What kind of bad news?” Homer asked as the limousine turned down Peashoot Lane and crossed the bridge over Milky Creek.
“Bloomin’ bad news,” Ajitabh said.
Homer gripped his membership coin. “Are they going to kick me out of L.O.S.T.?” he asked. “Did they decide I’m too young?”
“No.”
What else could it be? Homer remembered the morning when he’d learned his uncle Drake had died. His chest tightened at the possibility that someone else he loved was gone. “Has someone died?” Ajitabh nodded. “Not Zelda,” Homer whispered. He reached down until he felt Dog’s warm back. “Please not Zelda.”
“Zelda is fine.” Ajitabh folded his hands on his lap and stared out the window as the limo passed through the little village of Milkydale. A group of kids sat on the mercantile porch, eating ice cream bars. Carpenters pounded nails into the framework of the new Milkydale library. Firefighters washed one of the Milkydale Volunteer Fire Brigade trucks. “Lord Mockingbird has died.”
“Oh.” Homer stopped petting Dog and sank into the depths of the leather seat. It was sad news, definitely, but not totally unexpected. The Honorable Lord Mockingbird XVIII, the president of L.O.S.T., must have been a hundred years old, at least. “He told me he was very sick.”
“Quite right. There’s no reason to suspect foul play. It was his time.”
Homer looked around the limo. The silhouette of a small bird was painted on each window. The letters L. M. XVIII were painted in gold on the ceiling. “Is this his car?” Homer asked.
“Yes.” Ajitabh stroked one side of his mustache. “The thing is, His Lordship’s death leaves us in a bit of a pickle.”
“Lord Mockingbird’s been a steady presence in our organization. He’s upheld the traditions of L.O.S.T. But his death forces us to elect a new president. If the wrong person is elected, I daresay the very fabric of L.O.S.T. could be torn.”
Homer cringed. He knew exactly what Ajitabh meant. The purpose of L.O.S.T. was to share the treasures of the world with the public, rather than using them for private gain. But there were some in the group who, even though they’d taken an oath to follow this rule, yearned to change it so they could become rich.
“There are dark personalities in our organization,” Ajitabh said. “Lord Mockingbird kept them in their places, but I worry they will see this as an opportunity to rise and try to sway the rest. Greed is a condition of being human—we all can suffer from it.”
Homer swallowed. Sometimes he dreamed of bringing jewels home to his mother. Was that greed?
“L.O.S.T., as we know it, could cease to exist,” Ajitabh said.
“Cease to exist?” Homer nearly teared up. Just when he’d become a member? He hadn’t even had the chance to go on a L.O.S.T.-sponsored treasure quest. How could he find Rumpold’s treasure on his own? He needed L.O.S.T.—museums and universities everywhere needed L.O.S.T.
But then he smiled as a brilliant idea popped into his head. He scooted closer to Ajitabh. “You should be the next president. And then everything will stay the same. You’d be a great president. Everyone would vote for you.”
For the first time since their morning reunion, Ajitabh smiled. “By Jove, that’s kind of you, Homer, but I’ve no desire to get caught up in the paperwork and all that administrative rubbish. I’m not an office sort of fellow. Besides, I’m busy inventing a robotic gold detector.”
“Then who will it be?” Homer asked.
“There’s no bloomin’ way to tell. The funeral is tonight. Most of the membership will attend. There will be much to discuss.”
“Is that where we’re going? To His Lordship’s funeral?”
Ajitabh nodded. Then he placed his hand on Homer’s shoulder and squeezed. “I know you want L.O.S.T. to assist you in your quest for Rumpold’s treasure, but that will not happen if the wrong person is elected.”
A knot formed in Homer’s stomach. He’d promised his uncle that he’d continue the search for Rumpold’s treasure. He owned the map. It was his inheritance—his destiny—to find that treasure. No one would take that away from him. “Then we’ll have to make sure the right person is elected,” he said.
Ajitabh stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. “It’s a long trek to The City, Homer. I suggest you take a nap. And your hound, too. We’ve got a devil of a night ahead of us.”
Dog was already snoring.