by Ben Zackheim
That could definitely be a clue. The attic.
The house has been in our family for generations. Uncle Bernie owned a stake in the house, meaning it might have been his to live in, had he fought for it.
In the darkness of the cave, on the edge of a treasure room, I say, "Okay then. Let's get to work."
Chapter Twelve: The Second Clue, Maybe
The attic is packed. I wonder how my family could have filled up such a large space. I spot some of my baby toys in a wood crate. It's surrounded by dozens of stacked boxes, likely filled with more baby toys. My mom may be a tough cookie, but she's a sentimental tough cookie.
"Oy," Dad mutters as he emerges from the stairwell and sees what I see.
"Well, it won't be in a box," I say. "Let's check the walls for anything unusual. Cracks, water damage, vents..."
"Hooks," Wylie interjects. Marie smiles. He sees her smile, which is a good thing, because if he hadn't seen her, I would have pointed it out and embarrassed everyone.
Oh, I hope these two make up soon.
We push our way through the mess. The attic is classic 18th century. Plaster walls, plaster ceilings. Even the wood beams that hold the roof up are covered in plaster.
After a couple of minutes, Dad says, "Here's something. A water spot in the wall."
I work my way to his side. "That's promising. Look, no water damage on the ceiling above it. That could mean that there's a hole behind the wall that would let in water. You mind if I break something, Dad?"
He smiles. "You used to ask me that all the time when you were little."
"Aw, little Shirley liked to tear things up?" Wylie says in a sing-song voice.
"I still do, so watch it."
"Be my guest. But don't make a habit out of it." Dad gestures to the brown spot on the wall.
I plant my feet and put my palms against the low part of the ceiling for support. I kick lightly at first. The plaster chips away easily, revealing thin slabs of wood underneath. They have some kind of girder holding them in place. I kick a little harder and the wood cracks a bit. I kick really hard and my foot goes through, making a hole. It's the size of my head, so I stick mine through.
Nothing here. Just brick from the outside wall.
"Strike one," I say, sitting down. Silently disappointed, everyone gets back to work.
Dad whispers so Marie won't hear him. "We can't do much more damage to the house up here, Shirley. I know we have a deadline with Mrs. Smiley's home on the line, but we'll need to do this properly, with professionals, if we can't find the clue soon."
I'm starting to lose hope. We may need to lug all of the junk out of here. The clue could be under the floor, and there's no chance of finding it in these conditions. Every second that passes makes me see how big a job this could be.
But we don't have time to spare.
I scan the room.
Three windows, all cutting into the ceiling, making cubby holes.
Three beams on each side of the A-frame ceiling.
Two support beams on each side that support the load-bearing beams.
Wait.
Bingo.
"Wylie."
"Shirley."
"Knock on that small ceiling beam there. The one behind you, near the wall." There are two support beams on one end of the ceiling, and three on the other. It may be nothing, but we have to check it out.
As expected, Wylie knocks too hard. He always puts too much macho into the tasks I give him. It sounds solid.
"Knock across the whole thing," I instruct him.
He moves his knuckles across the beam. Solid. All solid.
Pop!
His fist goes right through the beam. It starts to crack. Suddenly, fissures travel down the length of it. Then the whole beam collapses in a heap of plaster, most of it on Wylie's head.
We all wait for the rest of the ceiling to fall in. When it doesn't, I tiptoe to Wylie and put my hand on his shoulder. He still isn't moving, frozen in fear.
"It's okay," I say. "It wasn't holding anything up. I think you found something." He looks at me, terrified. "Go. Sit. You're okay, Wylie."
Marie gently leads him to an old chair and guides him into a sitting position.
I take a deep breath to calm the adrenaline rush and sift through the plaster. I'm afraid that it's another false lead. All I see is dust everywhere. Some horsehair is mixed in. They used to use the hair to reinforce the plaster. I point my flashlight into the hole that was once the ceiling.
A small box sits on a stone plate, covered with what looks like a steel tent, probably to protect it from the elements.
I study it closely, to be sure there's no trap.
"Shirley? Be careful," Dad says.
"It seems okay," I answer. I slip my hand under it and lift it out.
Tin. Not heavy. In fact, it feels empty. Rusted from age. Dry as a bone.
No one in the attic is breathing. I put it down on the floor and pop the latch on the front. It springs open, making everyone gasp. We're all on edge.
There's another note inside. Same paper as the other clue. I gently remove it and unfold it. Same handwriting, too. I read it out loud.
You leave here
knowing one thing
Play cards in
Hell, kill kings,
sell soldier sell
Silence, as if a two-hundred-year-old pirate awoke for a moment, spoke his mind in a really weird, bad poem, and then rested at last. The secret is now ours to bear.
But I don't know what to do with it.
"Any ideas?" Dad asks.
I take the other riddle out of my bag and lay both sheets of paper down on a broken desk in the middle of the room. Side by side.
The first riddle has a woman, with jewels.
The second riddle has a card game, and assassinating kings.
'First word, last word' could imply an argument.
Second riddle seems to suggest playing with the devil and selling your soul. That may be a reference to the curse of the treasure.
First riddle is hopeful. Second riddle is bleak.
But where is the pattern? How can each of these half clues make up a full clue?
By the time I emerge from my thoughts, the others are standing behind me, trying to make heads or tails out of this thing.
I hold the sheets of paper up so that the sun from the windows backlights them. No ink marks or obvious clues there. No, I'm afraid that the riddles are what they are. But as far as I can tell, all they are is a big mess.
"I like the first riddle more. It's kind of pretty," Marie says.
"Yeah," Dad agrees. "It has a meter to it. The second one is abrupt. Ends all of a sudden."
"Could that be a clue?" Wylie's face is twisted in thought.
I nod. "Could be. The first riddle could be a blessed life. Someone who lived in two places and had wealth in-between."
Marie nods back. "The second riddle could be a gambler, or game player, who wants to sell something."
"The treasure, maybe," Wylie says, getting excited.
I ruin the mood. It's a hobby of mine. "No, none of this is right. The writer of the riddles wouldn't point to people who could be lost to time. They'd make the answer something that lasts longer than any single person. The riddles play together somehow. What words are in one riddle that might refer to the other one?"
Wylie jumps in. "They both have something valuable to sell."
"It's not clear what the soldier has to sell," Dad says.
We think on it, and in that moment I see it.
I know the answer.
Brilliant.
"They both refer to the word here! The first riddle says the first word here, the last word there."
"Which word where?" Wylie is the only one brave enough to not pretend to know what the heck I'm talking about.
"The first and last word of the riddles. The last word from the riddle here in the attic, and the first word of the cave's riddle. Those make up the clue that we're
looking for.
"Sell," Marie whispers, which is the last word from the attic's poem.
"Her," Wylie finishes, with the first word from the cave's poem.
"Sell her?" Wylie asks, his face contorting more, if that's even possible.
"Sell who?" Marie asks.
I smile.
My Dad smiles, too. He gets it. "It's not a who. It's a where! Sell-her. Cellar!"
"Wowohwow," Wylie mutters.
"Yeah, totally," Marie says.
"Which cellar? Mrs. Smiley's?"
I smile wider. Apparently, it's not one of my creepy fake smiles that I'm famous for at school, because Marie smiles back. "Shirley! Tell us!"
"Her last word there, Her first word here, And in the middle are jewels most fair."
"In the middle of the riddle?"
I hold up the attic poem and run my finger down the first letter of the middle word on each line.
So cool...
You Leave here
knowing One thing
Play Cards in
Hell, Kill kings,
sell Soldier sell
"Locks! Lock's cellar!" Wylie screams.
"You guys ready?" I ask. "Let's go dig up some treasure."
Chapter Thirteen: Millions! Or Not...
Dad gives us a history lesson about the house as we work our way downstairs. Apparently, the first Lock to live here was Abigail Lock. She built it with her husband, Adam Lock, a son of Captain Lock. Adam died when he was young, but Abigail stayed here for her whole life, raising her children in a warm, loving home that became famous for providing shelter to locals in need.
"She and Adam must have been the first protectors. They probably decided to keep the treasure close."
You can't get any closer than the basement. We use ours for storing stuff like shovels, paint, and buckets. Little did we know we were also protecting a treasure that Uncle Bernie didn't get a chance to tell us about before he died. All things considered, the previous protectors were good men, but they both could have done a better job passing their burden to a new generation.
It takes all four of us fifteen minutes to clear the floors and wall space of the cellar. Once it's all in a pile in the middle of the room, I turn to probe the space with fresh eyes.
Two details stand out.
"Marie, please poke around in that brick arch. Wylie and Dad, check the wall bricks with me for cracks or loose grating."
The arch is on the south side of the cellar. It's just below our first floor fireplace, and acts as support for the heavy foundation. Back in the 18th century it was probably filled with shelves for storage.
"Check what bricks?" Wylie asks.
"All of them." I smile, hoping that will buy me some goodwill.
"The walls and the floors are made out of bricks. There are thousands of them!"
"Just over 3000 is my guess," I agree. "But start with the loose ones. Any bricks where the grout around them is loosened. We're looking for a hidden space under the floor or behind the walls."
"Another hidden space behind walls?" my dad says skeptically.
"Hm. Good point. That would be too easy, wouldn't it? If they'd wanted to make this last step a challenge, they'd have mixed it up a little." I shrug. "We'll see."
After an hour of tapping plaster and excavating loose bricks from the wall, we have zero to show for it. Marie stands in a pile of solid bricks, hands on hips, sweating. Dad is sitting on a high shelf where he's been checking the ceiling for anomalies. Wylie is taking a nap on the steps, snoring.
Yeah. We're in bad shape.
So, of course, Mom chooses now to peek her head into the cellar to see what's up. She takes one look at us, rolls her eyes and closes the door.
"Hi, Honey!" Dad calls out after her.
Wylie snorts and almost wakes up. "Hi...hello..." he mutters, half conscious.
I hear Mom grumble something, but it's likely one of those husband/wife expressions, not meant for my young ears. Dad is going to get it later, if we don't come up with something.
I'm flummoxed, which is not a word I like. But I'm stuck with it for now. Still, something is off about this scene in front of me. I'm missing a clue. Something obvious. I just know it.
"Let's call it a day," Dad says, reading my mind. Marie gives me a glance. I think she's shocked that we haven't solved this mystery by now. I can't meet her stare.
"Wake up, Wylie," I growl, as I step over him on the stairwell.
***
Dinner was fun. If by fun, one means like getting bitten by a cat.
Mom and Dad spent the whole time frowning at their food like a couple of toddlers unhappy with the broccoli requirement. Now I can hear them downstairs whispering in hushed anger. I don't blame Mom for being mad. I mean, we kind of tore the basement and attic to pieces. But she can't deny the reasoning was sound.
What am I missing?
Something about that last view of my partners in the basement doesn't sit right with me.
Dad perched on the high shelf, tapping the ceiling.
Marie standing in a pile of excavated bricks.
Wylie sprawled on the steps like an ugly throw rug.
Ceiling.
Bricks.
Stairs.
Wait a second. Wait one second. Am I remembering right?
"DAD!" I run out of my room.
"Are you okay, Shirley?" I surprised him.
"The bricks!"
"The bricks. All right. What about the bricks?"
Mom stands behind him, her anger changing into curiosity. I hope this is the answer, or else I might have just made their fight even worse.
"None of the loose bricks broke!"
***
The three of us stare at the pile of bricks in the cellar, piled neatly earlier by Marie.
I'm right. Not a single brick in the pile is broken.
"Wow," Dad says.
"So what?" Mom asks.
"We pulled out loose bricks that are a couple of centuries old. None of them broke. That's impossible. We weren't that careful with them."
"Our focus was on what was behind the bricks." I pick one up and smash it on the floor.
CRISH!
It doesn't break.
Mom crosses her arms.
Dad has a go. He winds up, as if his marriage counted on it.
SPLACK!
It shatters into a hundred pieces. A small cloth sack sits in the dusty debris.
"When we should have been looking in the bricks," he says, smiling.
I kneel and open the sack. It's a brooch. A humongous emerald sits in a silver casing, glittering, even in the dim light.
I show it to them. They both smile.
"Look. They must have burned the bricks with crushed pebbles as a coarse aggregate! That made them extra strong," says Dad. The archeologist in him adds, "Can we find a better way to open them, please?"
***
The first order of business was to call Mrs. Smiley. I wanted to let her know the news, but she didn't answer. So I called my friends and invited them over to help chisel bricks while Mom popped popcorn.
By 2 AM we'd dug out twenty-two pieces of treasure: twelve pieces of stunning jewelry, two gold coins from England, two from Spain, and six from France. Just the gold coins, at today's market value, would bring about $50,000. That's if they were melted down. They'd bring in triple that amount if they were sold as antiques.
I think that alone should cover Mrs. Smiley's house.
"Let's get some sleep everyone," Dad says. "We have a long day tomorrow."
I watch Wylie and Marie walk to the living room, where Wylie will be sleeping tonight. I happen to see them sit on the couch together.
"Dad?" I say, as I hear Wylie explaining himself to Marie.
"Yup," Dad answers. I hear Marie comforting our friend and my heart gets light again. Their fight was so scary. Almost as scary as the question I'm about to ask.
"I know the treasure is on our property, but..."
&
nbsp; "From everything you've told me, Shirley, it belongs to the Stringer family, not the Locks. Don't worry."
"Thanks. I had to ask. Money does weird things to people."
"You know, Shirley, there's no guarantee that we can get this treasure cashed in and to the bank in time. I have no idea how far along the bank is in selling the house."
"I have that covered," I say.
"Ooookay. I have no idea how that could be the case, but I believe you." Dad smiles and gives me a big hug. He ruffles my hair and plants a disgusting wet dad-kiss on my forehead. "Smart, wise and kind," he says, "What did I do to deserve this kid?"
"Goodnight, Dad." I hope he leaves without laying it on any thicker.
"I'm headed to bed," Marie calls out on her way up the stairs.
"Be there in a minute," I say.
"Bed sounds good. Don't stay up too much longer, Shirley," Dad says, leaving the kitchen. But before he can walk up the stairs, I remember Wylie's story about his dad patting his cheeks before bed.
"Dad?"
He pops his head back into the kitchen. I don't particularly like showing affection. I'm not finding it any easier at the moment, with my father staring at me like a hungry fish.
He does the heavy lifting for me, though. As usual.
"I love you, too, Shirley."
He winks and walks upstairs, two steps at a time. As usual.
Chapter Fourteen: Shirley Carries on the Tradition
If you've ever had a dream about finding a million bucks under your pillow, that's how I feel right now. Except I'm not suffering intense remorse that it's only a dream, because it's not.
Everyone is up and quietly eating breakfast around our kitchen table. It's cramped, but Marie and Wylie don't appear to mind. They're scrunched up against each other like peanut butter and jelly in a sandwich.
Mom walks in from the living room. She grabs a bacon strip from the pan and sighs. "Mrs. Smiley's still not answering the phone."
