Finders Keepers (3 page)

She shouted, “She got it in my eye!”

Mom grabbed the Parmesan jar from my hand. “Stop it. Both of you. I mean it.”

I had to get away before I smacked Amelia and ended up grounded for the summer. I announced I was going to the bathroom, and Amelia said, “We'll weep the whole time you're gone.”

That did it. I threw my napkin in her face and bolted out of the booth, yelling, “I hope your phone explodes!”

People turned and stared at us. I stomped across the restaurant and down the hall to the bathroom. I didn't have to go. I needed a few minutes for my parents to forget about that scene. I leaned against the wall by the ladies' room with my arms crossed.

Their news stunk more than Amelia's vanilla-spice-lavender-whatever body spray. The cabin was for sale,
and
my parents wouldn't have time to fish or play cards or do anything fun. It'd be just like home where all they did was grade papers and plan lessons. And I'd be stuck in stupid classes all day with adults telling me “wait your turn” and “pay attention” and “make better choices.”

Farther down the hall I saw a handwritten sign stuck to the door by the kitchen. I knew it was the basement door because I'd seen Mr. Edmund Clark open it. I got closer so I could read it. The sign said:

KEEP OUT!

THERE IS NO LOOT UP HERE.

THERE IS NO LOOT DOWN THERE.

THERE IS NO LOOT ANYWHERE.

ENJOY YOUR PIZZA.

“I think it sounds like Dr. Seuss.” A woman wearing a Clarks Pizza t-shirt (
Eatsa Some Pizza!
) studied the note. “Are you the girl who was playing in my yard this morning?”

She looked like Alex—brown eyes, dark skin, and a smile that seemed nervous.

“You're Alex's mom, right? I'm Christa.”

“Sally Clark. You can call me Sally. My husband is Neil. We're running the restaurant now.”

“What's the deal with this note?”

She shrugged. “Staff aren't supposed to be in the basement, and someone was rummaging around down there. Happens a lot, I guess.”

“Rummaging for what?”

“Money. I didn't grow up here, but I'm told that Al Capone hid money in this area before he went to prison. Have you heard of Al Capone?”

“He's a gangster.”

“A bootlegger,” she said.

“That's a funny word.”

She smiled. “It's what they call people who sold alcohol when it was illegal. Anyway, Al Capone had a place near here.”

“A cabin. Alex told me.”

She laughed. “Ed showed me photos of the place, and cabin isn't the right word. It's a beautiful stone house, and there's a separate bunkhouse and an eight-car garage and guard towers that protected the place from other gangs. There's a private lake, too.”

“Al Capone had his own lake?”

“My husband says it was open for tours for many years. The owners built a restaurant and gift shop, but everything closed when the economy tanked.”

“So why do people think there's loot at Clarks Pizza?”

“Rumors. People believe the craziest stories.” She ran her hand over the sign, which was coming loose. She pressed it against the wood. “A real security system might help, but my father-in-law is too cheap and stubborn.” Her face turned red. “I mean, he's careful with money and … he sticks by his decisions. I didn't mean cheap and stubborn.” She cleared her throat. “Why don't you take me to your table? I want to meet your parents.”

As soon as the introductions were made, Sally and my parents did that adult thing where they talked and talked like I wasn't even at the table. They talked about Neil managing a chain restaurant in Arizona and Neil not liking chain restaurants and about Mr. Edmund Clark's doctor telling him to retire and about Sally feeling excited for a real winter because she'd never touched snow, and it just got more boring. My stomach growled for pizza, and I wished Sally would go to the kitchen and find our food instead of chatting about snowflakes. I leaned closer to Amelia The Princess, who was huddling over her phone.

“Can I play a game on your phone?” I asked.

“I'm reading an article.”

“What's the article about?”

She pressed the phone against her chest so I couldn't see. “It's about a ten-year-old girl who gets lost in the Northwoods of Wisconsin and a bear eats her.”

I was going to kick her under the table and pretend it was an accident, but then I heard words coming together in a horrible way. Summer. Christa. Alex. Mr. Edmund Clark.

“He's watching Alex anyway,” Sally said.

“But Ed's retiring,” Dad said. “I don't want him to spend his summer watching Christa. His grandson is one thing, but toss in another kid? That doesn't seem right.”

“Trust me, it'll be a lot less work for him if Alex has someone to play with. It'd be a huge favor to us if Christa could stay home with him.”

Amelia's face curved into a huge smile, but my lips froze.

Mom squeezed my hand. “What do you think? Would you like to stay with Mr. Clark while we work? You'd be on the lake instead of at the library. That'd be good, huh?”

Grumpy Mr. Edmund Clark in charge of me? All summer? Suddenly the library didn't sound so bad.

 

FINDERS KEEPERS AND LOSERS WEEPERS

Of all the vacation spots—mountains, parks, oceans, and canyons—the most beautiful place in the United States of America is Wisconsin's town of Hayward, definitely. The day before my parents' teaching program started, Dad and I took Alex on a tour to show him the town's best places.

We spent the morning at the National Fresh Water Fishing Hall of Fame, which is in a building shaped like a gigantic fish and obviously the best of all the halls of fame. Dad took pictures of us standing in the balcony, which is tucked inside the fish's mouth. We leaned on the fake fish teeth and smiled for the camera. After lunch, we watched a lumberjack demonstration and got ice cream from the world's best ice cream store. Then we went to the world's best candy store and watched the fudge lady, who worked in front of the window. She stirred fudge in a huge vat and smiled at the people on the sidewalk. I wondered if she ever stuck her finger in the vat and tasted the fudge when people weren't watching. The fudge lady had the best job in the world.

But I saved the best for last. While Dad went to the used bookstore, I took Alex around the corner and down two blocks to Nan's Bait and Tackle.

We always got our live bait from Nancy “Nan” Kline, who opened her very own bait store when she graduated high school. She'd been selling bait and tackle for more than thirty years. I wanted to become Nan's partner when I finished school. Every time I left the store she'd tell me, “Hurry up and graduate, would ya?” As far as I was concerned, Nan was the only person who could tell me to grow up.

Alex gagged when I opened the door. He spit his candy into the trash can and plugged his nose.

“Man, it stinks! The smell is making my sour worms taste like fish.”

I looked around. Nan wasn't at the counter, so she was probably in the back room. I hissed, “That's mean! Don't let her see you plugging your nose.”

Alex's arms dropped to his sides, but the frown didn't leave his face. “I don't see what's so special about this place.”

True, the floor was dirty. Paint peeled from the walls near the ceiling. Everything that had once been white was now gray. It looked exactly like it should—like a place where Hayward's most expert fishermen and fisherwomen swapped stories about the ones that got away.

I pulled Alex by the arm and led him to the bait tanks that lined the wall. A kid from Arizona had a lot to learn about living on a lake.

“I'll teach you about the different kinds of bait.”

“I don't need you to teach me.”

“These are golden shiners. They're great for catching big fish. Have you ever used golden shiners?”

Alex watched the minnows dart across the tank. He moved to the next tank and then the next. “I like these silver ones better.”

“Fathead minnows? They're very ordinary.”

Clearly Mr. Edmund Clark hadn't explained bait to his only grandson. Weird. The old man wasn't a chit-chatter, but he could talk bait and tackle forever. He once spent ten minutes by the dock—in the pouring rain—telling my dad that walleyes bit on fatheads and chub in the spring, but you definitely want to switch to worms and leeches in the summer. Dad was wet and freezing but didn't leave until the lecture was done because Mr. Edmund Clark is so scary.

“Look who's here! Christa Boyd-Adams.” Nan's arms squeezed me from behind. I turned and hugged her back. She'd cut her long red hair into a short bob, but she still smelled like bait and earth and pine. Northwoods perfume. “I was wondering when you'd stop in.”

“My parents sold our boat, but we're still going to fish from the dock.”

“I saw your mom a few days ago. She told me about the boat and selling the cabin. I'm sorry.” She mussed up my hair. “I'm selling the shop, too, so we'll go out at the same time. Seems right, doesn't it?”

“What? Why?” I nearly dropped my bag of candy. “That's crazy!”

“Tough business, selling bait and gear. One of the new gas stations started selling bait, plus someone's opening a shop in that new strip mall. Besides, a young couple wants to buy the building. Good timing for me.”

Alex wandered down the wall of tanks, watching the minnows. Olivia Stanger was selling his neighbor's cabin, the bait shop was closing, and his grandfather wasn't making pizza anymore. He didn't even care.

Nan said, “You'll get a chuckle out of this. The buyers want to remodel my building and open a tea shop.” She faked a British accent. “They will sell the finest English tea and crumpets.”

“That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard!”

Nan laughed as she wandered back to the register and poured herself coffee from the little pot on the counter. “Funny thing, isn't it? Tourists leave the suburbs and come to our little town to get
away
from the suburbs, and what do they want? Stuff from the suburbs.”

Nan was not getting a chuckle out of me because it wasn't funny. How could everything change in one summer? And all because of money.

The door opened and a police officer stepped inside. “Sheriff Duncan! How are you?” Nan poured him a cup of coffee, and they started that adult talking-about-the-weather thing.

I looked at the fishing pole display with Alex until he nudged me and pointed to the register where Nan and the sheriff stood. I heard the words “trespassing” and “vandalism.”

“The last bunch just dug holes in the ground, like they figured money had been buried. All this nonsense is happening in my county, on my watch. I've had it. So I'm just wondering if any tourists have been asking for directions to Capone's property.” The sheriff's voice was deep as a tuba. He towered over Nan, and his eyes looked like ice. When he yelled
halt
, I bet people halted.

“Not that I remember,” Nan said. “Why tourists?”

“Well, I got to thinking that the trespassers might not be local. Maybe some of the tourists have been asking questions about how to get there and what the security is like. That kind of thing.”

“Nope. The only thing tourists ask me about is the best fishing spots.” She refilled his coffee. “I wish someone would buy Capone's old property from the bank and reopen it. How'd a treasure like that go bankrupt in the first place? Even my tiny bait shop survived the recession.”

“Advertising,” Sheriff Duncan said. “I don't think they did enough advertising.”

Amelia The Princess was always telling me to mind my own business, but some people's business was just too interesting. I left Alex by the display, walked to the counter, and butted into their conversation. “Nan, has anyone ever found any money out there? Or anywhere?”

She leaned on the counter. “In the 1970s, an old guy named Sherwin Johnson was remodeling a resort Capone's buddies stayed at years ago. He opened up a wall and found a few thousand dollars.”

“Serious?” My voice squeaked with excitement.

“Dead serious.”

“Did he get to keep it?”

“I suppose so,” Nan said. “Nobody could put a real claim on it, could they? All those gangsters were dead.”

I nodded. “Finders keepers.”

Sheriff Duncan took a sip of his coffee and looked right in my eyes. “The problem, young lady, is that whenever you have finders keepers, you also have losers weepers. That's what makes it a crime.”

“Someone was digging around at Clarks Pizza, too. They broke into the basement.” I looked at Alex, thinking he'd speak up, but he just stared at his shoes.

Sheriff Duncan didn't look surprised, “Well, now, that's different. Sherwin Johnson stumbled upon the money. He had no connection. The Clarks were actual business associates of Capone's. Crooks, all of them. The son left town and never came back. Don't tell me that's not suspicious.”

Alex's cheeks went white to red, like his whole face had been pinched.

Nan said, “I went to school with Neil. He was a good guy. The Clarks never had two dimes to rub together. They aren't sitting on a fortune.”

“Course they are,” Sheriff Duncan said. “That's why Neil ran off. He's mad because old Ed wants to donate his stash to the fishing hall of fame. Everyone says so. That guy's nuttier than a peanut factory.”

“Ed was never the same after Mrs. Clark died. He made Neil quit the hockey team because he needed him to work in the restaurant. Neil could've had a scholarship. He was that good. Anyway, he left because he wanted a new life. It didn't have anything to do with money.” Nan smiled. “Neil was a cutie.”

This had turned into an awkward moment, for sure. Normally I barely noticed awkward moments—my parents were always explaining them to me afterward—but this made me want to crawl out of my skin. I had to stop this before poor Alex melted into the floor. I cleared my throat and said, “This is Alex Clark, Neil's son. They moved here to take over the restaurant.”