Caching In (7 page)

When she lets go, she's still smiling. “I'm so glad I ran into you both, because it just so happens I have your reward.”

“No kidding,” Chris grins.

She nods. “Yes.” She fans herself with her hand. “
Whew.
All this excitement is making me hot.” She grabs her hair and lifts it off her neck.

Bam!
I remember how I know her.

She opens her purse and pulls out a wad of bills.

Chris's eyes practically bulge out of his head.

“Three hundred dollars,” she beams. “And it's all yours.”

Chris reaches for the money, but the woman pulls it away.

“All you have to do is give me Martin Jamieson's business card.”

Chris holds out the card, and the woman holds out the money. Before they can make the exchange, I grab the business card.

Chris scowls at me. “What are you doin', man?”

I shake my head and start walking toward the doors at the end of the hall. “The instructions say to give the card to Martin Jamieson,” I remind him. “And that's what we're going to do.”

I can hear Chris running to catch up. He grabs my arm. “We don't have to. This lady has our money.”

I jerk free of his grip and continue walking.

The woman calls to us. “I'm authorized to increase the reward by two hundred dollars.” It could be my imagination, but she sounds anxious.

Chris steps in front of me. “You hear that, Eric? She's offering us five hundred dollars! Give her the freakin' card.”

I push him aside and start running, but just as I reach the office, he catches up and tackles me. I don't fall, but we both slam into the doors. Chris tries to wrestle the card out of my hands.

Now the woman has caught up, and she's trying to get the card too.

As I twist and turn, trying to fend them off, I say, “She's trying to con us, Chris! She wants the card so she can collect the reward. Don't you recognize her? She's the woman from—”

That's when the office door bursts open, and the three of us tumble through the opening and land in a heap on the carpet.

A middle-aged man with a mustache so skinny that it looks as if it's been drawn on with a felt marker peers down at us in bewilderment. “Jane?” he says.

Chris sits up and looks first at the man and then at the woman lying on the floor. “Did you say Jane?” he asks. I can tell he's starting to figure things out. “You mean, as in Jane Carlisle?”

The woman disentangles herself, stands up and smooths her dress and hair. “Actually, it's Bartel now.”

As Chris slowly nods, I can see a light go on in his brain. “Right,” he says. “We were at your wedding.”

Chapter Twelve

From behind his desk, Martin Jamieson stares at Chris and me over the top of his glasses. Standing beside him—with arms crossed—is Jane Bartel. She's staring at us too. It's like being in the principal's office. I feel guilty, even though I can't think what Chris and I could have done wrong. Well, unless you count crashing into Jamieson's office and falling on the floor. But Jane did that, too, and she doesn't seem to be in trouble.

Part of me starts to worry that our wrestling match may have cost Chris and me our reward. If we go from five hundred dollars to nothing, it'll be my fault—and Chris will kill me.

I don't know how long Jamieson makes us squirm, but it seems like forever before he clears his throat and pulls a folder out of a drawer.

Let the games begin.

“I wasn't expecting there to be two of you,” he says. “And I certainly wasn't expecting you to be so young.”

“What difference does that make?” I can tell by Chris's voice that his back is up.

The lawyer frowns. “Perhaps a bit more paperwork, but otherwise, no difference at all. My client made no stipulation as to age or number of claimants.”

“So what do we get?” Trust Chris to zip right to the point.

Jamieson clears his throat again. “I'm getting to that. My client is the late Richard Carlisle. He was an independent businessman whose generosity is well-known. He was also an avid geocacher. He—”

Chris practically jumps out of his chair. “That's it! That's how I know his name! I've seen it on geocache logs.”

Once again Jamieson clears his throat. “Yes. It was one of his passions—one he shared with his daughter, Jane. In fact, hunting down caches became a competition between them. They often hid their own caches in an effort to outsmart one another.” He smiles up at Jane. “They were well-matched.”

Then the lawyer turns back to Chris and me. “When he discovered he was dying, Mr. Carlisle decided to plant one last set of caches. These caches were intended to challenge not only Jane, but someone else too.” He adjusts his glasses. “The two of you, as it turns out. And the caches were to have an additional incentive.”

I have no idea what he's talking about. I look over at Chris to see if he's keeping up, but his face tells me nothing.

“These geocaches would tax the searcher mentally and physically. But because they contained an element of danger, he added a monetary incentive.”

“You mean the fifty dollars?” I say. I may not understand lawyer talk, but I do know money.

He nods. “Initially, yes. Mr. Carlisle created all the caches and hid the second and third ones himself, before he became too sick. It was his wish that the search commence on Jane's wedding day, hence the ceremony at the cemetery. I posted the coordinates on the geocache website beforehand and took them down again later that day. Mr. Carlisle wanted this to be a closed search—only Jane and one other searcher. Once it was underway, I hid the last cache on the lamppost.”

Chris looks at Jane and frowns. “I don't get it. The first cache was in your bouquet. How could you be searching for it if you're the one who hid it?”

“As Martin said, my father and I were very competitive. Since this was the last cache he was ever going to hide for me, he made it as difficult as he could. He knew I'd figure out the clues, so he handicapped me. I had instructions to leave the cache, and I wasn't allowed to look at it for six hours. Though I hid it, I had no idea what was in it until after you fellas were on your way to the second cache. So not only was I chasing the caches—I had to chase you too.”

“That was you I saw at the cemetery, in sweats,” I say.

She nods. “I saw you, too, which was good, because then I knew who to look for on the Galloping Goose Trail.”

“You were there too?” Chris says. “How did you know where to go?”

Jane laughs. “Same as you. I figured out the clues. Thank goodness you left them in the caches. I actually should have beaten you to the Potholes. I knew exactly where to go. You got lucky on that one. Really lucky, when you consider you could have drowned.”

Chris's mouth drops open, and he points at Jane. “It was you! When I was dangling over the cliff, it was you who helped.”

“That's what I was trying to tell you in the hall,” I say. “When I realized she was the lady from the Potholes, I knew she had to be after the prize. Why else would she show up in both places? It was too much of a coincidence.”

“I was afraid you might recognize me,” Jane says, “but I had to risk it. Keeping you from delivering that business card to Martin was my last hope of winning.”

“Was that you in the red convertible outside our school too?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“How did you know what school we went to?”

“You left a ticket to your school dance in the cemetery cache.”

I slap my forehead. “Right. And you followed the bus into town?”

She nods.

“I told you she wasn't anybody's mom,” Chris says.

“Pardon?” asks Jane.

I wave Chris away. “It's not important. You followed us to Bastion Square?”

“I did. And when you left within minutes of arriving, I knew you must have spotted the cache. After you took off, I walked around that courtyard for hours and never found it. How did you?”

I grin at her and pull out the little lantern. “This was part of the clue we found at the Potholes.”

“I didn't even think to look on the lampposts,” Jane says. “But I knew you'd come back once Bastion Square emptied out, so I stuck around.”

“We saw your car in a parking lot,” Chris says. “Sweet ride.”

“Thanks. I like it, though I probably should have chosen something more subtle to tail you with.” Then she smiles. “Something more like my Bastion Square disguise.”

Chris and I exchange glances. “What disguise?” we say at the same time.

“I was the bag lady sleeping on the bench.”

Even Martin Jamieson laughs.

“That was you?” Chris says, and suddenly I remember the cart in the parking lot where the red convertible had been.

Then Jane sighs. “I did my best, but you guys beat me fair and square.”

“So now that five hundred dollars is ours?” Chris says.

“I'm afraid that offer is no longer on the table.” She looks over at me and shakes her head. “Thanks to your friend here.”

My stomach drops into my shoes. I really did screw things up.

“You
should
thank him.” Martin Jamieson is smiling big-time. “If you had taken Jane's offer, you would have forfeited the money Richard Carlisle authorized me to give you.”

I am relieved. It looks like we're still getting a prize, and from the sound of it, it's more than Jane was offering.

As usual, Chris is a step ahead of me. “How much money are we talking about?”

Martin Jamieson's smile gets even bigger, if that's possible. Jane is grinning from ear to ear too.

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“
Ten thousand!
” I repeat the number out loud and then over and over in my head, but it doesn't help. It just doesn't want to sink in.

I look over at Chris. His smile is big enough to cover two people's faces. This geocache search has turned out better than even he expected.

“Hey, Jane,” he says. “Can I ask you a question?”

She nods. “Absolutely. Shoot.”

“How much would you take for that little red convertible of yours?”

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to my editor, Melanie Jeffs. She's a stickler for details, but that's a good thing. After all, it's the little things that make the difference.

Kristin Butcher is the author of numerous books for young people, including
Chat Room
and
Cheat
in the Orca Currents series. Kristin lives in Campbell River, British Columbia.