Ghosts Don't Wear Glasses Page 8

  We put on our gloves. “Teej, you take the birth records. Rog, you take the cemetery headstones.”

  I started reading the fat book, Nineteenth-Century Whaling Masters. There was a whole section on Hannibal Royce that said pretty much what we already knew. It also said something about how he met a woman named Matilda St. Clair on a whaling trip in 1846, when his ship stopped in France. It was rumored she returned home with him and became his first wife, dying shortly afterward, though there is no record of the marriage. . . . That must be the same woman Wallace had mentioned.

  “Hey, Ms. Valen, it says right here Hannibal may have had a first wife,” I said. “The Frenchwoman.”

  “I know, but there is no proof that he did. And that book states clearly that it was a rumor,” said Ms. Valen.

  I returned to my reading. Hannibal Royce was officially married in 1855 to a woman named Mary Hand. They had one son named Philander. He had to be the ancestor of Admiral Thomas Royce, since according to the book, Hannibal Royce didn’t have any more wives or any more kids.

  “Teej, look up the year 1855 and see if a kid named Philander Royce was born.”

  “That’s a weird name,” said T. J., paging through the book. “No Philander in 1855.”

  “How about 1856?”

  T. J. shook his head.

  “Keep looking. Now, Roger, see if someone named Matilda St. Clair Royce died in 1847 or 1848.”

  “Who was that again?”

  “The one who might have been Hannibal’s first wife.”

  “I got it!” said T. J. all of a sudden. “Philander Royce was born on August 21, 1857.”

  “Good job, Teej. Finally, we’re getting somewhere. Hey, was there another Royce kid born earlier, in like 1846 or 1847?”

  “Hey, how weird is this?” said Roger. “ ‘Stranger, stop and cast an eye. As you are now, so once was I. As I am now, so you will be. Remember Death and follow me. Philander Royce 1775 to 1830.’ ”

  “I bet that was Hannibal Royce’s dad, and then Hannibal named his kid after him,” I said.

  Ms. Valen nodded. “Although the inscription is a bit creepy, it was very popular on tombstones in the late eighteenth century.”

  “No Matilda Royce,” said Roger. “Just Hannibal Welcome Royce, Whaling Captain, Killer of monsters of the deep, 1816 to 1886.”

  “Welcome,” I said. “Hmm . . .” Why did that name sound so familiar, and why did it seem important?

  “Then ‘Philander Royce, Husband and Father. In the arms of angels 1857 to 1901.’ ”

  “That Philander Royce was Admiral Thomas Royce’s great-grandfather,” said Ms. Valen.

  I went back to the book to see if there was anything else about the Frenchwoman, Matilda, but the next part of the book was all about how Hannibal Royce was the first American whaler to hunt for whales in the Arctic and how he patented a bunch of whaling inventions, like the rocket harpoon. There was even a picture of an advertisement like the one Wallace had shown us. Interesting, but not exactly helpful in terms of finding out more about whether he had a first wife.

  I kept reading just in case there was something.

  “Oh, man! You’ll never believe this!” I said.

  “What?” said Roger, as he, T. J., and Ms. Valen looked over at me.

  “You know how Hannibal Royce lost his leg?”

  “Yeah, a great white or some big old whale bit it—” began Roger.

  I shook my head. “He blew it off when he was testing out the rocket harpoon he invented. And he was all the way out in the Arctic whale hunting when it happened, so then he had to stay in some hospital there to recover.”

  “Whoa!” said Roger and T. J. as I scanned the rest of the page.

  “The doctor said he thought Hannibal would die ’cause his leg got infected. But Hannibal Royce said he couldn’t die because he had a wife with a child on the way and he had to get home to them.” I looked up, my eyes wide. “You know what this means?”

  “He was one tough dude,” said Roger.

  “Totally, but it also means that he had a family when this accident happened, so if it happened before he married Mary Hand, then it means—”

  “He married the Frenchwoman what’s-her-name?”

  “Matilda St. Clair,” I said.

  “Well, when was the accident?”

  I read each page three times, but I couldn’t find a date for the accident or for the voyage.

  “Thanks, Ms. Valen,” I said, taking off my gloves. “If only we could track down some proof that Matilda St. Clair married Hannibal Royce and then find out if they had a kid.”

  Ms. Valen sighed. “I know. But there is no proof she even existed, let alone married him and had a child and then died. With only a few more days until the house is out of probate, it looks as if it will be torn down.”

  We had to find that whaling log and ship’s diary. It was the only way to stop Benedict Billings. And we’d have to hurry. We were running out of time. . . .

  BOOzarre BUT TRUE!

  “I just know the whaling log will prove that Wallace is the heir. We have to find it,” I said as we headed out to Raven Hill Road.

  “Gum?” said T. J., handing Roger a piece when we stopped at the stop sign on Main Street.

  “Thanks,” said Roger. “Plain old bubble gum, my favorite.”

  “You’re welcome,” said T. J.

  “Welcome!” I repeated excitedly as an idea formed in my mind. “I bet Welcome is Wallace’s middle name. I just remembered he said his name was Wallace W. Willis. I bet the W stands for Welcome, just like Hannibal Welcome Royce. And that’s why the Captain—”

  “Kept saying welcome when I said thank you,” said Roger.

  “Because he thought the heir was named Welcome, too. I have to call Wallace and ask him. If it is his name, there is no way that is just a coincidence.”

  We were halfway down Main Street when we noticed some kids coming out of Get Whooped.

  “So, where’s the heir, airheads?” said Bryce, shifting his brand-new skateboard from one hand to the other. It was one of the real expensive hand-designed ones with top-of-the-line trucks and wheels.

  “I bet nobody was even in the house in the first place,” said Trippy.

  “Yeah,” agreed True, flipping up his board and catching it in one hand. “You just said that ’cause you didn’t find the harpoon.”

  The three of them blocked the sidewalk, so it was either run them over or stop. We stopped. That’s when I noticed Clementine standing off to the side. She must have just come out of the store, too. She had a Get Whooped bag in her hand with a pair of swimming goggles poking out of the top.

  “I believe you, Fish,” she said.

  “I don’t,” said Bryce, rolling his eyes. “Loser.”

  “It’s so strange that you met the heir that very night,” Clementine went on.

  “BOOzarre but true,” agreed Roger.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” said T. J. “The ghost made sure it happened, so we can help him.”

  “Help him do what?” asked Trippy even though Bryce was shooting daggers at him with his eyes.

  “Help him keep the house in his family and keep it from being destroyed.”

  Bryce shook his head. “Well, tough luck to the ghost. My dad’s going to be knocking that house down next week.”

  “No, he’s not,” I said. “We’re on our way there right now to get the final proof.”

  “Just like you got the harpoon, huh, loser?” sneered Bryce.

  “You’ll see,” I said, my ears starting to burn. I tried not to think about how even the Captain had thought Admiral Royce was a little crazy when it came to the Royce family tree.

  “No, you’ll see, Dork Breath,” said Bryce. “Nobody stops my dad.”

  “Yeah,” said Trippy, and True nodded.

  “Well, maybe this time somebody will,” I said, fingering Admiral Royce’s clue in my pocket.

  “Yeah, right. As if you have the power to do anything.
You’re just a kid. And your dad’s nobody. He’s just a plumber,” said Bryce.

  “How dare you—” I began as Clementine mouthed something to me that I suddenly realized was the word jealous. Bryce, Trippy, and True didn’t hear me, because they were already walking away.

  “Good luck, Fish!” Clementine called before heading after them.

  “He makes me so mad,” I said as the three of us pedaled toward Raven Hill. My whole face was burning just thinking about big-mouth Bryce. What did it matter if being jealous only made him mean? “We have to find that log. We’ll show him and his dad and—”

  “Whoa there, Great Brain! You know you have more brain power in your little finger than Bryce has in his entire big head.”

  T. J. laughed, and then I did, too.

  “At least we know we’ve got nothing to be scared of,” said Roger as we headed up the long driveway. “Since there is no ghost.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” said T. J. “Entities only show themselves when they want to, you know.”

  “Teej, please. What we need to do now is plain old investigating—not the paranormal kind—and find a real, live book left behind by a real, live person.

  “We already know there’s no such thing as ghosts,” I said as we slipped through the side door into the kitchen and headed across the hallway. “Remember, it was just Wallace.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  In the afternoon light, the place looked less spooky and much more dusty than the last time we were there. It felt different, too—more welcoming, somehow. We headed into the library, and I pulled out the Admiral’s clue.

  “Thar she blows!” said Roger, heading over to a small painting of a whale breaching—you know, jumping out of the water—that was similar to the one in the living room, but without the harpoon and all the blood.

  “Thar she blows!” T. J. picked up a piece of scrimshaw with a whale design carved onto it.

  “Thar she blows!” I said, studying a section of one bookcase in the three walls of bookcases around the room. This one was filled with books about whales and whaling.

  I pulled out one titled Monsters of the Deep. There was nothing hidden behind it, so I started flipping through the dusty pages.

  The next bookcase had more books about whaling voyages and marine science mixed up with books about whaling ships and navigation. The books weren’t arranged in any order that I could tell and seemed to be shoved in every which way.

  “Hey, guys, come here,” said Roger. “I need some help.” He had climbed on top of the cabinet next to the painting. “You pull that side and I’ll pull this side.”

  “You think there’s a safe hidden behind the painting with the whaling log inside it?” I said.

  “Great minds think alike,” said Roger as we pulled the dusty old painting off the wall. No luck. There was just a large white rectangle where the painting had been.

  “Drat!” said Roger. “That’s always where people hide stuff in the movies.”

  “These are made of whalebone, right?” T. J. picked up a piece of scrimshaw. “Maybe one of them will—”

  “Trigger a secret compartment,” said Roger. “Brilliant, Teej!” He picked up more pieces of scrimshaw. Nothing happened.

  “I’m telling you, it’s a book about a whale and the log is probably hidden—”

  “Great Brain,” said Roger, “these books are all about whales. Whales of the Eastern Seaboard. Whale Oil Lights Up a Century.” All of a sudden he grinned. “How will we ever find the right whale? Get it? You said the one-legged whaler was the first to catch right whales, right?”

  “Then we’ll have to pull out each one,” I said. “Unless the title of one of them is Thar She Blows!”

  Roger sighed as we stared at the rows and rows of books.

  “Hey, see that fat one at the top with the gold letters?” said T. J. “It’s called Moby-Dick. They were always saying, ‘Thar she blows!’ in the movie. I’ve seen it a bunch of times ’cause it’s my dad’s favorite. I knew it sounded familiar. It’s about this crazy captain whose leg got bitten off by this whale.”

  “Another one-legged whaler,” said Roger. “BOOzarre.”

  “I don’t know, Teej,” I said, pulling out a big book on sperm whales. There was nothing hidden inside it, and no whaling log in its spot in the bookcase.

  “I just have a feeling,” said T. J.

  “This isn’t about feelings,” I said, pulling out the next book in the row. This one was about whaling ship design. “This is about facts. We have to do this the scientific way, pulling out each book. It’s the process of elimination.”

  “Call it what you want; it’ll take forever,” said Roger. “Teej might be right. It sure beats going through a gazillion books. You said yourself we’re running out of time.” He climbed onto the fireplace and reached up to the top shelf.

  “Heads up!” said Roger. He tossed a big book down. I almost dropped it because it was so heavy.

  “I’m telling you, the only way to do this is to pull out each book and examine it,” I said as I opened the cover. T. J. crowded closer.

  “Nothing up here,” said Roger.

  “Nothing in here,” I said, flipping the book open.

  “Let me see,” said T. J., reaching for it at the same moment that I moved forward to put it on the mantel.

  PHWOMP! We collided. The book fell open with a thud. A small book fell out. It had been hidden in a hole that had been carved in the very center of the big book.

  WHOA!

  “Thar she blows!” said Roger.

  I bent down and picked up the little book and turned to the first page:

  The Log Book of the Ship Superior and Diary of Captain Hannibal W. Royce, Master, Sailed on the 25th Day of June, 1847.

  We all stared at it in awe. It was the one-legged whaler’s logbook and diary!

  “How did you know?” I asked T. J.

  He looked at me, his blue eyes serious. “The ghost told me. . . .”

  CREAK! CREAK! TAP! TAP!

  “What was that?” said Roger.

  “It’s the entity,” said T. J. “I told you.”

  WHOOSH! TAP! TAP! CLINK!

  My heart beat faster as T. J., Roger, and I exchanged glances. I was sure there was no ghost, but still. Something was making those sounds.

  “Maybe it’s a mouse or a rat,” I said.

  CLINK! CLINK! TAP! TAP!

  “That sounds like the chandelier,” said Roger. “Maybe the ghost is—”

  Suddenly, we heard the murmur of voices and the thudding of what had to be footsteps coming closer.

  “That’s no ghost,” I said.

  “If it’s not a ghost, then who could it be?” said Roger.

  “I bet it’s Bryce and those guys trying to scare us,” I said. “They’re the only ones who know we’re here.”

  “Let’s hide,” said Roger. “We’ll give them the fright of their lives.”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” said T. J.

  The footsteps were just outside the door.

  “Quick! We have to hide.”

  The door was opening.

  “In here,” I said, putting the book in my pocket as I knocked into the bookcase next to the mantel. It swung open.

  We slipped inside the secret passage. This time I made sure to leave it open a crack.

  “When I give the signal, we’ll jump out,” I whispered.

  We huddled together by the crack in the door, trying to see out.

  “What a beautiful room,” said a woman’s voice that sounded oddly familiar and nothing like Bryce, Trippy, or True. “Those are the original crenellated moldings. Seems such a pity to destroy history.”

  “No way!” Roger said.

  “Shh!” I nudged him.

  “It’s a lot of old junk,” said a man’s deep voice as the two figures walked into our view.

  They definitely were not Bryce and his buddies. They were none other than Benedict Billings a
nd Mrs. H., Roger’s mom. She worked for him part-time as a real estate agent.

  “Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself?” said Mrs. H. “I mean, the house doesn’t officially go out of probate for a few more days.”

  She walked right up to the bookcase. She was inches from our faces. Roger sucked in his breath.

  “Did you hear something?” said Mrs. H.

  “I’m telling you, this place is mine. It’s not like an heir is going to suddenly pop out of the woodwork,” Mr. Billings said, coming over to stand behind her and knocking on the shelf right where we were standing.

  We jumped back just as the tiny crack closed and the bookcase swung to with a click.

  We were locked in the secret passage.

  “Oh, jeepo!” said T. J.

  “You can say that again,” said Roger. “Now what? If my mom catches us, we’re dead.”

  “If they don’t let us out, then we’re stuck in here,” I said. “Like Wallace.”

  “With the ghost,” added T. J., with a shiver.

  We started banging, but it was no use. Mrs. H and Benedict Billings were already gone.

  “What are we going to do?” said Roger.

  I pulled out my flashlight and turned it on, lighting up the dusty, cobwebby stairs. Then the three of us headed slowly down to the basement.

  Just because Wallace hadn’t found a way out didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Either way, what other choice did we have?

  At least it wasn’t as dark as last time. Dusty gray streaks of light slanted in through two small windows at the far end of the room. Roger followed my gaze.

  “You got a shrinking potion in your pocket?” he said. “’Cause there’s no way we can fit through there.”

  “Let’s see,” I said, heading over to the window. “Help me move the boxes out of the way so you can climb up.”

  “Me?” said Roger.

  “Yeah, you’re the skinniest,” I said. “If anybody’s going to fit through that window, it’s you.”

  We started moving boxes around. After a few minutes of helping, T. J. sat down on an armchair that had lost one of its arms in the corner next to the window. It was beside a big old-fashioned cupboard that had lots of dusty, cobwebby stuff on its shelves.