The Treasure of Maria Mamoun (5 page)

“Through the kitchen, around the side.”

But he led them directly through the massive front doors. Maria scarcely had time to take in the marble entryway, sweeping staircase, and crystal chandelier before they were whisked through a series of halls where all the furniture was covered in white sheets. They went down a smaller corridor and ended up in front of a double set of white doors.

“Well, this is it.” The man knocked and then walked away, leaving them standing alone. They waited for what seemed like an extraordinarily long time.

Just as Maria was about to ask her mother if maybe there were some mistake, the right-hand door swung open and a large, gruff woman with red cheeks, white hair, and blue scrubs grabbed Maria's mother by the arm.

“Ah you Celeste Mamoun?” the night nurse wheezed. She turned her
r
's into
h
's just like the ferry announcer. “I've been waiting for you. I got to make the ferry. You have to crush the meds and mix them with applesauce. He's on smooth foods since the stroke— You do speak English, right?”

“Of course,” Celeste said.

The nurse's face turned a deeper red. She stepped briskly back into the bedroom. Celeste rolled her eyes at Maria, then she followed the nurse.

Maria stayed in the hall. She peeked through the open door and saw a gigantic bed, in the middle of which a huge gray dog lolled regally, one outstretched paw held between the two skeletal hands of an ancient man.

Mr. Ironwall.

The old man's pale, sunken face was nearly lost in the mound of pillows. Beside the bed stood the sorts of machines and apparatus Maria had seen before in the many hospital rooms where her mother had worked: a portable toilet and Hoyer Lift and suction and oxygen and a stainless-steel table with syringes and pink plastic basins. The room had a strange, stale smell. The old man looked up and caught her eye, and then she was roughly shoved out of the doorway by the gruff night nurse.

“Mr. Ironwall don't want to see no kids right now,” she said to Maria's mother. “We got to do his bed bath and I want to show you the med orders…”

Celeste just had time to mouth “See you later” to Maria before the door shut.

Maria stood alone in the empty hall wondering what to do. She and her mother hadn't had a chance to discuss it. She wasn't particularly worried about being left alone, as many other children might have been, because she'd already spent so much of her life alone. And somehow she knew she'd landed in a safe place—or safe enough, at least compared to her old neighborhood.

But what should she
do
all day? She hadn't really given any thought to how she was supposed to spend her days while her mother worked.

Celeste was going to be busy all day most days, so Maria supposed she'd be entertaining herself. Perhaps that's what she should do. Go back to the cottage and examine that strange tube. Maybe explore the beach and find that boat.

She wandered back through the mansion in what she hoped was the way they came, but she couldn't be sure because the hallways in this wing all looked the same. Every so often she tried a doorknob, but all of the doors were locked.

Just as she was beginning to get tired and starting to despair, she found a knob that turned in her hand. At first the door stuck as if it had not opened in a long time. But when she shoved it with her shoulder, she stumbled into a large, dark room. Though no one had said as much, and there were no signs forbidding entry, she was pretty sure she was not supposed to go in. But there was no one around to tell her the rules, and what did they expect of a twelve-year-old girl left alone in a billionaire's mansion? Who wouldn't be curious? And so Maria pulled the door quietly behind her, careful to keep it slightly open—she wasn't foolish enough to lock herself in—and began to explore.

Dark curtains covered the windows, and only a little light penetrated the dusty gloom. Maria stood still for a moment, blinking and waiting for her eyes to adjust. Rows and rows of wine-colored velvet chairs—enough to seat at least fifty people—faced a stage with a plushy wine-colored curtain. It looked like a small theater. Maybe it was. Maybe he was rich enough to have his own private theater!

Old-fashioned posters covered the walls:
The Last Privateer
, an Ironwall production,
Joie de Vivre
, directed by Peter Ironwall,
To Have and To Hope
, produced by Peter Ironwall.

She wondered if Peter Ironwall was the Mr. Ironwall upstairs in the bedroom.

“Is anyone in here?” a female voice said.

Maria startled and turned.

A woman was peeking around the door. Upon seeing Maria, she stepped all the way in.

“You don't want to get lost in this big house,” the woman said. “You may get locked in a room and we'll find you three years later, mummified.”

“I'm sorry,” Maria said. “I left the door open a crack…”

“That's how I found you. If I hadn't, who knows what might have happened with you snooping about.”

“I wasn't snooping,” Maria said. “I just couldn't find the door to outside.”

“Well, that's not surprising. Typical of Frank to leave you high and dry.”

The woman looked neither old nor young. Her ruddy skin stretched tightly over her broad, unwrinkled forehead. Her eyes were big and bright, the color of the ocean (just like the gardener's
,
Maria thought), but her hair was a thin silver braid and she had the long yellow teeth of an old lady. Her clothes were wild and gypsylike with embroidery and beads. Maria guessed she was about her mother's age but had lived a much harder life, or else simply didn't believe in hair dye and dentists.

Suddenly the woman stuck out her hand. “Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Hattie, the housekeeper.”

“Maria.” She stuck out her own small hand. “You made the cinnamon buns. My mom and I loved them, thank you.”

Hattie took Maria's hand and turned it over, as if she were inspecting it. “You look like you could use more. You're a skinny one. And pale, too. I'd bet you don't get outside much.”

“Tante Farida, this old lady my mom and I know, always says I look like a canned string bean,” Maria said. “She runs a grocery store. In the Bronx.”

“Well, this isn't the Bronx,” Hattie said. She began tidying up the place, stacking books and papers. “You'll be outside a lot now. My boy, he's about your age, is out all the time. Every second he's not in school. And half the time when he should be in school—that's why his grades are so poor. Fishing, biking, skateboarding—we can't keep him home. It's like he was raised by wolves.” She turned and squinted at Maria. “Why aren't you in school?”

“My mom said it would be too awkward for me to enroll here for the last few weeks, and I could just go next year if—” She stopped talking. She wasn't sure if it was appropriate to say
if my mom keeps this job
. She didn't want to make it seem that there might be some reason she shouldn't.

“Well, you'll need something to do or you'll get bored. Ironwall House isn't a great place for children.”

“I think it's wonderful! It's like something out of a fairy tale—a mansion, the ocean—”

“What I mean is, Mr. Ironwall won't want you hanging around the mansion because he's sick and noise isn't good for his heart.”

“I'm very quiet,” Maria said.

“And you'll find the ocean isn't much fun for a while yet,” Hattie continued as if she hadn't heard Maria. “It's too cold for swimming till nearly mid-July.”

“What did Mr. Ironwall do?” Maria asked. “I mean, is this all his movie stuff? Is that how he became so rich? Like, was he a famous actor?”

“Not an actor, but he did something in film.” Hattie dusted a golden statuette and clucked her tongue. “He was a producer and a director. I think he even wrote some of the screenplays. But he didn't need to work, really. He was always rich. Family money.”

“What's ‘family money'?” Maria asked.

“His ancestors were all rich sea captains. Whalers, navy men, maybe even a pirate or two. And they married money … daughters of other captains…” Hattie paused each time she removed and dusted another statuette.

Maria wondered if any of the rich ancestors were the mysterious Captain Murderer.

“Anyhow, our Mr. Ironwall is the last heir to all that fortune. So that's how come he can keep this place even though he hasn't worked in years.” Hattie grabbed a folding chair to reach the top shelves. “I don't know when the last time was I dusted in here. These pictures need to be packaged up properly—the paper's getting all dry and cracked…”

“Yes, there are a lot of old things.” Maria looked at all the movie memorabilia. Between the posters hung many black-and-white photos. They showed lots of glamorous, laughing people. Maria hoped to recognize famous actors, but none of the names or faces meant anything to her. On the far wall was a large photo of two men standing proudly beside a sailboat. The cramped handwriting in the corner said
The Last Privateer
—
1963
.

Maria wondered if it was the sailboat she'd seen from her window. It had two poles sticking up. She peered more closely at the photo. In it, one man held a bottle tied with a ribbon. The other man, equally young and handsome, stood beside him. The crowd around them had their hands up as if they were caught applauding.

“Who's that?” she asked, pointing to the man with the bottle.

Hattie stopped dusting and peered closely at the photo. “Oh, that's Mr. Ironwall when he was young. Christening his yacht. The other fellow is an actor. Used to be very famous. I forget his name now. My parents would know. He lived here for years, but that was before my time.”

“Mr. Ironwall looks so young and happy,” Maria said. She could hardly believe the strong, handsome man in the photo was now the old man in the bed. “Does he still have this boat? I mean, is it the one down at the dock?” She looked closely at the picture. “It's got those two stick-things coming out of it like this one.”

“Those sticks are called masts. It might be.” Hattie dusted the photo, then all the photos beside it. “I never get down there myself. Always working inside.”

“Does Mr. Ironwall still go sailing?” Maria asked.

Hattie scoffed. “Oh, Mr. I hasn't been out of the house in years. He got the diabetes, and then had a stroke…” She wiped her hands and surveyed the room. “Come on, I'll get Frank to drive you back.”

Maria realized Frank must be the gardener with the golf cart.

“Oh, you don't have to do that,” she said. “It's not far, and like you said, I need the fresh air. Anyhow, I'm sure I can get back to the cottage once I find my way out of this house.”

“Well, I'll show you that much.”

Hattie walked briskly in front of Maria, explaining the wings and hallways as they went. Maria wasn't sure she'd remember any of it. Suddenly they were back in the grand entryway but heading in a different direction, away from Mr. Ironwall's room.

“We'll go through the kitchen so you'll know where to find me,” Hattie said. They went through a ballroom, a dining room (all tables and chairs covered in more white sheets), and then a set of swinging doors. They landed in a restaurant-size kitchen. The broad stainless-steel counters, giant walk-in refrigerator, and enormous stove were spotless, as if food hadn't touched them in years. The only part that looked used was a worn wooden table with an open newspaper, a coffee mug, and a pitcher of daffodils upon it.

Hattie held open the door to the outside for Maria. “You come by tomorrow for lunch and I won't take no for an answer. And we have to find you something to do all day. You can't be wandering around alone. Or who knows what sort of trouble you'll get into.” She turned and shut the door behind her, as if this were a perfectly normal way to say goodbye.

 

8

T
WICE
T
WICE
T
WO

Maria hurried back to the cottage. As soon as she got there, she raced up the spiral stairs to the attic, flopped on the bed, and pulled the leather tube from under her pillow. She ran her fingers over the name.

Captain Murderer.
He sounded like a pirate.

With the straps untied, the tube unrolled into a flat leather rectangle. Inside was a sheet of paper. But it wasn't really very paperish. It was more like very thin, soft fabric. If she looked closely, Maria could see the weave of fibers. The edges were yellow and crispy, and in a few places it was nearly worn through. The paper seemed very old. Maria smoothed it carefully on the quilt.

It was a map of an island, roughly triangular in shape, with the apex at the northern tip. The lacy shoreline had been inked by a careful hand. A few landmarks had been drawn: a series of cliffs, some small lakes—but a great deal of the island was blank as if it had not been explored, and there were no names or marks to help identify the place. Sea monsters and mermaids swam in the ocean and an elaborate drawing of a compass decorated the top right corner. The whole thing looked ancient. At the bottom was a note written in a fancy hand:

Twice twice two,

Then twice that more.

Take one from the first,

The Queen treads upon the door.

Maria stared at the parchment for a long time. She turned it over, but there was nothing on the back except for some unidentifiable tea-colored stains. She looked at the front again. There, off the northeastern corner of the island, floated three small circles, which she'd previously overlooked as just inky smudges. They looked like tiny rocks, compared to the big, triangular island. Across the circles, as if they'd been a mistake, was a large, flowery squiggle.

Maria reread the cryptic note.
Twice twice two, then twice that more.
Some kind of math problem. Boring. And who was the Queen? And what was the door? And what was that squiggle? A mistake? Someone crossing something out? Was it an X? On TV, X's on maps usually marked the spot for buried pirate treasure. And Captain Murderer certainly
sounded
like a pirate's name.