11
Finding a Clue
It had been a week since Maria had heard from Edward. After all of Ms. Madigan’s questions, Maria had decided it was time to boycott the library—at least for now. So she spent most of her days reading under the dim light bulb in the walk-in closet. If she went outside, she’d run into Sebastian, who’d hound her about finding the treasure and surely get her in trouble with her mother.
Maria shut her eyes. Images appeared in her mind of soft curtains blowing in a window and light pouring into the living room. Tribal masks hung from walls. A black cat peeked in from the hallway. A tray with a baguette. It was the widow’s apartment.
If only there was a way to tell Mrs. Fisher everything, but she knew the widow would never believe her. She would start asking questions just like Sebastian and Ms. Madigan. But she was certain the treasure was hidden behind a painting, like in her dream. And the poem about artists seemed to back up her hunch.
Then Maria’s stomach grumbled. She forced herself off her mattress and into the kitchen. Maria opened a cabinet.
Empty.
Then another.
Empty.
The food they’d scored from the pawned wedding ring had all been eaten. Mr. Fox was always snacking between meals!
Maria dragged her feet across the floorboards through the silent home. She figured Madame Destine and Mr. Fox must be out. She dug into the pocket of her dirty jeans, hoping to find a couple of coins to purchase beef jerky at the store.
Nothing. But wait. She pulled out the MetroCard Mrs. Fisher had given her.
Well, that solves it, thought Maria. Even if Mrs. Fisher didn’t believe her, she would have to be Maria’s meal ticket again. Maybe the widow would offer her more of that delicious bread.
After about thirty minutes underground, Maria found herself dodging students and tourists on West Fourth Street. The loud groans of buses and congested traffic drowned out Maria’s angry stomach.
She stood outside the widow’s home and rang the buzzer. Ever so faintly, the melody of piano playing drifted from the second story of the town house. The music stopped.
What if Mrs. Fisher didn’t want to see her? What was she going to say when she opened the door?
Light footsteps hit the stairs, and the door slowly creaked open.
Maria’s mind went blank. Without realizing what she was saying, Maria mumbled, “I … I … I have another clue.”
Mrs. Fisher beamed, and every line in her face floated an inch higher. “I just knew you’d return! Come inside.” Mrs. Fisher turned and climbed the stairs.
“I’ve been expecting you, and this time I’m prepared!” said Mrs. Fisher.
Maria entered the widow’s apartment at the top of the stairs, breathless from the climb. The familiar smell of talcum powder and old books didn’t disturb her this time. It felt good to be back again.
“Go make yourself at home in the living room,” said the widow. “I’ll be joining you shortly.”
Maria’s mouth watered at the thought of eating more bread, but she didn’t care what Mrs. Fisher brought her to eat. She would stay long enough for her stomach to stop hurting, then she’d think of an exit strategy.
Maria took in the strange masks that seemed to stare down at her like an audience of cartoon ghosts. Sheet music rested in clumps on the piano bench, where Mrs. Fisher must have been playing.
“I visited the market after I saw you last,” the widow said, wheeling her cart into the living room. Another baguette rested on top of it, along with slices of apples, jars of jam, and a pot of tea.
Maria smiled and attacked the tray, tearing off a large chunk of bread and stuffing it into her mouth.
“After our last visit, I decided to get the old piano tuned and try my hand at it a—” Mrs. Fisher gasped and brought her hands up to her face. “Good heavens, child! If I’d known you were this hungry, I’d have brought you a proper meal!”
Maria realized she must look desperate. Her mouth was full, and bread crumbs speckled her lap. She brushed them off and decided to chew her food slowly so Mrs. Fisher wouldn’t ask questions. Maria swallowed her bread and dug into her pocket, unfolding the riddle Edward had given her the week before. “This is the clue,” Maria said, and bit into an apple slice. “It’s about artists, I think. The treasure is behind one of your paintings,” she managed, with her mouth full.
“I dust these paintings every so often. I think I would know if there was something hidden behind one.” Mrs. Fisher’s eyes traveled over the message several times.
Maria swallowed the apple. Now what? she thought, and poured some tea. Mrs. Fisher put on a record where a wild trumpet spun behind her voice on the scratchy disk.
The black cat hopped from the table of books and meandered his way to the cart with food. Maria placed the cup on the trunk and waited for Mrs. Fisher to look up from Edward’s clue.
Finally, Mrs. Fisher brought the paper down before adjusting her glasses.
“Well, is it a clue?” asked Maria. “Something to do with the stuff on your walls?”
“Where … did you get this?” asked Mrs. Fisher.
“I told you—a friend.”
“Yes, I know. How old is your friend? He’s not a boy, is he?”
Maria tensed. “I’m not sure, exactly. Why?”
“Come now, Maria, you show up out of nowhere and then you bring me this.”
Maria popped off the sofa and began to study a mask that hung on the other side of the living room. The face was round and funny, with two tiny dots for eyes and a giant mouth. Maria wasn’t sure what to say. Telling Mrs. Fisher about Edward seemed risky.
“How did this message come into your hands?” said Mrs. Fisher.
“My friend gave it to me.”
“What does this friend look like?”
Maria tilted her head at a skinny mask with floppy whiskers. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen his face. We talk, but I … I don’t know much more about him.
“This handwriting looks unusual. It’s old-fashioned. Is he a teacher? A neighbor? A relative?”
“I don’t have any relatives,” Maria said without any emotion. “Well, except for my mom and Mr. Fox.”
Mrs. Fisher’s cat rubbed against Maria’s leg. Maria swooped down to pick him up and caught her reflection in the large full-length mirror not far from the piano. Maria imagined that the cat was hers.
“What’s your cat’s name?” she asked.
“Archimedes,” replied Mrs. Fisher in the mirror’s reflection. “This poem seems familiar to me, and I may very well know the man that sent it.”
“I don’t think that you do. Edward would have told me,” said Maria. She let go of the cat, wiping off the fur from her shirt.
“Edward?” Mrs. Fisher said quickly.
Maria froze. She hadn’t meant to mention Edward. A wailing trumpet cut through the silence while she tried to think of an answer. Maria needed to keep her mouth shut. Just focus on the treasure, she told herself.
Mrs. Fisher poured Maria more tea. “And what is his last name?” she asked.
Maria took the tea and retreated back to the wall with masks. Mrs. Fisher eased off the sofa and flattened her skirt. “I’ve known a lot of artists and writers in my life,” she told Maria, and moved closer to her.
“I don’t know his last name,” Maria said. She darted to the open window by the sofa and peered over the street. A couple of people were talking below. A cab honked, and a bus screeched to a halt. Then Maria groaned. Standing at the corner below, in his red ball cap, was Sebastian.
Maybe it was a bad idea that she came.
“I don’t mean to frighten you, Maria. No more questions, then,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Let’s enjoy our tea.” She clapped her hands and motioned Maria back to the sofa. Then she offered her some more slices of apples on a tray.
The two eased back onto the sofa. Mrs. Fisher pointed to the record player. “You hear that trumpet?” she asked.
Maria shrugged. “Sure.”
“That’s Dizzy. Dizzy Gillespie. He was a jazz musician, and he’s the first mentioned in the poem.”
Maria nodded. “Did he play in the Village?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Fisher. “The Village Vanguard, and it’s not far from here. Perhaps you should look for your treasure there.”
Maria stepped outside Mrs. Fisher’s building into the sunny autumn morning.
Sebastian jerked his head up from his phone at the slam of the door. “You were supposed to take me along with you! I’m the one helping you, remember?”
Maria sighed. “Sorry. I got another clue at Mrs. Fisher’s, but I actually do need your help this time.”
Sebastian shoved his phone into his pocket, then slowly leaned against the facade of Mrs. Fisher’s building. “So NOW you need me,” he said, folding his arms.
Maria exhaled. Then she looked away for a second. “Okay. What do you want?”
“I want half.”
“Half of what?” Maria laughed.
“The treasure. If I help you, then we’re partners.”
“Partners? Ha! It’s not MY treasure. It’s Mrs. Fisher’s. I’m only helping her—”
“Partners,” Sebastian said louder, with a nod. “There’s no ‘Oh, sorry I forgot to take you with me to find the treasure, Sebastian’ or ‘Go away. My mom hates visitors, Sebastian.’”
“She does hate visitors!”
“I don’t care!” Sebastian stood upright.
Maria was surprised at how tough Sebastian could appear when he was angry.
“Look. If we’re gonna be a team, you have to keep me in the loop. I’m not gonna get stuck with a raw deal.”
“Fine,” Maria said. “We’re partners, then.”
“Pinkie swear,” Sebastian said, holding out his smallest finger for Maria to shake.
“What’s this?”
“Hold out your pinkie.”
Maria extended a pale fifth digit and locked it into Sebastian’s.
“Okay,” Sebastian said. “We’re good.”
“Then get your phone and pull up directions to the Village Vanguard.”