Legends of the Ghost Pirates (18 page)

Suddenly the enormity of our situation hits me like
a freight train. Once again, I've 'borrowed' Mr. P's sailboat
without his permission, we've lied to our parents, and smugglers
almost killed us. And we didn't find one stinking gold coin! How
did this get so far out of control?

Sara and Jo also have glum looks on their faces. I
feel bad because I dragged Sara into this; it's not really her
fault. In less than an hour we'll be tied up at the dock and I'll
have a whole other set of problems to deal with. This sure didn't
turn out the way I'd hoped it would.

Chapter 23

Consequences

This
morning heavy fog is
blanketing the town making for some cold damp air. The tops of the
pine trees disappear into the gray mist. But even if it was a sunny
day I doubt it'd improve my mood.

We've been back for a day now, so I'm headed over to
Mr. P's house because later this afternoon he and his wife will be
arriving. Now that I look back, the whole idea of searching for
treasure was a bad one right from the start, or at least the way we
did it. I don't know what happened; maybe the whole idea of getting
rich blocked any common sense I had. It probably wouldn't have been
a big deal, either, if Skinny Pete hadn't shown up. I guess it's
true, people do stupid things when there's a lot of money involved.
And there wasn't even any treasure. But now I have to deal with
explaining to Mr. P about the three holes in the varnished wood
transom.

I've been walking my bike rather than riding it for
the last hour. I'm not in a hurry to get there, and walking it has
given me time to think. What to tell Mr. P about the three holes?
Unfortunately all this thinking time hasn't helped me come up with
one darn thing that's even close to brilliant. I hope the truth
works. I might as well get this over with. I swing myself up onto
my bike and start peddling to the Plankinton's house.

Peddling up their long driveway toward their large
cedar shingle home, I can see up ahead, near the three car garage,
a long white Lincoln Continental; Mr. P's car. I can't get a break,
they're already here! My stomach starts doing flip flops.

Just as I ride up to the house, Mr. P steps out onto
their front porch. He's dressed neatly with tan pants and a light
blue button down like he just stepped out of the yacht club. Along
with his white hair, he also has a trimmed up white mustache that
gives him sort of the sea captain look. But he's not; he's a
financial businessman from New York City. “Fisher, young man,” he
calls out with a wave and a smile. “I'm glad to see you here.
Perfect timing. We just arrived an hour ago. I was about to go down
to the boat to see how she's doing.”

I don't say anything and only shake his outstretched
hand. “Come. Let's have a look,” he says. I would rather be
anywhere but here right at this moment, but not knowing what else
to do, I follow him down the path to the dock.

Just before we reach the dock I stop. “Mr.
Plankinton. I need to tell you something about your sailboat.”

He stops too, turns to me placing his hands on his
hip with raised eyebrows. “Yes?”

I'm still not sure what I'm going to tell him, but
it's only going to be a matter of minutes before he notices the
three holes in the perfectly varnished transom of the sailboat. I
take a deep breath. “I'm not sure how to tell you this.”

He looks at me with a slightly more stern expression
on his face. “Go on.”

* * *

I set the cardboard box that I carried all the way
back from the Plankinton's, down on the corner of the picnic bench.
Inside the box are all my things that I kept on the sailboat: a
rain jacket, rubber boots, a sweat-shirt, my book on seamanship, a
cap, and several other things I had laying around.

At this hour, late morning, there aren't any
customers here at the Sea Side Restaurant. Besides, the foggy day
will probably keep a lot of customers from sitting outside on the
picnic benches. I look over at the pick-up window and can see Sara
in the back getting things ready for the day. I'm not sure what
she's doing, but she seems busy. Finally she glances out the
window, and I give her a slight wave. Sara, in return, holds up one
finger; she'll be out in just a minute.

As I'm poking through my boxes of things, I look up
to see Jo standing at the end of the table. She's wearing the navy
blue T-shirt with the name
Sea Side Restaurant
across it
because she's helping out bussing tables and other odd jobs while
she's still here visiting Sara.

Jo points at the box. “What's up with that?”

I look at it feeling sick to my stomach. “Oh, just a
few of my things from the sailboat.”

“Hmm...” she says folding her arms across her
chest.

Just then Sara sits down next to me as she pulls off
her white apron. She also looks at the box. “It didn't go so well,
did it?”

“Nope,” I answer. “I'm not sure what I was
expecting; I thought maybe he'd yell at me a little and that would
be it. But this is way worse.”

“He fired you?” Jo says in a low voice.

“I guess you could call it that,” I say. “But he
said he was
'letting me go.'
” I pause for a moment thinking
about it. “The thing is, he really didn't want to do it because he
thought I was doing a fine job taking care of the sailboat. He also
said I was a fine young man who he enjoyed employing. But taking a
sailboat without permission was serious business. He said the first
time I had done it, he could look the other way as long as I
learned from the mistake. But this being the second time, well, I
should know better and therefore I have to live with the
consequences. There's more to it, but that's about the size of
it.”

“So you told him the whole story about Skinny Pete
and that ugly Turk?” Jo asks. “How they captured you and Sara, and
about him throwing the trident at us?”

“I sort of left that part out. I didn't want him
flying off the handle and calling the police.”

“Mr. Plankinton doesn't strike me as someone who
would fly off the handle,” Sara says.

“They caught Skinny Pete and Turk, so what's the
difference,” I say.

Sara just shrugs.

“I told Mr. P when we were on Damariscove Island we
backed the boat into a piling that had some nails sticking out,
that's how the transom ended up with three splintered holes.”

Changing the subject, I ask, “How'd you make out
with your parents?” Sara figured it'd be best to tell her parents
up front about what happened because sooner or later they'd hear it
from someone. She's probably right.

“They were disappointed with me,” she says looking
down at the backs of her fingers. “But they were proud of me coming
and telling them first, so they went easy on me. I have to do all
the laundry for the rest of the summer and be in the house by
seven.”

“I guess that's not too bad,” I say. “It could have
been worse.”

“You should tell you parents too,” Sara says as she
gives my arm a slight squeeze. “I'm sure our parents will talk to
one another, so they're going to find out. It's better if you tell
them first.”

“You might be right,” I say looking at my box of
stuff.

A sharp whistle comes from the take-out window. Mrs.
Fennel gives Sara a slight wave to come back. Sara stands up then
puts her apron back on. “I better get back to work.” Just before
she and Jo leave, she hands me the logbook. “Here. Why don't you
keep this. I don't want to look at it anymore.”

I hadn't noticed she had the logbook with her, but I
slowly take it from her and place it in the box with all my other
things. “I'll see you later.” I shout to her. Sara waves back just
before she enters through the side screen door to the kitchen.

As I sit here, I think about what she said.
Eventually it comes to me that she might be right, I should tell my
parents. They're going to find out one way or another, so it might
as well be from me. Picking up my box off the table I head over to
where I parked my bike.

* * *

Walking into the house I know my dad's home for
lunch because his car's parked on the street in front of the house.
Might as well get it over with and wreck his day. I find him
sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich while he's reading
the paper.

“Hello, Fisher,” he says from behind his paper.
“You're back early.”

Part of my dad's lunch routine is to read the
morning paper. He says it's a more relaxed time of day to read the
paper rather than in the morning while he's trying to rush out the
door.

When I look at my dad's paper my
heart skips a beat; there on the front page of the
Trenton Harbor Times
is
a photo of Skinny Pete and Turk in handcuffs. The headline
reads,
Local Smuggling Ring
Captured
. From the angle my dad's holding
the paper I can't quite read the rest of the story. I'm sure he's
read it already; it's the front page after all. And I know he
remembers about the last time I ran into Skinny Pete.

I set my cardboard box down at the foot of the table
and pull out a chair. “Dad, there's something I need to tell
you.”

“Oh?” He lowers his paper slightly and his
horn-rimmed glasses appear over the top.

“I don't work for Mr. Plankinton anymore.” He keeps
looking at me hard, lowers his paper to the table and neatly folds
it up. “I did something I know I shouldn't have done.” I wait for
him to say something, but he doesn't say a word. “I took his
sailboat without him knowing it. You know the trip we just took,
well, he wasn't exactly with us.”

Slowly my dad says, “So you used it without his
permission.” That's all he says for the next ten minutes while I
tell the whole story for the second time today. Again I sort of
leave out the part about Skinny Pete and Turk capturing us.

When I'm finished he simply pushes his half-eaten
sandwich away, stands up, and turns around to look out the kitchen
window. He doesn't say anything for a full minute. But it feels
like an hour.

When he finally turns around, his arms are crossed,
but for the most part he looks calm. “You know I'm disappointed
with you?”

I just nod.

“Losing a summer job as nice as that one is probably
punishment enough.” I can feel a slight smile building at the
relief. But he continues, “Yet as a responsible parent I can't let
it slide.” My smile is quickly replaced by the sickening feeling in
my stomach once again. “You are going to write a two thousand word
essay why you shouldn't have done what you did. Also, to make sure
you have plenty of time to write it, you will stay in the house
after dinner with no TV. When you are done with it, I will read it
for evaluation. If there's something I don't like or agree with,
you will rewrite that section until I'm satisfied with it. Do you
understand?”

I nod, then ask, “So when can I go back outside and
get TV back?”

“When you're done with the essay.”

“Oh,” I say a little more happily. “That shouldn't
be too hard.”

“Have you ever written two thousand words?” he
asks.

I shake my head no. I suddenly have a feeling the
rest of my summer is shot while I write my essay.

My dad sits back down to his sandwich, but doesn't
take a bite. “So tell me about this logbook you found at Grandpa
Woodridge's house.”

“Do you want to see it? It's right here.” I reach
into my cardboard box and pull it out then place it on the table in
front of him. Carefully he wipes his hands on a napkin and slowly
opens the book while he squints reading the hand-written entries.
Slowly and carefully he turns the next several pages.

“Do you mind if I keep this for a while?” he asks
while carefully closing the cover.

“Sure. Keep it as long as you want. I can't even
read the handwriting and Sara never wants to see it again.”

He takes one last bite of sandwich, stands up and
tucks the logbook under his arms. “See you tonight. And best get
started on your essay assignment.” He turns to give me a stern look
then leaves through the door.

Just as he reaches the door, he stops. “There's a
front page story in today's paper about that fellow, Pete
McMillan,” he says pointing back at the folded paper lying on the
table. He gives me that look like he knows something’s up. “You
might find it interesting.” He then closes the door behind
himself.

Chapter 24

The Letter

It's
been almost a week now since
my dad gave me my essay assignment. I've been sitting at my deck
all afternoon and realize it's not as easy as I thought it was
going to be; I'm only up to about three hundred words and I'm
completely stuck. I stare blankly at the lined piece of paper in
front of me. I desperately need to come up with something or I'll
never get my summer back. And now summer seems like it's been
suddenly flushed down the toilet. I miss taking care of Mr. P's
boat more than I thought I would; being out in the sunshine washing
down the boat or whatever needed to be done to it. And I haven't
seen Sara all that much, either, because if she's not working she
has to go straight home. This sucks, but I suppose it's my own
fault.

“Fisher!” My dad calls out from downstairs. He must
have just got home from work.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Come down here. I need to talk to you.” Anything to
put the pencil down. Maybe he's changed his mind about the whole
essay thing, but I doubt it.

When I'm standing in front of him in the kitchen, he
says, “Fisher, I have something to tell you. But first I want you
to call Sara and ask her to come over here.”

What in the world is he going to tell me? My stomach
suddenly feels like I swallowed a rhinoceros. I look at the clock
on the kitchen wall and it's a little after 7:30 p.m. “Dad, Sara’s
not allowed to leave the house after seven.” Hopefully that will
keep her out of trouble too.