The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (2 page)

Dad eased the car around the corner and started up the driveway. “Don't even think of skateboarding down this, Lars,” he said. “There's quite a drop-off on the other side of the pike. You'd break a leg if you went off it, and maybe your neck.”

“It's too rutted for skateboarding anyway, Dad,” I replied. Then, as we jounced up the long, steep driveway, I stuck my head out the window to check out my new home.

Even by moonlight I could tell that it was different from any house I'd ever seen. It looked as if someone hadn't been able to decide what sort of house he wanted, so he'd hooked several kinds together. There were dark, bumpy stones on the middle part, but the left section was shingled like our old Minnesota house; the right was covered with white stuff.

Mom said the pointy windows were called eyebrow windows.

“Okay, then, so which window belongs to the room where the ghost hangs out?” I asked, only half in jest.

“Now
that
is something you're going to have to discover for yourself,” she said, giving her version of a fiendish laugh.

I winced. “Aw, Mom, cut it out. You don't honestly think you scared me with that dumb story about ghosts.”

“I didn't mean to
scare
you, honey. These ghosts are
very
friendly; nothing to fret about at all, according to George. What an imagination that brother of mine had, and what a tease he was!” She sighed.

“That's where your room is, Lars,” Dad said. “The far left window on the second floor—the one with the light on.”

I glanced up. Someone was silhouetted in the window of what was to be my room. Whoever it was slowly raised one hand. It reminded me of the picture sent on the
Pioneer 10
space probe to greet the rest of the universe. “Is that Aunt Cass waving at us?” I asked.

“I don't see her,” Mom said. “Where is she?”

“There—in my room,” I said impatiently.

“You must be seeing things, Lars,” Dad responded. “Cass hardly ever goes up there now. The stairs are getting to be too much for her.”

“Maybe it's a window shade flapping in the breeze,” Mom said.

“B-but can't you see . . .” I looked up again, but the figure was gone.

The headlights swooped past the front of an old barn as we pulled to a stop behind the house. As soon as I climbed out of the car, I started toward the back door. I wanted to know who had been looking out of that window.

But before I'd taken more than a few steps, an eerie sound stopped me in my tracks. A spooky stream of notes, wheezy and piercing, was coming from the house.

“What's
that?
” I said in a hoarse whisper.

Without missing a beat, Mom answered matter-of-factly, “Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, unless I miss my guess.”

Dad sang along. “Duddle-la . . . deedle deedle deet deeeeee. Remember, Lars, when we saw
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea?
That's the pipe organ piece Captain Nemo played on board his submarine.”

“Oh yeah,” I gulped. “Captain Nemo on the
Nautilus
.”

“It's only Cass playing her pump organ,” Mom said. “Go in and introduce yourself, Lars. You're the one she's most anxious to see. Besides, I have a surprise for her I have to dig out.”

Suddenly I wasn't too keen about walking into that creepy old place by myself. Swallowing hard, I marched to the door and tried the handle. It didn't budge.

Dad came up and set down a couple of suitcases. “Darn, she's pulled in the latchstring. Shell never hear the knocker over the sound of that organ. Run around to the front door, Lars, and see if that string's out. Just give it a pull.” He headed back to the car, where Mom was rummaging through the trunk.

I trudged around to the front door and tugged on the leather thong hanging out beneath the door handle. Slowly, slowly, the old wooden door creaked open.

Inside, candlelight flickered from a candelabra on a pump organ that did look like Captain Nemo's. My great-aunt sat playing at the keyboard, her feet vigorously working the pedals below. I crossed over and timidly touched her on the shoulder. Startled, she shrieked so loudly that I echoed a pretty respectable squawk myself.

Aunt Cass ratcheted herself around on the organ bench, and I got a good look at her. Except for the color of her face, she looked exactly like the witch in
The Wizard of Oz
. I noticed her hand was over her heart as if she planned to say the pledge of allegiance, but she exclaimed, “My, but you took me by surprise, young man. I presume you
are
George?”

“Why, n-no—my name's Lars,” I stammered.

She waved away my words. “Yes, yes, of course, but I prefer to call you L. George—George for short.”

Not knowing what else to say, I asked if I could try the organ.

She nodded. “You'll find it's better exercise than any newfangled Nautilus machine,” she said, pursing her lips.

I wondered if Captain Nemo would agree.

Just then my mother came running in, looking alarmed and sounding breathless. “What was all that screaming?” she asked.

“We took each other aback,” Aunt Cass said. “A good beginning. This George promises to be as much fun as your brother. Now, give me a good hug, Sandra. It's about time you came back to Penncroft Farm!”

While they were hugging, Dad came in loaded with luggage “Here's what you were looking for, Sandra,” he said, handing her a wrapped box.

Mom took the package and gave it to Aunt Cass. “I've been meaning to give you this for a long time.”

“You shouldn't waste your money on me,” my great-aunt declared.

Mom shook her head slowly. “I didn't.”

Aunt Cass unwrapped the package. Inside was a wooden toy—a sort of cup on a stick with a ball connected to it by a leather cord. She stared at it without saying a word, then deftly flipped the ball into the cup. “I don't understand,” she said, turning to gaze at Mom. “Why did you bring this to me?”

“When George . . .” Mom's voice choked up. She cleared her throat and went on. “After George was killed in Vietnam, all his personal effects were sent to me. This old cup and ball came with his other stuff.”

“But why didn't you give it to one of your boys, Sandra?”

“Because I remembered you didn't just give it to George. He had to
earn
it in that historical treasure hunt of yours.”

Aunt Cass's face wrinkled into a smile. “Yes, that was quite a challenge for George, but he finally figured out the hiding place on his own. All it took was the right spirit.”

“That's all
he'd
ever say, the rat; he was so smug about keeping it secret! After that I never could find him when we played hide-and-seek. It must have been a great hiding place.”

“Yes, indeed,” Aunt Cass said softly.

“I don't suppose you'd tell me where it is, would you?” asked my mother hopefully.

“I've never
told
anybody, Sandra. It has to be discovered, you know. Just like your brother did,” Aunt Cass replied, an unreadable look on her face.

There was nothing unreadable about Mom's expression—her disappointment was obvious. “Well, anyway, I've brought your toy back where it belongs, Cass,” she said, and went out.

Aunt Cass flipped the ball into the cup two more times. Itching to try it, I stretched out my hand without thinking.

My father must have noticed. “Maybe there's someone else here who might like a chance to ‘earn' the thing,” he said.

Aunt Cass's faded blue eyes studied me intently. “I have only one thing to say to you, George,” she said, then paused. I guess I expected her to say something about my doing a treasure hunt like Uncle George. Instead, she frowned and sternly asked, “Why didn't you pick more peas?”

There was a kind of strangled choke of laughter from Dad, but he only asked if Aunt Cass had been upstairs looking out the window. “Lars thought he saw you waving from his bedroom window as we drove in,” he said, sounding amused.

“Oh, he did, did he?” Aunt Cass raised one eyebrow and gave me a funny look, as if she were trying to guess what size I wore or something. Then she turned back to Dad. “Now Erik, you know I seldom go up these stairs anymore.”

“That's what I told him. He must be so sleepy he's seeing things. C'mon, Lars, I'll show you the way to bed,” Dad said.

I was too tired to argue. Silently I followed him up the narrow staircase and down the dark hallway to my room. I went straight to the window. A shade fluttered a little in the breeze, but there was nothing faintly resembling the guy on the
Pioneer 10
picture.

Dad joined me at the window. “You must have seen the curtains blowing behind the shade,” he said. He pulled down the sash. “Can't leave this open—it'll probably get pretty cold tonight. After all, it's almost Halloween. Now, hop into bed as fast as you can, Lars. See you in the morning.”

“Wait a minute, Dad. Why did Aunt Cass ask me about picking peas? Does she have all her marbles?” I asked.

“Every one,” Dad chuckled. “She was referring to the last time we were here. She had a bumper crop of peas in her garden and sent you and Peter out there with big buckets to pick some. Peter kept at it, but you came back in a couple of minutes—with only two peas in your bucket. She couldn't understand why anybody would let little things like heat, bugs, or a
very
wet diaper get in the way of pea picking.”

“I'll pick peas for her now if she likes,” I offered nobly, “just as long as I don't have to eat any.” There was nothing I hated more than peas.

“I'm sure she'll be happy to hear that. Good night, Lars,” Dad said, and went out.

Quickly I got ready for bed. As I climbed under the canopy, I glanced up, remembering my can o' pee pun. With a smirk, I started to slide under the covers. But my feet made it only partway down, stranding my knees somewhere in the vicinity of my chin.

I'd been bamboozled by Aunt Cass.

2

I woke up with jumbled covers and cold toes. For a minute I couldn't remember where I was, then it all came flooding back: Pennsylvania, Penncroft Farm, Aunt Cass, and the apple-pied bed.

Pulling the blankets around me, I leaned out from under the canopy to look for the pictures Mom had mentioned, but found only one—a painting of a man about my dad's age. The picture was almost entirely black and white, from the guy's short, dark hair and black coat to the snowy ruffles of his shirt. The only color on the canvas was the bright blue of his eyes, which seemed to be gazing solemnly at me. Trailing covers, I crossed to read the metal plate on the painting:
George Hargreaves, Painted by Charles Willson Peale, Philadelphia, 1805
.

Suddenly, the unmistakable scent of frying bacon wafted up to my nose. Hurrying into my clothes, I went down the stairs two at a time, then stopped at the kitchen door to look around.

An enormous stone fireplace, deep and high enough for me and several friends (if I'd had any) to stand up in, covered one wall. A big copper kettle swung from a long black rod, and there were metal objects on the hearth that looked like something from a torture chamber. A wooden bench with a tall back stuck out from each side of the fireplace.

At the other end of the kitchen, Dad sat at the table, reading the paper. Mom was manning the toaster while Aunt Cass fried eggs and bacon at a modern stove.

When I heard Mom ask who Aunt Cass was playing tricks on these days, it sounded like my cue, so I cleared my throat loudly from the doorway. Both women jumped, and Aunt Cass repeated that pledge of allegiance business with her hand to her heart.

They both said good morning, then Mom turned back to her aunt. “Speaking of tricks, Cass, I told Lars that instead of trick-or-treating, we'd have an old-fashioned Halloween party here. Could we cook in the old fireplace? Maybe mull cider in the old copper kettle and pop corn like we used to? Maybe invite some friends?”

Aunt Cass took a deep breath and straightened up. “Of course, Sandra,” she said briskly. “I'll call Judge Bank.”

She slipped the eggs out of the frying pan onto the plates, Mom passed the toast and nudged Dad out of his newspaper, and we all began to eat. From across the table, my great-aunt gazed at me as soberly as the guy in the picture upstairs, but the way her lips twitched wasn't solemn at all.

“So, George,” she said, “how did you sleep?”

“No problem,” I replied, squelching a smile, “once I got used to the
short
bed. Then it was easy as apple pie.”

Dad spoke up, something he seldom does before finishing his first cup of coffee. “These antique beds are a little short for me, too, Cass. Guess I'll have to set up our king-size bed.”

“If you think
these
beds are short, you should see the one George Washington slept in at Valley Forge,” Mom put in. “It's only about five feet long, and he was over six feet tall. I've never understood how he did it.”

“The beds were shorter in those days because people slept propped up on pillows. They believed it prevented tuberculosis,” Aunt Cass explained. “The notion probably started because sitting up eased their breathing when they
did
get a lung disease.”

“Even if Washington slept sitting up, I bet he wasn't very comfy on that short bed at Valley Forge,” Mom retorted. “Gee, Lars, I can hardly wait to show you his headquarters up there!”

“The main Valley Forge museum is interesting, too,” Aunt Cass said with a sniff. “Although I don't feel that it tells the whole story. Not everybody around here supported the Revolution, you know. It was really a civil war—the first American civil war.”

Mom glanced at Dad and nervously crumbled her toast into her saucer. “Um . . . Aunt Cass . . . I've been meaning to ask you about that museum idea of yours. You mean a kind of portrait gallery or something, with that pair of Peale paintings upstairs?”