Ollie and the Science of Treasure Hunting (A 14 Day Mystery) - Hardcover

Dionne, Erin

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0803738722 ISBN 13: 9780803738720

Publisher: Dial Books, 2014

Synopsis

This companion to the Edgar Award nominee MOXIE AND THE ART OF RULE BREAKING, which SLJ called “a breathless thrill ride,” features hidden pirate treasure and a high-stakes game of tag – just what you’d expect from summer camp!
 
While at Wilderness camp on the Boston Harbor Islands, Ollie must navigate new friends, new enemies, and a high-stakes game of tag, so the last thing he needs is a mystery. But then Ollie meets Grey, an elusive girl with knowledge of the island’s secrets, including the legend of a lost pirate treasure, which may not be a legend after all.
 
The sidekick steps into the spotlight as Ollie uses his wits and geocaching skills to keep long-lost treasure out of the wrong hands in this exciting adventure-mystery from fan-favorite middle grade author Erin Dionne.

About this title

About the Author

Erin Dionne is the author of Models Don't Eat Chocolate Cookies, The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet,  Notes from an Accidental Band Geek, and Moxie and the Art of Rule Breaking, which was nominated for an Edgar award. Erin writes about the miseries, mysteries, and magic of middle school, and teaches liberal arts at a small college north of Boston. She lives with her family in Framingham, Massachusetts.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

“Stay out of trouble.”

Kids hear that all the time, and most of the time we barely pay attention.

But when an FBI agent says it, and it’s the fourth time in two weeks that you’ve been to the federal building in Boston? You listen.

Or try to.

My mom, Agent Goh, and the lawyer who my dad insisted be present after our second trip—but who didn’t seem to do anything other than drink more cups of coffee than was humanly possible—were in Conference Room B, the same one I’d been in the other three times I’d been “debriefed.” That was a nice way of saying “questioned until I couldn’t remember my name anymore.”

Agent Goh leaned across the table, his gelled spiky black hair glittering in the overhead light.

“Stay out of trouble for me, okay?” he repeated, but this time with less of an “I’m an FBI agent” serious ring to it and more like the tired way my homeroom teacher last year would say it, when she’d get a headache and pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Stay out of trouble, lay low. And have fun.” He leaned back in his chair. “Geocache. Hang out by the campfire. Swim.” Then he turned his gaze to my mom. “Mrs. Truong, thank you for being so understanding. We believe this is the best course of action for Oliver. It will keep him out of the spotlight and let us wrap up the case against James O’Sullivan.”

My mom, whose hands were folded together so tightly the knuckles were white, gave a curt nod, like her neck was wound too tight and it hurt her to move it. “Of course. He loves camp. It just seems so soon . . .” She trailed off and took a minute to sweep a stray piece of sandy hair behind her ear. My mom’s had the same hairstyle ever since I can remember—and has swept the same piece of hair back forever—but today the gesture revealed how tired she was. And for the four thousandth time since all of this started, I felt bad. I hadn’t understood what solving one of the biggest crimes in Boston would do to my family. Everyone was stressed. News vans and reporters had been camped out in front of our house for days. This morning, Mom and I had to leave through the back door and cut through our neighbor’s yard to get out without them seeing us. My dad had taken two weeks out of work—weeks he’d been saving so we could go to Vietnam and visit my grandmother in the fall. That trip would be rescheduled. Even my little sister, LeeLee, was freaked out. She’d wet the bed three times last week, and she hadn’t done that in over a year.

“You’re not in any danger, and neither is Ollie,” Agent Goh said. “We’re confident that Sully and his daughter were working alone. We just need to keep Ollie out of the media spotlight so we can do our jobs. The media glut has been a bit . . . distracting.”

Their “jobs” were collecting evidence from the three historical landmarks my best friend Moxie and I had broken in to or defaced in our quest to find over $500 million in art stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum—which we’d found, and returned, and were each $2.5 million richer because of it. Or we would be, when they finished verifying the paintings’ authenticity. But thanks to some guy who worked in the restoration department at the museum and had visions of being a TV star, our names had been splashed all over the media—a “distraction” for the FBI, but miserable for me, Moxie, and our families.

Mom sighed, and I felt lower than a snail’s butt. Staying out of trouble had always been pretty easy for me. When you’re short, a mix of Caucasian/Vietnamese, asthmatic, overweight, and look a little too much like the kid in that animated movie about the old guy who floats his house away with a zillion balloons, there isn’t much trouble to get into. I played video games, geocached, and hung out with my friend Moxie—who was already on her way to New Hampshire with her mom and her mom’s boyfriend (that was their solution to the “lay low for a couple of weeks” directive).

My parents couldn’t get more time off work, so I’d be heading to Wilderness Scout camp on the Boston Harbor Islands. My troop was scheduled to go in August, but the FBI wouldn’t let me wait that long—so I was going with another troop from Boston, with a bunch of guys I didn’t know. Not that I cared much. After spending two weeks either dodging reporters or in Conference Room B, I was ready to get outside and away from this stuff.

Staying out of trouble? No problem.

Riiiighhhht. . . .

WILDERNESS SCOUTS TROOP 7

Harbor Islands Camping Trip Roster—July 18–August 1

To: All Troop 7 Scouts attending the BHI Camping Trip

From: Scoutmaster Fuentes

Subject: Orienteering Challenge

To kick off our 2 weeks of summer camp, we’re beginning with the annual Orienteering Challenge/Scavenger Hunt. Below are a series of coordinates and clues that you must navigate to find our departure point. Our boat leaves promptly at 2 pm; the challenge begins at 1pm.

Good luck!

1 pm: Begin at N42 21.60384 W71 3.37272

· Find the statue of someone named Red. What’s he holding?

· Cross the Greenway, but instead of an X, these “rings” mark a spot. How many are there, and what is it?

· Who barks at N42 21 32.87 W71 2 58.79?

· Not a rose, but close! We salute you.

· End coordinates: N42.3564864 W -71.049773

DAY 1

1

Here’s how you get into trouble trying to find a boat:

Get there first.

* * *

“Not a rose, but close . . . Not a rose, but close . . .” I squinted at the clue again. I was standing just past the New England Aquarium, the sea lions in their outdoor tank barking for more tiny fish from the handlers. The first of Scoutmaster Fuentes’s riddles were really easy for me to solve: the Red Aubach statue in Faneuil Hall, the Rings Fountain on the Greenway, and the aquarium’s sea lions. But the rose one? This was tough.

I closed my eyes, turned the riddle over in my head:

Not a rose, but close.

Where were there roses in Boston?

That’s when I realized I was “distracted by the shiny,” as Moxie says. Sometimes, when you’re trying to find something, it’s actually right in front of you—you just can’t see it because you’re looking at something else bigger and shinier. The word rose was a distraction—the crux of the clue was “We salute you.” What do we salute?

The flag.

That was it! There was a giant flag in downtown Boston—at Rowes Wharf!

I headed down Atlantic Avenue, the aquarium behind me, dodging tourists and people dressed for work, and soon came to the giant rotunda at the Boston Harbor Hotel. The flag that waved in the wind there was taller than my house.

I stood underneath it and typed the final set of coordinates in my handheld GPS, then took off.

The traffic on Atlantic Avenue struggled past, the cars’ exhaust adding to the heat of the morning. I swiped my forearm across my brow—a Wilderness Scout no-no; we were supposed to use a handkerchief when in uniform—but the sweat came right back.

The GPS chimed. I glanced down. Direction shift. East.

I turned left, onto the Harbor Walk—this cool paved path that had been built along Boston’s waterfront, behind all the hotels, restaurants, and shops. Moxie and I had plans to walk the whole thing this summer, but that hadn’t happened.

Most of our summer plans had recently changed.

The GPS chimed again. North.

I turned. Sweat rolled down my back. I’d have a wet patch there when I took my pack off.

Now the water was to my left, a swanky apartment building was on my right. Sweet boats—so sweet they had decks and wooden trim and, from what I could see through the windows, TVs larger than the one in my house—were docked all along the route.

Would I be getting on one of those?

The GPS arrow started blinking, which was how it signaled that I was approaching the destination coordinates. I looked all around. A big boat—really big, like, it had a helicopter landing pad on it—was parked in front of me.

Seriously? Wilderness Scout Troop 7 sprang for a yacht?! No way. Not possible.

I was the first person here.

I stopped in front of the yacht. My GPS was blinking like crazy. This was the spot.

I checked my watch: Fifteen minutes to spare.

No Wilderness Scout troop could afford a yacht with a helipad. What the . . . ?

Then, over the lapping of the water came a cross between a bleat and a honk. It sounded like a sick goose.

I walked down the length of the yacht, toward the harbor. A regular harbor islands ferry bobbed in the water. The horn blatted again.

Typical Boston, I thought. It’s a fight over a parking space.

A few bleats later, a very sleepy-looking guy appeared on the deck of the yacht. There was some yelling—apparently the slip was supposed to be empty and ready for the island hopper boat we’d be taking—and then the yacht started rumbling and two other guys materialized to untie it.

“Yeah, baby! That makes six years. In. A. Row!” The shout came from behind me, at the head of the pier. I followed the sound.

A tall, lanky kid with sandy hair, an untucked uniform, and a smug expression leaned against one of the concrete pilings, pack at his feet.

“Hey,” I said, sticking out my hand. “I’m Ollie.”

He shook it, hard. “Derek. Troop leader. I didn’t think any other troops were coming on this trip,” he said, gesturing to my Troop 5 patch.

“I’m provo with Troop Seven,” I explained.

“Oh. Were you dropped off or somethin’?”

“No,” I responded, not understanding what he was getting at. Then it clicked: He thought he’d won the orienteering challenge to find the boat. “I got here first,” I said, a prickle of anxiety finding its way into my stomach.

His brow furrowed. “Not possible,” he said.

“Uh . . . yeah. It was a good course, though—I nearly got tripped up with the Rowes Wharf clue,” I said, hoping this wasn’t as big a deal as his scowl made it seem to be.

A dark shadow came over Derek’s face, and he stepped away from me. Just then, three other uniformed scouts came around the corner and introduced themselves. One, Steve, had a mess of dreadlocks tied at the nape of his neck and a Troop Leader patch sewn onto the pocket of his uniform. The other two guys were high school age too—one, with broad shoulders and close-cropped hair, introduced himself as Pete, and the other, with dark hair and a pierced ear, was Horatio. All three of them looked a little surprised to see me there.

“D?” Troop leader Steve raised his hand in a celebratory high five. “Six years, right?”

Derek turned to me, eyes hard. “Nah,” he said. With an eardrum-busting honk, the yacht unmoored and steered out to sea.

Everyone stopped. And looked. At me.

My ears turned pink. “Hey. I’m Ollie. I’m provo with you guys.”

“Wait—hey. You’re THE KID!” Steve pointed at me. “The art kid!”

My mouth went dry. Crud. I’d been counting on the fact that kids don’t pay attention to the news in the summer. Wrong assumption. “Uh . . .” I said.

“Seriously. It was you, wasn’t it? You found all that art!” He gave my backpack a friendly slap, which sent me staggering forward. The other guys circled, like sharks smelling a kill.

“Well,” I tried. Agent Goh had coached me on what to say in this situation—“I can’t really talk about that” was his best suggestion, which sounded better in Conference Room B than it did out here. These guys wanted details; ones that I seriously wasn’t allowed to give.

“What’s going on? What happened? Is that our boat? Who’s that guy?” A kid shorter than me, with a pack twice his size, showed up at my elbow. He nearly vibrated with intensity. “Derek, you won, right? Six years in a row! I’ll never win. I can’t seem to follow the directions on the screen—”

One of the other scouts cut him off. “Derek didn’t make it. This is Ollie—the kid who found all that art a few weeks ago. He beat him.” The new kid offered me a high five, which I wasn’t sure if I should accept. I gave a light one in return. Derek seemed downright sulky.

“You beat Derek?! He’s been first every year since he graduated to full scout level! That’s so awesome. You’re a detective too! You must be really smart—and good at orienteering and stuff—to take him out. I mean, no one ever does that!” He kept talking, and Derek’s scowl got deeper. The other scouts were getting a kick out of it, nudging one another. One of them gestured to me and I caught the words Dr. Watson.

Diving into the harbor seemed like a good plan.

I waited for another second. The kid wasn’t going to stop talking. So I interrupted and asked his name.

“Chris,” he said, and stuck his hand out. “Troop Seven.”

“Ollie,” I said, shaking his hand. More scouts trickled onto the dock, and Chris proudly told every one of them that I’d beaten Derek in orienteering. At least it changed the subject from how I’d spent my summer vacation so far.

“Hey, Dr. Watson! Help us find the gangplank,” troop leader Steve called. “Time to board.”

“Lay low,” Agent Goh had said.

Or . . . not.

* * *

The boat moved far enough into the harbor to put on speed. The engines got louder, and Horatio and Pete, who were leaning against the railing near me, jumped—then ragged on each other for being startled.

“Hey! Hey!” Chris tugged on my sleeve. “Hey! Is that a whale? ’Cause I think it’s a whale. Didja see it? See the shadow? Look!” His Wilderness Scout uniform looked a little . . . bulky . . . on him. Did he have padding on under there?

“I don’t think it’s a whale,” I said. “What was the deal back there? With Derek?”

“No! Seriously! Look!” He tugged and pointed again, and, caving, I followed the line of his finger with my eyes—grayish blue water, relatively calm under the blue sky. I spotted the dark shape he was so jazzed over.

“It’s not a whale.”

“C’mon!”

“Sorry, but it’s not a whale,” I repeated.

“How do you know, huh?”

“Because . . .” I pointed up. “It’s the shadow from that cloud.”

Chris followed the line of my finger to the puffy white cloud making its lazy way across the sky.

“Oh.” The corners of his mouth drooped and his hair even sagged a little.

“It was the right shape and stuff, though,” I offered, wanting to cheer him up.

“I know, right? I mean, it totally looked like one. I couldn’t believe it.” He went on about the cloud whale for another minute, then cut himself off.

“Sorry—you asked me about Derek. He wins orienteering challenges. Like, every year.” Chris shrugged. “He takes it really, really seriously. I bet you could guess.”

“Seemed that way.”

“So, I gotta ask you about the art stuff. Was it crazy? How’d you find it? Did you look for clues? How’d you even get into it?”

Chris’s questions washed over me while I thought about how to even begin answering them. It really wasn’t my adventure. I was helping Moxie and got caught up in the whole thing.

“He didn’t do any of it.” Derek was back. Horatio and Pete moved closer....

Edition details

• Publisher: Dial Books
• Publication date: 2014
• ISBN 10: 0803738722
• ISBN 13: 9780803738720
• Binding: Hardcover
• Language: English
• Number of pages: 288