The Poe Estate by Polly Shulman Page B

you?” I asked. “What do you want?”
    She let out a sigh almost too soft to hear and lifted the casket. “Find my treasure,” she whispered.
    â€œWhat is it? Where is it? Who
are
you?”
    â€œFind my treasure,” she whispered again.
    Then the room seemed to darken, as if someone or something else had entered, something hard and oppressive. The ghost looked around, as if in alarm. The shapes and edges that defined her dissolved, and the second, oppressive presence vanished, too, washed away as she melted into sunlight, chest and all. It’s funny. Kitty never spoke, but I always understood her. This ghost spoke clearly enough, but I had no idea what she wanted. What treasure? Did she mean the box?
    It did look like a movie version of a pirate’s treasure chest. I imagined the lid rising to reveal a yellow glow of gold. Pieces of eight, ducats, rings, jeweled brooches, tangles of chains. They would be heavy and cold. They would chink and clatter when I ran my fingers through them.
    Was there a golden treasure hidden somewhere—buried, maybe? How would I find it? Could I keep it if I did? Could we buy our house back?
    Kitty would like that.
    â€œWhere is it—where’s your treasure?” I asked the air, but the ghost didn’t come back.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    I abandoned my homework and went downstairs. I found Cousin Hepzibah in the drawing room, sitting in her straight chair by the window, her cheeks still pink from the shower. A little table by her elbow held a cup of tea and her needlework. She was reading a book, but she looked up when I came in. “What’s the matter, child?” she asked.
    â€œNothing, it’s . . .” I hesitated, then went for it. “Cousin Hepzibah, who is the ghost?”
    She took it calmly. “Which ghost?”
    I looked around for somewhere to sit. At the other end of the room, two sofas and a couple of armchairs clustered together like a clique of kids from drama club, but the only chair at this end was the one Cousin Hepzibah was already sitting in. She wasn’t using her little footstool, though, so I sat on that. “The woman who shows up in my room wearing the old-fashioned dress,” I said.
    â€œYoung or old?”
    â€œYoung. She looks like me. She’s carrying a box, like a small trunk.”
    â€œAh. I expect that’s your great-great-great-great— No, wait.” She paused to count on her fingers. “Your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-aunt Hepzibah Toogood. Windy, they called her. It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen her. How is she looking?”
    â€œTransparent.”
    Cousin Hepzibah smiled halfway. “Yes, well, that does happen. Otherwise?”
    â€œI don’t know. Sad, I guess.”
    â€œDid she give you a message?”
    I nodded. “She said to find her treasure.”
    Cousin Hepzibah looked sad too then. “Poor Aunt Windy. She’s been searching for a long time. I never could find it myself, and now, well . . . too late for me.” She shut her book and swept it in a semicircle, indicating her legs and the cane beside her chair. “You’re young. Maybe you can help her.”
    â€œI can try. What
is
her treasure?”
    â€œNobody knows—at least, nobody
I
ever asked knew. Her story is unfinished, you know.”
    â€œUnfinished?”
    She nodded.
    â€œIs that why she’s a ghost?”
    Cousin Hepzibah nodded again doubtfully. “It could be. It’s a long, sad story. She lost her husband. He was a sailor, and he got shipwrecked and took up with pirates. She lost her baby, too. She lost everything.”
    â€œPirates!” I said. “Is it pirate treasure, then?”
    â€œIt could be.”
    â€œBut where is it? Is it in the house? On the grounds?”
    She shrugged. “Nobody knows that, either.”
    â€œI could ask Dad to keep an eye