The Treasure of Maria Mamoun Read online

  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 Murderer was actually Captain Murdefer, 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

  SOMETHING TO DO

  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.”

  “Great! Thanks!” She started to head out the door with the Brute.

  “You’re going now?” Celeste asked.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Don’t you want breakfast?”

  “Sure.” The dog sat at Maria’s feet, looking up expectantly. “To go.”

  “I’ll see you later when you drop the dog off. Come straight to Mr. Ironwall’s room when you’re done. But be quiet—in case Mr. Ironwall’s sleeping.” Celeste handed Maria a doughnut.

  Maria and Brutus walked toward the beach that she’d seen through her attic window. She found a gap in the hedge behind the Great House. It led to a sandy footpath flanked by thorny bushes hung all over with tight pink rosebuds. The beach roses gave way to a grassy dune with an old wood-slat boardwalk barely visible under the drifting sand, and then suddenly over a rise, there was the ocean. It was not yesterday’s flat steely gray, or last night’s gold-tinged blue, but a shifting kaleidoscope of colors. About a half mile off, the sailboat bobbed at the dock. She started toward it. The wind whipped her hair across her face and Maria wished she’d worn a jacket. She ran as fast as she could, dragging the reluctant Brutus.

  The dock was a long wooden walkway that came straight off the beach and extended into the water on wooden stilts. About a hundred yards out, a metal ramp led down to a floating metal platform with the boat bobbing alongside. Now that she was close, Maria saw the boat was much larger than she’d realized. Longer than a bus. The masts seemed as tall as a two-story building.

  She skittered down the ramp, but Brutus stood at the top, pulling against the long leash, eyeing her nervously.

  “Come on! Come!” Maria yanked the leash. She slapped her thighs. Brutus backed up and
sat down. Maria shook the doughnut bag at Brutus. He tipped his head, as if he were considering the offer. She pulled the doughnut out and offered it on her flat palm. “You want a doughnut? You want it?”

  Suddenly Brutus bolted down the ramp, his hindquarters gyrating from his manically wagging tail. He launched himself off the ramp and onto the dock, and snatched the entire doughnut off Maria’s hand in one slobbery lick.

  “Fine,” Maria said. “You can have it. I’m checking out the boat.”

  Up close, it looked ancient. The hull was made of some kind of wood painted pine green, and scrolled all over with fading gold decorations. The rail posts curved like fancy table legs, and a mermaid figurehead swam from the front. A long stick stuck out over the mermaid’s head, and a weird black net was strung underneath, the rope rotted through in parts. The top of the boat was covered with a tent made of waterproof canvas. The two naked masts jutted out of the top of the tent, but the canvas was lashed tightly to the rails. Still, it looked like it might be the same sailboat from the photo in the movie room. The one a young Mr. Ironwall had christened. Or maybe the boat from the painting over the mantelpiece. She walked toward the back and there, painted in chipping gold, was the name: The Last Privateer.

  Privateer. That word again. She wondered what it meant and why she kept finding it all over the estate: on the poster in the movie room, on the painting over the fireplace, and now on the boat. She realized this boat was too new to have anything to do with Captain Murdefer—no way a wood sailboat could survive hundreds of years. And anyhow, his boat had some weird foreign name. Still, she couldn’t help feeling there was some kind of connection.

  Maria really wished she could climb aboard, but there was no way to get past the tent. She walked slowly along the side, touching the rope that lashed the canvas to the rails, looking for a gap. She wasn’t brave enough to untie it. That seemed too much like trespassing. But if it happened to be already loose …

  Brutus whimpered and pushed his cold, wet nose into her free hand. He didn’t seem to like the weather. It was rough and bitter here by the sea. A cold spray blew off the wild waves and chilled them both. She should take Brutus home. And, she thought disappointedly, a closer inspection of the sailboat would have to wait for a warmer day.

  10

  MR. IRONWALL

  Celeste met Maria at Mr. Ironwall’s bedroom door.

  “Joanne’s in there with him now,” Celeste said. “I just wanted to make sure you were ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Maria asked.

  “Oh, chérie, you’re a complete and utter mess.” Celeste combed her fingers through Maria’s windswept hair. “And that dog is all sandy.”

  “I took him to the beach, like Frank said.”

  “But couldn’t you have kept him clean?” her mother said. “He has to go up on the bed.”

  Maria knelt down and tried to shake sand out of Brutus’s shaggy coat. She lifted a muddy paw and brushed it on her jeans.

  “Maria!” Celeste whisper-hissed. “You’re getting mud on your jeans!”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “Lower your voice,” Celeste said. “Oh, I wish you weren’t wearing that shirt.”

  “What’s wrong with my shirt?” She glanced down.

  “Mr. Ironwall wants to meet you.” Celeste rubbed at some imagined stain.

  “Okay,” Maria said.

  “Look at his face when you talk to him, not at the equipment.”

  “Mama, I know how to behave.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Celeste said, as if she wasn’t sure at all.

  They knocked and the night nurse opened the door.

  “Well, come on in,” Joanne said, tugging Maria’s sleeve. “He’s not coming to you.”

  Maria stepped into the room and faced the bed.

  Mr. Ironwall’s skeletal hands trembled on the bedclothes, and his skin looked transparent. Wormy blue veins showed in his forehead and between his knuckles, and broken red capillaries laced his cheeks. Joanne hovered around straightening out blankets and pillows. On the nightstand was a newspaper, reading glasses, and a tumbler of water. There were no other personal items in the room. It was strangely like a hospital room in that regard, though it was here, in his home.

  “Come closer,” the old man said in a papery voice.

  Maria didn’t realize he was talking to her until her mother gave her a little push.

  “Let Brutus off his leash.”

  Maria released the dog and held the leash uncertainly. Joanne took it from her and hung it on a hook beside the door. Brutus trotted, wagging, to the bed and gazed lovingly up at his master. Mr. Ironwall patted the coverlet and said, “Up-up.”

  Brutus leaped onto the bed, muddy paws and all. Maria heard her mother inhale sharply.

  Mr. Ironwall seemed not to notice the dirt, or maybe he didn’t care. He directed his gaze at Maria.

  “Come here,” he commanded. “So I can see your face properly.”

  Maria bent over the bed. The old man took her chin in his dry, knobby hands and peered at her face until she grew uncomfortable with the silence and scrutiny.

  “Cheekbones like Hedy Lamarr.” He finally released her chin. “Under that mop of hair and those glasses.” He sank back into his pillows with closed eyes. After a few deep sighs, he seemed to have fallen asleep.

  Maria wondered if she should leave. She looked around for her mother, who was pretending to resupply a tray with gauze pads and cotton balls.

  “Should I go?” Maria whispered to Celeste.

  Mr. Ironwall held up his hand. “There’s one more thing. You have the run of the place, obviously, but please remember it is a very old place, and it’s crumbling down about our ears. Doors that are shut must stay shut, for our safety.” He looked at Maria with surprisingly clear eyes.

  Maria held her face as steady as she could. She had the creepy feeling that he somehow knew about her visit to his movie room. Maybe Hattie had told him. She’d have to be more careful. She didn’t really know Frank and Hattie well, and after all, they owed their jobs to Mr. Ironwall. Of course they’d be more loyal to him than to her. She’d have to keep her secrets close.

  11

  BICYCLES AND SAILS

  In the hall outside Mr. Ironwall’s room, Celeste reminded Maria that she’d promised to have lunch with Hattie. “She’s been cooking all morning. If you don’t show up, she’ll be very disappointed.”

  For lunch, Hattie laid a plate of fried chicken, beans, and fried potatoes in front of Maria. “Your mother tells me clam chowder ‘isn’t normal’ for you, so I tried to make something you’d be familiar with.” She put a basket of biscuits and a small dish of butter beside the plate.

  Maria blushed. “I love fried chicken and potatoes and beans. I used to eat this same thing back home. Colony Fried Chicken was two blocks from our apartment. But actually, I really liked your clam chowder. I ate it all. You’re a really good cook. And I could eat this chicken every day, except my mom says fried food makes you fat…” Her mother would probably think she was being rude. She scooped the beans with a biscuit to shut herself up.

  “Don’t look so worried. You could use a little fattening up,” Hattie said. “How did things go this morning?”

  Maria swallowed. “Fine. Mr. Ironwall is a little scary. But I don’t think he’s mean. Just really old.”

  “That’s definitely true.” Hattie put another chicken thigh on Maria’s plate. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “There aren’t any computers in this house, are there?”

  “No, and no TVs either,” Hattie said. “That’s why his last nurse quit. She was stone-cold bored, she said.”

  “Well, I need to look some things up.”

  “What sort of things?” Hattie asked.

  “Just, well—” Maria hesitated. Hattie might have ratted her out about the movie room. So she couldn’t ask her anything about Captain Murdefer or his map.

  Hattie was staring at her, waiti
ng, with a bowl of dessert in her hand.

  “Who’s Hedy Lamarr?” Maria finally asked. “Mr. Ironwall said I looked like her.”

  Hattie put the bowl down. “Well, that’s a compliment. She was an actress in the old days.”

  “Oh.” Maria took a bite. Apple crisp with whipped cream.

  “You could go to the library in Edgartown,” Hattie said. “They have free computers. It’s not far, and there’s a bike path the whole way, so no worries about cars.”

  “I don’t have a bike,” Maria said.

  “Oh, there are quite a few in the Old West Shed. Mr. I kept them for guests—I’m sure there’s one there that’ll fit you. Ask Frank to help you. Now how’s that dessert?”

  “Amazing,” Maria said.

  Hattie looked pleased. “Well, there’s more where that came from. I’ll send it home with your mother. It’s so nice to have someone appreciate what I do. Paolo never even says thank you. That boy just shovels it down and runs out the door. Did I tell you about the fight he got into at school? A week of detention. He’s sure to fail…”

  Maria didn’t mind listening to Hattie’s stories about her misbehaving son, if it meant a second serving of apple crisp. Besides, she didn’t have anywhere else to go, and nothing else to do but eat, get fat, and solve the mystery of Captain Murdefer’s treasure map.

  * * *

  She was peeking in the window of the Old West Shed when Frank came up behind her and asked what she needed.

  “A bicycle,” she answered. “Hattie said Mr. Ironwall kept them in here for guests, and I’m a guest, I guess. At least he said so.”

  “You’re a guest, you guess.” Frank smiled as if she had made a joke. “Well, in that case, I guess I can help you.” He took a huge set of keys from his jacket pocket and unlocked the padlock. “Ah, they’re buried way in back.”