it, right?â
âFinders keepers,â I said.
âExcept the finders were all crooks, too,â Alex said. âGrandpa, will you please finish the story?â
Grumpa leaned toward us. âSo you want to hear more?â
We nodded all eager.
âAlrighty. Come closer.â We wiggled toward his feet. âLittle closer. Thatâs good.â He bent his head down. âBOO!â
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 Grumpaâs 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 hadnât been replaced. The tub was propped up on cement blocks to cover the hole. I walked to Grumpaâs workbench where a new taxidermy project was underway. A raccoon had been nearly stuffed, but its eyes hadnât 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. âStop! Weâll get in trouble.â
âHowâs he going to know that I touched it? I just want to touch it, thatâs all. Not move it.â
âHeâll know. Heâs got a nose for that. Just look for clues, okay? Iâll start in the room where he turned off the water.â
Alex went around the stairs. Before I could move, he poked his head around the corner and said, âHis mother taught him taxidermy and gave him his first tools. Thatâs why he makes a big deal out of it. Donât touch his stuff.â
âHis mother knew taxidermy?â
âDonât touch his stuff.â
âI heard you the first time.â
I so wanted to touch his stuff. Heâd spread it all over the long table. Glue. Fake animal eyes. Gloves. Knives. Pins. Screws. Wood boards. Bottles and bottles of stuff like âflocking adhesive,â whatever that was. It just sat there, all alone, begging for someone to touch it.
But I didnât 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 wasnât cardboard, though. It was an old-fashioned wood trunk. Inside were taxidermy suppliesâold 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. âI can hardly read whatâs in here,â he said, holding up the notebook. âEverythingâs in tiny cursive.â
âWhatâs it say?â
âJust a bunch of dumb recipes and prayers and stuff about weather.â
The ceiling creaked. Footsteps. Grumpaâs footsteps.
âI think Grumpaâs awake!â
Alex whispered, âPut everything back.â
We made quick work of straightening boxes while he walked back and forth.
âHow are we going to get upstairs without him seeing us?â I asked.
Alex shrugged.
âStop shrugging and start coming up with ideas for a change! I canât always be the idea person.â
âActually, Iâm the idea person,â Alex said. âYou just talk faster.â
Alex always tried to show me up. It was annoying. I said, âHereâs an idea.