Read Online Edison's Gold by Geoff Watson - Free Book Online Page A

the flaps. She was holding a binder of papers in her hands. “I did make a tiny breakthrough, though. It’s not a lot, but … I found a blueprint of Ebbets Field online, then did an advanced key-phrase cross-reference in the city archives. Words like
gold, sun, moon, Sub Rosa, Edison—
”
    â€œColb, your dork meter’s off the charts right now,” Noodle interrupted. “Sloooowww it down.”
    â€œHere, see for yourself.” She shoved a piece of paper into his hands and caught her breath. “Second paragraph.”
    Noodle read. “ ‘Overlooking the Ebbets Field bleachers is the Robinson Sundial, named for longtime Dodgers’ manager Wilbert Robinson.’ ”
    Tom and Noodle went silent.
    â€œI don’t get the connection,” Tom said after a moment. “Unless this Robinson guy was friends with Henry Ford or something.”
    â€œOr he was in the Sub Rosa.”
    â€œÂ â€˜One hundred yards north of the sun and moon.’ Like it says in the riddle.” Colby looked from Tom to Noodle as though she were dealing with preschoolers. “Sun and moon? Sundials? Ebbets Field’s in the photo? It has a famous sundial. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
    â€œThat’s a bit of a stretch,” said Tom.
    â€œAnd Ebbets Field was torn down, like, fifty years ago.”
    â€œOkay, sure, but if the room where this photo was taken still exists,” said Colby, “it might lead us somewhere.”
    â€œMaybe.” Noodle’s fingers were already flying over the keys. “I can find the stadium’s old address.”
    Tom glanced at his watch. “If we left now, two hours to get to Brooklyn, look for clues, plus two hours back. We might be able to make it home by curfew.”
    â€œNana’ll be asleep until dinner,” said Colby, “but we’ll have to go through the McFaddens’ yard just to be safe.”
    â€œWho knows? Maybe we’ll find something.” Tomshrugged, throwing all the papers into his bag and stepping out into the sunlight. “And it’s not like we’re doing anything dangerous or illegal. It’s just research.”
    â€œLike an extra-credit project,” Colby added.
    It was settled then. Next stop, Brooklyn …

I don’t see any sundials.” Colby yawned.
    â€œAnd I’m seriously losing steam.” Noodle flopped down onto a patch of grass next to the sidewalk. The three of them had been searching this run-down neighborhood of Flatbush in Brooklyn for an hour and a half. So far, nothing.
    â€œYeah, this is pointless. That photo could have been taken from anywhere in this entire neighborhood.” Colby collapsed onto the curb next to Noodle.
    Tom stepped back, scanning the south side of Sullivan Place, a street that was little more than a crumbling block of row houses, a few shabby storefronts, and a scaffolded parking garage.
    On the other side of them was a cluster of high-riseapartments where, half a century ago, Ebbets Field had once stood like a towering castle.
    â€œOkay, if the entrance to the ballpark was over there …” Tom stared at the apartment buildings, trying to picture the baseball stadium. It was impossible to mentally position where the photo would have been taken. There were simply too many variables.
    What is the missing piece?
he wondered to himself for the hundredth time that afternoon.
    â€œBetcha Big T’s in heaven looking down on us right now, laughing at what idiots we are.” Noodle stared up at the cloudless sky.
“I invent ze lightbulb, and zey can’t even zolve a few clues? Vat is ze matter vit zese brat-vurtzes?”
    â€œThat’s a really good imitation of Albert Einstein, dummy.” Colby smirked. “But I don’t think Thomas Edison had a German accent, considering he was from Ohio.” She plucked a few strands of grass and mindlessly drizzled them over