The Law of Finders Keepers

by Sheila Turnage

  “Dale, we’ll be rich,” Harm said. “You can hire somebody to do your chores. And buy Miss Rose a car that cranks every blessed time.”

  Still, Dale shook his head. “You know how my life’s been so far. Add a curse . . .”

  Harm turned to me. “Mo, you’ll have enough money to search for Upstream Mother no matter what it takes. Television ads, radio, travel . . . This is the chance of a lifetime, don’t let it get away. Everybody vote. I say yes.”

  Excitement and curiosity rustled like a baby dragon inside me. With a treasure, I’d set up an Upstream Mother search that could not fail. “Yes,” I said.

  Dale sighed. “I’ll say yes to make it monotonous, but my heart says no.”

  “You mean unanimous,” I told him.

  “Okay, but only if we start tomorrow,” he said. “Today we check Mo’s sign.”

  “Deal,” Harm and I said. We filed into the parlor. “We can start tomorrow.”

  “Wonderful,” the mayor replied, slipping the cash into an envelope. “I’ll deliver this to your guardians, for your college funds.”

  “College fund?” Harm yelped. “That wasn’t our deal. I want my money now.”

  “Fine print,” Mrs. Little snapped. “Double-cross us, and you’ll rue the day you met me.”

  I opened my notepad and clicked my pen. Look up “rue.”

  “Back at you,” I said, very professional. I plucked Mary Ormond’s clue from the mayor’s fingertips, and we headed for the door.

  Chapter Seven

  Hideous, In Fact

  A little later, Dale peered beneath my back porch. “Doesn’t the Colonel ever throw anything away?”

  “He does,” I said, loading film into my old-timey camera. “Miss Lana doesn’t. Things are like people to her. She doesn’t want to hurt their feelings.”

  I snapped a photo of Harm sitting on the steps, Pirates: Their Blood-Curdling Symbols and Very Short Lives open on his knee. “Listen to this,” he said, pushing his hair back. “Blackbeard’s treasure includes Spanish jewels, a famous silver cup, gold coins, and pieces of eight.”

  “Pieces of eight what?” Dale asked, grabbing a stick and raking a spiderweb away.

  “Silver coins they broke into eight bits, for change. That’s why old people say a quarter’s worth two bits. Get it? Two-eighths equals a quarter.”

  “Pirate fractions,” Dale muttered. “That’s just wrong.”

  Harm turned the page. “Blackbeard died at Ocracoke Island, on North Carolina’s Outer Banks. But most of his crew was hanged in Virginia. Check out his flag,” he said, turning the book toward us. On the flag’s black background, a milk-white skeleton held a goblet in its right hand, and speared a red bleeding heart with its left.

  “He was ambledextrous,” Dale said. “Both-handed.”

  “You mean ambidextrous,” I said as he crawled beneath the porch.

  Dale yelped and backed out. A sliver of glass glinted in his palm. “The curse,” he said as I teased the glass free.

  A moment later he sailed back under, bumping and thumping beneath the porch. “Out-coming,” he called. My baby bike skidded out, its front wheel crumpled. A broken ice cream freezer. The Colonel’s old boots. “Found it!” Dale called. “Pull!”

  A cobwebby piece of a sign skidded across the snow—a white sign with faint red letters:

  . . . Café

  . . . Proprietor

  Dale rolled out and shook the dirt from his hair. “So this is a birth sign,” he said, hopping up. “I always wanted to see one.”

  Harm frowned. “Dale, a birth sign is . . .” He looked into Dale’s eyes. “Never mind. Look at that trim,” he said. “It’s ugly. Hideous, in fact.”

  Understatement.

  I touched the sign and tried not to think how Upstream Mother felt, grabbing hold.

  Dale studied the trim. “Cows plus cars plus fish and crabs, all roped together like a nightmare rodeo. You rode into town on an ugly piece of ordinary.”

  A voice sounded off in my mind: What did you expect, Mo? A return address?

  “Mo, we need photos of this trim for our files,” Harm said. We heaved the sign upright. I lined up the shot, Harm and Dale on each side, smiling. Click, click, click. I walked around.

  “This sign’s useless,” I said, trying not to cry.

  “Useless?” Harm said, shocked. “Mo, it’s great. It’s so ugly, somebody will know it. And it says exactly what the Colonel says it did. Which tells us he’s a reliable witness, even if he did hit his head that night. And that means we can trust the rest of his letter too.”

  Smart, I thought, turning the sign into a lie-detector test.

  “Listen, I’d like to take the lead on this case,” he said, muscling the sign beneath the house and spanking his hands clean. “Sometimes the best thing for an old mystery is a new set of eyes.”

  Harm? Taking the lead on the mystery that is my life?

  “Thanks, but I got it,” I said, and waited for Dale to back me up. He didn’t.

  “Harm asked great questions last night and we didn’t, because we heard your story so many times it all sounded true,” Dale said. “He asked for your birth sign, and we didn’t. And he lie-detectored the sign and we didn’t. He’s right, Mo. Vote. All in favor of Harm.”

  They raised their hands. Crud. I did too. I love democracy, except when I lose.

  “Thanks,” Harm said. He took out his clue pad and drew up a quick checklist. Harm is organized. He likes straight lines, creased slacks, socks that match. I’m more of a throw it and see where it falls kind of person.

  “Mo,” he said, “you develop the photos and I’ll make flyers featuring this trim. We’ll paper the town with them first, and move out from there. Somebody will know it. I’m going home to make a Master Plan, and ask Gramps about Myrt Little’s first treasure hunt. Mo, you ask Miss Thornton. We’ll talk at school tomorrow.”

  “What about me?” Dale asked. “I’d planned to get in some snow time and then wire the chicken house for sound, but I could do different. We’re having trouble with coyotes again, and coyotes hate NPR.”

  Harm didn’t miss a beat. “You’re our big-picture man, Dale. Stay open to inspiration on both cases—the treasure, and Upstream Mother. And enjoy the snow.”

  As Dale and Harm headed off, I framed a few more black-and-whites. A lick of snow on a gardenia leaf. Click. A skirt of snow around our sycamore. “Miss Lana,” I shouted as I biked past the café door. “I’m going to Grandmother Miss Lacy’s.”

  “Be home in time for supper,” she called.

  I pedaled to Grandmother Miss Lacy’s Victorian two-story in two minutes flat—a possible record. I photographed Gabriel’s red Jaguar, and headed toward the steps.

  “Hey, Tinks. What’s Gabriel doing here?” I asked as he rounded the corner. Like me, Tinks has a background job. Unlike me, he’s so quiet, people sometimes mistake him for furniture. He knows everything going on in Tupelo Landing.

  “Hey Mo,” he said. “Gabriel’s shouting, mostly. Your name’s come up.” He slung a handful of fertilizer on the steps. “Fertilizer melts ice and doesn’t kill the pansies. I don’t want Miss Thornton slipping. Old bones are like hearts: They break quick and heal slow.”

  As I scampered up the steps, Gabriel’s voice boomed through the door. “I didn’t spend three years researching Blackbeard’s treasure to compete with a pack of juvenile delinquents!”

  “The Desperados are not delinquents,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said. “They’re smart, funny children. I’m surprised you’re threatened by them.”

  “I demand exclusive access to your land,” he said, going louder.

  “Don’t try to bully me,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, calm as well water. She’s no taller than me, but she lives tall. “If you wanted exclusive access to my property, you should have put it i
n your contract. You didn’t, we’ve both signed, and that’s that.”

  “They’ll stay out of my way if they know what’s good for them,” he said, and yanked open the door. “You,” he said, glaring at me.

  I went inscrutable. “You too.”

  He stomped to his car and roared away, tires screaming.

  “He has temper issues,” I said as I trailed Grandmother Miss Lacy to her old-timey kitchen, where tea sat steaming.

  “Eavesdropping is unattractive,” she said. I hung my head and counted to three. “Stop pretending to feel guilty,” she said. “And don’t push Gabriel, Mo. He’s . . .”

  “A bully?” I said, settling into a chair.

  “He’s hot-headed, and very smart.” She looked at me, her glasses sliding down her nose. “I’ve seen his clues and they’re excellent. Dawdle and you’ll lose this race.” She poured the tea. “You must be working with Myrt by now.”

  Grandmother Miss Lacy’s pumping me for information?

  “I’m sorry, our cases are totally confidential unless we tell people,” I said.

  “Be careful, this tea is hot,” she said, bringing it to the table. “Mo, everyone in town knows you visited Myrt Little today, and I assume she gave you Mary Ormond’s clue. She’d be a fool not to. You’re the best detectives in town.”

  “True,” I said, very modest.

  “Let me lay out my rules, just in case you didn’t hear them through the door. Gabriel can hunt for treasure on the land I own, and so can you Desperados. But Lana and I own the inn together, as you know. We have decided no one will search there unless they have definite clues taking them there. We don’t want random people digging up the inn’s lawn.”

  “Why are you in this race anyway?” I asked. “You don’t need the money, and . . .”

  “You’re right,” she said, sliding my cup to me. “I have enough money to get me from this world to the next. But a treasure! Myrt’s been sitting on Mary Ormond’s clue for eighty years. She’d still be sitting on it if Gabriel hadn’t come to town. I don’t care who finds the treasure, Mo. But I do want to see it before I die.”

  I grinned. “You’re betting on both horses in a two-horse race.”

  “I’m not just another pretty face, dear,” she said. “And I couldn’t stand to search with Myrt again. She’s so literal. She hasn’t an ounce of imagination in her.

  “Mo, there’s one more thing. Our friendship means more than gold to me. Let’s promise we won’t lie to each other or let treasure come between us. You may ask me anything, and if I can’t tell you, I’ll say so. And vice versa. That way we can compete as friends.”

  “Excellent,” I said, and sipped my tea, very sophisticated, trying to think how to get Gabriel’s clue. Pain unfurled in my mouth like a scarlet flag. I spit the tea in the cup.

  “And Mo, please don’t ask me for Gabriel’s clues. I won’t betray his confidence any more than I would betray yours.” She handed me a napkin and changed the subject. “How’s your search for Upstream Mother going?”

  “Funny you should ask. We just photographed the sign. If you have time . . .”

  “I can’t wait,” she said, her smile making her young again. “It was so smart of Lana to save that sign for you.”

  “No ma’am, the Colonel put it under there,” I told her. “I got one more question. We saw a woman with Gabriel the morning he came to town. Who is she? And where’s his niece, Ruby? Doesn’t she hunt treasure with him?”

  “That’s three questions,” she said. “I asked the same things, and I’ll tell you what he told me: Absolutely nothing. But time will tell, I’m sure.”

  Time always tells in Tupelo Landing, if you wait long enough.

  “Grandmother Miss Lacy?” I looked into her eyes. “I love you. But just so you know, we ain’t cutting you any slack on this treasure race. We’ll find that treasure before you and Gabriel do. So brace yourself for heartbreak.”

  She lifted her teacup. “May the best team win,” she said, and the race was on.

  * * *

  That night, sweater beside me, I opened Volume 7 and grabbed a pen.

  Dear Upstream Mother,

  Good news! Tupelo Landing’s top detectives are on our case. Grandmother Miss Lacy and me developed my photos, to make a flyer. The Ugly Trim on it just might bring me home to you.

  Also the Desperados are in a treasure race worth millions.

  I’m saying this so you know I’m not looking for you because I need anything. I got my own money. I’m just looking to find you, and the piece of my heart you held on to the night the rest of me slipped away.

  Mo

  PS: I am of normal height with unruly hair and hot temper, which I been working on the temper all my life. I gave up on the hair some time back. School tomorrow.

  Chapter Eight

  What We Ain’t Got

  Inspiration hit like a freight train the next morning as I pedaled to school. I slapped my bike into the bike rack and zipped to Dale and Harm. “What’s Gabriel got that we ain’t got?”

  “Experience,” Harm said. “Equipment. Three years’ research.”

  “And he can search full-time and we’re stuck in school,” Dale added as Sal strolled over sipping hot chocolate.

  “We can’t get equipment and experience, but we can do three years’ research in a few days,” I said as the bell rang. “I’ve got a plan.”

  Attila grabbed us at the door. “Desperados, Thes lost a pet last night,” she said, her voice tragic. “Is that part of the curse? Dale, didn’t he adopt one of Queen Elizabeth’s puppies?”

  Dale’s face went pale. Liz’s pups are family to him.

  “Anna, it was Spitz,” Thes said, walking over. Thes’s orange cat Spitz goes missing twice a week. He’s the only pet on our Do Not Search For List. “I told you that.”

  “My mistake,” she murmured, and walked away.

  “Thes,” Dale said, catching his breath. “Queen Elizabeth is planning a puppy reunion for March. You and King are invited.” He looked at me and Harm. “As the puppies’ godparents, you’re invited too. Queen Elizabeth loves the puppy portraits you gave her for Christmas.”

  “We’ll come,” Hannah Greene said, shooting in loaded with books. She and her little sister co-adopted a pup.

  “We’re in,” Sal said. “Little Ming can’t wait, Dale. Neither can I.”

  Dale blushed crimson.

  “Hey Dale, what’s up with the blushing?” Harm asked. Dale pretended not to hear and scooted to Miss Retzyl, who’d also adopted a pup.

  “Queen Elizabeth is planning a family reunion. You and your pup are invited.”

  Miss Retzyl smiled. “We’ll be there. Take your seats, class. We’ll start with history.”

  “Here goes. Follow me,” I whispered to Dale as he sat down. “Pirates are history, Miss Retzyl.”

  To my shock, Attila backed me up. “Mo’s right. Invite Gabriel Archer to class,” she said. “He’s handsome and rich and from an old Virginia family. Plus he drives a Jaguar. Detective Starr, on the other hand, drives an Impala. Mother says trade up if you can.”

  Miss Retzyl went fire-hydrant red. “I don’t trade my friends,” she said, cool as sliced cucumbers. She has off-the-charts temper control. She studied us like Oprah trying to decide whether to surprise us with new cars or makeovers. “Who’d like to write pirate reports?” she asked.

  We went quiet as half-past-dead.

  Sal raised her hand. “We lack incentive since we’re not beneficiaries.”

  Dale looked at me. “She wants a cut of the treasure,” I whispered. Beneath Sal’s bobbing curls lurks a finely tuned business brain.

  Dale nodded. Harm looked over and shrugged.

  I hopped up. “Thank you for that introduction, Miss Retzyl,” I said, strolling to the front of the room. “Sal, as you know,
the Desperados have taken on maybe the biggest mystery in pirate history: the hunt for Blackbeard’s treasure. As fellow sixth graders, we hate to get rich without you. Any kid who reports on Blackbeard and his friends gets a cut of the treasure. This only pays off if we find the treasure, but we’re confident in your research skills.”

  “Very confident,” Dale said. “Way beyond anything that makes sense.”

  The classroom turned to Sal. “You’ll cut us in for how much?” she asked.

  Harm scribbled some quick calculations and held up his notebook. “One one-hundredth of one percent. Each,” I said. “That’s only if the Desperados find the treasure.”

  Harm jumped in. “It may not sound like much, but if we find a treasure worth a million dollars, that’s . . . one hundred dollars each. For one report.”

  Sal drummed her fingers on her daily planner. “Throw in extra credit and no footnotes, we’ll take it,” she said, and the class wheeled to Miss Retzyl.

  Crud. Miss Retzyl’s normally warm brown eyes had gone cold as fish eyes. “We don’t pay students to write reports in Tupelo Landing, Mo,” she said.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I replied. “Only this isn’t so much a public school report as it is a once-in-a-lifetime Independent Study Opportunity of a private-school caliber.”

  I waited. Independent Study is to Miss Retzyl as catnip is to kittens.

  Jake took out his notebook—a first. “How deep did pirates bury their treasure?” he asked, rummaging for a pencil. “Because our shovel handle broke.”

  Miss Retzyl pounced on it. “Extra credit, bonus for footnotes. Class, whatever agreement you and the Desperados make after school is up to you.”

  “Deal,” Sal said, and the class cheered.

  “Now, who has a topic in mind?” Miss Retzyl asked.

  Ideas zinged around the room thick as threats around a pirate den. “Where to dig!” “Pirate fashion!” “Treasure ships!” “How to swear like a pirate!”

  Dale raised his hand. “What do parrots talk about while we’re sleeping?”