The Treasure of Maria Mamoun (16 page)

“Who?”

“Famous detective? Dashiell Hammett wrote the novels, Edward G. Robinson did the radio shows. Humphrey Bogart,
The Maltese Falcon
; any of this ringing a bell?”

“I've heard of Humphrey Bogart.”

“Thank heavens for small blessings. I was about to give up on you entirely.” Mr. Ironwall took a deep breath. “So now that you know my bloody ancestry, I suppose you won't respect the great name of Ironwall anymore.” He put his hand dramatically across his eyes, as if he were too ashamed to look at her.

Maria could tell he was kidding. “I just think it's exciting. Do you know any stories about him?”

“Stories about him? Legends, I should say.” Mr. Ironwall furrowed his brow. “He was a blackguard. A thoroughly unprincipled person. They say he betrayed more than a few governments, and spent time in many a jail. He fought on both sides of the war on both sides of the ocean—he was a gun for hire who changed his loyalties as frequently as he changed his striped socks. It was only the love of a fine Island maiden that made him settle down here on Island soil. He moved into her homestead—the cottage where you are now—and set about having little Murdefers. Somewhere along the line we Americanized the name.”

“So did he get actual treasure?” Maria bounced with excitement. “Is that why you're so rich?”

“Hasn't your mother ever told you that discussing other people's money is rude?”

“I'm sure she would have,” Maria said. “But we never knew anyone with money before.”

“So let us change the subject.” He folded his hands like a prim old lady. “How was the party at the Newcombs'? It must have been delightful. Ella was my favorite cook—don't tell Hattie. Her clam chowder was ambrosia.”

“Mrs. Newcomb is still a good cook,” Maria said. “We had oysters, which I thought I'd hate, but I kind of liked.” That reminded Maria of the previous night's conversation. “The Newcombs told me about
your
parties. They sound like they were wild.”

“I have never been ‘wild' in my life.” Mr. Ironwall looked away as if he were insulted. “I have always been the epitome of decorum.”

“I don't even know what that means.” Maria laughed. “Okay, your parties weren't wild, but they sound like they were fabulous. Pops said you once put pearls in all the oysters!”

“He exaggerates. I put a few pearls in a few oysters … maybe three at the most.” The corner of his mouth twitched. Maria supposed that was as close as he ever got to a smile. “But I did throw fabulous parties once upon a time.”

“Where did you get the pearls?” Maria said. “Were they leftovers from Captain Murdefer?”

He tapped his finger on the side of his nose. “My secret.”

“Where are they now? Your pearls, I mean.”

He waved his hand. “Somewhere. I don't know. Doesn't matter.”

“Of course it matters!” she said. “You
have
to know where they are.”

“Why? They're just round white oyster spit.”

“Well.” She thought for a moment. What Grandma had said while clearing the dishes came back to her. “It matters to your family. They might want them someday.”

“I have no family.”

“So what about all this?” Maria swept her hand through the air. “The mansion? The estate? The cottage?”

“When I shuffle off this mortal coil, the estate and all it holds can fall into the sea for all I care. I am the end of the great Murdefer line!” Mr. Ironwall closed his eyes for such a long time Maria thought he'd fallen asleep. She looked around for her mother, but Celeste had taken Maria's visit as a chance for a coffee break with Hattie. Then the old man opened one eye.

“You're still here,” he said.

“Of course I am,” Maria said. “You can't just say let it all fall into the sea! Think of all the people you'd be leaving high and dry. Frank, Hattie, my mom, me…”

“Ah.” Mr. Ironwall opened his other eye. “Now we get to the real point. Selfish girl.”

“No!” Maria protested. “It's not just about us. It's that you don't realize how lucky you are. How beautiful this place is! How can you not love it? I love the cottage, and the beach, and—” She almost said
the boat
, but stopped herself.

“Perhaps I would feel as you do if I ever ventured from this room. But I never do, and so I don't care about much beyond these four walls. I've become a self-centered, whiny old curmudgeon.”

“I don't believe you're a whiny old whatever you said,” Maria told him.

“We really must work on your vocabulary,” Mr. Ironwall said. “I shall give your mother some useful literature to further your education. At any rate, I will turn to dust in this very bed without having enjoyed for decades the splendors you enumerate.” He waved vaguely about, as if to indicate all the splendors outside the room.

“Then get out of bed!” Maria said. “My mom said some people can get better if they really want to. If they try.”

“I can't. I'm too old.” He stuck out his lower lip like a petulant toddler.

“That's ridiculous. You don't have to give up just because you're old.”

“But I am also sick. And tired. And alone and waiting to die.”

“That's a horrible thing to say,” Maria said.

“But it is true. I have no children, no family, and there is nothing that distinguishes one day from the next. I have become one of those parasitic old people who can't even go to the toilet themselves. There!” He pointed at Maria. “Now I've shocked you. But it's true.”

“It doesn't have to be like that,” Maria said. “You can still have parties. You can have a Fourth of July party. That's the next holiday coming up. I'm sure it would be fun.”

“What am I going to do? Invite all the people I know for fireworks and a backyard barbecue?”

“Why not?”

“Because I've outlived them all!” Mr. Ironwall frowned.

Maria frowned back. “Well, I want to celebrate the Fourth this year, even if you don't.”

“You don't need me to throw you a party,” Mr. Ironwall said. “Just go into town. You can have it all: parade, fireworks—a real all-American extravaganza.”

At that moment Celeste walked into the room with a tray covered with paper cups of pills and a small dish of applesauce. “Enough, Maria. You can continue your conversation on another day. Now it's time for Mr. Ironwall's meds. And we are doing those range-of-motion exercises whether you like it or not, Mr. I. ‘Use it or lose it,' as Dr. Singh says.”

“Yes, sir, ma'am sir.” Mr. Ironwall saluted Celeste as if she were a general in the army. To Maria he said, “Do you see how your mother bosses me around?”

*   *   *

Maria spent the rest of the afternoon in her attic, halfheartedly working on a jigsaw puzzle of cartoon cats. But her mind kept drifting back to the disturbing conversation she'd had with Mr. Ironwall. Sometimes, she couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. He said the saddest things as if he were making a joke. But it wasn't funny.

Though she was no closer to getting a boat, at least she could try to decipher the cryptic message at the bottom of the treasure map:

Twice twice two,

Then twice that more.

Take one from the first,

The Queen treads upon the door.

She rolled over on her back and stared at the sloping ceiling. The strange carvings on the beams held no clues either.
JM 1689, 1230, FH 1718, SI 1812
. So many people had lived here and left their marks down through the years. And now Mr. Ironwall was the end of the line, waiting to leave them all high and dry.

*   *   *

The door downstairs slammed and Maria startled awake from a nap. Of course, it was nearly five-thirty—her mother was coming home. She slid the charts under her bed.

“
Chérie?
You up there?” Celeste called from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yeah, Mama. I was just doing a puzzle.” Maria started down. Her mother was already pulling off her scrubs and heading for the bathroom.

“Could you start the stove? I need to take a shower—I'm going out to dinner with Frank. He's taking me to that fried fish place. He wouldn't take no for an answer. Do you mind? Hattie sent me over with food for you—maybe I shouldn't go.”

“No, you should go. Really.”

“I hate leaving you alone all evening after you've already been alone all day.”

“I'll be fine, Mama.” Maria twisted up paper and loaded some kindling and a few logs into the woodstove, and lit it all with a long match. “It'll be a few minutes before the water heats up. I haven't had a fire today.”

“Did Hattie tell you about Paolo?” Celeste called back. “Frank said he got caught stealing a boat from the yacht club.”

An icy knot twisted in Maria's stomach.

Celeste popped her head out of the bathroom. “He sailed it up to the yacht club around lunchtime today—in full view of the security guard and everything—as if he wasn't doing anything wrong.”

“At least he brought it back…”

“But still,
chérie
.” Celeste shook her head in disbelief. “That poor Hattie.”

Obviously Paolo hadn't told on her, or her mother would be mad at her right now. He had said he wasn't going to tell and he didn't.

“He's not a bad kid, Mama,” Maria said. “He's just a little confused. You know, because of his dad.”

“That excuse is only good for so long. You grew up without a father and I don't see you going all crazy.” She disappeared into the bathroom. “Water's probably hot enough.”

Maria listened to her mother's shower water. The tinfoil packages of food that Hattie had sent sat on the kitchen counter. They smelled good, but Maria wasn't hungry. It didn't feel like dinnertime yet. These were the longest days of the year. It would be hours before it was dark—she wondered if her mother would be back in time to tuck her in. She'd kind of gotten used to it. Celeste and her reading together, or playing cards or a board game, then her mother climbing up the winding stairs to make sure she was comfortable and safe.

She thought about Paolo and how miserable he must be right now. She wondered which bedroom was his—the books one, or the African violets? Did anyone tuck him in when he was in trouble? Or was he too old anyhow?

The shower turned off and Celeste stepped from the bathroom in a terry cloth robe, comb in hand.

“You look like you maybe just lost your best friend,” Celeste said.

“No, it's just…” Maria poked at the fire. She couldn't talk to her about Paolo or the treasure map. Suddenly it seemed there were so many things she couldn't talk to her mother about.

“What is it?”

“I don't know,” Maria said. “It's just—do you think Mr. Ironwall is going to die?”

“But of course,” Celeste answered. “Everyone dies.”

“No, I mean soon.”

Now Celeste stopped combing and stood still. “Well, he's very old. And he's had a stroke.”

“But what will happen to us?” Maria hung the poker up. “When he dies you won't have a job anymore. We'll be left high and dry.”

“High and dry? Where did you hear that expression?”

“You know. What Hattie said last night—”

Celeste put the comb in her pocket and sat on the couch near Maria's feet. “Is that what is bothering you? Don't worry,
chérie
, I can always find a job. People always need experienced nurses.”

“Here, though? On this island?”

“If not here, somewhere else.” Celeste took hold of Maria's ankles and gave them a squeeze. “Come. Let us see what Hattie cooked for you.”

Maria didn't move. “I don't want to go somewhere else. I like it here.”

Celeste patted her knee and stood up. “I'm glad you like it here. I like it here, too. But I don't want to make you any promises I can't keep. If Mr. Ironwall were to die, we maybe could go back to the city and stay with Tante Farida until we got back on our feet. She said we could if things didn't work out.” She laid a plate and silverware on the table.

“Why would we have to stay with her? She's not even related to us.”

Celeste sighed. “Maria, you know we don't have family we can go to.”

Maria shuffled over to the kitchen table. “I'd rather be homeless here than move back with Tante Farida.”

“Well, we don't always get what we want. And we are very lucky to be in this place right now. And perhaps we'll be lucky enough to be here a good long time.” Celeste put the tinfoil packages on the table. “But I can't promise we will stay here forever. That would just be unrealistic.”

“I hate being realistic.” Maria opened the first package. Fried chicken again. It was still warm.

“Being realistic is part of growing up. My apologies, but we all have to do it sometime.” Celeste looked at the clock. “Frank will be here any minute.”

After her mother left, Maria carried her dinner over to the sofa. Fried chicken, biscuits, sweet potatoes, and greens. It smelled lovely. But she kept thinking about what her mother had said.

She wished Brutus were here, or even Paolo. She really didn't want to be alone after all. But Frank had finally gotten her mom to say yes to a dinner. Her mother never went on dates. And she'd actually looked happy, getting ready for it. Maria stared into the dying fire. She was thinking of Celeste combing her hair, smiling into the mirror, getting ready for a date with Frank.

A date.

Something sparked in Maria's brain. She put the plate down and raced up to the attic. With shaking hands she took the chart from under her bed and unrolled it.

Twice twice two,

Then twice that more …