guess there was a fortune inside. But heavens, Ren,” she said, sighing. “I already searched this whole place from top to bottom. And I must have read my brother’s letter more than a hundred times looking for clues. Who knows what Bonny was doing that day my brother came to say goodbye. He could’ve been anywhere. Bonny was like Garrett—good at fixing things—so Mr. Harper had him traipsing all over the school with his tool kit. He was the only one who could keep the old boiler in the basement going—”
Down below there was a faint clank of metal. Hildy sat up straight as another clang, much louder, echoed through the gym. “Tucker’s back,” she said, gathering up the bills in her lap and pushing them back in her apron pocket. “Let’s go on down and see what he’s up to.”
Before I helped Hildy to her feet, she asked me to set her stack of photographs back in the shoe box on the trunk—but not before she picked off the top one, of the man and the boy on the boat. “Tom and my father,” she told me, giving the picture one last look before she tucked it into her apron pocket along with the bills. “During happier times.”
I had at least a dozen more questions to ask. What had caused all the bitterness with her dad? And would she let Hugh and me hunt for the pearls too? And what about the museum? I wondered as I shuffled along the railing behind Hildy, looking down on all those memories heaped across the gym. Was she really ready to let go of all that?
Hildy cut my wondering short as we reached the top of the stairs. “Remember now,” she said, turning and putting her finger to her lips again. “Mum’s the word.”
Mum’s the word. Her warning rang a bell. Then it hit me. Those were the same instructions Tom had written in his last letter to Hildy.
SIXTEEN
TUCKER TRIED TO ACT like he wasn’t the least bit interested to see me. “Oh, hey,” was all he said when Hildy reintroduced us. But then I noticed his ears had turned red, and when Hildy started quizzing him about his progress that morning, he had a little trouble keeping up his cool-guy routine.
With her hands on her hips, Hildy stood looking over the buckets filled with shells that were lined up outside the storage room. The shells were all shapes and sizes and they didn’t have any holes cut through. “So are you getting the hang of telling them apart?” Hildy asked Tucker. “Are you being sure to check that shell guide I gave you?”
Tucker shrugged. “I don’t really need to use the book anymore.”
Hildy bent down with a grunt and plucked a long black shell from the top of the nearest bucket. “What’s this one?” she asked, holding it out to Tucker.
He gnawed the corner of his bottom lip as he came over to take it. “That’s a … wait, let me think.” He turned the shell over and over in his hands. After what I had heard about Tucker making fun of Hugh’s slippers, I enjoyed seeing him squirm.
“Is it a spectacle-case?” he finally guessed.
“Nope.” Hildy smiled. “Black sandshell. But that’s an honest mistake. Those two look a lot alike. What about this one?” She held up a thick brown shell with knobs running down the center.
“A sheepnose!” Tucker blurted out.
Hildy punched the air with delight. “Bingo!” she crie
d.
But Tucker, obviously embarrassed by his little flash of excitement, had already returned his face to its usual blank expression. “Here, I’ll take it,” he said, as he reached for Hildy’s shell. He stepped over to a worktable against the wall. There were a dozen or so labeled shoe boxes lined up on top and he dropped the black shell into one of the boxes and then walked farther down the row and dropped the sheepnose into another.
I followed Hildy over to take a closer look and read the names on the labels. They were a funny assortment—fat mucket … fawnsfoot … monkeyface … pigtoe … pistolgrip … purple wartyback. I peered into the box labeled “Butterfly” and picked up the single shell that sat inside. It was delicate and yellow with a pattern of darker markings fanning out from the narrow end, just like a butterfly’s wing.
After she had finished inspecting the shoe boxes, Hildy turned to Tucker appreciatively. “You’ll be an expert by the time this is done, honey, and we’ll have one of the best shell collections in the whole state.”
“Where’d you get all these?” I asked Hildy.
“Oh, here and there. My dad collected them back in his clamming days and different folks have brought me theirs over the years. A lot of these species weren’t any good for button-making of course, but the old-timers knew they were disappearing fast from the Mississippi. They liked keeping a few so they wouldn’t forget what they looked like.” Hildy let out a dry laugh. “Whenever old geezers from Fortune would kick the bucket, I’d get their bucket of shells.” I glanced over to see if Tucker had cracked a smile yet, but he wasn’t even listening.
“So, Ren,” she said, “if you’re ready to get started on that service project of yours, you can give Tucker a hand going through the rest of these shells. It’ll go a lot faster with the two of you working together. Whenever you’re not sure of something, just ask Tucker. He can show you the ropes.”
“Okay,” I said weakly.
Tucker didn’t seem any happier about the situation than I did. “Wait, Hildy,” he called as she started to shuffle off. “Where are you going?”
“Oh, I haven’t been sleeping too well lately,” she said vaguely. “I’m ready for a catnap. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” After Hildy had gone, Tucker and I didn’t say anything for a few minutes. I stood at the table flipping through the shell guide. Most of the shells in the pictures looked exactly alike—brown and oval. How was I supposed to tell the difference?
I glanced over my shoulder. Tucker had dragged one of the buckets closer to the wheelbarrow and was picking through the shells on top. Every once in a while, the clang of a shell on metal rang out through the quiet gym. I took a deep breath and turned around. “Can you show me what I’m supposed to be doing here?”
Tucker lazily bumped his sneaker against the side of the bucket at his feet. “You can go through the rest of these if you want and get rid of all the deertoes and hickorynuts. We’ve already got too many of those.” He fished two shells out of his pail and held them out for me to see. Thankfully, they looked nothing alike. The hickorynut was golden colored, rounded with dark ridges, and the deertoe actually looked like a small hoof—glossy black with a pointed edge.
I nodded and knelt down. “So,” I piped up, hurrying to start a conversation before the awkward silence had time to settle in again. “How do you like it here so far?”
Tucker gave me a “what do you think?” look. He sauntered over to a knee-high metal can full of shells and hoisted it up. “Worst … summer … ever,” he grunted out as he stiff-legged the heavy can closer to the wheelbarrow. He banged it down on the floor with a big huff of air.
“Oh, it can’t be that bad.”
Tucker cut his eyes at me underneath his bangs. “Oh, yeah? How’d you like to be stuck for eight weeks where there’s no Internet, no air-conditioning, nobody to talk to under the age of fifty—”
I kept picking through my shells. “Garrett and Mine are nowhere near that old. And they both seem really nice to me.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Tucker admitted. “But that Mine? She can’t cook worth squat.”
I decided to let that one slide. “Well, what about Hugh?” I fished. I’d been itching to bring him up ever since Hildy left. “He’s under fifty.”
“Hugh?” Tucker snorted. “That kid’s one of the reasons I can’t wait to get out of here. Gives me the creeps.”
I could feel myself bristling. “How can he give you the creeps? He’s only eight.”
“When I first got here, every time I turned around he was hiding behind some corner watching me with those spooky Martian eyes of his.” Tucker flipped back his bangs and popped his eyes open wide like some psycho from a horror movie. “I finally got tired of it, him always sneaking up on me, so I made sure it wouldn’t happen again.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What’d you do?”
Tucker didn’t seem to notice how icy my voice had turned. He strolled over to the worktable. “I decided to show him what it feels like,” he said as he plunked a keeper shell into one of the boxes. “He likes hanging out in the old chemistry lab, so one afternoon I hid in the closet and waited for him, and, well”—Tucker’s shoulders twitched with a snide laugh—“let’s just say I don’t think Hugh will be spying on me again anytime soon.”
I glared at Tucker’s back. “You must have really scared him, which is pretty rude considering he was only spying because he’s bored and doesn’t have any friends to play with around here. You should try getting to know him. He’s really smart.”
Tucker turned to face me, still looking amused. “Huh. You could have fooled me. He sure messed things up at the labyrinth this morning.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Garrett tried to stop him, but it was too late.” One corner of Tucker’s mouth lifted in a slow smile. “Hugh had already left his mark.”
I stood up, wiping my hands on my shorts. Trying to get Tucker to give a straight answer was like talking to one of those Magic 8 Balls. Reply hazy, try again.
“Where’s Hugh now?” I demanded. “Is he still out at the labyrinth?”
“Probably not,” Tucker said with a half shrug. “Once Garrett yelled at him, he dropped his weapon and ran.”
Weapon?
“Whatever,” I snapped as I marched past the shell buckets. “I’m going to go check on Hugh. I’m sure you’ll do just fine here without me for a while.”
SEVENTEEN
MINE STARTLED ME with a big hug when she answered the door to the library. “Ren! You’re back!” she crooned as I blinked into the soft gauze of her top, breathing in her cinnamon-and-burnt-toast smell. She pulled away. “Hildy said you were coming to help in the museum.” She lowered her voice, still gripping my shoulders. “I’m so glad. Hugh could use a buddy right now … other than his mom.” She gave me a little push in the direction of the card catalog. “Go on back. He’ll be really happy to see you.”
When I peeked through the tie-dyed curtains that hung around Hugh’s bottom bunk, he was sitting in the corner, hugging a pillow to his chest. I pushed the curtains apart and crawled into the open space at the end. It was warm and shadowy in there, like an animal’s den. “How’s it going?” I asked carefully, once I had crisscrossed my legs in front of me and pulled the curtains closed. Even in the shadows, I could see Hugh had been crying. His face was puffy and his lashes were clumped with tears. And worst of all, he was wearing socks and sneakers instead of his Cubs slippers.
“I don’t like it here anymore,” he said. “I wish we could move back to Chicago.”
“It’s because of Tucker, isn’t it? Has he been picking on you?”
It took me a minute to follow the muffled rush of words that drifted out from behind Hugh’s pillow. “—Hildy told Mine we’d have all the breathing room we needed. The first day we got here I counted up the rooms because it sounded really good—all that space for breathing. There’s thirty-two, if you don’t count closets, but that’s not enough space if someone’s
watching you all the time. How am I supposed to breathe when someone’s watching me all the time?”
“Who’s watching you all the time? You mean Tucker?”
Hugh poked his head up a little ways and nodded, his eyes glistening.
I waited for a few seconds before I answered. “You know it’s kind of funny. Tucker said the same thing about you. He said you’re driving him crazy the way you keep hiding behind corners spying on him.”
Hugh shook his head in aggravation. “I only spy on people because I’m curious. But Tucker does it to be mean.” He finally let go of his pillow and gave it a punch.
I stared at Hugh’s neck. “What’s that?” I gasped. His throat was smeared with red and his T-shirt was covered in crimson splatters. “Are you bleeding?”
Hugh scrubbed his hand miserably back and forth across his neck. “No. It’s only spray paint, but I can’t get it off.”
“Spray paint? Who sprayed you? Was it Tucker?”
“No, I did it. I sprayed myself … and a lot of other stuff too.”
“Wait, I don’t understand. Why would you do that?”
“It was an accident.” Hugh’s face began to crumple again and he swiped a fist across his eyes. “This morning Garrett scratched out paths for the labyrinth in the dirt on the baseball field and he said we had to outline the marks in spray paint in case it rained.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“Then Garrett said I could do some of the painting, but the button on my spray can got stuck right when Tucker came out there with his wheelbarrow, and he kept watching me like he always does. I didn’t want to look dumb and ask Garrett for help, so I checked the little hole in the button to see if it was clogged and I pushed it one more time and all of a sudden it went off … and it wouldn’t stop.”
“So paint went everywhere?” I asked, trying to hide the croak of laughter in my voice.
He nodded glumly. “I sprayed a bunch of Garrett’s shells and all over the path, and I kind of…”