“They’re heroes,” Nick said. “But they had to keep it a secret.”
“Yeah, secret heroes,” Travis agreed.
“And the secret was almost buried in my basement forever.”
“That’s so cool,” Mel said. “Something exciting and wonderful did happen in Buttermilk River Cove. It was a big part of the Underground Railroad.”
“And my family helped,” I said in awe.
* chapter thirty-nine *
FIRST CUSTOMER
WE KNEW THE TRUTH, AND I still couldn’t sleep.
There had to be more.
The story couldn’t end there.
So I got up and did something I’d avoided for days. I sat in my bed and did my time capsule project. I wrote an essay all about a woman named Franny Butters and a man named Ted Mackenzie. How they created a scheme involving a potion, an oven, and a tunnel to secretly move slaves to freedom. Since no one could know the truth, Franny Butters let everyone believe she was cursed. She had no one to work on her farm, so she had to sell large sections of her land, on which everyone in Buttermilk River Cove now lived. I added a page about a young girl named Ivy, explained what I imagined her escape was like and how she returned from the grave to make sure the story was told, and how I was proud to be the one to help her tell it.
I reread the essay. It was good. It read like it could be a screenplay . . . starring Emiline Hunt. Or better, me!
When I went downstairs for breakfast the next morning, the table was filled with people—Cork, Elliott, and my parents—Joyce was stirring a pot of what smelled like an encore performance of Mom’s oatmeal.
“What’s going on? Why is everyone up so early?”
“We have our first customer,” my dad said.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s sad and good at the same time.”
Joyce said to my mom and dad, “I’ve contacted her children, and they’re on their way. They want to have the service tomorrow.”
“We can do that,” Cork said. “On account that we don’t have to dig through the frozen ground. I can get the mausoleum ready today.”
“I’ll begin on the flowers,” Elliott said. “She may not have been a popular woman in this town, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make things pretty for her. It will be lovely.”
“Wait. Not popular?” I asked. “Are you talking about Mrs. Dolan? Did she die?”
“Yes,” Mom answered. “Did you know her?”
* * *
By the time I got to school, the kids already knew about Mrs. Dolan.
It was time to bury the time capsule. The whole school gathered in the gym around a big metal box. One at a time, everyone said what they had done and then dropped their contribution into the steel case.
The little kids started. One and Two went up together and dropped in a picture they had drawn of Booger Boy, a superhero they’d invented who constantly had a cold and used his cape as a tissue.
Travis was the first eighth grader to go. He held up our yearbook from last year. “In twenty-five years we can look back at this and remember what we looked like when we were in middle school.”
Then it was my turn.
I held up a pink composition notebook. “This is a story I wrote about something I recently learned. It’s about my ancestors and some special stuff that happened here in Buttermilk River Cove. I want to make sure the story isn’t forgotten. This way someone will read about it again in twenty-five years.”
“That’s very nice, Sydney,” Principal Perkel said. “Maybe you can tell us the story.”
“I think it would be good for everyone to hear,” I said. I tossed the notebook in. It landed with a thud.
* * *
For the next twenty-four hours the cemetery buzzed with preparations. Elliott drove into the city and picked up spring-colored flowers to decorate the mausoleum. I helped him sweep out the inside of the stone house. We laid a white runner on the ground, and Elliott placed small votive candles a few feet apart along the edges of the walls. Between them he placed bunches of yellow and white flowers. “They look like buttermilk,” he said.
* * *
Soon enough, a small line of cars paraded from the church up the hill to Lay to Rest. I counted them. Only five cars of people to send this woman to her eternal slumber. I guessed that was the price you paid for letting people believe you were cursed.
People gathered outside the Dolan mausoleum. There were tears and hugging and shivering in the cold. They broke their sadness only to comment on the decor.
Then a shocking thing happened. The clouds drifted away from the sun, and warm light shone on the cemetery. I held my face up to it.
I’ve missed you.
The temperature must’ve risen ten degrees, bringing it above freezing for the first time since my arrival here. The minister said it was Mrs. Dolan shining down from heaven. I hung around and listened to the short service.
A few of the guests lingered on the Victorian’s wraparound porch.
A woman approached me and wrapped me in a cuddly hug. “Sydney,” she said, setting me free, “your family has been so good to us through all of this. The cemetery and the house look great. You’ve really brightened things up.”
I turned to look at the Victorian. She was right. I hadn’t noticed all the work my parents, Elliott, Cork, and Joyce had done. The roof was straight and new, the porch swing was hung, the front door was painted, the fence was replaced, the windows were cleaned, and the creeping vines were trimmed back. Elliott had twined white lights around the porch railing and the holly trees in the yard.
I looked back at the woman and wondered how she knew my name, then I remembered that it was a small town and everybody knew everybody.
“I wanted to come introduce myself—I’m Mrs. Dolan’s daughter,” she said. “My name is Frannie.”
“Like Franny Butters?”
“Exactly like Franny Butters, except I use an i-e at the end. I was named after her. When I was a little girl,” she said, “I used to think a hunchback who ate bugs lived up there.” She pointed to the attic that my mom was trying to make into a bright, cheery den and laughed at herself.
I laughed too, because the hunchback legend had made it all the way to my new friends.
Her laughter attracted the attention of another woman, who looked to be in her midtwenties and African American.
Frannie gave her a big hug. “And this is my cousin, Marie.”
“We’re not actually related,” Marie said. “Did you know her?”
“I just met her for the first time the other day. She helped me and my friends with some local history research we were doing.”
“Oh yeah?” the woman asked. “I love history. What was the project?”
The minister came over and interrupted. “It’s so good to see you.” He hugged young Frannie. “You don’t come home often enough.” Then he hugged the other woman. “Marie! My dear Marie Shaw-Lane! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! I’m so glad to see you.”
Marie SHAW?
* chapter forty *
MARIE SHAW
“MARIE SHAW?” I SQUAWKED A little too loudly, because Marie looked around self-consciously, like I’d embarrassed her. “Sorry,” I said.
“Yes,” she said in a calming way. “I was named after Franny Butters also. Her middle name was Marie.”
“I know, but your last name . . . Is your ancestor Ivy Shaw?”
She looked stunned. “She is. That’s why we’ve always kept Shaw as part of our last name, every generation. How did you know that?”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“I’d really like to hear it,” Marie said.
“Do you like hot cocoa?”
* * *
We went inside the Victorian and sat at the table with our cocoa.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked.
Her eyes got big like I’d said something crazy. I was ready to say, Ha-ha! Just kidding! when she looked at me, dead serious, and said, “
Yes.” Then Marie said, “I always feel like there are spirits around me.”
I said, “I want to tell you something really weird.”
“Okay,” Marie said.
“Ever since I moved here, Ivy Shaw has been haunting me.”
She stared at me. “Haunting?”
“Well, maybe not haunting. It was more like visiting.”
“Sounds like a haunting,” she said.
I told her about the séance, the tunnel, and the brick. “That’s where I found this.” I pulled the locket out from under my shirt. “I think she wanted me to find it because inside were directions to a hidden letter.”
Marie carefully took the locket from me and studied the charm. “Did you find the letter?”
“Yes.” I didn’t tell her that we’d broken into her family crypt. “I think she wanted someone to know the story of what happened here.”
I told her that Franny Butters had mastered only one potion, the Potion of the Two-Day Sleep. “She wanted to help free slaves. So she partnered with my relatives who owned this cemetery. Their scheme was a good one. Franny would give the slaves the potion, making it look like they were dead. Then they woke up and crawled through the tunnel to the woods, where someone took them to New York, where they could be free.”
“I’ve heard pieces of that story before, but not the whole thing. Now I know why I was named after her,” Marie said. “She was a wonderful woman.”
“She made a big sacrifice,” I said. “Ivy came to me so that I would know her story.”
Marie thought for a minute. “Don’t you think more people should know this story?”
“I totally do.”
Marie grinned. “Did I tell you what I do for a living?”
one year later
IVY’S LOCKET—THE MOVIE
IT TURNED OUT THAT MARIE lived in New York City, where she was a film writer. She wrote and sold the screenplay for Ivy’s Locket.
Guess where the movie was filmed?
Joyce and her hot cocoa were especially popular. Dad, Cork, and Nick’s uncle Joe helped with the props, and Mom and Mrs. O’Flynn made oatmeal and egg salad everyday. Even Nick’s girlfriend, old Mrs. Schuldner, consulted on local history. She was treated like a queen in her very own director’s chair and outfitted with headphones the size of earmuffs.
IVY’S LOCKET—SCENE 21:
CEMETERY SCENE
CAST
SYDNEY MACKENZIE
Emiline Hunt
GHOST OF IVY SHAW
Sydney Mackenzie
SUPPORTING GHOST 1
Nick Wesley
SUPPORTING GHOST 2
Travis O’Flynn
SUPPORTING GHOST 3
Johanna Stevens
SUPPORTING GHOST 4
Melanie Healey
BRENDAN MACKENZIE
Brendan Mackenzie
AIDAN MACKENZIE
Aidan Mackenzie
SYDNEY MACKENZIE runs through Lay to Rest Cemetery.
THE GHOST OF IVY SHAW chases her.
SUPPORTING GHOSTS sit on tombstones.
SYDNEY MACKENZIE falls and lets out a blood curdling scream as THE GHOST OF IVY SHAW descends upon her.
GHOST OF IVY SHAW
Pleeeeasse, you must find my locket and give it to my great-great-great-granddaughter!
SYDNEY
[Shakes in fear]
O-o-kay . . . I’ll help you.
GHOST OF IVY SHAW
And make sure the world knows what happened here in Buttermilk River Cove.
SYDNEY
I . . . I p-p-p-promise . . . or . . .
or I’ll kiss a cow’s butt.
GHOST OF IVY SHAW flies away.
The director, a Hollywood legend known only as Santoro, yelled through a megaphone, “Cut! That’s a wrap. Good job, everyone. I think we have a hit on our hands.”
Everyone on the film crew clapped.
It was going to be a great film, even though Hollywood had taken a few liberties with the truth. My friends and I high-tenned as the crew began packing up the set. Santoro patted Elliott on the back to thank him for his work with the makeup.
Emiline Hunt stood on a costume trunk and took the megaphone. “Before you all go,” she yelled, “I’d like to make an announcement.”
Reporters and photographers who had been limited to my front yard during the filming were allowed back to hear her.
Flashbulbs ignited, and microphones were put under our mouths for comments.
We posed for a few shots that I hoped would show up in Teen People or Us Weekly.
Mrs. Dolan’s cats ran, pranced, and played around us and all through the tombstones. Turns out those formerly fat, lazy cats loved to run around outside, and they loved living with me. Johanna, Nick, and Mel each took one too. Travis and Mrs. Schuldner each took two.
Emiline cleared her throat. “On behalf of Logan Pictures, Bergen Entertainment Group, and myself, we would like to thank the people of Buttermilk River Cove for their hospitality during the making of this film, especially the Mackenzie family for the use of their amazing cemetery.”
She continued, “Mayor Margreither, as a token of our appreciation, we’re pleased to present a grant to the town of Buttermilk River Cove for renovations of your school buildings, the creation of a drama department, and the creation of a community center. And we would like to treat the cast and crew to dinner at the Pizza Palace!”
Everyone clapped and roared about the generous donations to the town. More photos were taken and interviews continued.
* * *
A short while later, ghostly makeup washed off, Nick and I went to the Pizza Palace, where we met my parents, the gang from the cemetery, Emiline Hunt, the film crew, and all my friends from Buttermilk River Cove.
Nick held open the Pizza Palace door for me. “Our usual booth?” he asked.
“Nah,” I said. “Let’s try a table today.”
As we were eating, my new cell phone vibrated. It was a text from Leigh.
Leigh: Everyone is watching U on the Entertainment channel. U did it! Come back now!
Me: No way.
Leigh: Why? What’s going on there?
Me: I’m having pizza with my new friends.
Leigh: Sounds boring!
Me: Nope. They’re great friends. Actually, it’s a perfect day in Buttermilk River Cove, and I don’t want to leave.
I reached deep into the back pocket of my jeans and pulled out a card to show Nick.
“You did it!” he said. “Your next slice is free!”
postscript
LIKE DELAWARE, LITTLE BUT IMPORTANT
YOU MIGHT BE WONDERING HOW much of this story is true.
Well, I can assure you that it’s all fiction. Okay, so, it’s mostly fiction: There are probably five friends who think one of them is being haunted. They could’ve built a time capsule. There really is a state called Delaware in which there is surely an old lady with a big house filled with cats, people with secrets, and cemeteries. Some people in Delaware believe that there are haunted places.
What is not fiction is that there were slaves in Delaware, and the state was a very important stop on the Underground Railroad. To the runaway slaves it was often their last stop before New York, where they could be free. It was also the place where slave hunters could make their last attempts at capture.
I don’t know if there ever was anyone named Ivy who escaped slavery thanks to the help of a woman named Franny Butters, but it is not fiction that there were people who were opposed to slavery, and they helped many escape via the Underground Railroad. It is also a fact that there was pressure on free citizens to capture escapees; there was even a law requiring it. In spite of the law, good, brave people continued to do the right thing. And I imagine that a lot of their stories are secrets that unfortunately are now lost in time and will never be told.
Recipes from Lay to Rest
Make sure an adult is around when using the stove and knives! These recipes
make 4–6 servings.
MRS. O’FLYNN’S OATMEAL
Ingredients:
6 cups apple juice
1 tsp cinnamon
3 cups quick oats
1 cup chopped pears
½ cup maple syrup
½ cup berries
⅓ cup vanilla yogurt
(Chopped nuts optional)
Preparation:
Combine apple juice and cinnamon in a saucepan. Bring to a boil. Stir in oats, chopped pears, syrup, and berries. Reduce heat and cook until most of juice is absorbed, stirring occasionally. Add nuts (if using). Top each bowl with yogurt.
JOYCE’S AMAZING HOT COCOA
Ingredients:
1 cup buttermilk (reduced fat)
3 cups milk (skim or 1%)
2 cups sweetened condensed milk
¾ cup chocolate syrup (more if you like it really chocolatey)
Whipped cream—as much as you want
Shaved chocolate on top—yummy and pretty
Preparation:
In a saucepan heat the buttermilk, milk, and condensed milk, stirring constantly with a whisk. When warm, add chocolate sauce. Transfer to mugs and top with whipped cream. Sprinkle the whipped cream with chocolate shavings—you’d be crazy not to.
JOHANNA’S CHICKEN SPREAD LUNCH
Ingredients:
1 (10.75 oz) can condensed cream of chicken soup
1 envelope (1 Tbsp) unflavored gelatin
3 Tbsp water
¾ cup mayonnaise
1 (8 oz) package cream cheese, softened
1 cup each celery and onion, chopped
1 (5 oz) can chicken chunks, drained
Preparation:
In a small pot, heat chicken soup.
In a small bowl, combine gelatin and water and stir it into the heated soup. Blend mayonnaise, cream cheese, onion, and celery into the soup mixture. Add chicken chunks and continue mixing. Refrigerate overnight.
Spread on a toasted English muffin.
Cut in half.
Pack for lunch.
ELLIOTT’S SLOW COOKER MAC AND CHEESE
Sydney Mackenzie Knocks 'Em Dead Page 13
