The Secret of the Missing Grave

by David Crossman

THE BOYS CLOSED THEIR EYES, gritted their teeth, and waited for the crash. But there was none. The boat plowed powerfully on. Bean opened one eye and, looking astern in disbelief, saw the neat, shallow wake cleaving gracefully through a narrow gap in the ledges. He opened the other eye and smiled a big, relieved smile. “We made it.”

  Spooky slowly opened his eyes. When he was finally able to grasp what had happened, he began to dance around the deck, waving his arms like Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz.

  Bean made his way up the sloping deck to the console and pulled back on the throttle. The bow lay down in the water, and the wake washed gently over the stem.

  “Wow,” said Spooky. “That was some ride.”

  The sun was fully up as they made their way slowly across the still blue water of the bay.

  “Know where we are?” said Spooky.

  “Sure,” Bean replied. He nodded around him. “We were on Eagle Island. Now we’re just about halfway to Stonington. We’ll be home in thirty to forty minutes or so.”

  “What are we gonna do when we get there?”

  “Get somethin’ to eat,” said Bean without hesitation. “I’m starvin’.”

  “Me, too,” said Spooky. “But what about Monty and those canvasses and all that? Are you gonna take ’em to Wruggles?”

  “Got to,” said Bean. “We’ve got evidence. There’s nothin’ else we can do.” He stepped aside. “Here, take the wheel,” he told Spooky, and he made his way to the back of the boat to retrieve the canvas. “Now, let’s see what’s so valuable about this thing.”

  Bean took a gutting knife from a rack, sat on the gunwale with the canvas between his legs, and began to scrape gently at the surface. There was no paint, only a thin undercoat of some kind that was embedded in the fabric. “Well, nothin’ was painted over,” he said. He flipped the canvas and, with the sharp point of the knife, began popping out the staples that held it in place.

  After a little struggle, he had removed three or four staples and was able to peel back the canvas, revealing another canvas beneath. “Aha.”

  “Aha, what?” said Spooky, his eyes directed intently forward. He wasn’t sure whether there was a cage around the propeller on Monty’s boat, so he threaded his way carefully through the maze of multicolored pot buoys marking lobster traps scattered throughout the eastern bay.

  “There’s another canvas behind it,” said Bean triumphantly. “And it’s got a painting on it.”

  “You were right,” said Spooky, casting a quick glance and a smile over his shoulder. “Now we’ve got ’em.”

  Out of curiosity, Bean removed the rest of the staples, pulled away the covering canvas, and held the painting at arm’s length.

  Spooky saw the reflection of Bean’s action in the windshield. “What is it?”

  Bean studied the painting. “It’s a bridge over a pond,” he said. He held it up for Spooky to see.

  “Yup,” said Spook. “That’s what it is.”

  “I’ve seen it somewhere before.”

  “Where?”

  Bean shrugged. There was something familiar about the picture, but he just couldn’t remember where he’d seen it. “I don’t know,” he said. “Somewhere.”

  “Is it famous?”

  “I dunno,” Bean replied unsurely. “I think so.”

  “Painters sign ’em, don’t they? Who’s it by?”

  Bean searched the canvas carefully. “Mo-net,” he said.

  “Never heard of Mo-net,” said Spooky. “I heard of Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, though. He did that smiley lady, Moanin’ Lisa. I never did understand why he called her Moanin’ Lisa when she was smilin’ like that.”

  Bean inspected the signature again. “Nope. This guy’s Mo-net.”

  “Oh, well,” said Spooky philosophically. “If we had another one to crack open, maybe we’d have better luck.”

  “I think we’ll just turn ’em all over to someone who knows what the heck they’re doing,” Bean decided. “I don’t know nothin’ about art. This could be somethin’ famous. I know I’ve seen it before somewhere.”

  “Just a bridge,” said Spooky. “I don’t see what’s so famous about that. It don’t even look strong enough to hold one’ve them little Japanese cars.”

  Bean replaced the canvas over the painting to protect it from sea spray, just in case it was famous.

  As they entered the mouth of the harbor, Bean took over the helm. He pulled the throttle back to five knots to reduce the wake as they passed boats that were docked along the floats.

  The harbor was still, with a few shreds of fog here and there not seeming in any hurry to evaporate. The houses crowding the shore were reflected upside down in the water, and the reflections were shaken into little shimmers by the waves as the boat passed.

  Otherwise everything was perfectly quiet.

  Too quiet.

  “Somethin’ ain’t right,” said Spooky.

  Bean eased the graceful boat alongside the public landing while Spooky jumped out and secured the lines. Then they climbed up the ramp to the parking lot.

  “Nobody at the restaurant,” Bean observed. That was unheard of on a Sunday morning, when lots of people usually had breakfast out before going to church. He took the painting he had just opened and tucked it under his arm.

  “Where is everybody?” said Spooky.

  “Oh, brother,” Bean replied, half to himself. “Not again.”

  “Not again, what?”

  “Nothin’,” said Bean. “Let’s go down to the fire station.”

  “Why?” said Spooky as he fell in step behind his friend, who had already started off across the parking lot.

  “Just a hunch.”

  But the fire station, too, was deserted. “So much for that idea,” said Bean. “Where could everybody be?”

  The streets were deserted. No people. No cars. No trucks. Not even a dog or cat in sight. The town seemed to have surrendered to the seagulls.

  “This is spooky,” said Spooky. Bean had started up the street. “Where are you goin’ ?”

  “Home,” Bean replied over his shoulder. “I’ve gotta get somethin’ to eat.” He tried to put a brave face on the situation, but he couldn’t help wondering if some alien spacecraft had landed and vaporized everybody. It was a silly notion, of course, but it refused to leave him alone. He wanted to make sure his mother was all right. As he walked along he found himself speeding up, until he was jogging at a fair clip, the canvas slapping back and forth under his arm. Spooky trailed after him.

  As they approached the far end of Main Street, Bean heard the low murmur of a crowd of people. “This way,” he said, breaking into a run. Spooky was having a hard time keeping up.

  Rounding the final comer, they saw a multitude of people mulling around the Winthrop House.

  Bean ran breathlessly up to Matty Johnson, who was standing with some other ladies at the fringes of the crowd. “Hi, Matty,” he said.

  Matty turned toward him and smiled warmly. “Oh, hello, Arthur.” She was the only one in town who still called him by his Christian name. “What’ve you got there? Takin’ up painting?”

  Bean shook the painting nonchalantly. “No, ma’am. Just holdin’ it for somebody else.”

  “Well, I hope that ‘somebody else’ isn’t Miss Valliers,” she said, nodding toward the Winthrop House, where the ambulance had just pulled up.

  “Why? What happened?” said Bean, trying to appear as matter-of-fact as possible. There was no doubt in his mind that Maud had discovered her paintings missing and had had a heart attack.

  “You don’t know? Where’ve you been?” said Matty incredulously. “Out in the White Islands,” Bean replied honestly.

  “Camping?”

  Bean deliberated a moment. “Sort of,” he answered. “So, what happened?”

  “All kinds of things,” said Ellen MacKenzie, who turned to them from the group. “Seems that somebody stole all Maud’s paintings, though who’d want to steal them, I don’t know. M
ust’ve been some summer person.”

  “They did?” said Bean, with a knowing nod at Spooky. “That’s awful. Who did it?”

  “No one knows,” said Ellen. “That ain’t one you got there under your arm, is it?” she said with a laugh.

  Bean laughed back. So did Spooky.

  “Well, thanks,” said Bean cheerfully and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” said Matty, grabbing him by the arm. “You haven’t heard but half the news.”

  Bean stopped. “What do you mean?”

  It was Matty’s turn to nod knowingly. “They found the Winthrop treasure.”

  Bean’s heart suddenly seemed to be banging against his empty stomach. “They what? Who did? What is it? Where?”

  Ellen laughed. “Well, that’s what we’re all here to find out, ain’t it? All we know is it’s worth a fortune and it was found in a secret tunnel.”

  “But you don’t know who found it?”

  “It’s prob’ly gold,” Ellen speculated, ignoring Bean’s question. Another woman in the group, Charlotte, nodded her agreement.

  “Or diamonds,” said Matty. Charlotte nodded again.

  “But do you know who found it?” Bean repeated, trying to mask his impatience.

  “Sure we do,” said Matty, stretching out the suspense a little longer. “It was that pretty little summer girl stayin’ up to the Moses Webster House. The one I used to see you with all the time.”

  “Abby Petersen?”

  “Sounds right,” said Ellen. “Some smart girl, there. Found this little secret room and everything.”

  Bean’s heart was thrashing against his ribs. “So, who does the treasure belong to?”

  “Don’t know,” said Matty. “They’re not passin’ much information back here. If we could find Leeman Russell, he’d know. I bet he’s right up at the front of things. Always is when somethin’ like this happens.”

  “Always is,” Charlotte agreed.

  “Not that it would make much difference in Maud’s case,” Matty observed. “I hear she nearly lost her mind over those paintings. I bet it’s her they brought that ambulance for.”

  “Come on,” Bean said to Spooky, and they tore off through the crowd.

  “He’s the one found that tunnel in the first place,” said Matty, watching as the boys darted away.

  “Is that so?” said Charlotte.

  Ellen nodded. “Too bad he was out foolin’ around on the islands. He missed all the fun.”

  The other women agreed that it was too bad.

  Spooky and Bean arrived at the front of the crowd just as the ambulance pulled away. They quickly scanned the group and soon spied Abby, standing amid a knot of people who all seemed to be talking to her at once. In the boys’ brief glimpse of her, they saw that she was holding a doll.

  “I’ve never seen Abby with a doll,” said Bean.

  “She’s a girl, ain’t she?” Spooky observed. “That’s what they do.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Bean!” Abby screamed. She tore herself away from the clutch of people and ran up to the boys. Right there in front of the whole world, she threw her arms around Bean and gave him a great big wet kiss right on the lips.

  Bean felt a blush that started in his toes and worked its way up his legs and his back and his neck and filled his head like a bright red lightbulb. All of a sudden people were crowding around him, and they were smiling and shaking his free hand and telling him he did a great job and asking what it felt like to be rich.

  Bean’s brain was spinning, trying to make some sense of it all. “Huh?” he said finally, looking at Ab. “Huh?” he repeated, looking at the familiar faces pressing in all around him. Among them were Mr. and Mrs. Petersen and Mr. and Mrs. Proverb, smiling wider than anyone. “Wha ... ?”

  “I told them how we found the tunnel,” said Ab. The sparkle in her eyes was nearly blinding poor Bean.

  “Huh?” said Bean.

  “You did it, boy,” said Mr. Proverb, leaning into the little clearing in the center of the circle of people. He held out his hand, which Bean took and shook, though he couldn’t imagine why.

  “Did I?” said Bean dumbly.

  “You sure did,” said another voice. This time it was Mrs. Petersen who leaned into the circle. She pinched his cheek, which was okay because it was Ab’s mother. “You were right, and we were wrong. Weren’t we, Tom?”

  Mr. Petersen seemed to hesitate about making such an admission. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say ... that is ... of course he—”

  “Now just own up, Tom,” Mrs. Petersen admonished. “Say it. Bean and Ab were right, and we were wrong. There was a tunnel right where they said it was. And there was a treasure in the tunnel.”

  “I think ... , ” Mr. Petersen began, but it was clear he wasn’t getting anywhere. Mrs. Petersen helped him.

  “He thinks he owes you both an apology.” She leaned closer to the kids and lowered her voice. “Now, granted you did some things that were neither smart nor safe, and I hope you learned your lesson.” Now the volume went up again, so everybody could hear. “But if we’d listened to you in the first place, we could have done the whole thing by the book. So I guess we can take a share of the blame.”

  “Treasure?” said Bean weakly, trying to catch up.

  “The treasure I found in the secret tunnel,” said Abby, holding the doll in his face.

  “What’re you shakin’ that thing at me for?” Bean said indignantly.

  “Because this is the treasure,” Ab replied with a smile.

  “A doll?” said Bean, aghast. “That’s the treasure?”

  “Not just a doll,” said Ab. “Hundreds of dolls, from all over the world. All made of either ivory or porcelain. All in their original costumes. All over a hundred years old.”

  “That’s worth something?” said Bean, a little dejectedly. Like a crow, he had set his sights on shinier things. “Just a bunch’ve old dolls?”

  A number of people in the crowd laughed.

  “Tell him, Mr. Carnoby,” Ab said to a large man in corduroys and jeans standing nearby. Bean recognized him as an antiques dealer from the mainland who often visited the island.

  “I figure the cheapest one will fetch about fifteen thousand dollars,” said Mr. Carnoby.

  “F-f-fif—?” Bean stammered.

  “That’s nothing,” said Ab with her winningest smile. “Tell him about the queen.”

  The crowd fell silent as Mr. Carnoby, glad to have an audience, rolled the words around in his mouth. “What she’s referring to,” he said a little louder than necessary, “is an original Queen Victoria doll, commemorating her jubilee—the fiftieth anniversary of the queen’s reign. She’s dressed in ermine, pearls, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds, which I estimate will fetch somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars at auction in New York.” The crowd gasped and mumbled as everyone repeated the figure.

  “All told,” he continued as the crowd once more became still, “there are two hundred and eighteen dolls. I haven’t had a chance to do much more than count ’em, but I imagine the whole collection is worth a few million.”

  Once again the people gasped and oohed and aahed and began murmuring among themselves.

  “I’d best get back and start cataloging,” said Mr. Carnoby with more than a trace of self-importance. With an “excuse me, please” to part the crowd, he made his way back to the Winthrop House.

  “They were all on Mr. Proverb’s side,” Ab resumed excitedly.

  “But you’ll never guess what else she found!” Mrs. Proverb interjected.

  “I think I know,” said Bean, with a little shudder. “‘Lord, rest my bones as happy here, as she among her babes.’” He turned to Ab. “These dolls are the babes, aren’t they? They’re what Minerva was importing from all over the world. That means ... ”

  Suddenly Ab wasn’t smiling anymore. Bean saw her trembling, and he knew she had seen something that haunted her. “Miss Minerva was down th
ere, wasn’t she? With all them dolls?”

  Abby tried to shrug it off. “Just bones,” she said with a faint, brave smile. “A skeleton.”

  “A skeleton!” breathed Spooky. Abby went up leaps and bounds in his estimation.

  “How’d you know that, Bean—that Miss Minerva was down there?” said Mr. Petersen.

  Bean turned to him. “Mary Olson’s tombstone said so,” he replied. Unconsciously, his hand reached for Ab’s and found it and squeezed it in sympathy. She squeezed back.

  “Who the heck is Mary Olson?” said Spooky.

  Bean explained, and as he did, everyone listened intently. When he finished, there was a long, awed silence.

  It was finally broken by Leeman Russell, who, as always, had made his way to the front of the crowd, where all the action was. “You know what you guys are?” he said, his voice heavy with admiration. “You’re regular detectives. That’s what. Yessir.”

  Several people from the crowd agreed heartily with Leeman’s assessment.

  Then came one of those awkward times when it seemed as though nobody had anything to say. For a few seconds, people stood staring at the house. Maybe they had the same thoughts as Mrs. Proverb, who was musing what it must have been like for Abby when she pointed the flashlight at the scene in that dark, little room. At first she had seen only the dolls, many of them, dressed in all kinds of costumes whose colors, except for the dust and cobwebs, hadn’t faded over the years because of the dryness and total darkness of the room. They had been lovingly assembled in a kind of pyramid; some were standing, some sitting, some resting on others, piled up and up as Abby traced them with her flashlight, until, in an old cane-backed rocking chair in the middle of the mountain of dolls ...

  “Poor ol’ Maud’s had a bad day,” said Leeman, breaking the silence. “First she loses her paintings, then Ab finds the treasure in her tunnel but on the Proverbs’ side of the property line.”

  “Oh, I’ll be happy to share anything I come by, fifty-fifty,” said Mr. Proverb magnanimously. “That only seems fair, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s a gift to me, isn’t it? So why not pass it along?”

  This comment shook Bean out of his stupor. “I don’t think Maud’s gonna be sharing anything. I found the paintings.” He whispered something into Spooky’s ear, and Spooky took off through the crowd toward Bean’s house.