Smells Like Treasure

by Suzanne Selfors

  “What’s the holdup?” Lord Mockingbird grumbled. “Move on, move on.”

  “I’ve got more questions,” Torch snarled.

  “Move on, move on.”

  “As procedure dictates, it is Torch’s turn to ask questions,” Hercules said. He opened a file folder. “I can show you the regulations if you’d like.”

  “Balderdash!” Lord Mockingbird cried. “Bunch of mugwumps, the whole lot of you.”

  Torch curled her upper lip and glared at Homer. “Why do you have that dog?”

  “He’s my dog,” Homer said. “I’m going to take him on my quest.”

  “Why?” Torch asked. “What can he do?”

  Dog, who didn’t know that this was the most momentous day in Homer’s life, began to lick raisins off the floor.

  “He carries things,” Homer replied.

  Torch nudged the hawk until it climbed onto her wrist. “Moonwing hunts for me. I don’t have to worry about running out of food. Your dog must do something else besides carry things.”

  Of course Dog did something else, but Homer wasn’t about to spill his secret. “He just carries things,” Homer said, trying to sound convincing. Torch narrowed her eyes.

  “Do you have any more questions?” Zelda asked.

  “Just one.” Torch set Moonwing back onto her shoulder and folded her arms. “Do you have Rumpold Smeller’s map?”

  Zelda stiffened. Was she worried that Homer would mess up? He was supposed to be honest, after all. “No,” he said, looking right into Torch’s eyes. “I do not have Rumpold Smeller’s map.”

  Torch raised her eyebrows, then slumped in her chair. It’s her, Homer realized. She’s the one who doesn’t want me to join.

  “And finally,” Zelda said, “this is Jeremiah Carson. Jeremiah is a fossil hunter and an expert on excavation. He is in the process of proving that some dinosaurs had a written language.”

  “Ha!” Torch said. “That’s hilarious.”

  “Almost as hilarious as your search for Atlantis,” Dr. Gertrude Magnum said, which shut Torch up.

  “Howdy, Homer,” Mr. Carson said, nearly knocking Homer over with his booming voice. “I’m sure glad to meet ya.”

  “Hello, Mr. Carson,” Homer said, glad to be done with Torch.

  “Heck, kid, you call me Jeremiah.” He reached out a weathered hand and shook Homer’s so enthusiastically that Homer almost lost his balance. “I got just one question for ya. You ever been to Montana?”

  “No,” Homer said.

  “Well, that’s a dang shame. We’re gonna have to get you and that doggie out there. You can’t beat a buffalo steak fresh off the grill. And there’s nothing like the Montana sky at night. The stars sparkle like a firefly’s rump.” He picked up his cowboy hat and shook it at Homer. “And we’ll have to get you one of these. This here’s a real hat. Not like that sissy one you’ve got on your head.”

  Homer had never heard of Mr. Carson, but he seemed real nice.

  Zelda took the last seat next to Mr. Carson. The only chair remaining was empty. Uncle Drake’s chair, Homer realized. He imagined his uncle sitting there, the boyish glint in his eyes, his warm laugh. “Your time has come, Homer,” he heard him say. “This is your destiny.”

  “Do you have any questions?” Hercules asked Zelda.

  “I know everything I need to know about Homer. He’s first-rate.” She folded her hands and looked down her long nose at Homer. “He’ll make us proud. I know he will.”

  The kitchen fell silent as everyone turned and looked to the end of the table. Lord Mockingbird had closed his eyes. Everyone waited for him to say something else, but all that came out of his mouth were a few bits of muffin and a snore.

  “Lord Mockingbird?” Hercules asked, poking the old man in the arm with the end of his quill. “The questions have been asked. Now we move to the vote.”

  “Rumpledethumps.”

  Homer smiled. The questions had been super easy. Only Torch had asked a question about Rumpold Smeller, so all that studying had been unnecessary. It was over. Now it would become official.

  “According to Inheritance Bylaw 14.5, in order for Homer to be granted full membership and claim the chair vacated by the untimely death of his blood uncle Drake Horatio Pudding a favorable majority vote must be reached,” Hercules said.

  “I vote yes,” Jeremiah Carson said, smacking his palm on the table.

  “You must make a motion to vote,” Hercules said. He grabbed his quill and began scribbling again.

  “Well dang it, I always forget that part. I make a motion that we vote on making Homer a member.”

  “I… I… I second the motion,” Professor Thick said.

  “I still want proof,” Torch said.

  Zelda sighed. “You already have proof, Torch. Drake presented his request verbally and in writing at our last meeting. It’s on file.”

  “I wasn’t at the last meeting.” Torch moved her hawk to her shoulder. “I never saw no letter.”

  There was no doubt in Homer’s mind that Torch was set against him.

  “Hercules,” Zelda said, “would you please show Torch the letter from Drake requesting that Homer take his place in the membership in case of his untimely passing?”

  “Certainly.” Hercules searched a file. “The letter is here,” he said. Then he searched some more. “I filed it in triplicate, as per Filing Bylaw 8.3.” He frowned, then searched a stack of papers. “It was here,” he said. A pained expression spread across his face, and he looked at Zelda. His voice was barely a whisper. “The letter is missing.”

  “What?” Zelda stood, her knees cracking loudly. “It can’t be missing.”

  “Look again,” Dr. Gertrude Magnum said.

  Hercules searched again. Zelda and Jeremiah Carson hurried to Hercules’s side to help with the search. But it was of no use. The letter was gone. “Someone took it,” Hercules declared.

  Homer leaned against the wall, his legs wobbly.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Zelda said, all necks craning up at her. Her face hovered above the lamp’s light. “Homer’s membership is indisputable. Drake told us what he wanted. He stood in front of this group and told us. The chair is Homer’s right to inherit.”

  Then all eyes turned to Lord Mockingbird. The old man yawned. “Why is everyone looking at me?”

  “Your Lordship,” Hercules said, “they await your opinion.”

  “Well, you know my opinion. I hate yellow raisins.”

  “They await your opinion on Homer’s right to membership.”

  “Fiddle-dee-dee.” Lord Mockingbird pointed a gnarled finger in the air. “He may look like a ninnyhammer, but he’s Drake’s nephew. Give him the chair. Unless…”

  Homer pushed off the wall and stood rigid. “Unless what?” he asked.

  Lord Mockingbird’s eyes narrowed. “Unless there is a challenge.”

  “I make a challenge!”

  Those words had not come from anyone in the kitchen. Homer spun around. Standing in the kitchen’s entryway was a girl with bright pink hair.

  “Lorelei?” Homer whispered. Normally Homer would be happy to see his friend, but Lorelei had said something about a challenge. Had he heard her correctly?

  She set a backpack on the floor, then walked in and plunked a gold coin onto the table. “I’m here to challenge Homer for Drake Pudding’s chair.”

  17

  The Return of a Friend

  Dog waddled up to Lorelei and poked her shin with his nose. She reached down and scratched his head. Three months ago, Lorelei kidnapped Dog and took him to the evil lair of Madame la Directeur—a banished member of L.O.S.T. who had murdered Homer’s uncle in an attempt to steal his precious treasure map. It had been a dark moment in Lorelei and Homer’s friendship, but the way Dog’s tail was wagging, he appeared to have forgiven her.

  The kitchen once again fell silent as everyone stared at the pink-haired girl who’d interrupted what was supposed to be a secret meeting. “Lorelei?” Hom
er’s voice was hushed. “What are you doing here?”

  She didn’t look at him. She stuck out her chin and looked at Lord Mockingbird. “I’m here because Drake Pudding wanted me to be here.”

  “What’s going on?” Dr. Gertrude Magnum asked, her cheeks blazing red. “How did this little girl know about our meeting? No one is supposed to know about our meetings.”

  “I knew about it because I’m very clever,” Lorelei said, stepping closer. Her pink hair sparkled with mist and her sneakers squeaked with moor mud. “My name is Lorelei. I don’t have a last name, but I’m seriously thinking about Lorelei the Great, or Lorelei the Phenomenal. Something like that.”

  “I like this kid,” Torch said with a slight smile. The hawk clicked its beak.

  Hercules peered wide-eyed over a stack of paper. “Why is your backpack moving?”

  “My rat’s inside,” Lorelei said.

  “Rat?” Hercules dropped his quill. “Rats carry the bubonic plague and have very sharp teeth.”

  “She’s a nice rat,” Lorelei said, flaring her nostrils.

  Homer knew exactly how Hercules felt. Rats were disgusting. They infested barns and left their droppings everywhere. But at that moment Homer wasn’t concerned about the rat. His gaze fell upon the gold coin that Lorelei had set on the table. He knew that coin. It was the membership coin that had belonged to his uncle—the very coin that had been cleverly hidden on Dog’s collar. The initials L.O.S.T. appeared on one side, an engraving of a treasure chest on the other side. Madame la Directeur had stolen the coin. Homer thought he’d never see it again. He reached for it, but Lorelei grabbed it first.

  “Drake Pudding gave me his membership coin. This is proof that he wanted me, not Homer, to take his place.”

  “What?” Homer nearly bit his tongue. “That’s not true. Why are you lying?”

  “Let the girl talk,” Torch said.

  “I don’t see why he should let the girl talk,” Zelda said. “She’s not a member and she wasn’t even invited to this meeting.”

  “I… I… I agree,” Professor Thick said.

  “And I happen to know that she works for Madame la Directeur.” Zelda walked around the table and stood beside Homer. “We voted Madame la Directeur out of this membership because she broke her vows. Anyone who works for Madame cannot be trusted.”

  “I don’t work for Madame anymore,” Lorelei said. “How could I, anyway? After she recovered from the cobra bite, the police put her in jail. I work for myself now and I want to be a treasure hunter.”

  “That coin belongs to me,” Homer said. “You know it does. Madame took that coin from me. You found it in her…” Homer clenched his teeth together as Lorelei looked at him for the first time since stepping into the kitchen. She narrowed her eyes. The secret waited, ready to burst out. She found the coin in Madame’s lair. It’s a secret lair beneath the Museum of Natural History. Now that Madame’s in jail, Lorelei lives in the lair and no one knows about it but me.

  But he couldn’t spill the secret. Because he and Lorelei had made a gentleman’s agreement—he kept the secret of the lair and she kept Dog’s treasure-smelling secret.

  “I don’t know where she found the coin,” Homer said. “But it belongs to me.”

  “I didn’t find it. Drake Pudding gave it to me.”

  As Dog prodded Lorelei’s squirming backpack, Hercules’s quill flew across paper, recording the unexpected turn of events.

  Homer wanted to shake Lorelei. Why was she doing this? Becoming a member of L.O.S.T. was his dream, not hers. This was his big day. “He gave it to me.”

  “Homer is telling the truth,” Zelda said. “I saw the coin myself, in his possession. As did Ajitabh.”

  “We’ve been bamboozled,” Lord Mockingbird said. “Hornswoggled.”

  “Your Lordship,” Homer pleaded, “I’m telling the truth. I’m a mapmaker, just like you. Please believe me.” But His Lordship stuck a finger in his ear and picked out a bit of wax.

  “Hercules, can you con… con… confirm the coin?” Professor Thick asked.

  Hercules opened a leather satchel that hung from the back of his chair. He pulled out a penlight and clicked on its blue beam. Then he reached out and picked up the coin. “A treasure chest on one side and the initials L.O.S.T. on the other side,” Hercules said. “A hole has been punched into the coin.”

  “That’s so he could put it on Dog’s collar,” Homer said.

  “That’s so I could wear it as a necklace,” Lorelei lied.

  Homer groaned. They wouldn’t believe her, would they?

  Hercules shined the light along the coin’s rim. “It’s a membership coin,” he confirmed. “The serial number is still intact. It’s Drake’s number.”

  Lorelei smiled. “I told you it was his coin. He gave it to me.”

  Homer couldn’t bear the lies any longer. “He did not!” he cried.

  “Whoa there, kiddo,” Jeremiah Carson said. “Hold your horses. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Did you say that this girl used to work for Madame la Directeur?”

  “Yes,” Zelda said.

  “We’ve got to shovel our way through this pile of cow dung.” Jeremiah Carson slapped his palm on the table. “I know what’s going on and so do the rest of y’all. Madame la Directeur is trying to weasel her way back in.”

  “Oh dear,” Dr. Gertrude Magnum squeaked.

  “Bu… bu… but Madame’s in prison,” Professor Thick said.

  “I’m not working for Madame,” Lorelei said with a stomp of her foot, spraying Homer’s leech-proof socks with moor mud. “I’m here on my own. I’ve got the membership coin, so it’s my right to claim membership.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Torch said.

  Zelda cleared her throat. “Lord Mockingbird, I assure you that this girl is trying to deceive us. Homer’s right to inheritance is indisputable.”

  Lord Mockingbird had fallen asleep again.

  Hercules stopped scribbling. “Actually,” he said, then he hesitated. “Actually…” He shuffled through a stack of papers and pulled out a single sheet. Then he looked at Homer and frowned. “I’m sorry to say, Homer, but according to Inheritance Bylaw 18.2, someone in possession of a membership coin may call for a membership contest.”

  “Yes!” Lorelei said, stomping her foot again. “That’s it. I want a contest.”

  “A contest?” Homer asked. “You mean, I have to compete against Lorelei?”

  Everyone looked to Hercules for the answer.

  Hercules held out the paper for all to see. “If you still want to claim your uncle’s chair, you’ll have to compete against Lorelei and you’ll have to win.”

  18

  The Making of an Enemy

  Homer and Dog stood at the ocean’s edge, just beyond Zelda’s cottage. The hard, wet sand was like a blackboard, momentarily marked with Homer’s and Dog’s prints, then brushed clean by the rhythmic sweep of the waves. Tiny seabirds, too light to leave prints, poked their needlelike beaks into the sand. Dog tried to chase them, but they escaped to the sky in perfect synchronization, then landed farther down the beach. After three such romps, Dog gave up and chewed on a piece of driftwood instead.

  The L.O.S.T. membership had asked Homer and Lorelei to wait while they discussed the terms of the competition. Homer had rushed out into the evening air, trying to get as far away from Lorelei as possible. He remembered the confusion he’d felt when he’d first found out that Lorelei was working for Madame la Directeur—when he’d first found out that she’d been lying to him. He remembered how the confusion had turned to disbelief, then anger.

  Anger. That dark, ugly feeling once again churned inside Homer.

  The sun disappeared into the sea, leaving a soft puddle like melted butter. The summer moon began its climb. Anchored offshore, the immense yacht called Cave Woman bobbed. Homer figured that it belonged to Dr. Gertrude Magnum, the expert on caves.

  From a distance, one might think that the boy and his dog, dressed as t
hey were in their professional adventurer clothing, were waiting for a submarine or a speedboat to whisk them away. But that wasn’t going to happen. Homer stood rigid, staring out across the ocean. A mixture of ocean spray and angry tears glistened on his cheeks.

  Lorelei was trying to ruin his dream.

  She was supposed to be his friend. He’d forgiven her for what she’d done in the past because her actions had been a matter of survival. Lorelei had no family. She’d been forced to take care of herself in a hostile city. She’d lived in a soup warehouse, selling soup from a cart to survive. And she’d worked for Madame la Directeur because Madame had promised to make Lorelei her partner in her treasure-hunting quests. Homer had come to understand why Lorelei had stolen a cloudcopter and why she’d kidnapped Dog. When a person has nothing, the lure of treasure can fog the mind.

  Then things changed. Together they’d fought Madame la Directeur. They’d survived her attempt to kill them both. They’d made a gentleman’s agreement. Lorelei had sent Homer her imitation Galileo Compass as a gift. He’d taken that as a sign of renewed friendship.

  But now she was trying to take what was rightfully his. What kind of friend does that?

  A delicate funnel of water spurted out of the sand, spraying Homer’s knee. Dog dropped the driftwood. The funnel spurted again. Dog barked at it, then at another funnel, and another.

  “Clams,” Lorelei said. “They squirt when they dig.”

  The crashing waves had masked her approach. Homer quickly wiped his face with his hands. Lorelei set her backpack at her feet, then opened the main zipper. Out popped a large rat, Daisy by name, who sniffed the air, then jumped onto the sand. Both Homer and Dog had met this rat. She was a thief with nimble paws.

  Distracted by the clams, Dog didn’t notice Daisy as she headed down the beach, her rubbery tail twitching happily as she explored.

  “You were the one following me,” Homer said. “Last night on the moor. You followed me here.” He knew it was true, so he didn’t wait for her to deny it. “How did you know I was going to a L.O.S.T. meeting?”