Fish Finelli Book 1: Seagulls Don't Eat Pickles (7 page)

“Whoever heard of an island called Munch Eggs?”

“EGG-zactly what I was wondering,” put in Roger with a grin.

“Egg-zactly!” repeated T. J. “That’s funny. Eggs. Egg-zactly. I get it.”

“I don’t!” I said. “There is nothing to get, since eggs have nothing to do with anything. I bet you heard wrong. Munch Eggs can’t be the name of the island. Think, T. J. Are you sure that’s what you heard?”

T. J. popped a handful of Sugar Babies in his mouth. It took him what felt like forever to chew them. “Uh-huh,” he finally said.

“Who’s Mystery Man’s partner?” I asked. “Did you get a good look?”

We both stared hard at T. J. He shrugged again and kept munching. “I dunno. He spoke real soft.”

“Okay, but what does he look like?”

“I only saw his fingers. They were skinny, and one had a big red ring on it that looked kinda like a mood ring. I think when the ring turns red it means love or—”

“Skinny fingers and a mood ring???!!!”

T. J. popped some more Sugar Babies in his mouth and nodded.

“So what did Mystery Man say when he showed his partner the map?” I asked.

“What map?”

“The treasure map.”

“He didn’t give him a map,” said T. J. “Just candy.”

“Candy?!”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was a box of those chocolates in the wrappers that have all different fillings. I like the ones with nuts, except for almonds, and the cherry ones are sorta squishy, but—”

“T. J., that makes no sense. Treasure hunters do not give each other chocolate.”

“Eggs and chocolate,” said Roger. “Now there’s a new breakfast combo.”

“T. J., all you ever think about is food. Do you remember anything else they said? Anything to do with the treasure or the island or the map?”

T. J. poured the last of the box of Cracker Jack into his mouth. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. “The map! It’s in the treasure chest!”

“T. J., that can’t be right. Who puts a treasure map in a treasure chest? That’s where the treasure goes,” I said.

Just then a whip-poor-will gave the strange, whooping call they’re named for. They’re nocturnal, and the cry they make is pretty creepy. I can understand why Native Americans thought they were birds of death. All three of us jumped.

“Uh-oh, guys, it’s almost dark,” said T. J.

“Run!” said Roger.

The three of us ran as fast as we could until Roger’s waders fell down. Then we had to take turns helping to hold them up. See, Roger had left his hose belt behind with the mutants. It’s what he used to make his getaway. It turns out hoses totally terrify them.

By the time I got to my house, it was dark. That meant I was late. I slunk around back, where the old apple tree goes up to my window. I climbed as fast as I could and slowly opened the window so it wouldn’t creak.

“Fish! It’s bedtime!” my mom yelled up the stairs.

“Okay, Mom!”

I jumped off the window ledge into my room, pulled off my pooped clothes, and put on my pajamas. I was safe!

“Where have you been?” Feenie asked, barging into my room.

“You’re supposed to knock,” I said. I kicked my pooped clothes under the bed.

Feenie wrinkled her nose. “Something smells in here. Like—”

“A FAPIT like you needs her beauty sleep.” I pushed her out the door.

“I know you’re up to something, Fish Finelli,” she said. “How come your face is all dirty?”

Oops!
I forgot about the camo face paint.

“It has to do with that boy Bryce and that kid’s treasure. Right?”

I gulped, but didn’t say anything. Feenie is only four and a half. Her mind is like a steel trap.

“Nighty-night,” I said, closing my door. “Sleep tight.”

“I know I’m right,” Feenie shouted from the other side.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite!” I yelled back.

“Right about what?” Mom asked.

I held my breath, wondering if Feenie would tell.

“It’s private, Mom,” Feenie finally said. “You know, brother-sister stuff.”

I smiled and lay down on my bed. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep. I sure was
pooped
—if you know what I mean.

Egg-Zactly!

"Her name is Venus Star,” said my mom. “So you should call her Ms. Star.”

“That’s a weird name,” I said, “since Venus isn’t a star, it’s a planet.”

Uncle Norman was bringing his latest girlfriend over for dinner. She’s an astrologer. That’s someone who figures out how the stars affect us here on Earth.

“Fish, please take the potatoes out to the grill,” said my mom. All of her attention was focused on the double boiler. She was melting chocolate for a dessert with a fancy French name that looked a lot like brownies.

It had been a week since our stakeout. And none of us could figure out where in the heck Munch Eggs Island might be. I still thought T. J. heard wrong and it didn’t even exist.

On top of that, there were only five days left until the bet was up. Then I would have to pay Bryce the fifty bucks. I didn’t want to admit it, but Bryce was right. I had no clue how to find Captain Kidd’s treasure.

Just then I heard the POP! POP! POP! of Uncle Norman’s motorcycle backfiring. Shrimp started barking and ran out the door.

“Uncle Norman!” came Feenie’s voice. “See my wings! I’m a FAPIT!”

A few minutes later, Uncle Norman walked into the kitchen with a woman in a long, green, sparkly dress. She shook my hand and smiled.

“You have a very powerful aura, Norman. It’s blue and green. Blue for wisdom, and green for making things happen. So pleased to meet you.” Her eyes sparkled like her dress.

“Venus says everyone’s got an aura,” said Uncle Norman. He put his arm around her.
Oh, man!
Doing the arm thing meant only one thing—he was serious about her, all right.

Feenie raced over just then, waving her magic wand. “Want me to make magic for you?”

Uncle Norman grinned and threw Feenie up in the air. We all headed out to the backyard. Feenie started doing magic tricks with her wand. She made Shrimp lie down and roll over and sit up. They were all commands I had taught him, and had zero to do with magic. Venus clapped and so did Uncle Norman, even though he’s seen Feenie do this routine a million times.

I put the potatoes on the picnic table. A second later, Roger’s head popped up over the hedge.

“Hungry, Roger?” asked my dad. He speared a potato with his barbecue fork. He was wearing his favorite barbecue apron that reads
Plumbers like it PIPING hot!
There’s a picture of a flaming pipe in a giant hot dog bun on the chest.

“What’s for dinner?” Roger wanted to know.

“The striped bass Uncle Norman caught,” I said.

“Grilled with a light layer of lemon and a tad of butter like usual? I’m in,” said Roger. He disappeared into the hedge.

My dad grinned and turned the potatoes on the grill.

“Fish, time to set the table!” called my mom.

“Coming!” I said, just as Roger reappeared at the end of the yard where our secret passage comes out.

“Last one there’s a rotten egg!” said Roger, running past me.

I took off. I was just passing him when he elbowed me. He touched the screen door first.

“Beat ya, rotten egg!” said Roger.

“Cheater,” I said.

I handed him the big plate with the fish and picked up the silverware and napkins.

“Oh, and throw away this newspaper,” my mom said, wrinkling her nose. She handed me the newspaper Uncle Norman had used to wrap up the fish.

On our way across the yard, Dude started winding himself around our legs. He was purring as loud as a washing machine. Fish is number one on his favorite food list. He jumped up in the air, trying to reach the plate with the fish.

“Kitty cat want the fishy?” Roger teased. He held the plate down lower.

Dude jumped. Roger barely got the fish away in time.

“Dude, you’re one fast dude!” said Roger.

“I’ll take that,” said my dad. He had seen Dude nab a fish faster than you can say holy mackerel!

I threw the paper in the garbage can. We were just sitting down to eat when there was a loud CRASH. Seconds later, Dude raced across the grass, batting the fishy newspaper between his paws. Shrimp barked and ran after him.

“Bad kitty cat!” yelled Feenie. “Bad doggie!”

“Wow!” said Roger. “That Dude is one determined dude.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he were a Capricorn,” remarked Venus Star. “They tend to be quite goal-oriented. Is his birthday in December or January?” She smiled at my mom.

“I . . . don’t . . . know exactly. We found him on the porch one day,” said my mom. She was blinking a lot, the way she does when she doesn’t know what to say.

“I don’t normally cast horoscopes for animals, but I know other astrologers who do.”

My mom’s blinking turned into mad eyelash batting. Behind us, Dude yowled as Shrimp pulled the newspaper from him.

“Fish, will you throw away that paper, please?!” asked my mom.

“No problem, Mrs. F.,” said Roger, jumping up.

I sighed and got up, too.

Roger and I reached for the paper at the same time. It ripped in half. I was wadding up my half when my eye caught the headline: LAST ROAR FOR LYONS ISLAND!

“Hey, Rog, lemme see your half!”

I brushed off the gooey fish gunk and read:

“Eugenia Lyons, wife of the late Winthrop Lyons, may be forced to sell Lyons Island, as its upkeep as a nature preserve has become too costly. The state will only supply funds if it is declared a historic landmark. Stories abound of the burial of pirate treasure there by the notorious Captain Kidd, but such treasure has never been found. Some claim he hid a treasure map in a trunk with—”

That was it. Uncle Norman must have thrown away the rest of the paper.

“Who would buy Lyons Island?” I asked.

Roger rubbed his fingers together. “Someone with mucho dough.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You know—benjamins, moolah, cash. You get my drift.”

I sighed as we sat back down. “I know dough is money. The question is, will the Lioness really sell Lyons Island?”

All the adults looked up at my question.

“She’ll have to,” said Uncle Norman. “Unless it’s confirmed as a landmark. Then the state will fund its upkeep.”

Uncle Norman knows a lot about land. He worked for a surveyor, like, a million years ago. That was before he was captain of a yacht, head of a lobster boat in Central America, and a rock star. He finally wound up becoming a plumber like my dad.

“I heard she’s having a garden party to prove her case to the mayor,” said my mom. “And an expert on the history of the island is going to speak.”

“Lyons Island,” said Venus in a dreamy voice. Her eyes had a faraway look. “Strange.”

“What’s strange?” Uncle Norman asked.

“Something I saw when I was there. It’s just coming back to me now.”

“You went to Lyons Island?” I asked. It wasn’t like anyone could just go there. You had to be invited.

Venus blinked and nodded. “Once, a long time ago.”

“What did you see?” asked Roger.

Venus’s eyes got that faraway look again. “An old map, like a treasure map, with an island in the middle of it.”

Roger and I looked at each other. “Map?” he mouthed.

“And there was a chest,” she went on. “One of those old-fashioned ones with an iron padlock that sailors used to take to sea.”

“Like a treasure chest?” I said, my heart beating faster.

Venus nodded.

“So, where was the map?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Venus. “I saw it in a vision as I was walking through the house.”

“A vision?” repeated my mother, her eyebrows shooting up again.

“I sure hope Mrs. Lyons doesn’t have to sell the island,” Uncle Norman said, after a quick glance at my mom. “It’s almost the same as it was when Chief Wyandanch gave it to the first Lyons almost four hundred years ago. It was called something different then, of course.”

“Yes,” agreed Venus. “The Native Americans gave the land such beautiful names. It started with an
M
, I think.”

I was about to ask about the map again when I realized she was right. I remembered reading the Native American name of the island when I was in the library. It had something to do with death. And it did begin with an
M
. What was it? It seemed very important to remember.