Hunter Moran Digs Deep by Patricia Reilly Giff

Chapter 1
    . . . Fred, who’s galloping madly down the street, my old blue underwear clamped between his jaws. He takes a quick detour across Sarah Yulefski’s front lawn.
    What a start to the weekend!
    I throw myself after him, shouting, “Get back here, Fred!”
    My twin, Zack, runs along next to me. “I hope Yulefski isn’t near a window,” he says.
    Across the street, our older brother, William, ambles along, swinging a paint can. He stops to point at us and Fred, laughing hysterically.
    I keep running. “Just wait, William!” I yell over my shoulder.
    Wait for what, I don’t know. But one of these days I’ll figure something out.
    Half a block behind us, our five-year-old brother is crying, trying to keep up. “My poor Fred. He’ll get killed in traffic,” Steadman moans. “He’ll miss his own birthday party Monday after school.”
    Poor Fred. Ha.
    Monday? A party for Fred? As if we knew when his birthday was! As if he deserved it!
    Fred darts into the street and heads for a pickup truck. HOLY GATE—NEWFIELD ’ S FAVORITE CEMETERY is written on the side. The truck stops, idling at the light.
    Fred doesn’t idle. He takes a massive leap, his back paws scrabbling, and lands in the truck.
    They take off, the truck and Fred, my blue underwear dangling.
    Zack leans against the nearest tree. “That’s the end of spiteful old Fred.”
    Steadman catches up to us, a line of tears making a clean river on his cheeks.
    â€œDon’t worry.” I put my arm around him. “We’ll head for the cemetery.”
    Steadman’s screams are deafening, his mouth opened wide enough that we can see his tonsils. “You’re going to bury Fred? Maybe he isn’t even dead yet.”
    â€œSteadman couldn’t read the words on the side of the truck,” Zack mutters.
    We try to explain, but Steadman can’t hear us through his yelling.
    Never mind.
    We take his hands and swing him along between us, on a mission to capture Fred and my underwear.
    We arrive at the cemetery, breathless. It’s as old as thetown, and crowded with headstones like Zack’s teeth, leaning every which way.
    Sarah Yulefski isn’t at her house after all. She’s hanging out on a stone bench in front of the town father’s grave:
LESTER TINWITTY
He lived to May of 1905,
too bad for us, he up and died.
    With one thumb, Sarah points over her shoulder, her nails covered with pea-green nail polish. “Your dog, Fred, is at a burial. And guess what he’s chewing on.” She snickers. “Hint. It’s not a bone.”
    They might as well bury me along with the dead guy. The whole sixth grade will hear about this.
    Yulefski steps in front of Lester’s stone, arms out, as if there’s something she doesn’t want us to see.
    What’s that all about?
    Zack doesn’t miss a beat. “You’ll ruin your jacket if you lean up against that stone.”
    She doesn’t move.
    â€œCome on, Yulefski.” I give her my best smile.
    It works. She thinks I’m in love with her. “Well.” She simpers. “I’ve just found new clues for that old mystery.” She snaps her gum. “Too bad, someone else may have found them, too.”
    Lester Tinwitty’s buried fortune? She’s got to bekidding. People tried to find it for a hundred years. No luck. Everyone gave up when Pop was a kid.
    Yulefski grins horribly, her braces festooned with her breakfast. She thinks she’s gorgeous. “I was cleaning off some gravestones, the first time it’s been done in ages.” She flips back her knotty hair. “My civic duty.”
    Whatever that means.
    â€œWeeds and gook all over the stones . . .” She glances back over her shoulder.
    Steadman cuts in. “Never mind that. We have to get Fred. Suppose he jumps into . . .”
    I can see it: the coffin