The Law of Finders Keepers

by Sheila Turnage

“Great, Dale,” Harm said, looking startled. “Lots of new directions to consider.”

  “I try to keep it fresh,” Dale said, very modest.

  “I like the advertising blitz, but you’re right, that takes money,” I said, leaning into the stack of quilts to read a sideways scribble. The bedding slumped, and I kneed it back into place. The quilts toppled, sending up a cloud of dust.

  Three trunks peeked out. Two large wooden trunks and a smaller, carved trunk—all latched.

  “Treasure chests,” Dale said, his eyes shining. “Thank you, Mary Ormond.”

  * * *

  I grabbed my camera from my bag. We popped the latch on the first trunk and lifted the lid, the old hinges creaking. Dale reached in and lifted out . . . Click . . . an old bonnet.

  He scowled. “Clothes,” he said, like he’d found bird droppings. “A dress, gloves, and a handbag that smells . . .” He sniffed and frowned. “Like gunpowder.”

  Click, click, click.

  Harm lifted a rectangular package and stripped away its cloth wrappings. A painting of a young woman peeked out—short brown hair, sallow cheeks, and ski-slope nose. She wore a plain brown dress with a white collar. Harm flipped the portrait. In Mary’s flowing handwriting: Tupelo Mother, 1727.

  Dale opened the second trunk.

  “This is better,” Dale murmured. “Beautiful old woodworking tools—chisels, planes, hammers. Knee britches and a vest. And one boot?” he said, lifting it.

  Click, click, click.

  “One boot? These are Peg-Leg’s things!” he cried.

  We turned to the last trunk, its lid carved in a comet-burst of circles and Xs. Dale tried the latch. “Locked tight as a tick. Not like the others.”

  I floor-checked the clutter. “I saw a pry bar somewhere.”

  “A pry bar?” a voice said from the top of the stairs. “On an antique? Good grief. You people wouldn’t know a treasure from a hole in the ground.” Attila walked in wearing state-of-the-art safari gear. “Where’s Mrs. Little?” she asked as I threw quilts over the trunks. “I want to speak with her.”

  A lie. No one wants to speak with Mrs. Little.

  “Breaking and entering again?” I said.

  She flipped her hair. “The door’s unlocked. Besides, the mayor invited me to drop by.”

  She cased the attic and smiled at Harm, who used to like her before he knew her. “I guess you know Gabriel’s niece didn’t show. She usually handles the metal detector for him.”

  “So?” Harm said.

  “So, I’m Gabriel’s new intern.”

  I snorted. “That explains the getup. But why would Gabriel throw in with you?”

  “Everybody knows Mr. Red’s broke,” she said, ignoring my question. “It just breaks Kat’s heart. She wants to help—we all do. Work for us and we’re on the same team. We can pay minimum wage. Take it or leave it.”

  “Leave it,” Dale said. “Go away.”

  Sometimes I could kiss Dale, except Dale’s Dale and I don’t kiss.

  She shrugged and looked Harm up and down. “If that’s how you feel. I hope Kat makes it big. A good son would help her.”

  “Harm is a good son,” I said, stepping toward her. “You heard Dale. Go.”

  She fled down the stairs and out the front door, me on her heels. “Don’t come back,” I shouted. I slammed the front door, locked it, and ran back upstairs. “We better open that last trunk quick because—”

  “She’ll be back. We know,” Harm said. “Listen, I like the mayor, but he blathers. Let’s keep our discoveries quiet. I don’t think he meant any harm inviting Attila over, but . . .”

  “Social skills can be a blessing or a curse,” Dale said, very wise. He picked up a wire, knelt before the third trunk, and slipped the wire into the lock. “Come on, open for Dale,” he whispered, closing his eyes and jiggling the wire.

  The lock popped.

  We lifted the lid and peeped in. “Empty,” Harm said. “Why would somebody lock an empty trunk?”

  “They wouldn’t,” I said, tapping the trunk’s floor as Dale backed away, watching.

  Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap thonk.

  “Your fingers are only ankle deep, Mo,” Dale said.

  Harm tilted his head and studied me. “He’s right.” Dale’s usually right, once you figure out what he’s saying. “The trunk has a false bottom. Dale, you’re a genius.”

  “I know,” he said. “Sal told me.”

  Outside, the mayor’s Jeep backfired. “They’re back. Hurry,” Harm whispered. As my hands flew across the bottom of the trunk, Harm checked the corner guards. “This one’s loose . . .” He twisted it as the Littles bumbled in downstairs and slammed the door.

  “Bingo,” Dale said as a door slid open in the trunk’s floor.

  “Don’t mock me!” Mrs. Little shrieked. “We can’t all win!”

  Harm lifted our lantern over the trunk’s secret compartment. Inside lay a sheet of heavy parchment, folded, and sealed with blood-red wax. A horned skeleton glinted up from the wax, one hand holding a cup, one spearing a heart. “Blackbeard’s seal,” Harm whispered.

  I flipped the parchment to find a note. Gather your courage and act. Mary. I gathered my courage and popped the bright red seal. A hateful scrawl shouted up at me:

  YOU FILTHY SCURVY DOGS,

  TOUCH MY TREASURE AND I CURSE YOU FOR ETERNITY.

  BLACKBEARD

  “Cursed for eternity,” Dale said, looking worried. “Mama’s gonna kill me.”

  “And there’s Blackbeard’s seal at the bottom of the note—in blood!” Harm said.

  “Yoo-hoo,” the mayor called from the steps. “Who locked the door?”

  “Hide the trunks!” I whispered, stuffing Blackbeard’s note in my messenger bag. The quilts’ dust had just settled when the mayor burst in.

  “Hello, Desperados. What’s that?”

  “Old quilts,” I said. “I may have seen knitting too.”

  He backed away. “We stopped at the café on our way home. Lana needs you. I’ll give you a ride. Chop-chop!”

  Not likely. The mayor’s Jeep is a pile of dents held together by Lavender’s genius and the prayers of scattering pedestrians. “Thank you, but we have official transport,” I said. “I hate to give you bad news, but you had an intruder tonight: Anna Celeste—Gabriel’s intern.”

  The mayor gasped. “Gabriel’s intern?”

  “She tried to buy us off, but we handled it,” I said.

  “We’ll secure the attic for you, Mayor,” Harm offered, herding him downstairs. Harm locked the attic door and slipped the key in his pocket.

  I went steely. “It’s hard to predict the behavior of the criminally insane, but I believe Anna Celeste will be back to steal your clues—and your treasure,” I told the mayor. “Guard this door with your life.”

  “And try not to babble,” Dale advised, and we stalked into the night.

  * * *

  A crescent moon peeked through scurrying clouds as we peeled toward the café. Harm rode no-hands beside me, tall and slender, hip-guiding his fancy silver bike from side to side.

  “About your sweater, Mo,” he said. “I think we should take it to Joe Starr or to Skeeter, to check the DNA. How about it?”

  We skidded to a halt at Dale’s turn-off. Fear whirled inside me like glitter in a snow globe. Suppose the sweater isn’t even hers? Suppose it is, and her DNA’s in the system, and she’s in jail?

  What if she’s like Dale’s daddy? Hard and mean. Or like Kat, or Mrs. Simpson?

  What if I was a mistake and she wishes I’d never happened?

  I pictured Mary’s latest note. Gather your courage and act. I took a deep breath. “Skeeter made reservations for Monday morning. If Starr won’t check the sweater’s DNA for free, I’ll ask Skeeter then,” I said, my heart
pounding.

  Harm grinned. “Great. But since when does the café take reservations?”

  “Since never. Skeeter likes to practice for when she lives in a city. I penciled her in for a window table, seven a.m.”

  “That’s sweet Skeeter reserved,” Dale said. “Because I thought I’d come for breakfast Monday too.” He pointed to me like a king knighting a soldier. “I reserve.”

  “Me too,” Harm said. “I’m sick of Gramps’s cooking.”

  I looked up at the stars, and then at my friends. Dale already told me he’d promised Liz a bath Monday before school. And Mr. Red doesn’t cook breakfast. Harm does.

  “I owe you, Desperados.”

  “Come to dinner with Kat and me one night and we’re even,” Harm said. “I’ll cook. I was thinking—I acted like a little kid last night. I mean, it’s been three years . . . I want to get to know Kat and I want you to know her too. Dale, you and Sal too.” We nodded. “I’ll let you know when I have a time and a place. Kat may not be much of a mom and I might not be much of a son, but we’re in this life together,” he said, and pushed off toward home.

  * * *

  That night, I tiptoed through the Colonel’s ragged curtain of snores, to Miss Lana’s door. “Miss Lana,” I whispered. “Are you sleeping?”

  She clicked on her light and pushed up her sleep mask. “Say it again in English?”

  “Harm wants to DNA-test my sweater,” I told her.

  “Send it away? So soon? That’s a big step, sugar.” She scooched over and threw her bedcovers wide. The smell of her Noxzema rolled over me like a comforting tide.

  “We’ll ask Starr first,” I said, slipping in beside her. “As a civil servant, he can’t charge. Skeeter’s associates work good, but they charge sky-high. Only . . . Miss Lana, if somebody loses that sweater or hurts it, I feel like I might die.”

  She smoothed my hair. “I know. I’m scared too. Fear of the unknown, I suppose.” She looked at me. “What would you tell me if it was my sweater, sugar?”

  “That’s easy. Starr and Skeeter know their stuff. The chance is pretty much zero anything bad would happen.”

  My fear drifted away. Miss Lana says we have all the answers locked inside us. The hard part is finding the right questions to unlock them.

  “Mo, are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “Because you don’t have to. There’s nothing wrong with leaving things alone. The unknown is . . . so unknown. Like those old maps sailors used to draw. They’d map what they knew of the world, and at the edge they’d write ‘Here be dragons.’ Dragons can fascinate—or they can breathe fire.”

  I waited for my heartbeat to fall in rhythm with hers.

  “That’s the thing about dragons,” I said. “You don’t ever know until you meet them eye to eye.”

  Dear Upstream Mother,

  Bad news: I am cursed for eternity. On a lighter note, we have new clues to the treasure—things from Mary Ormond’s trunk and Peg-Leg’s. We just have to figure out how to use them. Also, Gabriel’s desperate enough to take Attila for an intern—which is odd. If work’s involved, Attila is dead weight.

  Dale sings in church tomorrow, and Harm and me will go. We’re sending your sweater off for DNA testing Monday. I hope you like dragons.

  Love,

  Mo

  Chapter Ten

  Sweater Day

  Monday morning Harm and Dale flew through the café door. “Hey Miss Lana, hey Tinks. Did you bring it, Mo?” Harm asked, and I pointed to my sweater box on the counter. “I’m proud of you. That’s brave.” He tossed his scarf over a chair. “Really brave.”

  Dale zipped behind the counter. “Mama says if I may please have breakfast, she’ll be by to settle up,” he told Miss Lana, and she smiled.

  Miss Lana and Miss Rose are best friends. There ain’t no settle up between them. “Help yourself,” she said, and Dale popped two pieces of Wonder Bread into the toaster.

  As I dropped a flyer by Tinks’s coffee cup, I eyed his skinny red tie, white shirt, and navy church suit. “Sharp outfit. Who you driving for, Tinks?”

  “Al’s Florist, in Ayden. Valentine’s Day is coming. Love is big business. Of course, I get a lot of flowers thrown back in my face too. Love’s risky.”

  My stomach rolled. Valentine’s Day—the curse of middle school. A jungle of social anxieties—what-if’s swinging through the treetops, should-I’s hiding in the shadows, told-you-so’s ready to eat you alive.

  Dale’s toast popped up. “Queen Elizabeth would like cards this year. Mama says she’s got post-puppy depression. Something sweet, nothing with cats or clowns. Mama says it sounds a little crazy, but . . .”

  “Crazy ain’t crazy if it works,” Tinks said. “I’ll get her a card, Dale.” He smiled at Miss Lana. “I put that pork chop delivery in the kitchen for you. Give me the special, Mo,” he added as Joe Starr swaggered in and settled on a stool.

  Here goes my sweater, back into the world, I thought.

  Dale and Harm vaulted onto stools flanking Starr as I leaned against the counter and gave him my waitress smile. “Glad you dropped by.” I slid the milk pitcher toward him. “Have some half-and-half minus a half. On me. Professional courtesy.”

  “Thanks,” Starr muttered as Miss Lana splashed his coffee cup full.

  I slipped my sweater box to his place. “I’m hoping you’ll DNA-check this sweater. It would mean a lot to me.”

  Starr lifted the box top with his fork. “Is it evidence?”

  “It could be evidence of a missing person—my Upstream Mother.”

  “Right,” he said, lowering the box top. “Sorry, Mo, if it’s not from a crime scene, I can’t help. Besides, the lab’s backed up for months. And Skeeter has better connections.”

  Crud.

  Miss Lana put our biscuits down. “Joe, what do you know about Gabriel Archer? He waltzed into town talking treasure, but I get a bad feeling about him. He’s charmed the Azalea Women out of their collective mind. Betsy Simpson’s even invested in his hunt.”

  “Anna practically broke into the mayor’s house for him,” Harm said.

  “Anna’s gone roach,” Dale added.

  “He means rogue,” I said as Starr flipped his pad open.

  “Actually, I checked on Gabriel when he first came to town,” he said, thumbing through the pages. “Thought he might be a con after Miss Thornton’s fortune. Here we go. Gabriel Smith ‘Smitty’ Archer. From Charleston, West Virginia.”

  “West Virginia?” Miss Lana said. “He told me he’s from Virginia.”

  Starr turned a page. “He went to Duke on a scholarship, and flunked out.”

  “Smart but stupid,” Dale said.

  “Bankrupt twice. No family. Credit cards maxed out. He and his partner got expelled from Madagascar for trying to swipe national treasures—to sell,” he said as Skeeter and Sal strolled in. He snapped his pad closed. “No charges, though. He’s clean.”

  Interesting.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and headed for Skeeter, who stood by the door practicing looking aloof. “Welcome to Chateau Café,” I said. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Skeeter MacMillan, Esquire. Table for two.”

  “Right this way.”

  Dale hurried to hold Sal’s chair. “Hey, Salamander. Can we join you?”

  “May we join you,” Miss Lana corrected.

  “I was thinking Harm and me and maybe Mo, but I’ll get you a chair too,” Dale told her as I tossed a paper napkin in Skeeter’s lap.

  “Today our chef’s offering his famous Heartbreak Hotel Biscuit—a buttermilk biscuit filled with a fried egg and orange cheese. We pair this with our deep-fat-fried Vintage Fruitcake. For the faint of heart we offer a tofu scramble with a delicate collard slaw—locally sourced.”

  “Heartbreak Hotel,” Skeeter said, and Sal nod
ded.

  “And cranberry juice, please,” Sal said.

  Harm scooted up with our own Heartbreaks and smiled, his dimples set to impress. “And while you’re here, ladies, I’d like to discuss a case.”

  * * *

  As Sal and Skeeter polished off their fruitcake, Harm plunked my sweater box on their table. “We need this DNA-tested. It’s part of a cold case—nearly twelve years cold.”

  “So it’s true,” Sal said, her eyes glowing.

  Miss Lana waltzed over. “Send your bill to me, girls.”

  “Done,” Skeeter said, lifting the lid with her knife. “Did anyone touch it?”

  “Mo did,” Harm said. “Miss Lana. The Colonel. Dale. Me.”

  “Queen Elizabeth may have sniffed it,” Dale added as Gabriel whooshed in. Gabriel took a central table, checked his reflection in a spoon, and smoothed his hair.

  Harm lowered his voice. “We want to know if this belonged to Mo’s Upstream Mother. And if it did . . . we want her name. And contact information.”

  Sal’s nod set her short curls bobbing. “My cousin works in a forensic lab in Charlotte. I can make a call. But we’ll need a DNA sample from you, Mo.”

  I spit on a napkin. “Will that do?”

  “Very elegant, LoBeau,” Harm said, grinning.

  Skeeter folded the napkin. “Nicely,” she said, scooping up the sweater box.

  Dale grabbed her hand. “If somebody could knit a portal to another time, which I’m not saying they can, that’s what’s in that box. We got to have that sweater back, and it has to look good. Don’t cut it or lose it. Don’t put in stains that won’t come out. It’s a family heirloom.”

  A family heirloom. The words warmed me like Miss Lana’s chili on a cold day.

  * * *

  The warmth lasted all the way to class, when Jake and Jimmy Exum walked in wearing their brown Sunday suits. Last time they wore their suits to school, they blew up the classroom.

  Miss Retzyl went pale. Dale slipped to the edge of his seat, ready to run.