The Secret of the Missing Grave

by David Crossman

  “A mirror,” he cried, a new thought suddenly displacing the others.

  Ab waited. She knew that Bean was turning over some new idea in his fertile mind. She could tell by the way his eyes were dancing blindly, as if they were trying to catch up with the picture in his mind. Good ol’ Bean, she thought.

  “No,” he said at last. He seemed to deflate as if someone had stuck a pin in him. “That won’t work.”

  Ab was disappointed. “What won’t work?”

  “I was thinking, if we could rig up a system of mirrors from the tunnel—you know ... ” It was one of those thoughts that made less sense when it was spoken than it did in his head. “Never mind,” he said.

  “You mean some way to see what’s in the tunnel without Maud Valliers finding out?” Ab guessed.

  “Something like that. How did you know?”

  “Mirrors,” said Ab. “It figures, doesn’t it?”

  “It does?”

  “But I’ve got something better.”

  Ab unzipped her fanny pack and fished out her disposable camera. “All we need to do is figure out a way to get this in there.”

  All at once the thoughts crystallized in Bean’s brain. “I’ve got it.” He leapt on the moped and gave the pedal the one quick, sharp pump it needed to start. “Pile on.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Back down the hole,” said Bean confidently.

  Ab, who had just “piled on,” put her feet down and let Bean drive off without her. He’d gone almost to Main Street before he realized she wasn’t there. Instead, she was standing back by the pond with her hands on her hips and her elbows akimbo. She was looking at him as if he had lost his mind.

  He drove back. “What’s the matter?”

  “Are you crazy?” said Ab. It was more a declarative sentence than a question. “There’s no way I’m going down there again. No way.”

  The sparkle in his eyes was doubled by the curious curl of his mouth. “We’re going to get Maud Valliers to show us where the treasure is.”

  “If it wasn’t getting dark, I’d say you’ve been out in the sun too long,” said Ab.

  “Just trust me,” said Bean.

  At first Mr. Proverb just laughed, thinking that Bean was pulling his leg. Now that he knew the boy was serious, he stuttered and sputtered, trying to find the right words.

  “You can’t be serious, Bean,” he said.

  “You can’t be serious,” Ab echoed. It was the first time she, too, had heard the plan.

  But Bean was undeterred by their skepticism. “Listen. It’ll be a small fire—just a little newspaper—and since it’ll be down in the hole, it can’t spread. There’s nothing down there that can burn. It’s all dirt and rock, right?”

  “Well, yes,” Mr. Proverb replied hesitantly. “But why? What’s the point?”

  Bean smiled as he began to explain, and his smile grew as he saw his words light a spark, first in Ab’s eyes then in Mr. Proverb’s.

  “That’s brilliant,” said Ab, not waiting for her partner to finish his last sentence. “Let’s go for it.”

  “Now, now,” Mr. Proverb cautioned. Already he’d broken out into a sweat. “Let’s think this thing through.” He scratched his head. “Granted, it seems as if it’ll work—no harm’ll be done—but we don’t want anything to go wrong. No one must get hurt.”

  “No one will,” Bean assured him.

  “Oh?” Mr. Proverb said dubiously. “I wish I had your confidence.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Famous last words,” said Ab. She’d heard them before.

  “Just newspapers, you say?” said Mr. Proverb, who seemed to be trying to convince himself.

  “That’s all. Just newspapers.”

  Mr. Proverb deliberated for about thirty seconds. “All right,” he said, grabbing his flashlight. “There’s a bucket overhead in the cellar stairway. We’ll use water from the cistern if we have to.” He turned his excited eyes to Ab. “You go station yourself outside while Bean and I start the fire.” He retrieved an armload of newspapers from a brown paper bag and tucked them under his arm. “Let’s hurry, before I come to my senses.”

  Bean found the length of pipe that he and Ab had used earlier. While Mr. Proverb shone the light into the cistern, Bean used the pipe to poke around until he found the trip lever. He gave one quick push, and instantly the water began to drain out. As it did, the antique mechanism once more ground into action. Mr. Proverb directed the beam of light at the little room at the end of the hall. They heard a gentle grating sound, then the massive stone rose silently, ominously.

  “Quick,” cried Bean. With Mr. Proverb on his heels, he ran to the room and waited nervously while the floor rose high enough to let him in. “Toss me some papers.”

  Mr. Proverb was a little more cautious. He waited until the granite stone had stopped against the ceiling. “I think I’d better do this part,” he said, descending the rough steps gingerly. Once down, he shone the light around, inspecting the room he never knew he had. “Well, I’ll be ... this is amazing.” He played the light over the brick wall. “That’s where the tunnel is, huh?”

  Bean was busy balling up pages of newspaper and piling them into a little pyramid in the middle of the floor. “That’s right. Could I have a match, please?” Neither of them noticed as the door to the room swung silently shut.

  Mr. Proverb rummaged through his pockets absentmindedly, searching for the safety matches he’d brought. He studied the wall. “And you say the tunnel’s half mine?”

  “According to Eb, it is. He should know.” Bean was getting nervous. Being in that dank, little black hole again, surrounded by the thick, earthy smell of mold and dirt, he felt as though the walls were closing in. Suddenly, he didn’t want to play anymore. He wanted to get out. Manfully stifling the urge to scream and run, he crumpled the last page of newspaper and held it in his hand. “Match, Mr. Proverb?”

  “Then, legally, I could just knock this wall down and walk right in,” Mr. Proverb speculated. Meanwhile he found a packet of matches and began tearing one out.

  “But maybe she’s moved all the treasure to her side,” Bean reminded him. He shot a couple of quick glances at the ceiling, which he could barely make out at the remote edges of the halo of illumination from the flashlight. Was the ceiling coming toward them? He couldn’t take much more of this. “If she did, you wouldn’t be able to prove that any of it had ever been on your property.”

  “Mm,” said Mr. Proverb. “I s’pose you’re right.” He struck the match. Nothing happened. The little daub of sulfur fell off in a clump and landed among the pile of paper. “These are old matches,” he said apologetically. “Probably been through the wash more than once.” Slowly, deliberately, he began to tear another match from the pack. The moment it came loose, the cellar filled with the sound of rushing water. Startled, Bean looked up. This time he wasn’t imagining things. The floor was coming down.

  “Quick, Mr. Proverb. Light another one,” he yelled.

  Mr. Proverb, suddenly panicking so much that his hands shook, struck another match. This time there was a brief spark, but it wasn’t enough to light the match.

  “We’ve gotta get out of here,” Mr. Proverb cried. He bolted up the steps, but in his haste he tripped halfway up and fell, hard, knee first on the steps. Then he fell headlong at Bean’s feet—unconscious.

  Just then, amid the wads of crumpled paper, the smoldering dot of sulfur burst into flame. Instantly the papers were ablaze. All the while, the great stone slab descended slowly into place. Bean knew that in seconds they’d be sealed in, and the fire would use up all the oxygen faster than it could be replaced.

  If Bean couldn’t think of something fast, they were doomed.

  12

  “YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHAT I FOUND”

  FROM AB’S POINT OF VIEW, everything was going perfectly. She had taken up her post in the maple tree that overhung the hollow and was peering through Mr.
Proverb’s binoculars. From this vantage point, she was able to see over the frosted lower half of the front-door windows of the Winthrop House, through the entry, and all the way down the hall to the door that led to the kitchen at the rear of the house. She could also see a little bit of the stairs to the left and the row of doors leading to various rooms to the right.

  For what seemed a long time, nothing happened. Ab was just about to put down the binoculars and give her weary eyes a rub when the maid burst from the kitchen, apparently in response to some call that Ab couldn’t hear. For a moment, the maid stood in the middle of the hall, gesturing wildly and apparently talking or yelling up the stairs.

  In the next instant, Maud Valliers came running down the stairs and seemed to be giving hasty instructions to the distraught girl, who responded by running to the phone that sat on an ornate marble table near the parlor door. She picked it up and began dialing frantically.

  “Perfect,” said Ab. “Now we’ll see what kind of genius you are, Bean.”

  She quickly refocused the binoculars on Maud, who had descended the last few steps, rounded the newel post, and was standing in front of what appeared to be a blank wall under the stairs. She looked nervous. She seemed to be waiting until her maid’s back was turned.

  Sure enough, as the maid bent her attention to the telephone, Maud reached up quickly and pressed a piece of molding, which must have been a switch of some sort, because a segment of the wall instantly swung away. She was through it and out of sight before Ab had time to blink.

  “A secret passage!” Ab cried aloud. The hidden door closed quietly and, as it did, a little puff of smoke wafted into the hall. After a minute or so, the maid put down the receiver and, registering no alarm that her mistress had disappeared, rushed to the front door. She opened it wide and stood nervously wringing her hands and pacing back and forth. She wouldn’t have to wait long, Ab knew, before Tiny Martin and the rest of the volunteer fire department would be careening up the street with lights flashing and sirens wailing. In fact, Ab could already hear them in the distance.

  What was Maud up to, though? That was the question in Ab’s mind. She trained her binoculars once again on the secret passage and focused just in time to see it slide open. Maud emerged carrying some large, flat objects wrapped in what looked like black plastic trash bags.

  Ab bent her brows in bemusement. This was not what she’d expected. “Paintings?” she said. “She’s saving her paintings?” Then she remembered Maud’s words of the day before: “The only treasures on my property are my paintings.” Ab watched as the woman rushed frantically through the kitchen door. She must be taking the paintings out to the barn, maybe to her car. The same routine was repeated two more times before the firemen arrived, though less than five minutes had elapsed.

  Two minutes more and a crowd of townspeople had arrived. They were helping the maid carry valuables onto the front lawn for safekeeping while the firemen tracked down the source of the smoke.

  Amid the confusion, Ab found it easy to carry out the next part of the plan. She slipped unnoticed into the Winthrop House and made her way along the hall, mingling with the tide of firefighters, to the hidden door. She chose her time carefully. While Maud Valliers was leading the firemen through the house, Ab pressed the molding; the panel swung open noiselessly. Quickly she plunged through it into the darkness. It took her no time to find the latch on the inside, and she closed the door behind her

  She flipped on her flashlight. The smell of smoke was strong, but she couldn’t see it. It must have been pushed through the tunnel and up through the walls, as Bean had predicted. Shining the light around her, Ab found herself on the landing of what appeared to be an old flight of cellar stairs. That made sense, because the stairs to the second floor were directly overhead. To the left, as she descended, was a relatively new wall of plasterboard, mudded and taped but still unpainted. Maud had it sealed off, Ab said to herself. But why?

  At the bottom of the steps, on top of the rough granite floor, was a large concrete slab. In each corner of the slab was a thick bolt that had apparently been sawed off and was surrounded by a ring of rust. Something heavy had stood there once, something that was meant to stay put, but it wasn’t there now.

  The wall behind the little cement plateau was plastered, as it was in the little room on Mr. Proverb’s side. That was unusual. Scanning the wall with the beam of her flashlight, Ab saw that it met an interior foundation wall to the right and, to the left, the new plasterboard wall, which turned at a right angle at the foot of the stairs. The cement platform was the same size and shape as the floor of the little room across the lane. “That must be the door,” she said out loud, almost scaring herself with the sound of her own excited voice. “Now all I need to do is find ... ” Carefully and methodically she played the light along the walls. There had to be a switch somewhere, some little irregularity, some ...

  That’s when she saw it: a rectangular notch that had been cut from the upright eight-by-eight-inch timber at the bottom of the stairs. It wasn’t a feature that would normally have attracted her interest, except that the edge of the notch had been worn smooth from frequent use, and there were no spiderwebs in the dark recess, as there were everywhere else.

  Slowly, she reached into the notch with her hand. She felt the sides, top, bottom, the back. Nothing. No button. No knobs. “But this must be it,” she said aloud in frustration. The sound of her voice awakened her ears to the fact that the footsteps on the floor above weren’t as numerous as they had been, and most of the activity was centered in the front rooms. They must have found that there was no fire, she thought to herself.

  When everyone was gone, Maud might return at any time, reasoned Ab. More out of perplexity than with any rational plan, Abby poked hard at the interior surfaces of the notch. First around the bottom. Nothing. Then around the middle. Nothing. Then around the top. Bingo. The top of the back pressed in, forcing the bottom out into a kind of lever. Seconds later the great stone wall swung aside, revealing a little room and a shallow flight of stairs—the mirror image of those on the other side.

  Taking the steps two at a time, with her heart riding on her shoulder, she emerged into a long, wide room with a rounded ceiling. This was clearly Maud’s studio. Finished paintings were stacked against the walls, and others in various stages of completion rested on easels around the room.

  Because Maud ascribed to the school of art that “required more paint than talent,” as Uncle Phil had said, nearly every surface of the room was covered with dots and spots and splashes, making the space, in an odd way, a work of art in itself.

  Why hadn’t Maud come after these? Ab wondered.

  But the room itself yielded no treasure. The only odd thing was that the room, although long, wasn’t as long as Ab had imagined it would be, and the far end wasn’t brick, as suggested by the wall in the room that she and Bean had found. Instead it was plaster. In fact, all the walls—which arched together to form the ceiling, as might be expected in a tunnel—were plaster. The only irregularities in them were two narrow rectangles high on either side.

  “Ventilation,” Ab guessed aloud. As she neared the far end of the room, she became aware of a soft hum. She used her flashlight to find its source. It was a small dehumidifier, plugged into an extension cord that ran back to a power strip beneath a long layout table.

  Despite the adrenaline that still coursed through her veins, Ab felt a little disappointed.

  There was no treasure. No mystery. Not even much of a tunnel, really. Just a bunch of paintings. Slowly, almost sorrowfully, she took one last look around, then made her way back toward the steps.

  After listening carefully to determine that the coast was clear, she pressed the lever in the notched timber and watched the huge granite block swing silently into place. Things were now completely quiet upstairs. What if everyone had gone? How would she sneak out of the house without being seen?

  These questions suddenly became irrelevant as a shaft
of light appeared at the top of the stairs. Someone was coming.

  Instantly, Ab switched off her flashlight and ducked through the heavy curtain of cobwebs beneath the stairs. From there she watched with unblinking eyes as feet descended. Maud’s feet. It wasn’t hard to recognize those paint-stained black slippers.

  Maud was carrying something, apparently what she’d taken out earlier. She set down the bundle on the concrete slab, then went back up the stairs.

  Ab’s curiosity quickly overcame her fear. She ran around the stairs to the concrete slab, lifted an edge of the black plastic bag, and shone the light inside. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Eight blank canvasses, each a different size. Each a perfect white, some held with staples, some with brads, some with tacks, others with nails. No two alike.

  She didn’t hear footsteps, but she heard the boards of the f100r above creak. She retreated to her hiding place beneath the stairs, and together with the daddy longlegs watched as Maud brought down another bundle and laid it atop the first, then returned upstairs.

  Once again, Ab looked into the bag. Once again, she was met with the puzzle of canvasses: all white, otherwise no two alike. She was quickly becoming so frustrated that she entertained the preposterous notion of stopping Maud on her next trip down, if there was a next trip, and saying, Maud, old girl, what’s up with the canvasses, huh?

  By the time Maud descended with another armload, Ab had pressed herself into the shadows behind the stairs. She watched with cautious interest as the artist reached into the notch in the timber, pulled down the lever, and walked through the opened wall. She was cradling the third of her bundles, which she promptly took down the stairs. Two subsequent trips followed. After the last bundle was gone and it seemed as though Maud were going to spend time in her studio, Ab cautiously abandoned the safety of her hiding place and crept up the stairs.