The Law of Finders Keepers

by Sheila Turnage

“Nice,” I told him, and he relaxed.

  Dale carried the puzzle to the mirror over Harm’s dresser and tilted it forward. “I thought so,” he said. “This sign’s backwards to forward.”

  Harm smacked his forehead. “Of course. Mary told us in her clue: Death’s trail, upon reflection . . . She knew the ink would fade into the plaster and make a reverse image,” he said as the dogs outside yipped. “But why does she say Death’s trail?”

  Mr. Red stomped to the back door. “Hush, you dogs!”

  “Turn it so the N points up,” I said, and Dale turned the map.

  “That has to be our river,” Harm said. He opened his notebook and sketched it as the dogs quieted down. “And there’s a date: 1728. And Mary’s motto: Gather your courage.”

  “If that’s the town, this X is near the fish camp,” Dale said. “Where Gabriel set up.”

  I leaned to study the map. “D-N-G-R. Danger.” I read the lines by the north arrow. Cross over resting, loose beside still. Solve this middle test, find my treasure if you will.

  “Middle test. We’re halfway there,” Harm said, leaning so close, I could almost feel his blood pumping.

  The phone in the hallway rang. Mr. Red shouted, “Harm, telephone.”

  “You two are the only ones who ever call me. Unless . . .” His dark eyes glimmered. “Hey Gramps, is it a girl?” he called, his voice hopeful.

  “Some people might say so,” Mr. Red said, and let the phone clatter.

  Harm mirror-checked his hair. “It could be a twin.”

  “No. They’re out of your league,” Dale said. “Lavender told me.”

  “You never know when you’ll get called up from the minors,” Harm said. He strolled to the phone as Dale and me drifted into the living room and perched on the balogna-colored sofa to pretend we weren’t eavesdropping. Harm picked up the phone, ducked his chin. His voice came out unnaturally deep and smooth. “Crenshaw, Harm Crenshaw. How are you this evening?”

  Harm dropped his cool like a little kid drops a jacket. “Mom?” he said, his voice climbing like a monkey scaling a tree. “I know, I mean Kat. . . . Well, sure I do, but . . . now?”

  * * *

  Harm skidded into the living room. “Kat’s coming here,” he said, his voice laced with panic. “And this place is a wreck.”

  “So what?” Mr. Red said from the doorway. “She’s seen it a million times. Besides, she’s not welcome. Call her back and tell her not to come.”

  Harm swallowed hard. “Come on, Gramps. I haven’t really talked to her in a couple of years. And you haven’t talked to her in—”

  “In not long enough,” he muttered.

  Dale broke in. “Mama says Kat used to sing in church and she sings like an angel.”

  “Did she? Well, the Devil used to be an angel too,” Mr. Red snapped.

  “Hey!” Harm said, very sharp.

  They stood glaring at each other, hands on hips. Harm blinked first. “Kat couldn’t make a living in Tupelo Landing. Singing in church won’t pay the bills,” he said, turning away as a car wheeled into the yard, sending its yellow beams flickering across the curtains.

  “That’s true,” Dale said. “Church work mostly pays in the next life.”

  The headlights died and a car door slammed. The dogs yelped. “Blast it,” Mr. Red said. He whirled, stomped through the kitchen, and slammed the back door.

  Kat’s quick footsteps tattooed the porch. Harm swung the door open. “Hey,” he said, stepping aside for her. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

  * * *

  An easy hour later, we sat at the kitchen table watching Kat polish off a ham sandwich. She licked her fingertips. “You’re a good cook,” she told Harm.

  “Harm is,” I said. “Miss Lana says it’s not cookbook cooking either. It’s talent cooking—a feel for tastes and textures. She says he’s a poet with spices. He helps at the café when she’s doing something fancy.”

  Harm glowed. “Thanks. I’ll cook dinner for you one night. For all of us.”

  “I’d love it,” she said, and I settled back and watched them, waiting.

  So far, they’d discussed the weather, Nashville, and school. I’d showed her my pendant with the letter J, and our flyer. “That’s some trim,” she’d said. “Mind if I keep it?”

  “Sure, we got plenty. Skeeter’s sending them to Chambers of Commerce upstream of us. And we’re waiting on the DNA from my sweater to come in,” I said, and went for a change of subject. “Check these out,” I said, dragging a few photos from my bag—Lavender laughing, Harm sitting on my steps with the pirate book.

  “You have a good eye,” she said, and smiled sudden as sunshine in rain. “Hey, I need some new publicity photos. Maybe we can work something out. How’s Myrt Little?” She laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. Your friend Anna told me you’d taken her case. Cleaned up her attic for her too, I hear.”

  “Anna’s not exactly a friend, Kat,” Harm said, hopping up to take her plate to the sink.

  “No,” she said, her face going thoughtful. “She wouldn’t be. She’s too much like her mom. I went to school with Betsy Simpson, you know. She’s a weasel, but I’ll say this for her: She’s an honest weasel. Not a lying bone in her stuck-up little body.”

  She cranked up the Mother Vibe. “Listen kids, I don’t want to scare you, but Gabriel says this treasure’s cursed. “Surge of blood, snap of bone, loss of mortal breath . . . You aren’t worried, are you? Dale?”

  “Come on, Kat. You don’t believe in curses,” Harm said.

  “No, I don’t. Still . . . Anna cut her leg with the metal detector. That child has zero rhythm. And Gabriel walked into a branch and near cracked his skull while he was pushing his GPR around. Surge of blood, snap of bone . . .”

  Harm made a chat-zone U-turn. “How did you meet him, anyway? He’s sort of . . . not your type. I mean, Dad’s low-key and kind of cool . . .”

  “Like you,” she said.

  “I think I know why you and Gabriel are together,” Dale said. “Opposites attract and you’re sweet. Is that it?”

  Kat’s laugh was practiced this time. She’s buying time to think, I thought.

  “We’re not a couple, if that’s what you mean,” she said, studying Harm. “We’re partners in this treasure hunt. That’s it.”

  If she heard the back door open behind her, she didn’t show it. Mr. Red eased in.

  “Gabriel swirled into a club where I sing, talking about the Treasure of Tupelo Landing,” she said. “What are the chances of that?”

  “Zero,” Mr. Red snorted.

  “Hey Pops,” she said, turning. “I’m glad you came in. I want to make things right with you. I mean it.” He waited. “After we cash out the treasure, I’ll make my demo tape. I’ll be set for life—and if I am, you are. We can get you a new truck—whatever you need. How about it? Miss Thornton would like you to be rich. She thinks the world of you, but I can’t see her marrying a poor man. Can you?”

  “Grandmother Miss Lacy ain’t like that,” I said, but Mr. Red had already walked out the door, setting the dogs barking again.

  Silence settled over us like a delicate net. “Well, I tried. I better go,” she said.

  Miss Lana doesn’t like me to brag, but I have killer sensitivity. “Dale, we should leave first. Harm probably has questions about why Kat deserted him, and Kat may want to express guilt or beg forgiveness. They could bond. Excuse us,” I said, very polite.

  “No,” Harm said, quick as a rifle shot. “I mean, sit back down. Kat can give you a ride home. That is . . . if you’re going anyway, Kat.”

  Harm doesn’t want to be alone with her, I thought. Odd. It’s the thing I want most in the world, to be alone with Upstream Mother.

  I waited for Harm to ask the important questions. The ones I’ll ask Upstream Mother: Do you miss me, do you want me,
is my heart the same as yours?

  “Do one thing, and I’ll take everybody home. Sing for me,” Kat said. “Anna says you’re great. Please? You and Dale. I haven’t heard you sing since you were a little bitty boy.”

  Dale stepped up neat as a pin, but Harm rose head down, the way he did when he first started singing. “Don’t worry,” I whispered, lining them up in front of the stove. “You’ll be great. Sing ‘Amazing Grace.’ It’s the one I love best.”

  They sang the old hymn rich and sure, their voices rolling easy as fog along a rocky trail home. Their last note drifted away, and Kat and me clapped.

  She jumped up and kissed Harm’s face. “You sing like an angel, baby. I swear you’ve gotten so good, you remind me of me. Sing it with me? Just once? Please?”

  Harm shook his head, but she’d already stepped up beside him. He closed his eyes, and they inhaled like they shared one breath between them.

  They sang wide-open and full, their voices wheeling and dipping like birds across a white winter sky, fitting together in ways I never knew voices could fit. Their voices faded away and they opened their eyes.

  “Wow,” Dale said. “I never heard anything like that. Like your voice got born out of hers, Harm, they fit so smooth.”

  “Like an angel, baby,” Kat said, swishing to the door. She turned and gave him one last smile. “Nashville would eat you up. Good luck with that treasure hunt, kids. Watch out for the curse, Dale. I’d hate for Harm to lose you.”

  She slammed out, and we went to the window to wave her good-bye.

  “You sounded great,” Dale said again. “But I don’t want you going to Nashville.”

  “I won’t. She means the things she says, but she forgets them fast as she says them.”

  We watched her taillights bounce out of the yard.

  “Happens every time,” he said. “I believe every word she says—right up until she’s gone.”

  * * *

  Dear Upstream Mother,

  Kat forgot to give us a ride home. Dale called Lavender, who came for us.

  I rode in the middle. Lavender smelled like Ivory soap and dust. He asked about you and I gave him your regards. When he knows you better, I’ll give him your love.

  Kat and Mr. Red scrape against each other like a bicycle chain against a bent guard. So far, I don’t know what happened between them.

  But Mr. Red said there was zero chance of Gabriel Archer happening into Kat’s club in Nashville, talking about Tupelo Landing, and he’s right. Either Gabriel tracked her down—or Kat was flat-out lying.

  All I know is if she’s the one emptying Mr. Red’s money jars, Mr. Red’s going to be broke faster instead of slower, and once he’s broke Kat’s help will look better and better to him. Not that I would say that to Harm.

  Sadly we have school tomorrow, so the day is pre-wasted.

  Mo

  PS: We found Mary Ormond’s map! We’re halfway to rich—and halfway to funding a mega-search for you.

  Chapter Twelve

  We’ve Been Robbed!

  The next morning, a Friday, started out normal as cornflakes and went crackers by eight a.m.

  Attila dropped a bag on the café counter. “I found Colonial musket balls,” she said. “Gabriel’s going to have them appraised. What have you found, Mo?”

  Only the treasure map, I thought. “Nothing,” I said.

  “Start my three-minute eggs, loser,” she said, and tossed her hair.

  “Soft-boiled for the half-baked,” I shouted to the Colonel, who was filling the coffee urn.

  “Kat says I’m a whiz with a metal detector,” Attila told the Azalea Women. “I’ve found a sword hilt, these musket balls, and a fancy shoe buckle—all of it Blackbeard’s.”

  “Or else it belonged to another dead person,” Dale said, sloshing by with water for Queen Elizabeth. “The unfamous lose stuff too. They’re famous for it. Right, Colonel?”

  The Colonel, who was counting scoops of coffee, kept counting.

  “Colonel,” an Azalea Woman fluttered, “what are your thoughts on Anna’s luck with history’s knickknacks? Perhaps she’s a reincarnated pirate,” she said, and tittered.

  Miss Lana believes in reincarnation. Also auras, chakras, and tarot cards. The Colonel believes in stars, cash, and Miss Lana and me. As their kid, I walk a fine line.

  The Colonel snapped the urn closed, turned it on, and marched to the kitchen.

  “His hearing comes and goes,” I told the Azalea Women, very diplomatic. Mostly when they come, it goes. But like Miss Lana says, you don’t have to say everything you know.

  Jake Exum hopped a counter stool. “Hey, Miss Lana,” he whispered. “Jimmy and me will dig up a treasure for you after school, only we forgot our breakfast money.”

  She speed-wrapped two biscuits and popped them in a bag. “No digging. Scoot,” she whispered. Miss Lana says the day she can’t feed a hungry child is the day she wears a plain brown dress and flat hair. Meaning never.

  Attila perked up as Gabriel bustled in. “Morning, Gabriel,” she sang out. “Where’s Kat? I’m ready with my artifact report.”

  “Later,” he said, not looking at her. “Mo, put my cheese biscuit on Miss Thornton’s tab. Or give me credit.”

  “Cash only,” the Colonel shouted from the kitchen.

  “The Colonel’s hearing is back,” Dale reported.

  Gabriel patted his pockets. “Anna, do you have cash? Help me out, sweetie.”

  “Don’t call her sweetie,” I said. “You don’t know her good enough. Attila deserves respect even if she is her.”

  “No credit? Hicks,” Gabriel muttered, his face going dark.

  My temper popped. “If you need credit, go to a McDonald’s and beg for credit at the drive-thru. Me and my co-hicks ain’t covering you.”

  “Mo!” Miss Lana cried. “Manners!”

  Gabriel scooped up Attila’s musket balls and stomped out as the phone rang. I grabbed it, my temper still simmering.

  Harm’s voice came through thin and scared. “Mo, is Detective Starr there?”

  “Starr?” I said. “No. What’s wrong?”

  “Joe’s in Ocracoke, sugar,” Miss Lana whispered. “On business.”

  “He’s out of town,” I told Harm. “What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve been robbed,” Harm said as Gabriel roared out of the parking lot. “Our map’s gone, Mo. Get over here, quick. We need help.”

  * * *

  Harm met us in the front yard, shivering in his pale blue pajamas and black loafers.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as we dropped our bikes. “I put the map on the kitchen table with my books before I went to bed. I was going to bring it by the café this morning, and ask the Colonel to keep it for us. I locked the doors. I know I did. I double-checked, because of Attila.” His breath shook. “I’m sorry.”

  “If you didn’t steal it, it’s not your fault,” Dale said. “What else is missing?”

  “Just our map, I think,” he said. “A couple closet doors were open, but Gramps might have done that. There’s something else,” he said, leading the way to his window as thunder muttered in the distance and an airplane puttered overhead. “On my windowsill. It looks like a bloody handprint—but no handprint I’ve ever seen. No fingerprints, a weird lifeline . . .”

  “He was tall, to lean here,” Dale said, going onto his toes to look at the handprint. “Wonder how long he stood here, watching you sleep.”

  “Jeez, Dale,” Harm said.

  “Gabriel Archer’s tall,” I said. “He just left to have some artifacts appraised. I’ll bet our map was one of them.”

  “Whoever it was wears strange shoes,” Dale said, dropping to one knee to check the prints. “These have tacks in the soles. Like Peg-Leg’s boot, in the Littles’ attic,” he said as Mr. Red slammed out the back door
, scowling.

  “Starr’s not coming back ’til Monday,” Mr. Red fumed, stuffing his pajama shirt into his work pants. “Just like a lawman. Gone when you need him, stuck to you like a cocklebur when you don’t.”

  I made an Executive Decision. “With Starr gone, we got borderline jurisdiction. I’m claiming this as a Desperado crime scene. Harm, we need a blood sample from the windowsill and we need some evidence bags.”

  “Freezer bags work good,” Dale told him.

  “I’ll get them, and a paint scraper to pry up paint chips,” Harm said, heading inside.

  “Mr. Red, we need a note saying why we’re late for school. Dale, you handle footprints. I’ll shoot the crime scene photos.”

  Lightning flashed in the dark clouds boiling toward us.

  “You got thirty minutes before the storm hits,” Mr. Red told us, and the race was on.

  “More weird footprints,” Dale shouted, checking by the door. “Going in and out.”

  I lined up my photos: windowsill, footprints. I backed up toward the dog pen for an establishing shot. “There’s footprints over here too,” I called, and Dale hurried over.

  He studied the yard. “My big-picture thought: Gabriel stood at the window, walked in, grabbed the map, and came here, near the dogs—who barked their heads off.”

  “They did bark—around four a.m.,” Mr. Red said, strolling over. “I shouted them quiet.”

  “The thief did some whirling in these weeds,” Dale said. “See how they’re pressed down? Then he ran for the woods. But why?”

  “The dogs barked again, maybe,” I said, clicking off a few photos. “He was afraid Mr. Red would come out or shoot out the window.”

  The wind barreled across the yard, bending the broomstraw low. Something glinted by the shed.

  “Our map!” I shouted. “Gabriel must have dropped it. It’s all here but the riddle.” I photographed it, peeled off my jacket, and wrapped it up. “We’ll check it for fingerprints.”