Finders Keepers (6 page)

It is not easy to unsink a canoe.

And it is not easy to explain why the canoe has been sunk and why you didn't mention it right away and why you didn't respect property belonging to someone else.

When a canoe is under water, it's very, very heavy. The sand doesn't want to give it up. Dad, Neil, Mom, and even Amelia grunted and groaned in chest-high water, lifting and pushing and pulling the canoe back to shore. It was so heavy Amelia invited her new friend Matt to help. He worked with her at the restaurant, and I could tell immediately that he wasn't just a friend but a potential prince, because she was laughing and smiling.

Grumpa watched from the dock with his arms crossed. Alex kicked rocks on the shore and looked sorry while I used a stick to draw dollar signs in the sand. He whispered to me, “I never got in trouble with my friends in Arizona.”

I kicked sand at him when the canoe-savers weren't watching. When they were watching, I tried to look sorry. Very, very sorry.

Alex and I wanted to hear Grumpa's story about the hole and the money, but Amelia ratted us out first. Mr. Walt Miller had left, our parents had come home, and everyone had rushed to the lake all worried, like a mermaid had washed up on shore or something. Such a big deal over a dumb canoe.

Alex's mom Sally walked down the slope toward the shore. She mussed Alex's hair and said, “Tell me you've run out of trouble, kiddo. Tell me your tank's empty.”

“Yeah, it's empty. Sorry, Mom.”

She pulled off her sandals. “I should get in the water.”

“Don't. Christa and I should help.” Alex called, “We'll help.”

Our dads yelled
no
at the same time.

So we waited. I wondered about everything, but I hid my wondering under my sorry face. I wondered about the Clarks' money. I wondered about Mr. Walt Miller and Sheriff Duncan and the trouble at Al Capone's old house. I wondered why people would stuff money in a wall and why Grumpa would keep it a secret from his buddy Mr. Walt Miller. I wondered how money could just float around the universe and not land in the laps of nice people, people who had important things to save.

Finally, the canoe made it to shore. They tipped it on its side to dump out the water and pushed it into the weeds. “Well, that's enough fun for tonight,” Neil said. “Let's go have dinner.”

“That's it?” Grumpa grumped. “That's all you're going to say to these kids?”

“What do you want me to do? Make them wash dishes at the restaurant for a week? Maybe you should be watching them instead of TV.” Neil's voice sounded like a snap: quick and sharp.

Grumpa shoved his fists in his pockets and stared at Neil, who stared back. Alex stopped kicking rocks, but he didn't look at me or them or anyone. The only sound was the buzz from a Jet Ski on the other side of the lake. Dad cleared his throat and said, “Okay then. Well … enjoy your dinner. We're having game night, so … we'll be heading inside, too.”

*   *   *

Matt the waiter helped save the canoe, but he ruined game night. He bugged me. He was like a fly buzzing around your face while you're eating an ice cream cone. Matt laughed at everything my parents said—proof he was a liar because my parents weren't funny.

Matt didn't know how to play gin rummy so we couldn't play gin rummy. Matt didn't know how to play canasta so we couldn't play canasta. We had to play Monopoly. Matt got Boardwalk
and
Park Place, which he sold to Amelia because she smiled and tossed her hair. He didn't even ask for a profit.

No, I didn't like him, even his name. Matt. Matt. Matt. Cat. Bat. Hat. Fat. Pat. Vat. That. Drat. Brat. Nobody's name should rhyme with that many words.

Amelia said, “We should have a bonfire night.” It was shocking—Amelia The Princess wanted to leave the castle and venture into her kingdom!

“It's supposed to rain.” Mom looked out the window over the sink. “It's sprinkling already.”

Matt said, “I can make popcorn. Real popcorn, the kind on the stove, not from the microwave. Do you have any kernels? I'll make some.”

“We do,” Dad said. “We tried to make real popcorn over a campfire last year.
Tried
. We burned it and ended up eating microwave popcorn around the fire.”

Everyone laughed except me.

Mom and Matt dug through the cupboards for a pan and oil and popcorn. Amelia watched them all happy. She wasn't even holding her texting machine. Dad squeezed my knee and leaned close. “What's up, sweetie? You're so quiet.”

I whispered, “He's ruining game night.”

“How?”

“Because it's supposed to be just us, and this might be our last game night ever!” My voice shook, and I could feel my eyes start to sweat.

“We'll always have family game night, no matter where we are. You have to stop confusing the place with the people. Our family is important. Not the cabin.”

I wanted to wrestle Dad to the ground until he took his stupid words back. Instead I went to the bedroom I shared with Amelia and slammed the door. I sat on the bottom bunk—Amelia's bunk—and stomped my heels on the floor.

Why couldn't Dad get a different job? Nothing could be harder than teaching kids about the boring olden days. If he could teach history, couldn't he sell cars? Or be a sheriff? Or be a
summer
sheriff with Sheriff Duncan so we could still live in Hayward every summer? That would be perfect! My parents constantly complained about teachers not making enough money. Now Dad couldn't teach. Why didn't he just get a job that paid more money?

Dad didn't care about the cabin. Amelia didn't care. Mom cared but not enough to do something. It was wrong to be ten and the only one who cared.

Then I heard
the word
.

I heard it float from the kitchen right through the bedroom door.

I got off the bunk and pressed my ear against the door. Amelia said it again. “I told you. She's so immature.”

Matt said, “Well, she's only like nine or whatever, right?”

Amelia said, “She's almost eleven! See? Christa's so immature people think she's two years younger than she actually is.”

Nine? I hated Amelia always telling me to grow up, but this was worse! I took a breath and prepared to show them how mature I could be. You don't have to paint your nails or wear mascara to be mature. I pushed the door open and marched back into the kitchen and smiled all big.

“I was just making sure our bedroom is picked up, and it is. Now I'm back to eat some of Matt's delicious popcorn.”

Amelia looked at Matt Cat-Hat and shrugged. Dad patted the seat next to him at the table. “Glad you could join us, sweetie.”

While Matt popped the kernels, Amelia melted butter and Mom set out bowls. I picked up the Monopoly pieces and put them in the box. I did it without being asked
and
without saying Amelia should do it since we'd played Monopoly because Matt couldn't do anything else.

But I wasn't done demonstrating my maturity. When everybody was seated at the table with popcorn, I said, quite delightfully, “So, Matt, tell us about yourself.”

My parents laughed. Amelia gave me one of her knock-it-off looks, but this was the kind of mature question adults asked all the time. Matt Chatty-Chat-Chat didn't mind, either. He was one of those young people who liked talking to adults.

“I play hockey on varsity. I need a hockey scholarship because that's the only way I'll ever have money for college.”

“What kind of career are you planning?” Mom asked.

Matt's eyes seemed extra big and extra blue as he answered, “I'd like to be a teacher.”

My parents smiled as though an angel had opened her wings. Dad said, “It must be hard having a job during hockey season.”

“Yeah, but it just got easier. Sally and Neil are way better than old Ed Clark. A guy with a fortune hiding under his mattress should be happier, don't you think?”

“Rumors are very—” Mom started to talk, but I couldn't believe Matt had the story so wrong. I interrupted. “Hiding money under his mattress? Hah! More like money hiding in a wall!” Then I remembered Grumpa had told us to keep it quiet—the hole in the wall, the hundred dollar bills I'd found, the secret fortune. The last thing I needed was Matt Flat-Bat searching for loot. I tried to unsay it. “That was a joke. Money in a wall! Um … Knock knock?”

Matt looked confused, but he played along. “Who's there?”

“Money in a wall.”

“Money in a wall who?” My brain felt mushy. Matt repeated, “Money in a wall who?” I needed time, so I shoved a fistful of popcorn in my mouth. It's not mature to talk with a mouth full of popcorn. I chewed and chewed and chewed. Matt repeated, “Money in a wall who?”

I swallowed. “I forgot.”

“You forgot your own joke?” Amelia rolled her eyes. “Christa, you're too weird.”

Dad adjusted his glasses on his nose. Even with the whiskers he looked like a history teacher. “The Clarks are interesting folks. I'd want to get a look around that restaurant. With all the old artifacts upstairs—the Prohibition posters, the china—I'd love to see what's in the basement.”

“What's Prohibition?” I asked.

“That's when it was illegal to make and sell alcohol. That law was passed because people used to drink a lot more than they do now. Alcohol caused a lot of problems,” Dad said.

“Hah! I guess alcohol made them forget how awful it was to live without television.” Everyone laughed at my joke.

“The basement is pretty cool,” Matt said. “We're not supposed to go down there, but everybody checks it out eventually. I mean, you have to, right?”

“I would never encourage rule breaking.” Dad huddled closer to Matt and grinned like a teenager. “But if the rule's already broken, then you might as well tell me what's down there.”

Everyone laughed, even Amelia The Princess, who hadn't laughed at the cabin in two years. I huddled close, too, in case Matt's report revealed big clues.

“The Clarks could open a museum, no joke. The basement is packed. Lots of kitchen things. They've got an old walk-in freezer against the wall that they don't use anymore. It's locked, so you can't get inside. There's a bunch of weird stuff, too. My buddy and I found this old cane. You screw off the top and inside is a glass tube, which people would fill with booze so they could drink it secretly.”

“A whiskey cane!” Dad nearly bounced off his chair. “A real whiskey cane? Amazing! What else?”

“Wait a minute,” Amelia said. “I thought the Clarks didn't drink when it was illegal to drink. Look at all the old posters on the walls. They still don't sell beer.”

“Ed Clark's mother was the anti-booze person,” Matt said. “She was part of some church group that started Prohibition and got laws making booze illegal. She was upset when the laws changed back. Cranky Ed sees things her way. But everyone around here knows Ed Clark's father and grandfather were bootleggers. They worked for Al Capone.”

I squealed, “And Al Capone built a big house here and even owned an entire lake!”

“I'm surprised you remember that, Christa,” Mom said. “You were only four when we toured Capone's hideout. It's been closed for years now.”

“Alex told me about the house. Or the hideout, whatever you call it. Mr. Edmund Clark has been there. Maybe he was there for a tour, or maybe he was there a long time ago, when the house was used for bootlegging.”

“Ed is old, but he's not old enough to have been bootlegging in Capone's hideaway,” Dad said. “I'm sure he toured it.”

“I don't remember touring it,” I said. “I don't remember anything about it.”

“How could you forget? I can't.” Amelia turned to Matt. “Christa climbed on the sofa and knocked over a lamp. The tour guide asked us to leave.”

Dad waved his hand, shooing away any talk that wasn't about artifacts. “So what else is in the basement?”

“Junk, really. Aprons. Pictures. Old menus. Empty kegs. Most snoopers don't care about artifacts or whatever historians call them. They're looking for money, but nobody ever finds anything down there. Everyone in town knows Capone hid money and everyone knows it's scattered all over the place and everyone knows the Clarks took some. It's just not in that basement.”

“Interesting.” Amelia The Princess yawned because the conversation, I guessed, did not have the excitement of tanning.

“Nan said there's no secret money. I asked her when Alex and I were in the bait shop.”

Dad was so interested in Matt's report that he ignored me. “Are there journals? That's where you experience history, you know, reading about people's day-to-day lives.” Dad had to be deaf. Matt was talking about money. Who cared about journals and aprons and pictures?

“Journals? Probably,” Matt said.

Mom started stacking the empty popcorn bowls. “This is silly. Al Capone killed people for money. I don't think he willy-nilly scattered his fortune around the Northwoods. If he hid money anywhere, it'd be in a safe.”

I said it again. “Nan told me there's no secret money at Clarks Pizza.”

“Then why are so many people looking for it?” I didn't have an answer to Matt's question. He said, “Personally, I think it's in the tunnels.”

My legs practically grew springs. I hollered, “Tunnels? What tunnels?”

“Bootleggers dug tunnels to run booze around,” Matt said. “True fact. Nobody's found them, but they're here. Everyone knows it.”

Dad shook his head. “That's one of those old legends, Matt. Bootleggers used cars and boats to move their alcohol. They bribed cops, and they had guns. They had secret doors between buildings and some tunnels in the city, but not in the woods. Tunnels would've been too much work. Even if they had dug tunnels, they would've caved in years ago. Bootleggers weren't exactly master engineers.”