he’s looking for things that are a lot more valuable than that,” Tank said, his mouth turning down. “Whatever he doesn’t find himself, he’d pay plenty to get hold of. You can be sure he didn’t dive for that cannon himself.”
Skip watched as Buckley and his assistant walked farther down the beach. He looked thoughtful. “Guys like that,” he said, “are used to getting whatever they want.”
Tank turned to Maryellen. “What did you talk to Buckley about?” he asked sharply.
The question took Maryellen by surprise. “Why, I—I mean, he—asked what you were doing,” she stammered. “I just told him Jerry was diving to study fish.”
“From now on, just keep away from him,” Tank said tersely. “That man’s nothing but trouble.”
Maryellen nodded, looking down at her sand-covered feet to avoid Tank’s gaze. It was almost as if Tank were scolding her for having talked to Mr. Buckley. She couldn’t see that she’d done anything wrong at all! At least Mr. Buckley was friendly—and interesting, too. She turned toward Jerry, hoping he might stick up for her, but he said nothing.
“Okay,” Maryellen said finally, even though she didn’t really feel like anything Tank had said to her was okay at all.
Tank was in a huge hurry now. “Let’s shove off,” he said, tugging the bow of the boat toward the water. In an instant, Jerry and Skip met at the back of the boat and pushed it the final few feet into the waves.
“Sorry, Ellie,” Jerry called back. Then he swung himself into the boat. “We’ve got a lot to do right now. I’ll see you another day, all right?”
“Sure,” Maryellen said, doing her best to sound unruffled by what had just happened. “See you later, alligators!”
Maryellen walked slowly back to the shack, dragging her feet in the warm sand and reflecting on the strange warning she’d just received. What could be so bad about Mr. Buckley, and why on earth should it matter to Tank?
chapter 3
Lost and Found
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Maryellen biked to the pier, then took a long walk on the beach to pass the time until she met her friend Davy Fenstermacher at the clock tower. She searched the sand for interesting seashells, but all the shells she spotted were broken. She would have to get to the beach earlier in the day if she ever wanted to beat the tourists, who seemed to claim the prettiest and most colorful shells to take home as souvenirs. As she strolled along, Maryellen found herself scanning the beach for any sign of Mr. Buckley and Pete, and listening carefully for the clicks of their metal detector. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to see them or not.
By the time Maryellen got back to the pier, she guessed it was about time to head over to the plaza to meet up with Davy, who was planning to come straight from a special football practice. She walked her bike up Main Street so she wouldn’t have to pedal uphill—with no gearshift, her bike was no match for hills. As she trudged up the street, she couldn’t help thinking about the first thing she would buy if she were as rich as Mr. Buckley: a bike with three gears.
At the top of Main Street, Maryellen hopped onto her bike and rode along Ocean Avenue. She turned off the road and coasted onto the park-like plaza, marveling at the beautiful wall that surrounded it. Every student in Florida learned about coquina stone, a special kind of rock that was studded with ancient bits of coral and seashells. The wall, the clock tower, and the outside of the band shell had all been built with it. Maryellen could spend hours counting the different shells that stuck up from the bumpy pinkish walls.
The far end of the plaza was framed by the huge band shell. Its wide stage and curving roofline were bookended by two tall towers, and a long parapet bridged the towers high across the top. Maryellen always expected a fairy-tale princess to open one of the tower windows and gaze down upon her subjects strolling below.
The afternoon sun was growing warm, so Maryellen parked her bike and plopped down in the sliver of shade cast by the clock tower. At its very top, there were four clock faces, one on each side. Instead of twelve numbers, each clock face had twelve letters. On the upper half, they arched around from the 9 to the 3 position and spelled D-A-Y-T-O-N-A. On the bottom half, they curved upward to spell B-E-A-C-H. The clock was a town landmark; Maryellen’s mother often sent her parents a postcard of the clock with a funny note that said, “It’s high time you came to Daytona Beach!”
Right now, the big hand on the clock was on the lowest A, and the small hand was at the N, so Maryellen knew it was almost two-thirty. Davy would be along any minute. She leaned over the fountain that burbled into a pool at the base of the clock tower and splashed her hand into the water. Just then, Davy skidded his bike to a stop in front of her.
“Half past N,” Davy said. “I’m right on time—Daytona time, that is.” Maryellen laughed. The clock could be a little confusing, but it was lots more fun than a regular clock.
Like Maryellen, Davy was already in his swimsuit. A towel was rolled up behind his bike seat. “Last one in is a rotten egg,” he said, pedaling off.
Maryellen was eager to swim, too. Although the December air was cool, she knew she would feel warm enough under the water. She hopped on her bike and quickly caught up with Davy. They coasted down Main Street to the beach, then walked under the pier and chained their bikes together against one of the thick wooden posts that supported it. Just before closing the padlock, Maryellen felt for her key, which she kept strung on an old shoelace. She wore the key like a necklace whenever she rode her bike.
She snapped the lock shut. “Now that I keep my key on the string,” she said, “I never lose it. It’s a pretty good idea, if I do say so myself.” Maryellen was not naturally tidy or organized, so she felt happy whenever she came up with a clever solution.
“You’re always coming up with ideas,” Davy said, grinning. “I guess sooner or later, some of them have to be good!”
Maryellen knew Davy was just kidding. They had been friends almost all their lives, and living right next door to each other meant that Davy had been around for most of Maryellen’s Big Ideas—some of which had turned out great and some of which had turned out, well, not so great. It felt nice to know that they were friends either way, and that they liked the same things—or most of them, anyway.
“Are you going to the dance on Saturday night?” Maryellen asked as they carried their beach towels toward a spot near a lifeguard tower.
Davy made a sour face. “I’ll go just to watch,” he said. “Football’s my game—not dancing.”
“I want to dance this year, if I can,” Maryellen said. “Carolyn has been trying to teach me, but I’m terrible at it. The faster the music plays, the quicker I forget the steps. My feet get all tangled.” She pointed toward the end of the wooden pier where a group of brown pelicans were waddling awkwardly, looking for scraps of food dropped by visitors. A few of the birds suddenly took flight, soaring gracefully on currents of air. “See those pelicans? We have a lot in common.”
Davy shot Maryellen a puzzled look, which she ignored. “Right now I look pretty clumsy when I dance, like those birds do when they walk, but once I get better, maybe I’ll be as graceful as a pelican flying across the sky.”
“Sure,” Davy said. “You’ll be gliding on air.”
Maryellen shook her head. “I’ll never
