Smells Like Pirates

  “Do you want me to clean it up?” Homer asked. He glanced at her name tag. It was blank.

  She stopped mopping and crooked her finger. “Come closer.”

  Homer gulped. He didn’t like the way she’d narrowed her eyes. And that blueberry-sized mole on the end of her nose was gruesome. He took a hesitant step toward her. “I said I was sorry.”

  Then she said something under her breath.

  “What was that?” Homer asked, stepping closer. The cleaning lady’s face was level with his. Her gaze was fierce.

  “Beware the lost and found,” she said quietly.

  Homer frowned. What did that mean? “Uh, okay.” He tried not to stare at the mole. “Well, I need to be going.” Dog stuck his nose into the bucket, attempting to drink the sudsy water, but Homer pulled him away.

  “Beware the lost and found,” the cleaning woman repeated, louder this time. Did she think that by saying it louder, it would suddenly make sense?

  Homer shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Good to know.”

  With a grumble, the cleaning woman collected her mop and bucket and hurried from the lobby. As she disappeared around the corner, a ding sounded.

  Dog barked, his tail wagging madly, as a boy with wiry black hair stepped out of one of the elevators.

  Hercules!” Homer called, a smile bursting forth.

  Dog pulled the leash from Homer’s grip as he bounded toward the elevator. The boy, whose name was Hercules Simple, entered the lobby. He set three boxes on the floor, then knelt and scratched Dog’s rump. “Hi, Dog. How’ve you been?” Dog’s back legs did their little happy dance.

  Homer was surprised to see his friend, even though they were both members of L.O.S.T. “I didn’t know if you’d be here,” Homer said. “Lofty Spires is a long way away.”

  “I just got here this afternoon.” Hercules stood and stuck his hands in his pockets. He wore his usual attire—jeans and a long-sleeved rugby shirt. This one had red and white stripes. “Ajitabh said the membership would be electing a new president so they’d need me for the paperwork. Being L.O.S.T.’s records keeper means I have to be at all these important events. I hope this doesn’t take long. I’ve got to get home to study for the World’s Spelling Bee. It’s in one month.”

  “I hope you win again.”

  “Me, too.” Hercules scratched his wide nose, which was dotted with pimples. Then his expression turned serious. “I wish I didn’t have to be here. I hate funerals.”

  “I’ve never been to one,” Homer said.

  “Well, they’re always sad. And they’re always long.” Hercules’s gaze settled on the spot where the cleaning lady had been mopping. “Better not walk over there. You could slip and break your neck.”

  Same old Hercules, always worried about everything. Despite the fact that a funeral was about to take place, a warm feeling filled Homer’s chest. Even though he and Hercules were different in many ways, they’d become the best of friends. The boys had known each other for only a few months, but they had faced near death in a coliseum, had jumped out of an airplane, and had almost been killed by a bear. Those are the kinds of experiences that bond people. Plus, Hercules had saved Dog’s life. And that was a huge plus.

  The truth was, Homer had no real friends back in Milkydale. All his classmates thought he was a weirdo. But so what if he used to wear a compass to school? So what if he preferred digging holes to playing dodgeball? So what if he knew the names of every great treasure hunter but didn’t know who had won the World Series or who had the best batting average? He had a treasure-sniffing dog!

  “What’s in the boxes?” Homer asked.

  “Oh, right.” Hercules handed one to Homer. It had his name written on it. “Ajitabh said we’re supposed to change into these new clothes. There’s one for Dog, too.”

  They headed to the gentlemen’s lavatory—a huge room of polished marble and gleaming mirrors. The boys set the boxes next to a row of sinks with mockingbird faucets. Homer opened his. Inside, a note card lay on perfectly folded tissue paper.

  Traditional Mourning Attire Designed and Fabricated by Victor Tuffletop, Official Tailor of L.O.S.T. For Mr. Homer W. Pudding

  The two large boxes contained identical clothing—a pair of black pants, a white button-down shirt, a black vest, a black suit coat with long coattails, a black tie, a pair of white gloves, and a black top hat. Hercules showed Homer how to tie the tie. “Never make the knot too tight or you could suffocate.” Then they pulled on the gloves and set the top hats on their heads.

  “This wool is going to make me hot and itchy,” Hercules said, running his hand over the suit coat. “I’m sure to get a rash.”

  Homer inspected his reflection. “We look like we’re in a movie or something.” He glanced at his sneakers. They didn’t match the fancy outfit, but since no shoes were included, they’d have to do.

  He opened the third, smaller box.

  Traditional Canine Mourning Attire Designed and Fabricated by Victor Tuffletop, Official Tailor of L.O.S.T. For Dog

  A black vest was the only garment in the box. It fit perfectly around Dog’s tummy.

  “They’re waiting for us in the graveyard,” Hercules said.

  The lobby was still empty. They stuffed their day clothes into the boxes and stored them behind the reception counter along with Homer’s backpack. Then Homer and Dog followed Hercules down a hallway. Sweat prickled the back of Homer’s neck. Hercules was right about the wool being hot and itchy. “How far away is the graveyard?”

  “It’s behind the hotel.”

  “That’s a weird place for a graveyard.” Homer scratched his neck. “Hey, you want to hear something else that’s kinda weird?” He didn’t wait for a reply, because of course Hercules wanted to hear something weird. “The cleaning lady told me to beware the lost and found.”

  “That is weird. Maybe there’s something dangerous in the hotel lost and found. I wonder what it could be.” Hercules fiddled with his top hat. “I wish I had my helmet. If we have to look at Lord Mockingbird’s dead body, I might faint. If I faint, I might hit my head on a tombstone.”

  Homer wasn’t worried. He’d seen lots of dead things, thanks to his sister’s gruesome hobby. Her laboratory was like a convention for dead things. But he remembered how Hercules had passed out when they’d come face-to-face with a grizzly bear on Mushroom Island. “Stand close to me. I’ll try to catch you if you faint.”

  “Thanks.”

  A pair of glass doors stood at the end of the hallway. Dog and the boys pushed through and stepped into a walled-in cemetery that had been built behind the Mockingbird Hotel. “This place is creepy,” Hercules whispered.

  “Real creepy,” Homer agreed.

  “Urrrr.”

  The night air had turned brisk. Streetlamps towered above the wall, casting a glow over the cemetery. Most of the headstones were ancient, worn down by wind, rain, and time, their edges crumbling away. The stones were tilted, as if each grave’s occupant had vertigo. Moldy flowers lay on a few graves. A lifeless tree reached with gnarled, leafless arms. A hawk sat on one of the branches, preening its feathers.

  Homer read the headstones as he passed by. A silhouette of a mockingbird had been carved into each one, along with the occupant’s name: Lord Mockingbird the X, Lady Mockingbird the VII, Little Lord Mockingbird the III. A tiny headstone read: Baby Mockingbird. Homer held tight to Dog’s leash. Thankfully, Dog had already piddled.

  A group of people stood in a cluster at the far end of the cemetery. The women all wore black veils. The men wore the same outfits as Homer and Hercules. Their top hats bobbed as they turned to look at the boys. No one spoke. Ajitabh stepped away from the group and motioned for the boys to approach.

  Homer immediately recognized his friend Zelda. At eight feet two inches tall, she stood out in any crowd. Her long hair cascaded down her black cape like molten silver. Wearing her usual sad expression, she nodded at Homer. He was about to wave at her when the leash tightened. Dog push
ed his way past black pants and coattails with the urgency of a sled dog. Homer stumbled forward. “Excuse me,” he said. People stepped aside as Dog pulled Homer through the crowd.

  Dog stopped at the edge of a deep hole. Homer caught his breath and looked down into the newly dug grave. A casket rested at the bottom. Homer’s face, reflected in the casket’s shiny surface, peered back up at him. Dog lay on his stomach and pointed his nose into the hole. He whimpered. Did he know that Lord Mockingbird, his previous owner, had died? How could he possibly know that? That would be amazing. But then again, Dog was amazing.

  Ajitabh cleared his throat. “I believe we are all gathered,” he said. People mumbled and nodded. “Righteo. Let us commence.” Ajitabh walked around the perimeter of the grave. A stone pedestal stood on the other side, directly across from Homer. A television set, the old-fashioned kind with knobs and a bulging oval screen, sat atop. Ajitabh removed one of his white gloves and turned a knob.

  A crackling sound filled the graveyard. Black-and-white lines rolled across the screen. Then a voice said, “Gather round, you blithering numbskulls.”

  A shiver ran up Homer’s spine. He knew that ancient voice. Dog got to his feet, his tail wagging as he stared at the screen.

  A face slowly appeared on the screen—a white-haired old man with prunelike skin. Lord Mockingbird XVIII stared from the television, waiting, as if he knew it would take a while for his image to focus. Once it had focused, and once everyone in the crowd had stopped gasping with surprise, His Lordship smiled wickedly.

  “If you are hearing this, then I must be dead,” he said. “And if I am dead, then you are all in for a big kerfuffle.”

  What’s he saying?” someone asked.

  “What’s a kerfuffle?”

  Hercules cleared his throat. “The word kerfuffle is Scottish in origin. It means ‘a commotion or disturbance.’ ”

  “Would someone tell that giant woman to move out of the way?” someone else said. “We can’t see the television screen.”

  People pushed against Homer as they tried to get a better view. Homer stiffened his legs and held tight to the leash, afraid he and Dog might fall into the grave. Hercules and Homer shared a confused look.

  “Quiet down,” Ajitabh said with a wave of his hand.

  Lord Mockingbird XVIII hadn’t bothered to put in his fake teeth for his televised appearance. His lips folded over his gums like crinkled candy-bar wrappers. He sat hunched, as if his spine had gone all floppy. Although he looked weak and a bit stupid, Homer knew this was an act. His Lordship, in life, had pretended to be senile, but all the while he’d been sharp as a tack.

  “Firstly, I shall address those to whom I am most unfortunately related—the Mockingbird clan.”

  “Here it comes,” someone whispered. “We’re going to be rich.”

  His Lordship wagged a gnarled finger. “You’re a bunch of greedy, rotten, bloodsucking malcontents, and I despise you all. The only reason you hauled your lazy, worthless, rotund bottoms to my funeral is because you want to know what I’m going to do with all my money.” He broke into a fit of coughing. Then he wagged his finger again, his voice weak and shaky. “Well, the joke’s on you. There is no money. I flushed it down the toilet. Every last cent. So good riddance to the parasitic lot of you.” Then His Lordship left the screen. But the tape continued to run.

  “Flushed it down the toilet?” someone said. “He’s crazy!”

  “What a horrid old man!”

  “How dare he treat us this way!”

  “This has been a total waste of time!”

  There was much complaining and name-calling. In a flurry of black, most of the crowd hurriedly exited the cemetery—leaving just eight people and a dog standing around the grave, watching the television.

  After a long pause, Lord Mockingbird returned to the screen, a muffin in hand. He said nothing, just gummed the muffin and stared into space. Was that the end of the show? Homer wondered. Were they supposed to stand around and watch him eat? It was kinda boring. There wasn’t even a sound track. “Is this what funerals are usually like?” he whispered to Hercules.

  “No.” Hercules peered down. “I sure hope I don’t fall in.”

  Homer recognized the remaining people, all members of L.O.S.T. “Are we supposed to stand here all day?” a large woman asked as she pushed her veil from her face. Diamonds hung from her pale earlobes. “I have better things to do.”

  “Hold your horses, Gertrude,” a man said, adjusting his black cowboy hat. His name was Jeremiah Carson, and he lived out west with cattle and prairie dogs. He was the only man in the crowd who hadn’t worn a top hat. “I reckon he’s got more to say.”

  “I don’t care what he has to say,” Dr. Gertrude Magnum said. “I had to listen to him ramble on and on when he was alive. I don’t see why I have to listen to him now that he’s dead. He was a senile old buffoon.”

  As if he could hear everything, His Lordship stopped eating. “You all thought I was a senile old buffoon, didn’t you?”

  Gertrude gasped. Homer dropped Dog’s leash. Was this some kind of joke? Was he listening to them? How was that possible?

  The television crackled, and black-and-white lines rolled down the screen, disrupting the image. The hawk, which had been sitting in the tree this whole time, flew down and landed on top of the television. After another crackle, the screen cleared and Lord Mockingbird’s image returned. He tossed the remaining muffin over his shoulder and slid his fake teeth into his mouth. Then he sat up straight. His weary red eyes widened, and his voice bellowed with strength. “That’s better. I assume my money-grubbing relations have left. Now we can get down to business.”

  Dog, probably bored with the whole thing, wandered off to investigate the cemetery, his black vest snug around his belly, his blue leash dragging behind. Homer knew he should probably go after Dog, who was sure to dig holes and eat moldy flowers, but he couldn’t peel his eyes from the screen.

  “While I was alive, I pretended to be senile so I could find out the truth about each and every one of you,” Lord Mockingbird said. He tapped the side of his head, indicating the source of his brilliant plan. “That’s right. The truth.”

  “I’m confused,” a man said. This was Professor Thaddius Thick. He rubbed his gray beard. “Is he saying he’s been… been… been spying on us?”

  “That’s exactly what he’s saying,” snarled a young woman as she tore off her veil and let it fall to the ground. This was Torch, the owner of the hawk.

  “Well, I’ll be hog-tied,” Jeremiah Carson said.

  “That’s right,” His Lordship said. “I wanted to find out the truth, and the truth is this—some of you are not as you seem. Some of you are hiding secrets.”

  Homer gasped. Would His Lordship tell everyone about Dog? Because Lord Mockingbird had previously owned Dog, he knew Dog’s treasure-hunting secret. Oh, please don’t tell them about Dog, Homer thought. He wanted to grab the television and toss it over the graveyard wall. Please don’t tell them.

  “Turn that thing off,” Gertrude said. Her jeweled bracelets clinked as she lunged at the television, but Ajitabh blocked her. “He’s a crazy old man. He’ll tell you a bunch of lies.”

  “Yeah,” Homer blurted. “Turn it off.”

  “Why do you want to turn it off?” Torch asked Homer, her black eyes piercing him. Her hawk possessed an equally chilling gaze. “You got something to hide?”

  Homer’s face went all hot. It suddenly felt like a million degrees under that wool suit coat.

  “I say, quiet down,” Ajitabh said. “His Lordship is speaking.”

  “Because I am dead, you will be choosing my replacement.” His Lordship fiddled with his membership coin. “I may no longer have a vote in L.O.S.T., but I have an opinion on who should be elected. An opinion based on information gathered while pretending to be a blithering idiot.” He scowled. His gaze scanned the gathered membership, as if he could actually see them. “Do not elect Gertrude Magnum. She c
ares only about wealth. As president, she would use L.O.S.T. to fund her opulent lifestyle.”

  “I don’t know what he’s talking about,” Gertrude said, tucking her emerald necklace beneath her black collar.

  “Do not elect Jeremiah Carson. He is in love with Gertrude and thus could easily fall prey to her greedy plans.”

  Jeremiah pulled his cowboy hat so the brim hid his eyes. “What can I say?” he said. “It gets lonely way out there in Montana.”

  “Do not elect Torch,” His Lordship continued. “She cares only about fame. As president, she would claim all discoveries as her own.”

  Torch narrowed her dark eyes. The snake tattoo that wound around her neck moved slightly as she clenched her jaw. “It don’t matter what he says. He’s dead.”

  “Do not elect Professor Thick. He cares only about Egyptian mummies. As president, he would turn L.O.S.T. into a mummy-only operation.”

  “It’s… it’s… it’s true,” Professor Thick stammered. “I love mummies.”

  Homer cringed. Please don’t tell them about Dog.

  Lord Mockingbird took a long breath. “As for the rest of the membership, Ajitabh is too busy with his inventions. Zelda’s gloominess does not bode well for a leadership position. Sir Titus Edmund is missing. Angus MacDoodle is a hermit. Hercules is needed in his role as records keeper, and The Unpolluter is out of the question, since we’ve never met her. So that leaves us with one remaining member.”

  Everyone turned to look at Homer. That’s when Dog waddled up to the grave. He’d found a bone of some sort and dropped it in. It landed on the casket with a loud thunk. Then Dog turned around and began kicking dirt into the grave, grunting with each kick. “Ur, ur, ur, ur.”

  Homer might have wondered what kind of bone it was. He might have scolded Dog for digging in the graveyard. But like everyone else, Homer waited to hear what Lord Mockingbird had to say next.

  His Lordship raised his gray eyebrows and smiled. “That’s right. It is my opinion that the best person to replace me as president of L.O.S.T. is Homer W. Pudding.”