The Treasure of Maria Mamoun Page 4

  Celeste was going to be busy all day most days, so Maria supposed she’d be entertaining herself. Perhaps that’s what she should do. Go back to the cottage and examine that strange tube. Maybe explore the beach and find that boat.

  She wandered back through the mansion in what she hoped was the way they came, but she couldn’t be sure because the hallways in this wing all looked the same. Every so often she tried a doorknob, but all of the doors were locked.

  Just as she was beginning to get tired and starting to despair, she found a knob that turned in her hand. At first the door stuck as if it had not opened in a long time. But when she shoved it with her shoulder, she stumbled into a large, dark room. Though no one had said as much, and there were no signs forbidding entry, she was pretty sure she was not supposed to go in. But there was no one around to tell her the rules, and what did they expect of a twelve-year-old girl left alone in a billionaire’s mansion? Who wouldn’t be curious? And so Maria pulled the door quietly behind her, careful to keep it slightly open—she wasn’t foolish enough to lock herself in—and began to explore.

  Dark curtains covered the windows, and only a little light penetrated the dusty gloom. Maria stood still for a moment, blinking and waiting for her eyes to adjust. Rows and rows of wine-colored velvet chairs—enough to seat at least fifty people—faced a stage with a plushy wine-colored curtain. It looked like a small theater. Maybe it was. Maybe he was rich enough to have his own private theater!

  Old-fashioned posters covered the walls: The Last Privateer, an Ironwall production, Joie de Vivre, directed by Peter Ironwall, To Have and To Hope, produced by Peter Ironwall.

  She wondered if Peter Ironwall was the Mr. Ironwall upstairs in the bedroom.

  “Is anyone in here?” a female voice said.

  Maria startled and turned.

  A woman was peeking around the door. Upon seeing Maria, she stepped all the way in.

  “You don’t want to get lost in this big house,” the woman said. “You may get locked in a room and we’ll find you three years later, mummified.”

  “I’m sorry,” Maria said. “I left the door open a crack…”

  “That’s how I found you. If I hadn’t, who knows what might have happened with you snooping about.”

  “I wasn’t snooping,” Maria said. “I just couldn’t find the door to outside.”

  “Well, that’s not surprising. Typical of Frank to leave you high and dry.”

  The woman looked neither old nor young. Her ruddy skin stretched tightly over her broad, unwrinkled forehead. Her eyes were big and bright, the color of the ocean (just like the gardener’s, Maria thought), but her hair was a thin silver braid and she had the long yellow teeth of an old lady. Her clothes were wild and gypsylike with embroidery and beads. Maria guessed she was about her mother’s age but had lived a much harder life, or else simply didn’t believe in hair dye and dentists.

  Suddenly the woman stuck out her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Hattie, the housekeeper.”

  “Maria.” She stuck out her own small hand. “You made the cinnamon buns. My mom and I loved them, thank you.”

  Hattie took Maria’s hand and turned it over, as if she were inspecting it. “You look like you could use more. You’re a skinny one. And pale, too. I’d bet you don’t get outside much.”

  “Tante Farida, this old lady my mom and I know, always says I look like a canned string bean,” Maria said. “She runs a grocery store. In the Bronx.”

  “Well, this isn’t the Bronx,” Hattie said. She began tidying up the place, stacking books and papers. “You’ll be outside a lot now. My boy, he’s about your age, is out all the time. Every second he’s not in school. And half the time when he should be in school—that’s why his grades are so poor. Fishing, biking, skateboarding—we can’t keep him home. It’s like he was raised by wolves.” She turned and squinted at Maria. “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “My mom said it would be too awkward for me to enroll here for the last few weeks, and I could just go next year if—” She stopped talking. She wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to say if my mom keeps this job. She didn’t want to make it seem that there might be some reason she shouldn’t.

  “Well, you’ll need something to do or you’ll get bored. Ironwall House isn’t a great place for children.”

  “I think it’s wonderful! It’s like something out of a fairy tale—a mansion, the ocean—”

  “What I mean is, Mr. Ironwall won’t want you hanging around the mansion because he’s sick and noise isn’t good for his heart.”

  “I’m very quiet,” Maria said.

  “And you’ll find the ocean isn’t much fun for a while yet,” Hattie continued as if she hadn’t heard Maria. “It’s too cold for swimming till nearly mid-July.”

  “What did Mr. Ironwall do?” Maria asked. “I mean, is this all his movie stuff? Is that how he became so rich? Like, was he a famous actor?”

  “Not an actor, but he did something in film.” Hattie dusted a golden statuette and clucked her tongue. “He was a producer and a director. I think he even wrote some of the screenplays. But he didn’t need to work, really. He was always rich. Family money.”

  “What’s ‘family money’?” Maria asked.

  “His ancestors were all rich sea captains. Whalers, navy men, maybe even a pirate or two. And they married money … daughters of other captains…” Hattie paused each time she removed and dusted another statuette.

  Maria wondered if any of the rich ancestors were the mysterious Captain Murderer.

  “Anyhow, our Mr. Ironwall is the last heir to all that fortune. So that’s how come he can keep this place even though he hasn’t worked in years.” Hattie grabbed a folding chair to reach the top shelves. “I don’t know when the last time was I dusted in here. These pictures need to be packaged up properly—the paper’s getting all dry and cracked…”

  “Yes, there are a lot of old things.” Maria looked at all the movie memorabilia. Between the posters hung many black-and-white photos. They showed lots of glamorous, laughing people. Maria hoped to recognize famous actors, but none of the names or faces meant anything to her. On the far wall was a large photo of two men standing proudly beside a sailboat. The cramped handwriting in the corner said The Last Privateer—1963.

  Maria wondered if it was the sailboat she’d seen from her window. It had two poles sticking up. She peered more closely at the photo. In it, one man held a bottle tied with a ribbon. The other man, equally young and handsome, stood beside him. The crowd around them had their hands up as if they were caught applauding.

  “Who’s that?” she asked, pointing to the man with the bottle.

  Hattie stopped dusting and peered closely at the photo. “Oh, that’s Mr. Ironwall when he was young. Christening his yacht. The other fellow is an actor. Used to be very famous. I forget his name now. My parents would know. He lived here for years, but that was before my time.”

  “Mr. Ironwall looks so young and happy,” Maria said. She could hardly believe the strong, handsome man in the photo was now the old man in the bed. “Does he still have this boat? I mean, is it the one down at the dock?” She looked closely at the picture. “It’s got those two stick-things coming out of it like this one.”

  “Those sticks are called masts. It might be.” Hattie dusted the photo, then all the photos beside it. “I never get down there myself. Always working inside.”

  “Does Mr. Ironwall still go sailing?” Maria asked.

  Hattie scoffed. “Oh, Mr. I hasn’t been out of the house in years. He got the diabetes, and then had a stroke…” She wiped her hands and surveyed the room. “Come on, I’ll get Frank to drive you back.”

  Maria realized Frank must be the gardener with the golf cart.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she said. “It’s not far, and like you said, I need the fresh air. Anyhow, I’m sure I can get back to the cottage once I find my way out of this house.”

  “Well, I’ll show you that
much.”

  Hattie walked briskly in front of Maria, explaining the wings and hallways as they went. Maria wasn’t sure she’d remember any of it. Suddenly they were back in the grand entryway but heading in a different direction, away from Mr. Ironwall’s room.

  “We’ll go through the kitchen so you’ll know where to find me,” Hattie said. They went through a ballroom, a dining room (all tables and chairs covered in more white sheets), and then a set of swinging doors. They landed in a restaurant-size kitchen. The broad stainless-steel counters, giant walk-in refrigerator, and enormous stove were spotless, as if food hadn’t touched them in years. The only part that looked used was a worn wooden table with an open newspaper, a coffee mug, and a pitcher of daffodils upon it.

  Hattie held open the door to the outside for Maria. “You come by tomorrow for lunch and I won’t take no for an answer. And we have to find you something to do all day. You can’t be wandering around alone. Or who knows what sort of trouble you’ll get into.” She turned and shut the door behind her, as if this were a perfectly normal way to say goodbye.

  8

  TWICE TWICE TWO

  Maria hurried back to the cottage. As soon as she got there, she raced up the spiral stairs to the attic, flopped on the bed, and pulled the leather tube from under her pillow. She ran her fingers over the name.

  Captain Murderer. He sounded like a pirate.

  With the straps untied, the tube unrolled into a flat leather rectangle. Inside was a sheet of paper. But it wasn’t really very paperish. It was more like very thin, soft fabric. If she looked closely, Maria could see the weave of fibers. The edges were yellow and crispy, and in a few places it was nearly worn through. The paper seemed very old. Maria smoothed it carefully on the quilt.

  It was a map of an island, roughly triangular in shape, with the apex at the northern tip. The lacy shoreline had been inked by a careful hand. A few landmarks had been drawn: a series of cliffs, some small lakes—but a great deal of the island was blank as if it had not been explored, and there were no names or marks to help identify the place. Sea monsters and mermaids swam in the ocean and an elaborate drawing of a compass decorated the top right corner. The whole thing looked ancient. At the bottom was a note written in a fancy hand:

  Twice twice two,

  Then twice that more.

  Take one from the first,

  The Queen treads upon the door.

  Maria stared at the parchment for a long time. She turned it over, but there was nothing on the back except for some unidentifiable tea-colored stains. She looked at the front again. There, off the northeastern corner of the island, floated three small circles, which she’d previously overlooked as just inky smudges. They looked like tiny rocks, compared to the big, triangular island. Across the circles, as if they’d been a mistake, was a large, flowery squiggle.

  Maria reread the cryptic note. Twice twice two, then twice that more. Some kind of math problem. Boring. And who was the Queen? And what was the door? And what was that squiggle? A mistake? Someone crossing something out? Was it an X? On TV, X’s on maps usually marked the spot for buried pirate treasure. And Captain Murderer certainly sounded like a pirate’s name.

  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.