The Treasure of Maria Mamoun (6 page)

Maybe it was a treasure map with an X to mark the spot. Maria rolled onto her back and considered the possibility. She stared through the circular window at the gray-blue sky.

A pirate map. A pirate treasure map. A real pirate treasure map
.

What else could it be?

And why not? This place was already so strange, this estate, this cottage. Everything was like something out of the TV movies she loved. Maybe this map was her chance for an adventure. If she could use the map to get her hands on a real pirate treasure, she would be set for life. Her mom wouldn't have to work all the time, they could settle down, buy a house of their own somewhere safe and quiet and nice, like here maybe—no more apartments, no more subways and cement and Bad Barbies …

But where did pirates usually bury their treasure? The Caribbean—she knew that much from TV—but she had no way of knowing which Caribbean island was triangular, with three small rocks off its northern tip. Was there a famous Queen in the Caribbean? Anyhow, how could she even get to the Caribbean?

Maria stared at the carved beam above her bed.
JM, 1689.
That could be Jean Murderer. In fact, it had to be. Captain Jean Murderer, the guy who owned the map. He'd hid it in the eave and marked it with his initials. She carefully rerolled the map and tied it shut. Maybe there were other clues buried in the eaves. It wouldn't hurt to look.

Maria started at one end of the attic. She figured she could work her way along the eaves, up and back, and then tackle the trunk. She slipped her hands behind the first wooden beam, closest to the window. It looked promising: someone had carved an elaborate sailboat on it.

After a few minutes of picking through the scratchy horsehair insulation, Maria had found nothing more interesting than a sheet of yellowed newspaper with an ad for five-cent Cokes and a story about war bonds. She wasn't even sure which war, or what a bond was. She stuffed the paper back into place and moved on to the next beam. This one had only a crude heart with
PI
+
CA
on it.

After many hours, she had found a tin of rusty bobby pins, a child's book of nursery rhymes, three necklaces of colored glass beads, a mousetrap with a mummified mouse (this she'd flung across the room with a squeal), lots of candy wrappers from lots of candy bars she'd never heard of, and a flower made out of what looked like human hair. She stared at the pile of nonsense, then swept it into the trunk—which had turned out to be full of disappointing mildewed clothes, old magazines, and weird wooden tools. Maria flopped onto the bed and sneezed at the billow of dust.

By now it was nearly dark. The sky through her porthole window glowed orange and the ocean was tinged with gold.

Downstairs, the front door opened. Maria jumped from the bed.

“Hi,
chérie
—I'm home!” Her mother slammed the front door. “Where are you? Are you up there in the dark?” Celeste called from the bottom of the stairway. Maria stuffed the map and its leather wrap under her pillow.

“I'm in the attic,” Maria called back. “I wanted to check it out. Can I sleep up here tonight?”

“Yes, but come down for dinner now—Hattie sent food again.”

Maria came down the spiral stairs and found Celeste laying paper and logs in the firebox of the woodstove and chattering away.

“Frank—that's the guy with the golf cart, apparently he's Hattie's brother—says she can't stop cooking too much though there's hardly any staff and Mr. Ironwall can't even eat.” Celeste set a match to the pile and it caught immediately. She smiled proudly at Maria.

“And how in the world did you get so dusty again? We have got to clean that attic…”

But Celeste didn't stop talking long enough for Maria to answer. She spun in circles getting dinner ready and talking about her day. While Maria washed up in the kitchen sink and then set the table, Celeste chatted on about poor, sick Mr. Ironwall, and the tough night nurse. Joanne was her name.

“She's not really mean, but just kind of ignorant. She keeps asking me questions about city life and you can tell she gets all her information from TV shows.” Celeste clicked her tongue. “You know how they always give the characters enormous apartments even though they're only waitresses? And they all wear fashion designer clothes? She thinks New York is really like that.”

Maria sat at the table and rested her head on her arm. She only half listened to her mother; she was still thinking about Captain Murderer's treasure map.

“You look tired,
ma chère
.” Celeste put steaming bowls of clam chowder and a platter heaped with strange white disks on the table.

“Clam chowder again?” Maria asked. “Can't we have chicken, or something normal?”

“I haven't had a chance to shop or cook,” Celeste said. “And this is normal for here. Try the crab cakes, at least.”

Maria tried a tiny bite. It was strangely good. She tried the soup. It was buttery and clammy, but okay. She took another spoonful. It warmed her throat and cleared her head.

“It's not bad,” Maria said. “But not as good as your food.”

“I promise we'll go shopping soon.” Celeste sat opposite her. “Now tell me, did you have a good day? What did you do?”

Maria thought back. Her visit to the movie room seemed as if it had happened days ago. She was sure Celeste would not like her sneaking about Mr. Ironwall's mansion. What else could she say? She hadn't done any cleaning. She'd really just snooped around the attic and gotten awfully dirty. Celeste looked at her, waiting for an answer.

“Well, I met Hattie,” Maria finally said.

“Oh, yes?” Celeste squeezed lemon on her crab cake. “That poor lady.”

“Why is she a poor lady?”

“Her husband was killed a few years ago. He was doing reconstruction in Afghanistan. Roadside bomb. It's really sad—Frank was telling me on the way home. She has a boy about your age, maybe a little older. Apparently he's quite difficult. That's why Frank moved back to the Island. To help her out a little. They all live in some crazy family compound up-island—I think Frank works such long hours to get away, though he didn't say, so I'm only guessing…”

Maria remembered that Hattie had mentioned her son. The boy raised by wolves. A kid troublesome enough that his uncle Frank was needed to help control him. She hoped she wouldn't have to meet him.

“You're very quiet,” Celeste said. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I'm fine.” Maria paused and looked into her soup. Somehow she'd finished the whole bowl without noticing. “May I be excused?”

“Don't go far.” Celeste began clearing the plates to the sink. “There's dessert.”

Maria wandered into the living room.

“Did you unpack at all?” Celeste asked from the kitchen.

“A little,” Maria said. “Mostly just rested.”

The items on the mantel looked piratey, now that she really looked at them. She wondered if any of the knickknacks had belonged to Captain Murderer. Maybe that had been his pet parrot, perched on his shoulder while he stomped around on deck. Didn't pirates wear parrots? The bird in the bell jar
was
an actual stuffed parrot that had once been alive. Its rainbow plumage had faded with time, but its glass eyes still fixed her with a quirky, accusative stare.

She turned the bird to face the ugly painting over the fireplace. It was an old painting—the oils had darkened and cracked so that the storm-tossed boat was a smudge of grays and the sea was nearly black. It had two sticks—two masts—like the sailboat the young Mr. Ironwall had been christening in the photo. But it couldn't be the same boat. This painting was ancient. But then again, Mr. Ironwall was ancient. The artist's signature was unreadable. She stood on tiptoe trying to decipher the words engraved on the brass plate tacked to the ornate wood frame. The script was fancily curled and difficult to read under all the dirt, but it seemed to say:

Le Dernier Corsair

She looked over her shoulder to see if her mother was watching, but Celeste stood at the sink washing their empty dishes. Maria peered at the brass plate again. There was more underneath the tarnish and stains. She licked her finger and wiped. Her fingertip turned black, so she spit on her cuff and really scrubbed. More script emerged.

Le Dernier Corsair, Schooner of Captain Jean Murdefer, Privateer, 1689.

Maria felt a strange chill.
Murdefer
. Like
Murderer.

Maria raced up the spiral stairs and took the tube from under the pillow. There it was, the same name:
Captain Murdefer
—she could see that now—what she had thought was an extra-squiggly
r
was actually an
f
. So Captain Murde
rer
was actually Captain Murde
fer
, and he owned a two-masted sailboat just like Mr. Ironwall …

Celeste called up. “There's rhubarb pie.”

“What's rhubarb?” Maria yelled back.

“Apparently something Hattie grows in her garden and turns into pie. You have to come down and tell me if it's edible.”

“Okay!” Maria put the tube under her pillow and went down the spiral stairs.

“Why did you disappear?” Celeste met her at the bottom with a wedge of pie.

“I just had to check something.” Maria took her dessert to one of the squashy chairs. “What does
privateer
mean? Is it like a pirate?”

“I don't know. Why?”

“It's just on that picture there.” Maria pointed her fork at the mantel.

Celeste got up to look at the painting. She clicked her tongue. “Did you rotate this parrot?”

“It was freaking me out.”

“La, la, la, la, la!”
Celeste scolded. “I do not want you touching poor Mr. Ironwall's things. If we didn't bring it with us,
touche-pas
! We are guests here. There are a lot of old things around here that could break—
c'est compris
?”

“Understood.”

Maria certainly wouldn't tell her mother about the map, now. If her mom got that upset over her rotating a parrot, she certainly would have strong feelings about Maria taking the map from the eaves. Celeste would probably make her return it to its original hiding place, or give it to Mr. Ironwall, and then she would never find the treasure.

Her mother was still scolding. “… and I don't want you snooping around that poor man's house! Frank told me Hattie found you—”

“I wasn't snooping! I was lost. That's how I met Hattie—she helped me out.”

“And what did she say when she found you?” Celeste eyed her suspiciously.

Maria did her best to look innocent. “That I should have lunch with her tomorrow. And that I need something to do.”

 

9

S
OMETHING
TO
D
O

The next morning, Frank arrived at the cottage with a white paper bag in one hand and a big dog on a leash in the other. Maria recognized him as the dog from Mr. Ironwall's bed.

“My sister said your daughter needs something to do,” Frank told Celeste. Celeste glanced at Maria, who gave her mother an innocent I-told-you sort of shrug.

“His name's Brutus because he's a big brute, but he's a good boy.” Frank rubbed the dog under its chin. “Aren't you a good boy, Brutus? Say hi to our guests.”

Brutus snuffled Maria's hand and then bowed his head to rub it against her palm. He felt velvety and lovely. He leaned in for more petting, nearly knocking her down.

“Would you like coffee?” Celeste said to Frank. “I just made some.”

“Please,” Frank said. He handed the leash to Maria. “Mr. Ironwall says you can walk the dog to earn your keep. He'll give you seventy dollars a week—”

“Seventy dollars a week!” Celeste said. “But that's too much. We can't take his money like that.”

“It's just ten dollars a day,” Frank said. “And if she walks him for an hour it's not much more than minimum wage.”

“What does a twelve-year-old do with seventy dollars a week?”

“I can save for college,” Maria said. College savings was one of the reasons her mother worked so many hours, so Maria knew that it was inarguably important.

“I still think it's too much,” Celeste grumbled.

“Well, that's his offer, so take it or leave it,” Frank said. “He's not used to being contradicted.” He turned to Maria. “But it has to be a long walk. Take the Brute to the beach, run him around, make him tired. Then he'll stop whining so much.” Frank tousled the dog's ears. “You're a big spoiled baby, aren't you, Brutus Maximus?”

Celeste handed Frank a steaming mug. “I'm still not sure it's such a good idea—Maria doesn't know her way around yet and she's just getting over that incident…” Celeste looked meaningfully at Frank, and Maria realized her mother had told him about the Barbies.

“From what you've told me, Maria is a sensible girl, Mrs. Mamoun.” Frank gave Maria a quick smile. He could be nice-looking if he were a little less scruffy, Maria decided.

“I'm
not
a
Mrs
.,” Celeste said. “Just Celeste.”

Frank's neck turned red. “Well, anyhow, if you don't want her to, I can take Brutus back…”

“Please, Mama?” Maria said. “I can't stay inside all day. And it would be great to earn some money.” And, she thought, it would give her an excuse to explore the grounds, the beach, and that abandoned sailboat.

“Brutus will keep her safe,” Frank said. “And no one comes onto the property. Not even the postman.”

Maria looked at her mother with what she hoped was a pleading yet responsible expression.

“Okay.” Celeste smiled tightly. “But you don't leave the property.”