Free Finders Keepers by Shelley Tougas

it, right?”
    â€œFinders keepers,” I said.
    â€œExcept the finders were all crooks, too,” Alex said. “Grandpa, will you please finish the story?”
    Grumpa leaned toward us. “So you want to hear more?”
    We nodded all eager.
    â€œAlrighty. Come closer.” We wiggled toward his feet. “Little closer. That’s good.” He bent his head down. “BOO!”
    I shrieked, and Alex fell backward. Grumpa laughed so hard he coughed and thumped his chest.
    We drank orange sodas in the kitchen, waiting for Grumpa to take his nap. When the snoring started, it was time for our plan. Grumpa had banned us from the basement after the pipes exploded, but we needed to conduct a full search. If Grumpa’s mother left traces of money in the basement, then maybe she left clues, too.
    Quietly we went downstairs. The basement smelled damp from the water-pipe explosion. A section of new pipes had been put in the ceiling, but the washtub hadn’t been replaced. The tub was propped up on cement blocks to cover the hole. I walked to Grumpa’s workbench where a new taxidermy project was underway. A raccoon had been nearly stuffed, but its eyes hadn’t been glued in place. The thing stood on its back legs with its paws in the air.
    Alex grabbed my arm as I reached out to touch it. “Stop! We’ll get in trouble.”
    â€œHow’s he going to know that I touched it? I just want to touch it, that’s all. Not move it.”
    â€œHe’ll know. He’s got a nose for that. Just look for clues, okay? I’ll start in the room where he turned off the water.”
    Alex went around the stairs. Before I could move, he poked his head around the corner and said, “His mother taught him taxidermy and gave him his first tools. That’s why he makes a big deal out of it. Don’t touch his stuff.”
    â€œHis mother knew taxidermy?”
    â€œDon’t touch his stuff.”
    â€œI heard you the first time.”
    I so wanted to touch his stuff. He’d spread it all over the long table. Glue. Fake animal eyes. Gloves. Knives. Pins. Screws. Wood boards. Bottles and bottles of stuff like “flocking adhesive,” whatever that was. It just sat there, all alone, begging for someone to touch it.
    But I didn’t because I found something almost as good: boxes along the wall labeled taxidermy . Or, like Dad would say, artifacts .
    Most of the boxes contained supplies like the ones on the table. One box wasn’t cardboard, though. It was an old-fashioned wood trunk. Inside were taxidermy supplies—old taxidermy supplies. I could tell they were old because the metal tools were rusted, and the bottles were glass instead of plastic. Carefully I peeled back the cloth wrapped around objects in the box. They were small taxidermied birds, chipmunks, and squirrels. Each one was mounted on a wood board etched with the words For My Edmund. They must have been gifts from Mrs. Hillary Clark to Grumpa.
    For almost an hour, Alex and I dug through boxes. He found a few For My Edmund animals, too, and one notebook. “I can hardly read what’s in here,” he said, holding up the notebook. “Everything’s in tiny cursive.”
    â€œWhat’s it say?”
    â€œJust a bunch of dumb recipes and prayers and stuff about weather.”
    The ceiling creaked. Footsteps. Grumpa’s footsteps.
    â€œI think Grumpa’s awake!”
    Alex whispered, “Put everything back.”
    We made quick work of straightening boxes while he walked back and forth.
    â€œHow are we going to get upstairs without him seeing us?” I asked.
    Alex shrugged.
    â€œStop shrugging and start coming up with ideas for a change! I can’t always be the idea person.”
    â€œActually, I’m the idea person,” Alex said. “You just talk faster.”
    Alex always tried to show me up. It was annoying. I said, “Here’s an idea.