What's Behind the Mighty Fitz?

By Joanne Anderson Reisberg

When Lucas Sanchez fails to catch a Frisbee and it crashes into an oil painting of the Edmund Fitzgerald, he is stunned as part of a green eye stares back. He remembers a CNN report of an art heist and wonders, What's Behind the Mighty Fitz? The Edmund Fitzgerald, a huge freighter that mysteriously sank in 1975 during an unbelievable storm on Lake Superior, is at the center of this action/adventure novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: Jun 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780878399703

Joanne Anderson Reisberg

A graduate of the University of Minnesota and Macalester College, Joanne Anderson Reisberg has taught in the Minneapolis and El Paso school districts. Her books have been published in the U.S., Canada, China, and Korea. She received a Certificate of Achievement award from Writer's Digestand an Alumni of Notable Achievement from the University of Minnesota. She loves a good mystery and enjoys giving presentations in elementary classrooms. Reisberg lives in Minneapolis with her husband, Bernie.

Book preview

What’s Behind the Mighty Fitz?

Joanne Anderson Reisberg

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

St. Cloud, Minnesota

Copyright © 2014 Joanne Anderson Reisberg

Print ISBN 978-0-87839-757-0

eBook ISBN: 978-0-87839-970-3

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, MN 56302

northstarpress.com

For Young Readers

Spencer Reisberg

Jack Freeburg and Charlie Freeburg

Special Thanks to the Creative Minds of

Mona Gustafson Affinito, Nancy Bestul, Harriet Duerre, Janice Ladendorf, Stephanie Derhak, Virginia Hanson, Janet Kramer, and Al Mann

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Additional Resources

Chapter 1

Lucas Sanchez couldn’t help but laugh at his best friend as he watched Evan jog to the front of their fifth-grade classroom, waving a lime-green Frisbee.

Hey, guys, your attention pullllleease! Evan shouted. We’ve got eleven fun-filled minutes before school starts. Enough time—you guessed it—to play Olympic Frisbee!

Cheering voices arose from all four corners of the room.

Who’s psyched enough to race this spinning, glow-in-the-dark Frisbee? Who can calculate the speed you have to beat? he continued with his usual half-smile. Who’s swift enough to catch it before it sails through this stuffy room and reaches the front of our class? I need two volunteers. Any two will do.

Lucas shot out of his desk, surprised he could move that fast. He chuckled. Maybe the day wouldn’t be a total bore after all.

Connor jumped into the next aisle and took a runner’s starting stance.

Evan headed toward the back of the room. We have two qualified players at the starting gate. I want to hear a little applause for these two contestants.

A smattering of clapping spread across the room.

I’ll give you both a head start. Let the games begin! On your mark. Get set . . . go! Evan hesitated a few seconds. With a twist of his shoulder, he shifted and tossed the Frisbee in the air.

Whoosh.

The spinning disc whirled above Lucas’s head. It aimed straight toward the front of the room . . . and that huge painting of the shipwrecked Edmund Fitzgerald. Lucas eyed the Frisbee, totally aware of Connor’s size-ten sneakers slamming down on the creaky wooden floor in the next aisle.

Lucas, his legs muscular from running bases, whizzed past four desks, jumped over a math folder, a navy book bag, a foot in the aisle, and sprinted ahead of Connor.

Keeping his eye on the Frisbee, spinning higher and higher, Lucas pushed off the floor with a burst of speed and leaped onto Ms. Thompson’s worktable. He gasped as the Frisbee slammed into the picture of the Great Lakes freighter. In a split second, his hand shot up. He caught the Frisbee as it ricocheted off the painting and bounced into his palm.

Lu-cas, Lu-cas, classmates chanted behind him.

Math papers twisted under his Nikes and fluttered to the floor. Lucas cringed at the disastrous scene if Ms. Thompson caught them.

Go, man, go, Evan yelled from the rear of the room, seeming to congratulate himself on his well-thrown Frisbee. Toss it back here.

But Lucas had stopped playing the game. He blocked out the din of cheers, swallowed hard, and stared in shock at his hand, still holding the Frisbee. A fleck of reddish-brown paint clung to his wrist. With a weird sinking feeling, he knew big trouble had found him once again.

This picture’s not a print, he thought. It’s an oil. What’s an oil of a famous ship doing in McKinley Elementary School? Doris Sampson, yeah, she was one of the artists who painted the freighter. At least he remembered one name from all those trips to Lake Superior’s North Shore with Nana Lou. He’d read about the unsolved mystery of the Edmund Fitzgerald, which sank November 10, 1975. People proudly called her the Mighty Fitz.

Lucas turned and whipped the Frisbee back to Evan, glad the guys never found out he’d taken art lessons. Still, hitting a home run was more fun than drawing. Lucas glanced back at the painting and scanned the frightening scene of the freighter struggling to stay afloat. He couldn’t panic, but where had that reddish chip come from? The pilothouse looked creamy white. That wasn’t it, then. Those waves held all shades of blue to gray to inky black. The bow, partly out of the water, appeared reddish-brown. Lucas studied the hull above the waterline. Hurry, his mind blared. Come on, come on. He didn’t have a ton of time before the bell would ring

Finally he saw a small area on the hull. Yes, that was where the Frisbee blasted the freighter. His fingers itched to brush that spot, to smooth out a loose chip. It was only the size of a dime, but he held back. Lucas narrowed his gaze and studied that gray area surrounding it. What the . . . ?

While the class cheered behind him, Lucas stared in disbelief at a thin green line painted underneath the Fitz.

Lucas Sanchez! called a shrill voice of authorityfrom the doorway. Get down this instant.

Lucas spun around. His dark hair flew in his face as he met Ms. Thompson’s furious glare. What had he been thinking?

He searched for Evan.

His friend stood beside the globe, twirling it slowly, as if he’d been studying it all morning. As if he had no idea who threw that Frisbee.

A hush fell over the kids who had cheered him on. Lucas climbed off the table, tucked the Frisbee in the back waistband of his jeans, and shoved the math papers on the floor into a nice neat pile. He took his time matching up the corners, giving him seconds to search for a reason to have been standing on her worktable. From his kneeling position, he watched as Ms. Thompson marched across the creaky floor. He stared at her shoes, saw the black straps and the scuff marks on the toes. In his mind he could see her push her oversized glasses higher on her nose.

I am waiting for an explanation, Lucas.

And that was the problem. Where were all those clever words when he needed them? Right now he was short of explanations. Lucas pushed against the floor and stood. Then he remembered the painting behind him and grinned, congratulating himself on his brilliant thinking. He motioned toward the painting above her desk. That picture hung crooked. Thought I should straighten it, that’s all.

Lucas. That picture hasn’t needed straightening in three years. All four corners of the frame are screwed into the wall.

His shoulders slumped. No quick-witted comment came to mind. And he didn’t need another note going home to his mom this week. You’re right, he said, lowering his voice. Guess it didn’t need straightening after all. Lucas looked at the handful of papers he still held. Sorry, he muttered, placing them on the worktable behind him and feeling foolish. He sensed his teacher’s steady gaze on his back the entire time he walked down the aisle toward his desk in the last row.

Listen up, class, Ms. Thompson said, removing her glasses. Is it necessary to clarify what is meant by indoor and outdoor games?

A few kids ducked behind the person ahead of them. The rest of the class turned toward Lucas. Oh sure, like he was the only one having fun. Like they’d never played this game before. Were they waiting for him to answer for the whole class? Finally he said, We know the difference.

Well, I’m so glad to hear that. Good. Ms. Thompson slid her glasses back on her nose. Then the matter is closed.

Ms. Thompson began the day droning on and on about the two fraction worksheets Lucas had already finished. His mind wandered back to that oil painting. Something still bothered him, kept spinning around in his head. In seconds the answer hit him full blast. Artists usually painted on clean canvases, that was the difference. With that news bursting inside, he leaned across the aisle toward Evan. Hey, that painting in front of the room is chipped and—

Really? Evan said. "That figures. You tried to catch it and missed. Or did you plan to put