Seven Dead Pirates (20 page)

M
r. Dearborn was in the kitchen, talking on the phone.

Lewis smacked his forehead. His father! He’d forgotten all about his dad’s panic at seeing Crawley outside. Was he phoning the police again?

Lewis tiptoed closer.

Not the police. Lewis heard the words “funding” and “heritage” and “Shornoway.” He crept up to the door.

“I appreciate you looking into this, Ms. Forsley,” said his father. “It’s very kind. Please thank the other members of your society, as well. But I … well, I don’t see how it’s possible.” There was a pause. “Yes, I understand. I agree, it’s a shame. But, well … heh, heh.”

A pause, then, “Thank you.” He hung up.

“Was that my teacher?” Lewis blurted it from the doorway.

His father jumped. “For goodness sake, Lewis, don’t sneak up on me.”

“It
was
Ms. Forsley, right? What did she want?”

Mr. Dearborn ran his fingers slowly across his scalp. “Well, she’s a member of the local history society, it seems, and she’s … I suppose she’s concerned about Shornoway being torn down.”

“SO AM I!” said Lewis. As in the tower, his words came out louder than he’d planned. He seemed to be having trouble with his volume button.

Mr. Dearborn frowned. “What’s gotten into you? Come have some dinner. Just you and me tonight. Your mother’s at a meeting.”

The table was set in the dining room. Mr. Dearborn removed the cover from a casserole. Steam rose in a cloud of savory smells.

“Braised lamb with roasted vegetables. Garlic and shallots—”

But Lewis would not be distracted. “What did Ms. Forsley say?”

Mr. Dearborn sighed and began to serve. “It was about that idea she had of turning Shornoway into an inn. I told her we didn’t have the money. But she
went off and talked to some people anyway, and she found a … well, some sort of foundation that lends money for heritage projects. Converting historical buildings.”

“Really?” said Lewis. “So can we do it? Can we turn Shornoway into an inn?”

His father smiled. Lewis wondered how his father’s mouth could curve up that way when the rest of his face was doing such a droop. “It’s a huge undertaking, Lewis. An enormous risk. Who’s to say we’d be any good at running an inn?”

“Maybe we’d be
really
good at it,” said Lewis. “All the kids loved the school visit and your speech and … and look how well you cook. Look at this!” He poked his fork into the slice of lamb on his plate. “And this.” He poked a potato slice. “And this, and this, and this.” He poked at a carrot, an artichoke, a giant mushroom. “You’d have Mrs. Binchy to help you—and me, too. I’d help.”

“It’s not that easy,” said his father.

“Easy?” said Lewis. “Nothing’s easy.” He thought about his struggle to speak at school. He thought about all the years with no friends. He thought about the dead pirates upstairs, and the probably impossible task he faced the next day. “Nothing’s
ever
easy, Dad. Nothing I do, anyway.”

There was a silence as father and son stared at their plates.

“At least we’re not dead yet.” Lewis was still thinking about the pirates.

“Dead?” Mr. Dearborn let out a bleat of laughter. “Sorry, Lewis. It was just such a strange thing to say. But you’re right. You’re
quite
right. We’re not dead yet.”

As if to prove it, they both took a bite of food.

“How’s school?” asked his father.

But Lewis was on a mission. “I don’t understand, Dad. You love history, right? Shornoway
is
history. Everyone in Tandy Bay knows that. And Mom’s family built it!”

Hearing himself, he paused. “
My
family, actually. My family built Shornoway. Back in the 1800s, like you said.”

Which was true, of course.
His
family.
His
history. But he’d never really felt it till that moment.

“It’s our home now,” Lewis added, not sure his father would understand. “Our
real
home. We should keep it.”

Mr. Dearborn put down his fork and knife and gazed at his son quizzically. A smile of genuine pleasure crept across his mouth. “You know what, Lewis? You are really something! You remind me of your great-granddad.”

“Good,” said Lewis. “That’s good.”

They continued to eat in silence. Then Mr. Dearborn cleared his throat loudly.

“I’m going to tell you something, Lewis, that may surprise you. Your mother, as you know, is a practical woman. Not given to flights of fancy. But something happened to her on the day of your class visit. I don’t know what it was … but it had a strange effect. She told me that she felt there was ‘something magical’ about Shornoway. Something she had felt as a child when she visited here … and then forgot. Can you believe that, Lewis? Your mother believing in magic?”

Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “And do you know what? I think I understand what she meant. The fact is, I have felt it myself! It may even have led to this cooking adventure of mine. I don’t know how to explain it to you—and I don’t suppose you’ve experienced anything like it yourself, being so young and so busy with your schoolwork—but, honestly, there really
is
something special about this house!”

Lewis tried not to smile. “I think I know what you mean, Dad.”

He waited.

His father picked up his fork. He shuffled his vegetables around. Then he stood and paced the room a
couple of times. He rubbed his chin. Lewis watched, holding his breath.

Finally, Mr. Dearborn said, “I’m not promising anything.”

“I know,” said Lewis.

“I don’t know whether Charlotte’s recent experience will sway her feelings about selling. Your mother can be a tough nut to crack!”

Lewis couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing. After a moment, his father joined in.

“Well, it’s
true
,” said Mr. Dearborn.

“I know, Dad.”

“But, perhaps, since you and I both feel so strongly—”

“Do
you
feel strongly?” asked Lewis.

“Of course I do! And your mother cares a great deal about
us
. You and me. Perhaps … perhaps she could be talked around.”

Lewis nodded. “We’ll do it together.” He held up his hand for a high five, which he had done several times now at school after kickball games. Mr. Dearborn stared at the hand in confusion, then patted his son’s shoulder.

“An inn would be a lot of work,” he said.

“I know.”

“And we couldn’t just jump into it.”

“I know.”

“We’d have to do a lot of research. Find out what sort of menus other inns offer. Ms. Forsley’s probably right about the English tea. It would go over well. My scones are magnificent! And Sunday brunch, of course. I don’t know why, but Sunday brunches always seem popular. My eggs Benedict—”

“I know, Dad. Magnificent.”

“Well, they are!”

His father laughed again. A big laugh this time, not a “heh, heh.”

When the dishes were done, Lewis headed upstairs.

The pirates were nowhere to be seen. But judging by the fish smell, they were nearby.

On the floor were seven thrift store outfits. They were laid out neatly in a row and seemed to wait expectantly, like stockings at Christmas.

And that’s when he realized, truly and deeply, for the first time … this was actually going to happen.

E
ating his scrambled eggs the next morning, Lewis pondered his first obstacle—getting the pirates out of Shornoway.

They’d been waiting beside his bed when he woke up, clutching their outfits and looking jittery. Skittles and Jonas, more excited than the others, were glowing quite brightly. Lewis had left them to put on their costumes, promising to return when it was time.

And now, as he chewed on his toast, he saw that there were three obstacles to getting the pirates out—and they were right there in front of him in the kitchen. Mrs. Binchy was elbow-deep in suds at the kitchen sink, while his parents sat talking at
the table, having only just figured out that it was Halloween.

“I can take Lewis trick-or-treating tonight,” said Mr. Dearborn to his wife. “Have you got a costume, Lewis? My goodness, Halloween already.”

“I’m not going this year,” said Lewis. “Sixth grade is too old.”

This was, strictly speaking, not true. Some of his classmates were still trick-or-treating. But not with their
fathers
!

His mother glanced at her watch. “I’d better be off. Enjoy your field trip, Lewis.”

Excellent, thought Lewis. Mrs. Dearborn had accepted the “field trip” story he had made up to avoid having to go to school. Staying as close to the truth as possible, he said he was meeting his class at the Maritime Museum at ten.

“Bye, Mom.”

Mr. Dearborn stood up. “Must make a few phone calls,” he said. “I’ll be in my study.”

“Take your time!” said Lewis.

He headed for the bathroom to put on his Frankenstein costume. It was simple. Just a tattered black shirt and pants and a rubber headpiece that made his head look tall and square, and (bonus!) covered his red hair. A wire around the back of his neck
attached a large metal bolt to each side of his neck.

The makeup took longer. The color was a sickly combination of gray, green and yellow, and as Lewis smeared it on, he was pleased to see how close a match it was to the pirates’ skin. Borrowing his mother’s eyebrow pencil, he drew a stitched-up wound on his forehead and another on his cheek. Then he used the pencil to darken the areas around his eyes.

He stood back to check the results. Not a
perfect
Frankenstein—he could have done better with more time—but it would do.

He returned to the kitchen, where his father was chatting to Mrs. Binchy as he put on his coat. He seemed to be having a lot of trouble getting his arms through the holes.

“Lewis! Good! You’re still here! You’ll be happy to hear the news.”

Not even noticing the Frankenstein costume, Mr. Dearborn launched in. “I phoned that foundation that Ms. Forsley mentioned—the one that has money to help with historic buildings. She had already spoken to them, wasn’t that kind? And they sounded quite
positive
, Lewis. Yes, yes, encouraging. I’m going there now to pick up their information.” He nodded eagerly as Mrs. Binchy helped him with the coat. “And your mother … well, I
did
speak to her last night. Now, she
hasn’t exactly said yes. Not exactly. But she did feel it was worth exploring. So what do you think about
that
? I must say, Lewis, I have rather a good feeling about this.”

Lewis grinned back, partly in pleasure and partly in amazement. “Me, too, Dad. Good feeling.”

Mr. Dearborn gave his body a great shake, and the coat settled onto his shoulders. Making an awkward fist, he gave Lewis a light punch on the arm. “Must go, son. Time waits for no man! Have a good day at the museum.”

Lewis was left with Mrs. Binchy.

“Well now,” she said, shaking her head. “A foundation. Isn’t
that
a lovely turn of events? By the way, Lewis, nice costume!”

“Thank you,” he said.

But he wasn’t thinking about his costume.

He was thinking about how to get the pirates past Mrs. Binchy. They were so excited.
Glowing
with excitement, in fact. And the housekeeper was so nosy.

“Uh, Mrs. Binchy … are you … going out this morning?” He crossed his fingers.

“Out?” she said. “Now where would I be going?”

He shrugged. “Shopping?”

“Is there something you need at the store, Lewis?”

“No … I just … nothing.”

She frowned. “What is it? Are you—”

Abruptly, she stopped. She gave him a long, penetrating stare. “It’s about
them
, isn’t it?”

A long pause followed.

“Them!” she repeated. “
You
know! The pirates in the tower.”

Lewis swallowed hard. He forced himself to speak. “You … 
know
about them?”

“Well now, how would I
not
know? Living and working here all these years with your great-granddad. I’d have to be some kind of idiot.”

Lewis could only stand there, swaying. He felt as if he’d been hit by a brick. Mrs. Binchy knew about the pirates?

“Not that I’ve ever
seen
them,” she said. “But I’ve heard them often enough, and felt them pass by. Back in your great-granddad’s day, they wandered all over the house. They’ve gotten shyer since you lot moved in.”

Knees wobbly, Lewis had to sit at the kitchen table.

“Well now,” said Mrs. Binchy, softly.

He heard her walk over, felt her hand patting his head. “It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?”

He gazed up into a round, red face that suddenly looked less silly than it always had.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asked her. All that chattering she did, day after day, and not a word about the pirates.

“Your great-granddad wanted you to get to know them on your own. He said I wasn’t to interfere. Of course, I would have stepped in if I thought you were in trouble. But you seemed to be doing fine.”

“Fine?” The word surprised him.

“Well, not
totally
fine, of course. But who is? I thought … well, I imagined they might be company for you. You seemed so alone. And I knew from the old days with your great-granddad that they were a jolly bunch.”