Hunter Moran Digs Deep by Patricia Reilly Giff Page A

lowered, Fred riding down on top with my underwear looped over his ears.
    But Zack shakes his head at me. Buried treasure beats an underwear funeral any day.
    Sarah drags on, all about her good work spiffing up Holy Gate Cemetery. And at last we get to it: Lester Tinwitty, the town father, and his gravestone.
    â€œIvy all over the front of it,” she says. “I was ready to cut. But when I touched it, the whole mess fell off.”
    She gives her gum a vicious snap. “Someone tore off the ivy, then stuck it back on to hide the clues on the stone. Clever.” Snap. “Except they’ll have to deal with me.”
    â€œGet with it, Yulefski,” Zack mutters.
    â€œYes,” she says. “I saw clues to Lester Tinwitty’s soup pot fortune.”
    In the distance, a woman screeches: “OUT!”
    â€œGRRRR,” comes the answer.
    â€œThat’s Fred,” Steadman says. “I’d know his voice anywhere.” He takes off, in between gravestones, over bushes, through piles of autumn leaves.
    We leave Yulefski midsentence and barrel after Steadman, circling a monument to some guy who planted fruit trees all over town, a regular Johnny Peach Pit.
    We stop dead.
    My underwear is nowhere in sight. Fred is running amuck around the mourners . . . who have forgotten about mourning. They try to capture him as he knocks over baskets of flowers, a lily between his teeth.
    â€œBetter than the underwear,” Zack whispers, giving me a little nudge.
    Who knows where my underwear has gotten itself?
    We pretend we never saw Fred before. “A disgrace,” Zack says in a Sister Appolonia voice.
    â€œCan’t even have a funeral in peace,” I add.
    It doesn’t work.
    â€œOUT!” the voice shrieks . . .
    At us now, instead of Fred.
    We grab Fred’s collar and blast away from there. We don’t stop until we’re back at Lester Tinwitty’s grave.
    Sarah is still leaning over his stone. “Big bucks,” she says. “They’re just waiting for me, Sarah M. Yulefski. All I have to do is figure out what the clues mean . . .” She hesitates. “Before the ivy cutter gets there first.”
    Wait a minute. Isn’t Mom Lester Tinwitty’s fourth or fifth cousin? Something like that?
    Zack knows exactly what I’m thinking. Shouldn’t the big bucks be waiting for us? Forget about some ivy cutter or gum-snapping Yulefski.
    But Zack makes a Jell-O mouth, swishing his cheeks back and forth. He’s telling me nobody will ever find the treasure. But it’ll keep Yulefski too busy to think about my underwear parading around town.
    We lean forward to check out the clues anyway. But someone else is yelling. It’s Alfred, boss of the cemetery. “Get lost, kids, and take that dog with you!” he screams. His ears are almost the size of Fred’s.
    â€œWait,” I tell him.
    Alfred dances up and down, furious. “This isn’t a playground, you know.”
    â€œJust one minute . . .” Yulefski begins.
    It’s no use.
    Alfred marches us past a dozen stones and out the gate. I look back. Someone is standing near Johnny Peach Pit’s grave. He steps behind the stone when he sees I’ve spotted him.
    Bradley? Bradley the Bully? The toughest kid in town! Maybe he’s the ivy cutter.
    Good luck, Bradley. You’ll never find the treasure, either.
    We reach the street and nearly fall over my sister Linny,the alpha dog of the family. She’s walking along with her friend Becca the Beak. “Hunter and Zack,” Linny says. “Wouldn’t you know! They’re such an embarrassment.” She covers her eyes with one hand.
    â€œDon’t I know it,” Becca says, sniffing.
    â€œBe careful!” I yell. “You might just fall on your faces.”
    We don’t wait to hear what they say next.
    We head for home with Steadman and Fred in