The Lost Treasure of Tuckernuck (5 page)

Before the school was Tuckernuck Hall Intermediate, it had been the ancestral home of the Tutweiler family. And when Maria Tutweiler had turned the old Victorian house into a school, she apparently didn't care about things like “clashing” or “good taste.” So even though they'd fixed it all up with classrooms, a gym, and a weird round bell tower, there were lots of non-school-like features, like elaborately carved arches over some of the doorways, a big picture of Mark Twain made out of wire in the library, dark patterned wood floors, and even some stained-glass windows here and there. Not to mention the mangy chicken portrait.

The total effect was one big mishmash, with art deco and more modern sections mixed right in with the old Victorian sections. The Cluckers all thought it came together and worked, but people like School Board President Walker LeFranco just thought it proved how crazy Maria Tutweiler was.

But most important for Laurie, the fact that it used to be a real house meant that there was an old gardening supply area under the porch. And since Jack thought that every incoming Clucker should know about at least one secret hiding place, Laurie knew about the hidden supply nook. Glancing around to make sure there was no one watching, Laurie shoved Bud into the cramped space.

Laurie pushed aside the ancient gardening implements, unclenched her fist, and slowly unrolled the (now slightly damp) scroll.

“Well,” she said. “Here goes nothing.”

C
ONGRATULATIONS
, clever Tuckernuckers! Maria Tutweiler is no match for you, my friends. Well-read youngsters like you know that, as Miss Emily Dickinson said, “Hope is the thing with Feathers.” And so is our chicken friend, Hilda, the thing with feathers. So bravo, young poetry aficionados. Well done.

Now it is time for you to make a choice. You can continue on and follow my clues wherever they may lead, or you may remain here, where you started. The choice is entirely yours. If you choose to continue on with my clues, prepare yourselves, for it will be a challenging journey. Choose wisely, and continue on to the next page.

Happy sleuthing!

Maria Tutweiler

“What the heck?” Bud was tired of reading over Laurie's shoulder. He reached out and took the paper, shaking his head. “What the heck is that about the chicken? Hilda's a thing with feathers? Of course she's a thing with feathers.”

The light was dawning in Laurie's mind, though. “Shoot, I get it! And we just studied that last year too. Man, I'm such a dork. It's the poem!”

“What is?” Bud always thought of himself as more of a science-type guy.

“That line, ‘Hope is the thing with feathers.' It's the first line in a poem by Emily Dickinson. I
knew
it was something about Hope. I can't believe I thought it was a stupid person's name.”

“Yeah, well, if I'd just studied the poem, I would've gotten it too. Probably wouldn't have just accidentally stumbled onto it either. Geez, it's simple,” Bud boasted.

Laurie glared at him. Never mind that nobody had gotten it before now. She was pretty sure that even if Bud had been an Emily Dickinson scholar he wouldn't have solved it. But they were a team now, right? So she gritted her teeth and held her tongue.

“So we're going on to the next page? We're not just staying where we started, right?”

“As if.”

Bud carefully separated the pages and turned to the second one. Squinting, he began to read aloud the spidery handwriting that once belonged to Maria Tutweiler.

Dear Tuckernucker, Brave and True,

If you are reading this clue, you have demonstrated your knowledge and interest in things poetic and sublime, and your undeniable curiosity. Now I will take this test of your skills one step further. Remember, to journey on the path of understanding, you must first know what it is you wish to understand. Good luck!

Cat! who hast passed thy grand climacteric,

How many mice and rats hast in thy days

Destroyed? How many tit-bits stolen? Gaze

With those bright languid segments green, and prick

Those velvet ears—but prithee do not stick

Thy latent talons in me, and up-raise

Thy gentle mew, and tell me all thy frays

Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick.

Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists—

For all thy wheezy asthma, and for all

Thy tail's tip is nicked off, and though the fists

Of many a maid have given thee many a maul,

Still is that fur as soft as when the lists

In youth thou enteredst on glass-bottled wall.

“Come on, Laurie. What the heck.” Bud broke a stick in half and threw half of it at the ground. Apparently not satisfied with the sound it made, he turned and kicked at the wooden porch supports for good measure. “It doesn't even make sense. I mean, look there.” Bud jabbed at the paper with the other half of the stick. “Prithee? Is she serious?”

Laurie didn't answer. She didn't have any clue what the stupid poem meant. She hadn't had any ideas the first ten times he'd asked, and she hadn't had any lightbulbs go off in the meantime.

“So we
know
she's crazy now. Totally bonkers. The chicken was one thing, but this? Cats? This is totally insane. There probably isn't even a stupid treasure, it's probably just a weird hoax.” Bud kicked the post again, and a piece of gray paint flecked off onto his shoe. One of the reasons given for closing Tuckernuck Hall was that there was no money for upkeep, and the school was sliding into disrepair. Bud seemed to be doing everything he could to help it along its way.

“So did she write this piece of trash? Or is it Dickinson too?”

“It's not Dickinson,” Laurie muttered.

“Are you sure?” Bud kicked the post again. “It could be. Maybe Tutweiler really liked her. Maybe she was crazy obsessed.”

Laurie shook her head. “It doesn't sound like Dickinson, okay? I don't know who wrote it, Bud. Just give it a rest.” Laurie closed her eyes and tried to organize her thoughts.

How Close I Am to Snapping
by Laurie Madison, grade six

Bud kicked the post again, and a big flake of paint landed on Laurie's head. That was all it took. Deep breathing can only fix so much. Laurie snapped.

“That's it!” she said, rolling the scroll back up and slipping it into her jacket pocket. “I'm done. I'm going home. I'll figure it out tomorrow. If you have any huge insights, you can tell me then. But since Maria Tutweiler is addressing her clues to poetry aficionados, it sounds to me like I'm the only one with any chance of figuring it out, Mr. Dur-de-Dur-Is-That-a-Poem?”

Laurie grabbed her book bag and flounced off before Bud even had time to shut his mouth.

Reasons That Horace (Bud) Wallace Is an Idiot
by Laurie Madison, grade six

Laurie plunked down the basket of garlic bread and slumped into her chair at the dining room table. She'd scoured the hallways after she'd ditched Bud and hadn't found a single cat painting, statue, or forgotten litter box. She'd even looked at every stupid carving in the molding of the history wing, and nothing. No cats. It wasn't even worth the glare she'd gotten from Coach Burton in the gym. And she could tell by the gleam in Jack's eye that he was in one of his pick-on-Laurie moods.

Jack managed to keep his mouth shut until Mr. Madison had put down the Parmesan cheese. “So did Laurie tell you?” Jack said through a mouthful of spaghetti. He grinned a tomatoey grin at her. Laurie averted her eyes before she was turned off of spaghetti forever.

“She solved the puzzle.”

Laurie went cold. He couldn't know. Could he?

“What?” Mrs. Madison paused mid-Parmesan shake. “Laurie didn't tell me anything. What puzzle? Not THE puzzle?”

“Shut up, Jack.” Laurie scowled at the garlic bread like it had committed hideous crimes against garlic bread everywhere. She grabbed the most offensive piece and tore it into pieces on her plate.

“Laurie called me at school the other day to tell me she'd solved the first clue.” Jack elbowed Laurie in the arm playfully. She refused to look up. She felt almost limp with relief. He didn't know anything.

Mrs. Madison looked serious. “Now, Laurie, you know you're not supposed to use that cell phone during school hours. It's for emergencies. I don't want to have to go down to the school to get it back from Miss Abernathy if you get caught.”

“Aw, come on, Mom, lighten up! She'd figured out the whole ‘all you need is Hope' clue. She's got to call for that, right, Laurie?”

“So was it gold bars or a chest full of jewels?” Mr. Madison winked at her across the table. The chest full of jewels/gold bars debate had been raging in the Madison household for years.

Laurie picked up one of the chunks of dismembered garlic bread and gnawed a huge piece off of the end. Somebody was going to pay for this, and if it had to be a defenseless piece of garlic bread, so be it.

Mrs. Madison patted Laurie on the arm. “Never mind them, Laurie. Was it the word Hope? You figured that Hope must be a person, right? That one got me too, when I was your age.”

“That one gets everybody,” Mr. Madison said. “Too bad it's not right. That seems like a great solution. I still think there must be some Hope lurking somewhere.”

Laurie shoveled the rest of her garlic bread into her mouth. It would blow their minds if she told them the truth, and putting Jack in his place would feel pretty awesome. It's not like the agreement with Bud was that big a deal—he'd pretty much forfeited the agreement not to tell with his lousy attitude. But there was no way she was filling them in now. They could just wait and be jealous when she hauled in the loot. Maybe she'd let them visit her at her fabulous vacation house in Hawaii. Maybe. Besides, there was no way she could spill anything with a mouth full of garlic bread. Just call it extra security.

“So there are no people named Hope anywhere with the school? Nowhere?” Laurie said when her mouth was empty and the temptation to spill her guts had passed. She might not tell them anything, but that didn't mean she couldn't pump them for information.

“Not a one,” said Mrs. Madison sadly. “But that's a good start, hon. I was at school for a month before that one occurred to me.”

“Any cat pictures or statues? Like that ugly Hilda portrait? Except maybe a kitten or something?” Laurie was willing to admit she might have missed something. It's tough to do a thorough search when you know Coach Burton is watching your every move.

“Nooo, I don't think so.” Mrs. Madison gave Laurie a speculative look. “Not that I recall. Not when I was there anyway, and I don't think things have really changed. Gary, do you remember anything like that?”

“What, you think Hope's a cat now?”

She shot Jack a look that would curdle milk, but he just shrugged it off.

“Just trying to keep up with the new theories, that's all.” He grinned again. Laurie decided maybe she was put off spaghetti after all.

Jack punched Laurie in the arm lightly. “You know I'm just messing with you. You know what? You find that treasure, and I'll do your laundry for a month. No, a
year
. What do you say, Laurie?”

Laurie smiled. “Deal.”

Cat Poem Meaning: Ideas
by Horace Wallace Jr.

Thought one: Poem means we should find a particular cat. Probably old and mean.

Physical details probably not exact match to poem.

Thought two: Since clue was left over seventy-five years ago, cat in question is probably dead by now. So look for dead cat.

Thought three: Crud
.

Laurie Madison, note to self:

How long do cats live anyway?

“Well,
obviously
, we're not looking for a real cat here,” Bud said the next day when he ran across Laurie eating breakfast in the cafeteria.

“OBVIOUSLY.” Laurie rolled her eyes. “It would be dumb to think it's a real cat. They only live about twenty years, so any cat Maria Tutweiler would be referring to would be long gone.”