The Hidden Treasure Mysteries

She slid out of the car and watched. Jonathan was definitely a challenge. He was restless and wiry, just turned eight, and nosy as a raccoon. Elizabeth put on her big-sister voice. "Would you quit snorting? You're scaring the chipmunks." Jonathan came to a stop and raised his stick in the air. His sandy brown hair stood on end, whipped up by a stiff summer breeze. "An ancient warrior dance!" he shouted. "From Outer Mongolia! It’s supposed to bring an adventure." He added one last grunt.

Elizabeth shook her head slowly. "Jonathan? Why are you so weird?" Jonathan trotted after her as she walked to the back door. "I’m not weird. You said you were tired of playing detective. And you want a real mystery. So I’m trying to get us one."

"Get us a mystery? Here?" Elizabeth turned away and rolled her eyes. Their grandfather’s roomy wooden house was about as mysterious as an old slipper. No secret chambers or trap doors. Just a plain, grey two-story on a shady hill. Down below, a sunlit bay opened onto a long, deep lake, busy with boats. "Forget about grunting, Jonathan. There’s no mystery here."

"Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that!" Their mother walked from the car, looking small behind the bulky black suitcase she carried. "There is something about this house," said Mrs. Pollack, "but . . . I haven’t thought about it for a long time." She stopped by the back door. Her brown eyes squinted up toward the sky, as if she were trying to see something very far away. "You know the old portrait. The one that hangs in the living room. I used to think that was very mysterious."

"What do you mean?" Elizabeth had never paid much attention to the painting. She could vaguely remember a man with a long beard and unfriendly eyes.

"I know! It’s the beard!" Jonathan began dancing around the birdbath again. "I bet the beard in the picture is growing. It’s getting longer and longer. It’s going to grow right out of the frame. It’s going to start creeping across the room and wrapping around people’s legs. And . . . . And there’s probably some kind of family curse. Right?"

Mrs. Pollack laughed. "Well, nothing quite like that. Just a family story. Let’s see. According to the story, my great-grandmother Lydia talked about that painting just before she died. She kept saying it should never, ever be sold or given away. She made the whole family give a solemn promise. As if the painting was very important or had some kind of secret."

Elizabeth reached out as Mrs. Pollack opened the screen door. "Mom, wait! Didn’t you ever look for the secret?"

"I did try once. Come to think of it, I must have been about eleven years old. Exactly your age, Elizabeth. I remember climbing up on a chair and looking over the whole painting with a magnifying glass. I didn’t find any secret though. I don’t think anybody else did either. Anyway, you can ask Pop about it."

"Ask Pop? Well, uh, maybe you should ask him."

Jonathan nodded. Pop was not a cozy, storybook kind of grandfather. He was grumpy and hard, like a table with sharp corners. Especially since Gran died.

Elizabeth and Jonathan let their mother go in first. They followed her into a large, creaky kitchen, with a scuffed wooden floor and blue flowers fading on the wallpaper. Pop was nowhere to be seen. Elizabeth stood in the middle of the room and closed her eyes. Her detective handbook said people use their eyes too much. A good detective had to feel and hear and smell, not just see. With her eyes still shut, Elizabeth concentrated on Pop’s kitchen. Cigar smoke. A hint of bacon grease and hot dogs. And a wheezy hum from the old, round-shouldered refrigerator.

"Hey, Mom, guess what! Elizabeth is in a . . . in a . . . trance." Jonathan snapped his fingers in front of her face. "You will now wake up and start clucking like a chicken."

"Jonathan, leave me alone! I’m trying to practice my detective skills." Elizabeth lifted her head and gave the air an expert sniff. "Pop had bacon for breakfast, broiled hot dogs for lunch, smoked a cigar, and then . . . ." She heard long, slow snores, trembling in the air like distant thunder. "And then he went into the den to take a nap."

Mrs. Pollack set down her suitcase. "Okay, Sherlock Holmes. Let’s go see if you’re right."

"Into the lion’s den," whispered Jonathan. They tiptoed single file through the living room, weaving past sturdy armchairs and marble-topped tables. Elizabeth stayed behind the others. She wasn’t thinking about mysteries and old portraits now. She was thinking about Pop. He was all right once she got used to him. But at first . . . . She took a deep breath and caught up with Jonathan.