Free The Riddle of Penncroft Farm by Dorothea Jensen Page A

end of the song, my mother began to thank everyone on behalf of Aunt Cass’s family.
    â€œWait!” I jumped to my feet. “I want to say something, too.”
    With a look of surprise, Mom sat down again.
    I cleared my throat nervously. “I . . . I didn’t know Aunt Cass as long as the rest of you,” I said. “But I was probably the last person she helped in a big way. She did something for me that I needed more than anything. She helped me feel at home in a strange place. And . . .”—I paused, took a deep breath, and went on—“and she also short-sheeted me. Twice.”
    As I sat down, there was a murmur of quiet laughter.
    I felt a touch on my shoulder. It was Pat, who gave me a quick, shy glance, then stared down at the floor.
    â€œPlease don’t tell the other kids about my name. They’d only make fun of it,” she whispered.
    â€œI won’t tell anybody. And,” I added awkwardly, “the song was good.”
    â€œIt was Aunt Cass’s favorite. I used to sing it to—h-her.” She started sobbing, and the Hargreaveses took her away.
    My parents and I made our way through the people, stopping many times for Mom to greet old friends and introduce Dad and me. Finally we reached our car, only to be stopped by Judge Bank.
    â€œSandra, I know this is not the proper time or place to talk, but you should know that Cass made a will some time ago that left Penncroft Farm to this fellow with a bee in his bonnet about immortalizing his ancestors. He might try to take possession soon if you don’t come up with that last will—the one Cass put in that hidey-hole of hers.”
    Dad shook his head. “That Cass—always did love a good riddle, and now she’s left us with a pip.”
    â€œAccording to what she said . . . on Halloween,” my mother said, clearing her voice and trying not to cry, “anybody with the right spirit can find it. I guess we’ll just have to summon up the right spirit,” she quavered.
    Judge Bank hugged Mom and shook hands with Dad and me, then unlocked the door of his antique car. Ordinarily I would have begged for a chance to get a close look at a Model T, but not that day. There was an important riddle to solve first.

7
Pasty Treats and Hasty Retreats
    I ended up that long, sad day sprawled on my bed trying to decipher the dotted lines and colored squares on my history book’s map of the Battle of Brandywine. “Chadd’s Ford, Jeffries’ Ford, Jones’s Ford, Brinton’s Ford,” I read to myself, feeling very confused. “Sounds like a bunch of car dealers.” I snapped the book shut and lobbed it to the other end of my bed. As I looked up, my eye was caught by the portrait of my ancestor. I went over for a closer look. “You must have been around during the Revolution,” I said aloud. “Wish you could fill me in on Brandywine and what happened with all those darned fords.”
    I turned to the Pennsylvania map Mom had put on my wall and examined it closely, hoping to find a clue. Chadd’s Ford was there, a little town next to Brandywine Creek, but the black line of Route 1, the highway crossing the creek nearby, didn’t show a ford or ferry or anything other than a plain old bridge.
    I threw myself down on the window seat. My rear came down hard on something knobby. “Ouch!” I said loudly, discovering a metal hinge. Curving my fingers around the edge of the seat, I gave a hard pull. The top flew up, slamming into my nose, which started to bleed. Pinching my nostrils with one hand, I stuck my other inside the hollow base and felt a box—a box big enough to hold a will. My heart thumping, I lifted out the box and gingerly opened it. There was nothing inside but a black leather flower. Disappointment made me throw it down and growl, “Looks like I got a bloody nose for nothing.”
    â€œ
Nothing
, Lars?