(Author's notes: is doing it again. I'm not getting email notifications once more. I want to quit this site and be on AO3 completely, but I've been here for decades. I kind of don't want to leave, so I'm just going to put it out here. If you comment on this story, I'm not going to know about it because of whatever problem the site is going through. But please leave a comment anyway because I usually go through comments on dark and dreary days anyway. I won't be able to respond right away if you have a question, but I will eventually read the comments. Thank you everyone who is still on here and reading.

If you are moving to AO3 and prefer to read my works there, my Avatar name is CherishesDWD. Look for me there. )

Chapter 19

Fenton drove through Duckburg feeling self-conscious. He could tell that people were looking at him as he went passed, but they did not see him. What they saw was some guy who had enough money to buy an expensive car and was dressed to go work at an office. They did not see Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera, science intern and fugitive. Gladstone was right; it was the perfect disguise. But he did not like it.

Or it was the effect of the pearl he was wearing. What did it feel like to have good luck?

He also didn't like having to go through all of Duckburg to get to the orphanage. Snob Hill was one of the highest points, but he still had to go back downtown before he could merge onto the highway toward the orphanage. He also had to stop at an electronics store, which made him even more nervous. Would someone dressed like him go in an electronics store? Would Mr. McDuck be watching to see if he would buy a new phone? He would just have to risk it.

He tried not to act suspicious in the store, but the more he tried, the more nervous he became. In the end, he managed to knock over a rack of discount DVDs and tear his suit before he could buy the pay-as-you-go phone. He had to buy a visa money card for the phone to work and to remain anonymous, and when he handed over the cash, the cashier didn't give him another look. Either Fenton's disguise wasn't that distinguished in the store or the cashier didn't care who came in.

Back in the car, Fenton quickly set up the phone and used the store's free Wi-Fi to check his email to see if his friend had gotten back to him about the journal entries. He was excited to see his friend had replied, but the message was short and didn't give him much information.

Fenton,

What have you gotten yourself into? This is a very interesting cypher. I'm teaching classes right now, but I'll take a closer look later, but I don't think I'll be able to break this code easily, even feeding it through a computer program. This kind of cypher needs a keyword to translate. Any ideas what the keyword would be?

TTYL. Let me know where this came from. I didn't think you were interested in this kind of stuff.

A keyword, Fenton thought. He recalled watching a few shows that dealt with breaking codes and using a keyword. That made sense. But what keyword would Fethry use for his journals?

He quickly typed a message back to his friend, suggesting a bunch of words such as "Fethry" "McDuck" "mermaid" "ocean" "pearl" and a few others that related to his predicament. He didn't have high hopes that he would be able to find the keyword. Fethry wouldn't make it that easy. For all he knew, the keyword could just be a jumble of letters.

With the message sent, Fenton got back on the road and didn't relax until he was outside the city limits. He took his first stress-free breath of fresh air, feeling good to be going so fast away from Mr. McDuck and all the problems of Duckburg.

And a part of him, a part of him that he was ashamed of, wondered what would happen if he kept driving. He immediately banished those thoughts. He couldn't run away. There were so many people counting on him. He had to find out what was going on, find Fethry, rescue the mermaid and save the town.

The turnoff for the orphanage was a part-dirt, part-sandy road, heading toward the ocean. The orphanage wasn't in sight, and having no knowledge how far the road went, Fenton left the sports car on the side of the road underneath of copse of trees. The fancy car made him nervous. It would definitely get damaged on the dirt/sandy road, so he would have to take the risk that it would be safe for a few hours on the byway from thieves. Even still, he didn't feel safe about leaving the journals in the car. He also didn't want to carry them with him in case he was caught. Instead, he found a sandy patch nearby and buried the journals there, still wrapped in the water-proof plastic to keep them safe.

It was a hot day, and as he slogged through patches of sand, he regretted even more that Gladstone had given him the disguise. After a while, he removed every article of clothing he could get away with, unbuttoned a few buttons on the shirt, and left everything in a bush to be collected later. Even after that, by the time he arrived to the orphanage, he was a tired, sweaty mess. The pomade in his hair had begun to run and it stung his eyes, and his mouth had run dry. He must have walked almost a mile.

The orphanage was a sight for sore eyes. The house had begun as a cottage-style before additions had been built upon one new room after another. While everything had been painted the same pastel yellow with white trimming, the orphanage was a history of the cheapest materials and styles through the ages. It was built a good ways from the beach that there was no fear of water damage even in the worst of storms. It had a somewhat grassy lawn that was dotted with dandelions and other wild flowers while their more domesticated cousins grew in pots and boxes all around the house. There were several trees that were big and tall, giving large patches of shade as well as ample branches for swings. One tree even had a treehouse built into it.

It looked like an orphanage from a fairy tale, one of the good ones where all the children are happy and kind. For a moment, Fenton wondered if this was the right place because it looked too good to be true. It also lacked the most important element of an orphanage: children. With such a wonderland as this, he expected children to be running around, playing and having a good time.

He walked up to the wrap-around porch that was covered with lawn chairs and tables with toys and games, opened up the screen and tapped the door with the brass knocker. He waited patiently as he heard movement inside the cottage before a broad-shouldered, tall woman answered. She had a strict look about her with a tight bun, pristine pressed clothing, apron and emotionless expression, but there was something gentle about her eyes.

"Yes, may I help you," the woman asked, raising an eyebrow. She had a sophisticated British accent that added to the fairy-tale image he had before.

"Hi…yes. I wanted to ask you a few questions," Fenton said. He had thought about what he would say on the walk up the road, and had prepared a plausible story. "I'm a blogger, and I was hoping to do an article on the Duckburg Orphanage, perhaps stir up some interest in this historical building as well as talk about the good work that is done here."

"A blog?" the woman asked. "What kind of blog is it?"

Fenton expected questions. After all, this was an orphanage, and she was justified to be protective of the children in her care. "It's about historical buildings. I travel from town to town and do some research on a few buildings, take some pictures, and some of them I use for my blog and some of them I don't. When I asked around, someone mentioned this orphanage, and I thought it would be a nice thought-piece, something that could pull some heartstrings with my readers. After all, there aren't many orphanages around anymore because of the foster system, so it would be interesting to hear why this orphanage is still in business."

The woman's expression changed so she was less suspicious, but that sternness never left. However, she opened the door wider, an indication that she was going to let him in.

"I'm Mrs. Betina Beakley. I've been the proprietor of the orphanage for over twenty years now," the woman said, holding out a hand.

Fenton stepped in and shook her hand. "It's good to meet you."

"I suppose you would like to start with a tour?" Mrs. Beakley asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That would be great," Fenton said, glad that she suggested it.

He was relieved that he was in the door, but that was the extent of his plan. The tour gave him a good excuse to look around and plan his next move, but if he wanted to get any information on Fethry during his time while an orphan or when he broke into the orphanage, then he had better ask the right questions or find some way to snoop into the files.

Mrs. Beakley started out the tour by going upstairs. "All of the girls share rooms, depending on how old the girls are and the size of the rooms. As of right now, there are twenty-three girls staying with us right now."

"Twenty-three? Isn't that an awful lot?" Fenton asked, surprised.

"The rooms are set up more like dorms, giving them not a lot of room," Mrs. Beakley said, her voice going soft. "A lot of the girls are seized from their homes quickly and often come here with very little possessions. The orphanage provides their necessities and a few extras through donations. As you have mentioned, there are very few orphanages around so it is hard for us to receive private donations. If your blog does gain any interest, anything would be welcomed"

Fenton's conscience tweaked his heart, and he felt guilty for the deception, especially when he looked in on a few rooms, especially after Mrs. Beakley showed the rooms that were bare save for the furniture and a few possessions. Each small room had one bunkbed and the larger ones had two or three. By the decorations, he guessed older girls roomed two at a time, and the younger girls stayed in bigger groups. But he pressed on.

"You mentioned girls. Do you not have boys at the orphanage?" Fenton asked. Was he wrong? If it was an all-girl's place, how did Fethry fit in? Was there another orphanage?

"The orphanage was once mixed-genders, but only took on the younger children," Mrs. Beakley explained. "When I became the director, I decided to change that to be a house for young girls and teens. My degree in childcare has an emphasis on psychology which I felt would be put to better use if I could also work with one gender and with girls all the way up to age seventeen. Many of these girls have suffered from all sorts of abuse, and I wanted to give them a place where they could feel safe. And for some, that means a place where there are no males."

Fenton nodded.

Mrs. Beakley had shown every room in the upstairs—she did not let Fenton inside any of them and stated that no pictures were to be taken for privacy reasons—then went downstairs where the kitchen, dining room and rec room were.

"So…where are the children?" Fenton asked, finally asking the obvious question.

"Ah, I wondered when you would get to that?" Mrs. Beakley said with a small smile. "Today is one of those rare days when all the girls are gone. The younger ones have been taken to the Duckburg park to get the wiggles out and meet up with any friends in the city. The older girls are on a variety of other activities including summer school, part-time jobs and community service."

"Community service? Like juvenile delinquents?" Fenton asked.

"At times. I've had experience with girls who are continuously getting in trouble with the law," Mrs. Beakley said. "But I also firmly believe in volunteer work, in this case at the animal shelter and a few farms around here. Working with animals have been proven to help troubled teens and children from broken homes. It isn't easy being a child, and it's even worse when everything you know has been taken from you. I know I cannot fix them entirely, but I consider it my job to give them every opportunity to take control of their emotions and their lives, and to come to odds with their past. For some, it isn't enough, but for many others, this orphanage has supported them until adulthood and helped them get a leg up on life."

"I can tell you really care for your girls. It must be hard when one is adopted," Fenton said.

"That rarely happens," Mrs. Beakley said. "Despite the sign, we rarely get true orphans. Even if a child loses both parents, more than likely the next of kin take them in. Most of the girls here are fosters, having been taken from homes that weren't deemed fit to take care of them. The girls cannot be adopted out unless their parents surrender them to the state or the state declares the parents to be unfit, which sometimes happen. But most of these girls could be returned to their homes once their parents have cleaned up their act."

Fenton wondered just how often that happened, and went on to imagine just how often that was a good thing. On one hand, if the parents had done something to have their children taken away, did they deserve to have those children back? But on the other hand, parents make mistakes; if they did honestly change, wasn't it better for the child to be raised with their biological parents? It might be a combination of all of the above. There may be girls who lived under this roof who prayed every day that they would be returned home soon, and some who hoped they never went home again.

"I think if you want pictures, it would be best to take it of the house and the yard. I will warn you that no pictures of my girls can legally be put on your site, and that includes pictures of pictures. As you can see, the house is full of them," Mrs. Beakley said, gesturing to all the photographs on the wall of girls. There were far too many to be of the current girls.

"Oh, that's what I had in mind," Fenton said, having forgotten his cover story. Not to mention, he wasn't anywhere close to his goal of learning about Fethry. He decided to test the waters. "I was actually curious about some of the stories that went on around the orphanage that I heard about. About a lost child found here after a storm. And then another disappearing and then reappearing on the beach near here." He knew both of those stories were about Fethry, but he kept his description vague to keep up appearances.

"Ah, there are many stories of people being washed up on our shores," Mrs. Beakley said, heading back to the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"

"Uh, sure," Fenton said, even though he had never liked any of the kinds his mother made. But he had a long walk and his throat was dry.

Mrs. Beakley bustled around the kitchen as she talked. "It's the currents that bring them in. Our little cove is perfect for having things wash up on the shore. The girls are always going down to the beach and looking for things, and after a storm, we go as a group to pick up all the debris and trash that came in. There are quite a few beach mosaics the girls make with items that they found. They assemble them behind the house and along the shed."

Fenton felt as if the conversation was straying farther and farther from the subject he wanted to talk about. "That sounds fascinating," he said politely, taking one of the cookies that Mrs. Beakley set out with the tea things. "But have you heard the story about the boy who did appear on this beach? It may have happened a long time ago, but the orphanage's records might still be around. In fact, he may have stayed here…before?"

Mrs. Beakley stood up, looking angry. "I know what you're after," the large woman said. "You aren't the first reporter to come here with some cockamamie story to get a scoop, but I was certain I had seen the last of you years ago."

"No, wait. This isn't what you think?" Fenton said, not sure what Mrs. Beakley was thinking but it certainly wasn't the truth. He had hoped to be discreet in case she was in league with Mr. McDuck as well much like the nurse at the hopsital. "I'm not here for a scoop. I'm here for the truth."

"That's what they all say," Mrs. Beakleys said, approaching Fenton.

As he was much smaller, Fenton back away, realizing that she was herding him to the door through sheer intimidation. And it was working. "I'm not a reporter. I'm looking for information on Fethry because he's gone missing." If his luck was going to change, it had to be at that moment. He hoped that Gladstone's pearl would work.

"Oh, and I've heard that one before, too," Mrs. Beakley said, grabbing a broom. "Just because he's the nephew of Scrooge McDuck doesn't mean you can drag his name around for a sensational story. That man has gone through enough troubles without parasites like you hunting him down."

"Please, listen to what I'm trying to say," Fenton said. "I'm trying to do what Fethry wants me to do. He left something…I think…here, and he intended for me to find it. Something he couldn't leave anywhere else." He cringed as Mrs. Beakley approached with the broom held like a quarterstaff.

Then a loud, piercing wail filled the orphanage, and Mrs. Beakley stopped in mid-attack.

"Granny!" a young voice called out in the recess of the house. "Timmy is awake."

"I'll be there in a second," Mrs. Beakley called back, tightening her grip on the broom.

Fenton took a few more steps back. Perhaps he should retreat. There seemed to be no reasoning with the intimidating woman.

"Granny!" the voice called again more urgently. "He smells really bad. He needs to be changed."

"In a minute," Mrs. Beakley shouted. "I have to take care of something first."

But her words meant nothing as a girl duck about twelve came out, carrying a large baby that was the source of the crying. The baby's face was damp with tears and snot pouring out of his snout.

"Webby, I told you—" Mrs. Beakley started.

"I know, but Lena is resting, and I didn't want to wake her," the girl—dubbed Webby—said, practically shoving the large baby into her grandmother's arms. "And you know how I can't stand to hear him cry for too long. It hurts my heart."

Mrs. Beakley had no choice but to take the baby, one of her large arms wrapping gently around him, holding him up against her shoulder and bouncing him. She still brandished the broom in her other hand.

There was a fierce stink that filled the room, and Fenton was ready to retreat from just that. However, at least the crying had abated once the baby was in the arms of the orphanage director.

"Who's this?" Webby asked, turning her eyes to Fenton. "Is he here to foster someone?"

"No, he's just a…solicitor," Mrs. Beakley said with eyes like dentist instruments in the hands of a serial killer. "And he's just leaving."

"Oh, I'll walk him out," Webby said. "I was going to go for a walk anyway. Is that alright, Granny?"

"That's fine," Mrs. Beakley said as the little Timmy began crying once more. "Just make sure that he leaves."

"Come with me," Webby said. "I'm surprised you didn't see the 'No Soliciting' signs back at the start of the road. Granny hates solicitors."

"I can tell," Fenton said, going along with the ruse. After all, he was pretending to be a reporter pretending to be a solicitor and not mentioning that he's running from Scrooge McDuck. What a day.

"It's too bad that you came all this way," Webby said, opening the front door for him and heading out. Once she was outside, she dodged to the side, out of sight. Her hand poked out, and she waved Fenton forward.

Used to strange things happening to him, Fenton followed, closing the door behind him. He watched Webby put her finger to her beak then tip-toe across the patio and jump over the rail into a flower bed. She waved for him to follow.

"Can't I just go around—Okay?" he said as she violently gestured for him to follow. He hopped the rail as well and followed the girl in a crouch through flower beds and bushes, keeping out of sight from any of the windows to the orphanage.

They went around to the back where they saw the back-end of another girl duck—this one in her early teens—hanging out of a second story window.

"Webby, a little help," the girl hissed.

Webby tapped Fenton's arm, pointed two fingers at her eyes and pointed to the girl.

"Okay," Fenton said, and helped the other girl as she dropped out of the window. "Now, please tell me I'm not aiding and abetting in a runaway, because I can only handle so much trouble for today."

"Geez, why don't you turn on a siren? Want to alert Mrs. B that I'm sneaking out?" the other girl sniped. She then doubled over in a fit of coughing.

"Let's head down to the beach where we can talk," Webby whispered. "This way."

Fenton followed the girls, still crouching because they were. They took advantage of the foliage around the orphanage, and once they were out of sight of the cottage, they walked upright.

"Okay, now tell me what is going on?" Fenton said. "If Mrs. Beakley finds me with the two of you, she'll call the cops."

Webby and the other girl looked at each other before Webby launched into an explanation. "Lena woke up Timmy to distract Granny. He has the stinkiest diaper, and then he'll want to eat, which will take a long time. There's no way she's going to catch us. Although I wish we didn't have to wake him up. I hate making him cranky."

"Yeah, well, he's going to learn that life is tough," Lena said, kicking at a patch of sand. "Besides, he's never cranky when he's with you."

By now, they could see the beach and the sound of the waves charging against the sand competed against their conversation.

"But still, there must have been a better way," Webby said. "Timmy could be put in a foster home any day, and then I'll have to say good-bye to him."

"Good. It's always a pain when babies are sent to the orphanage," Lena said in a huff. "Especially boy babies. Girls smell a lot better and are quieter. We're not even supposed to have boys at the orphanage. Even babies need to follow the rules."

"Girls, please give me an explanation," Fenton requested, interrupting their argument.

Webby turned his way. "Oh, right. Well, first off, what Lena said is totally untrue. All babies are loud and smelly. She didn't mean to insult your gender."

Lena snorted and crossed her arms.

"I meant about why you're bringing be to the beach or why you're here," Fenton said. "I don't want to get in any more trouble than I am already."

"We heard you talking to Mrs. B," Lena said. "You're looking for the clue that Fethry left."

Fenton was stunned for a while, not expecting that, but he nodded. "Yes. Yes, I am. So, he did leave something here?"

Webby and Lena raced forward and stopped in front of Fenton, forcing him to stop as well.

"First, we need to make sure you're on the level," Lena said. "How do we know you're not from the old fart?"

"Huh?"

"She means Scrooge McDuck," Webby said in a hushed voice, as if only talking to Fenton. "Fethry didn't want the clue to be given to just anyone. He left it just in case. He said it was if he couldn't do what he needed to do."

"What does that mean?" Fenton asked.

The girls shrugged.

"If we knew, we could help him," Webby said. "But he made us promise that we wouldn't do anything but keep the secret about the clue about the mer—"

Lena slapped her hand over Webby's mouth.

"The mermaid?" Fenton finished her sentence.

Webby shoved Lena's hand away and gasped, her eyes aglow. "So, you do know about the mermaids?" She made a high-pitch squeal, her body aquiver. If she was a puppy, her tail would be going a million miles an hour.

"Way to keep a secret," Lena said, shaking her friend. "But just because he knows about mermaids, doesn't mean he's on our side. Remember, the old fart knows about them, too."

"But—he's so nice," Webby said.

"You think everyone is nice," Lena said. "It's why he wanted me to stick around to help."

Webby turned to Fenton, saying, "Lena's worked hard to stay out of the foster system. She's been at the orphanage longer than anyone else."

Fenton nodded at the explanation. If these girls have held onto the secret for five years—which was almost half their life-time—then he owed it to them to give them the whole story. He hadn't understood why Gladstone's lucky pearl hadn't worked on Mrs. Beakley, but now he understood. If these two girls hadn't been there when he arrived, he may have missed out on Fethry's clue.

Just when he was about to open his beak and start, he heard his name over the surf breaking. He turned, worried that it was Mrs. Beakley coming at him with her broom. It wasn't, but the three figures riding bicycles down the path toward them was even more worrying. It seemed that the pearl's good luck had its limits.

It was the three nephews of Scrooge McDuck.