The Hidden Treasure Mysteries

"What?" Jonathan came running into the kitchen.

"The bird’s gone. Look, the basket is empty."

"Pop’s cat," moaned Jonathan. "We forgot about her. I bet she ate Mugsy." Their grandfather’s portly black cat, officially known as Cat, was easy to forget. She had gone into hiding as soon as the first guests arrived on Christmas Eve. Jonathan slumped into a chair at the long kitchen table. "And now Mugsy’s just a pile of feathers somewhere. And it’s our fault."

Elizabeth’s eyes searched the kitchen. "Don’t worry. It wasn’t the cat. The scarf wasn’t even messed up. The bird must have gotten away by itself."

"But how could . . . Yahoo! Hit the dirt!" Jonathan dove to the floor, shouting and pointing his finger. "It’s Mugsy! And he’s coming in for a landing!" Mugsy shot into the kitchen like a dive bomber. After grazing the top of Elizabeth’s ponytail, he clung to the kitchen curtain for a moment, then flew into the living room. He swept through the room, skimming the walls in a wide, frightened circle. Finally, he came to rest on the wooden frame of a large portrait hanging on the wall.

Elizabeth stood in the doorway. "Not a good idea, Mugsy. That’s . . . that’s Joshua Bailey!" The solemn, bearded man in the portrait was Pop’s great grandfather. The painting was more than one hundred years old -- Pop’s prize possession. "Oh, no! Not that!" Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and counted to three. When she opened them again it was still there -- an ugly white splat dribbling down the polished wood of the picture frame. "I’ll tell you one thing, Jonathan. If we don’t get this bird out of here, we are in big trouble. I hope you won’t mind spending the rest of your life in your room." Elizabeth came up with a split-second plan. While Jonathan closed the curtains to keep the bird from hitting the window, she ran into the kitchen to get the pink scarf. She held it out in front of her, walking slowly, like a toreador approaching a bull.

"Don’t worry, Mugsy. I’m just going to throw this over you and take you back outside." With the sparrow eyeing her nervously, she tossed the scarf up into the air. It floated down, empty, as the bird made an easy escape to the antlers hanging above the fireplace.

"Here. Let me do it. You gotta get wrist action." Jonathan grabbed the scarf and climbed up on a heavy chair next to the fireplace. "Three pointer!" He took aim and gave a mighty heave. The scarf ended up on the highest prong of the antlers. Mugsy flapped away and flew into a narrow den next to the living room. He headed for Pop’s warrior mask collection, landing sideways on a hollow-eyed wooden face mounted on the wall.

"Hey, Elizabeth!" Jonathan, still perched on the chair, reached up behind a wooden pendulum clock on the mantel. "There’s something up here." He pulled out a small white envelope propped up behind the clock. "The mystery letter!" He waved the paper in the air.

"Great. But forget it for now!" yelled Elizabeth. "Mugsy just flew in the den. And he . . . Not again!" Elizabeth groaned as she spotted a white splat on Pop’s antique desk. "This is it, Jonathan! Bread and water for us!'

Elizabeth shot into the den and yanked the door shut. The wooden mask fell off the wall and crashed behind the couch. Mugsy fluttered away and sank his claws into a clump of hairy strings hanging from another mask. Elizabeth pressed her lips together and looked desperately around the room. The scarf idea would never work, but . . . the window. They were in luck. The den had an old crank window with no screen. Elizabeth used two hands to creak it open. A blast of cold air scattered the papers on Pop’s desk.

"Okay, Mugsy. This is your chance." She clapped her hands sharply and the bird took off again. This time it flew in a straight line out the window. "Jon, you can come in now." She lunged forward and cranked the window shut.

The two crowded up against the glass. Mugsy didn’t stay around long. He flew up into a pine tree, pecked at his feathers indignantly, then flew away.

"Now, that was weird." Elizabeth sank into the soft cushions of Pop’s old red couch. "The letter!" She bounced off as if she had sat on a thumb tack. "Where did you put the letter?"

"I left it up there." Standing in front of the fireplace, Jonathan stretched up and slipped the small envelope off the mantel. This was the mystery letter. No doubt about it. Their names were scrawled across the front. Detectives Elizabeth and Jonathan Pollack. The writing was odd, somehow -- bold and yet shaky at the same time. As Jonathan tore open the envelope, Elizabeth looked up at the old pendulum clock. Usually she barely noticed its gentle sound, but now each tick sounded as sharp as the crack of a whip, as if the clock were hurrying them. Urging them on.

Jonathan pulled out a small sheet of plain white paper. As he unfolded the letter, Elizabeth read over his shoulder.

Dear Elizabeth and Jonathan, Your grandfather told me of your interest in detective work and has sent me a newspaper article about the mystery you solved last summer. Congratulations on your good work! I understand you’ll be staying at your grandfather’s house for a few days after Christmas. I would be delighted if you could pay me a visit.

If you still like mysteries, I think you’ll be interested to hear what I have to say.

All the best from

Poor Uncle Rudy

Rudolf Obermeyer

Elizabeth read the last sentence a second, then a third time. She had a tingly feeling, like being on a roller coaster just before it starts zooming downhill. She thought about last summer, when the old portrait on Pop’s wall led them to a family secret and a long-forgotten mystery. Ever since then, Elizabeth had been waiting. She didn’t know why or how, but she knew another mystery was going to find her.

"He didn't exactly say so, Jon, but I think we just got our second case." Elizabeth took the letter into her hand. "But I don't get it. We don't have an Uncle Rudy, and Mom and Dad don't either. So who is . . ." Elizabeth ran her finger under the large letters of the signature. "Who is Poor Uncle Rudy Obermeyer?"