Hunter Moran Digs Deep

A
LSO BY
Patricia Reilly Giff

Hunter Moran
Saves the Universe

Hunter Moran
Hangs Out

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

. . . 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:

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.

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.