Hunter Moran Digs Deep

  ALSO BY Patricia Reilly Giff

  Hunter Moran

  Saves the Universe

  Hunter Moran

  Hangs Out

  HUNTER MORAN DIGS DEEP

  Patricia Reilly Giff

  Holiday House / New York

  Love to my son

  Bill

  Text copyright © 2014 by Patricia Reilly Giff

  Art copyright © 2014 by Chris Sheban

  All rights reserved

  HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office

  www.holidayhouse.com

  ISBN 978-0-8234-3257-8 (ebook)w

  ISBN 978-0-8234-3258-5 (ebook)r

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Giff, Patricia Reilly.

  Hunter Moran digs deep / by Patricia Reilly Giff. — First edition.

  pages cm

  Summary: Twin siblings Hunter and Zack, along with neighborhood pest Sarah Yulefsky, dig for treasure—the hidden hoard of town founder Lester Dinwitty.

  ISBN 978-0-8234-3165-6 (hardcover : alk. paper) [1. Twins—Fiction.

  2. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 3. Buried treasure—Fiction.

  4. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.G3626Ht 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013045491

  Chapter 1

  . . . Fred, who’s galloping madly down the street, my old blue underwear clamped between his jaws. He takes a quick detour across Sarah Yulefski’s front lawn.

  What a start to the weekend!

  I throw myself after him, shouting, “Get back here, Fred!”

  My twin, Zack, runs along next to me. “I hope Yulefski isn’t near a window,” he says.

  Across the street, our older brother, William, ambles along, swinging a paint can. He stops to point at us and Fred, laughing hysterically.

  I keep running. “Just wait, William!” I yell over my shoulder.

  Wait for what, I don’t know. But one of these days I’ll figure something out.

  Half a block behind us, our five-year-old brother is crying, trying to keep up. “My poor Fred. He’ll get killed in traffic,” Steadman moans. “He’ll miss his own birthday party Monday after school.”

  Poor Fred. Ha.

  Monday? A party for Fred? As if we knew when his birthday was! As if he deserved it!

  Fred darts into the street and heads for a pickup truck. HOLY GATE—NEWFIELD’S FAVORITE CEMETERY is written on the side. The truck stops, idling at the light.

  Fred doesn’t idle. He takes a massive leap, his back paws scrabbling, and lands in the truck.

  They take off, the truck and Fred, my blue underwear dangling.

  Zack leans against the nearest tree. “That’s the end of spiteful old Fred.”

  Steadman catches up to us, a line of tears making a clean river on his cheeks.

  “Don’t worry.” I put my arm around him. “We’ll head for the cemetery.”

  Steadman’s screams are deafening, his mouth opened wide enough that we can see his tonsils. “You’re going to bury Fred? Maybe he isn’t even dead yet.”

  “Steadman couldn’t read the words on the side of the truck,” Zack mutters.

  We try to explain, but Steadman can’t hear us through his yelling.

  Never mind.

  We take his hands and swing him along between us, on a mission to capture Fred and my underwear.

  We arrive at the cemetery, breathless. It’s as old as the town, and crowded with headstones like Zack’s teeth, leaning every which way.

  Sarah Yulefski isn’t at her house after all. She’s hanging out on a stone bench in front of the town father’s grave:

  LESTER TINWITTY

  He lived to May of 1905,

  too bad for us, he up and died.

  With one thumb, Sarah points over her shoulder, her nails covered with pea-green nail polish. “Your dog, Fred, is at a burial. And guess what he’s chewing on.” She snickers. “Hint. It’s not a bone.”

  They might as well bury me along with the dead guy. The whole sixth grade will hear about this.

  Yulefski steps in front of Lester’s stone, arms out, as if there’s something she doesn’t want us to see.

  What’s that all about?

  Zack doesn’t miss a beat. “You’ll ruin your jacket if you lean up against that stone.”

  She doesn’t move.

  “Come on, Yulefski.” I give her my best smile.

  It works. She thinks I’m in love with her. “Well.” She simpers. “I’ve just found new clues for that old mystery.” She snaps her gum. “Too bad, someone else may have found them, too.”

  Lester Tinwitty’s buried fortune? She’s got to be kidding. People tried to find it for a hundred years. No luck. Everyone gave up when Pop was a kid.

  Yulefski grins horribly, her braces festooned with her breakfast. She thinks she’s gorgeous. “I was cleaning off some gravestones, the first time it’s been done in ages.” She flips back her knotty hair. “My civic duty.”

  Whatever that means.

  “Weeds and gook all over the stones . . .” She glances back over her shoulder.

  Steadman cuts in. “Never mind that. We have to get Fred. Suppose he jumps into . . .”

  I can see it: the coffin lowered, Fred riding down on top with my underwear looped over his ears.

  But Zack shakes his head at me. Buried treasure beats an underwear funeral any day.

  Sarah drags on, all about her good work spiffing up Holy Gate Cemetery. And at last we get to it: Lester Tinwitty, the town father, and his gravestone.

  “Ivy all over the front of it,” she says. “I was ready to cut. But when I touched it, the whole mess fell off.”

  She gives her gum a vicious snap. “Someone tore off the ivy, then stuck it back on to hide the clues on the stone. Clever.” Snap. “Except they’ll have to deal with me.”

  “Get with it, Yulefski,” Zack mutters.

  “Yes,” she says. “I saw clues to Lester Tinwitty’s soup pot fortune.”

  In the distance, a woman screeches: “OUT!”

  “GRRRR,” comes the answer.

  “That’s Fred,” Steadman says. “I’d know his voice anywhere.” He takes off, in between gravestones, over bushes, through piles of autumn leaves.

  We leave Yulefski midsentence and barrel after Steadman, circling a monument to some guy who planted fruit trees all over town, a regular Johnny Peach Pit.

  We stop dead.

  My underwear is nowhere in sight. Fred is running amuck around the mourners . . . who have forgotten about mourning. They try to capture him as he knocks over baskets of flowers, a lily between his teeth.

  “Better than the underwear,” Zack whispers, giving me a little nudge.

  Who knows where my underwear has gotten itself?

  We pretend we never saw Fred before. “A disgrace,” Zack says in a Sister Appolonia voice.

  “Can’t even have a funeral in peace,” I add.

  It doesn’t work.

  “OUT!” the voice shrieks . . .

  At us now, instead of Fred.

  We grab Fred’s collar and blast away from there. We don’t stop until we’re back at Lester Tinwitty’s grave.

  Sarah is still leaning over his stone. “Big bucks,” she says. “They’re just waiting for me, Sarah M. Yulefski. All I have to do is figure out what the clues mean . . .” She hesitates. “Before the ivy cutter gets there first.”

  Wait a minute. Isn’t Mom Lester Tinwitty’s fourth or fifth cousin? Something like that?

  Zack knows exactly what I’m thinking. Shouldn’t the big bucks be waiting for us? Forget about some ivy cutter or gum-snapping Yulefski.

  But Zack makes a Jell
-O mouth, swishing his cheeks back and forth. He’s telling me nobody will ever find the treasure. But it’ll keep Yulefski too busy to think about my underwear parading around town.

  We lean forward to check out the clues anyway. But someone else is yelling. It’s Alfred, boss of the cemetery. “Get lost, kids, and take that dog with you!” he screams. His ears are almost the size of Fred’s.

  “Wait,” I tell him.

  Alfred dances up and down, furious. “This isn’t a playground, you know.”

  “Just one minute . . .” Yulefski begins.

  It’s no use.

  Alfred marches us past a dozen stones and out the gate. I look back. Someone is standing near Johnny Peach Pit’s grave. He steps behind the stone when he sees I’ve spotted him.

  Bradley? Bradley the Bully? The toughest kid in town! Maybe he’s the ivy cutter.

  Good luck, Bradley. You’ll never find the treasure, either.

  We reach the street and nearly fall over my sister Linny, the alpha dog of the family. She’s walking along with her friend Becca the Beak. “Hunter and Zack,” Linny says. “Wouldn’t you know! They’re such an embarrassment.” She covers her eyes with one hand.

  “Don’t I know it,” Becca says, sniffing.

  “Be careful!” I yell. “You might just fall on your faces.”

  We don’t wait to hear what they say next.

  We head for home with Steadman and Fred in tow.

  Chapter 2

  Saturday-night supper is always gross. I have to say that Mom’s not the best cook in the world, not even the best in Newfield. I manage to swallow a piece of gray meat the size of a pinhead, and hide the rest under a piece of bread.

  Lucky Steadman. He’s feeding his dinner to the dog. And what else? He’s got a book in his hand, whispering something.

  “What?” Linny asks.

  “I’m teaching Fred to read.”

  “Sorry, Steadman,” she says. “Dogs can’t read.”

  Steadman’s lip goes out a mile. “Fred will. He’s great at the pictures already.”

  Zack deposits his meat in his napkin. He looks at me and we both grin. Steadman can’t read a word yet, but he’s teaching the dog!

  I swallow another piece of meat. “Great, Mom,” I say, and push back my chair. Upstairs, I detour into my bedroom and toss back about six Skittles, all red, a great dessert. I do it secretly. If Linny or William finds that bag, it’s curtains for my stash.

  I put a couple of yellow ones in my pocket for Zack, then go down the hall, still chewing. I jump up a couple of times, trying to reach the ceiling. No go.

  William’s in his bedroom, painting. He’s sick of last summer’s dinosaurs and worlds colliding. Who knows what horror he’s thinking of now? The wall is covered with what looks like a bunch of crooked cereal boxes; drips of paint rush toward the floor.

  Pop will have a fit when he sees this mess. But William is in luck. This is Pop’s busiest time at the office. He’s hardly ever home.

  Next I pass the babies’ room and peer in at the two cribs, Mary in one, singing to herself. I tiptoe in. Waking baby K.G. in the other crib would be a serious mistake.

  I whisper to Mary: “Hun-ter. Say Hun-ter.”

  Mary doesn’t talk yet. But I’m determined Hunter will be her first word.

  And there goes K.G. sounding off, her face as purple as an eggplant. I give her a little whistle. She cuts the screech and treats me to a damp smile.

  And that’s when everything begins to go wrong.

  Zack sneaks up behind me and taps my shoulder. “Got you last!” he yells, and dives down the stairs, two at a time.

  It’s something we do.

  I speed after him, through the living room, into the hall, and down the basement steps.

  We sail over Pop’s tools that are spread around all over the place, and dash into the private room he calls his man cave.

  I’m one step behind Zack, ready to get him last.

  “Watch out!” Zack screams.

  My arms windmill, my feet slide. “Yeow!”

  In front of us is Pop’s special project, a huge thing twice our size. It’s almost finished, and he’s covered it with an old plaid blanket.

  Zack tries to stop. I try, too.

  No good.

  Definitely no good.

  We smash into each other, and into the huge thing, which Pop is going to enter in Newfield’s contest, Here’s to Wildlife, next Saturday.

  The crash is spectacular. Wood splinters. The blanket sinks around it.

  Zack’s eyes are as large as a pizza. “There goes the wildlife entry.”

  I can’t even swallow.

  “What’s going on down there?” Mom calls from the top of the stairs.

  “Nothing.” Our voices sound as if we’re being strangled.

  “You’re not in your father’s man cave, are you?”

  “We’re not allowed in there,” Zack says, gulping a little.

  We’d give each other a high five for telling the truth, but we’re in a desperate situation here. We sit on the floor, leaning sink down against the rough cement wall.

  “This is the end of us,” I say.

  Zack reaches out with his foot and shoves a wooden bird tail under the blanket. “Pop told me the supplies cost him a hundred dollars.”

  I lift the edge of the blanket and drop it quickly. I lean my head back against the wall. “Nothing left of it. Even the welcome sign that goes on top is smashed to smithereens.”

  Pop’s been working on it for weeks. Hammering. Sawing. Sanding. He keeps saying, “I’m going to enter this contest if it’s the last thing I do. It’ll be the largest handmade birdhouse in the world: one room on top of the other, nests for a dozen birds.”

  Not anymore. There’s not even enough left for a party of ants.

  “We have to do something,” Zack says.

  “I know it. Poor Pop was so proud of himself.” I swallow. “All for nothing.”

  We sit there staring at the collapsed blanket for a while.

  “Good thing it’s Pop’s busy time,” Zack mutters.

  I think about it. “We could run away before he gets home tonight,” I say. “Hit the road with the dollar Nana gave us last week.”

  Behind us, a bloodcurdling scream: “I’ll never see you again! Fred will be reading and you’ll never get to see it!”

  “Hunter’s only joking,” Zack tells him. “It’s going to get cold soon, and it’ll be dark by dinnertime. We wouldn’t even be able to afford supper. No breakfast or lunch, either.”

  “Whew,” Steadman says, and disappears back upstairs.

  “Poor Pop,” I say again.

  “Wait a minute.” Zack taps his forehead. “Something is coming to me.”

  You can’t beat Zack for brains. I always say that.

  He whispers, “We could go back . . .” His voice trails off. “Figure the whole thing out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Yulefski mentioned clues on Lester’s stone. We could check them out. Maybe we’ll be the ones who find his fortune. It has to be here in Newfield somewhere, after all.”

  It hits me. He’s right. This is the best idea he’s ever had. We’ll grab the treasure, buy a pile of wood and a keg of nails, and hire someone to rebuild the birdhouse.

  “A carpenter,” Zack breathes.

  Nothing to it.

  Nothing at all! Except I picture Bradley the Bully trying to get the treasure first.

  Chapter 3

  We’re set to go if we can convince Mom it’s vital, even though it’s almost dark. Actually Saturday night is a great time. Alfred will be long gone from the cemetery, home to his apartment on Reid Street.

  We’ll get ourselves right over to Holy Gate and figure out the clues etched on Lester’s stone.

  In the hall, I give Zack his yellow Skittles, all but one. I can’t resist.

  Then we begin. . . .

  “We need to do research,” Zack says, loud enough
for Mom to hear. “That is, if we want an A.”

  “I think the library’s open late,” I say back.

  The research part is true, just not at the library.

  We hear Mom telling Linny what hard workers we are. But Linny is screeching louder than Alfred, the cemetery boss. “Hunter? Zack? Get back here. I need you to wrap goody bags for Fred’s party.”

  “Those two are useless,” Becca says.

  Zack shakes his head. “Is that kid here again?”

  Forget them both. We don’t bother to answer as Linny goes on about how someday she’s going to fly to Switzerland and get away from it all.

  Sure.

  Outside it’s really dark. The streetlights are on, though, and overhead, the moon sheds a misty glow. We’re on our way to big bucks. No problem for such hard workers.

  First we rush into our garage, which is the worst mess in the world. We grab scissors, cutters, scrapers, a hammer just in case, and a flashlight.

  We also find a pair of fruit bars, a little squished, which we hid in a flowerpot during the summer and forgot about.

  “A good omen,” Zack says.

  We trot past St. Ursula’s School, and the library with its lights shining across the lawn. We pass Dr. Diglio’s dental office. His sign, a huge tooth, swings back and forth creaking, a dried-up robin’s nest caught in its roots.

  Ahead of us is the cemetery, and Alfred has left the gate open. We’re in.

  A moment later, we’re looking around to be sure we’re alone, and . . .

  “Oof!” Zack trips over Johnny Peach Pit’s monument. But looming up in front of us is Lester Tinwitty’s massive stone, almost hidden in the darkness.

  Good old Lester, who traveled around with a gigantic iron pot on his wagon, cooking soup. He’d clang the side of the pot with a huge spoon to attract soup lovers, charging the big bucks that we’re about to find.

  Mrs. Tinwitty is buried with him, faithful to the end. Their dog, Soup Bone, who used to follow the wonderful soup smells, should have been tucked in, too. But no. Everyone in town knows the old story: Soup Bone ran off to join the pirates and was never seen again.

  We crouch down at the stone, dragging our equipment behind us. Zack points to the flashlight. “Let’s get some light here. Turn that baby on.”