“That’s perfect,” said Mrs. Proverb. “The Doll House. I love it.”
“So do I,” said Mrs. Petersen.
“The Doll House it is, then,” said Mr. Proverb.
“I’m goin’ to the restaurant and get some breakfast,” said Bean. “C’mon, Spook.”
“Hey,” said Mr. Proverb. “I’m hungry, too. I bet everybody is. Mind some company? My treat.”
They all went to eat breakfast, then Ab and Bean and Spook went home to bed, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in their ears.
Late that afternoon, the warm, golden sun slanted through Bean’s window and poured all over the room. He awoke to the sound of voices filtering up through the floor register from the kitchen below. Everybody seemed to be talking excitedly all at once. Bean’s brain was still tired, but he was able to identify each voice. The first was his mother’s. Another was Ab’s, then Mr. Proverb’s, then Constable Wruggles’s. Last of all was a voice he hadn’t heard much but sounded most familiar of all. His dad’s.
Bean jumped out of bed and ran downstairs and—ignoring everyone else crowded into the kitchen, who had all of a sudden fallen silent—threw himself into his father’s outstretched arms. “Beaner,” said his father. “How’s my boy?”
“Did you hear what happened,?” Bean blurted excitedly. “About Maud and the tunnel and the dolls and ... ” He stopped in response to his father’s blank gaze.
“What on earth are you talking about, Bean?” said his father with a straight face. He turned to his wife. “You didn’t mention anything out of the ordinary, my love.”
A quizzical expression spread over Mrs. Carver’s face. “Gee, nothing happened that I recall. Seems as if it’s been a pretty quiet summer.” She turned to Bean. “You must’ve been dreaming, Beans.”
Bean, who was trying to sort things out in his tired brain, looked from one face to the other. “Huh?” he said.
Ab couldn’t keep up the charade. Her face widened into a big grin, then she broke into uncontrollable laughter. “I wish you could see your face,” she cried.
That’s all it took to set everyone else off. Pretty soon even Constable Wruggles was wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.
“What?” said Bean sleepily.
“Of course they told me,” said his dad, mussing Bean’s hair. “The whole town’s talking about nothing else.”
“But you didn’t hear the latest,” said Ab. “You were too busy sleeping.”
“What?” said Bean, rubbing his eyes. “What happened?”
“Your dad dropped from a helicopter into a speeding lobster boat, is all,” said Mrs. Carver, squeezing her husband’s arm.
“You what?”
“Oh, it wasn’t really speeding. Just spinning around in circles, really,” Bean’s dad replied modestly.
“Bean looks as if he’s spinning, too,” said Mr. Proverb. “Maybe you better back up a bit.”
“I’ll tell him,” said Ab. Everyone nodded. “You remember when Constable Wruggles went off to call the Coast Guard?”
Bean nodded his head yes.
“Well, it happens they had a boat on the way over.”
“And your dad was on it,” said Mrs. Carver. “That’s where I was this morning. I went up to Brown’s Head Light, where I knew the boat was landing. I was going to meet your dad and bring him down here to wake you up in the tree house.”
“Now wouldn’t that have been a waste of time?” said Mr. Proverb with a wink.
“That’s right,” said Ab. “But while they were on the way, they got a call that a lobster boat was out in the middle of the bay just going ’round and ’round in circles.”
Spooky was so anxious to get the story out that he didn’t want to give Abby time to breathe. “So the boat your dad was on—the Coast Guard boat—turned around and headed out to stop the lobster boat. But they couldn’t get close enough to it.”
“So,” said Ab, interrupting Spooky with a cold stare, “they could either wait for the boat—”
“Wait a second,” said Bean, holding up his hand. “Was this Monty’s boat?”
“You got it,” said Ab. “Anyway, they could either wait for the boat to run out of gas and hope it didn’t hit anything in the meantime, or—”
“Or they could call the Coast Guard and have ’em send out a helicopter,” said Spooky. “Which is what they did.”
“And,” said Ab, “when the helicopter came out, it picked up your dad off the Coast Guard cutter and dropped him right onto Monty’s boat.”
“Dad!”
“I guess when the captain found out I used to be a navy Seal, he figured that made me the logical choice,” said Mr. Carver with a modest tilt of his head.
“We’ve just got a family full of heroes today,” said Bean’s mom.
“Aw, shucks,” said his dad.
“So, what happened?” asked Bean. “Was Mierette on the boat? Did you find the paintings?”
“No on both counts,” said Mr. Carver. “The boat was empty.”
“Then what happened to Mierette?”
“Well, that’s all guesswork,” said Wruggles. “Seems she made it out to Eagle Island all right. We found Monty out there, tied to a tree and lookin’ as if he wished he could crawl into a hole.”
“And the paintings were gone,” Bean ventured. “Am I right?”
“As rain,” said Wruggles. “Monty said the last he saw of her, she was in his boat, with the paintings, makin’ a beeline for the mainland. Then the boat turns up spinnin’ around in circles, and the paintings and Mierette are nowhere to be found. Now that’s a mystery to me.”
Bean didn’t think it was such a mystery. A map of the bay hung on the wall over the old maple sideboard. He stepped over to it. “Look here,” he said. Everyone gathered around. He pointed at Eagle Island.
“There are two other islands between Eagle and the mainland. Mierette knew they’d find her in Monty’s boat before she got across the bay. So, you know what I think? I think she stopped at one of these other islands, strapped the wheel down with a rope or something—”
“There was a bungee cord attached to the wheel when I got aboard,” said Mr. Carver.
“That would be perfect,” said Bean. “Give it enough tension to stay fairly straight for a long time before she pitched one way or the other and started circlin’.”
“But which island?” said Wruggles.
Bean thought a minute. “Where was the tide when all this was gain’ on?”
“About half,” said his dad.
“That would mean,” said Bean, looking closely at the map, “that she couldn’t have got off on Gunpowder Island. She’d’ve run aground.”
“Which means she jumped off at Seven Tree,” said Mr. Carver, studying the map over Bean’s shoulder. “That would put her about four miles from where we found the boat.”
“Well, I’ll round up some folks and go out there and pick ’er up,” said Wruggles.
“I don’t think there’d be much point,” said Bean.
“Why not?”
“’Cause all you’d find is where she’d been, not where she is.”
“You figure she got off the island? How? Seven Tree’s uninhabited.”
Bean shrugged. “I don’t know. I just think Mierette’s too smart to get herself stuck like that.”
“Maybe she’s just playin’ for time,” suggested Wruggles.
That was a possibility. “Maybe,” said Bean.
“Well, we won’t know until we check it out,” said Wruggles. “There’s still some daylight left.”
“The Coast Guard cutter’s still here,” said Mr. Carver. “They’ll take us out. Who wants to come?”
Within two minutes, the Carver house was empty.
It was high tide when the cutter arrived at Seven Tree Island. The search party, which consisted of just about everybody, was ferried to the island in an inflatable craft with an outboard that took them right up onto the beach, where everyone climbed out.
“
You go that way,” said Wruggles, nodding at the Carvers and pointing to the southern flank of the island. “Petersens, you go that way.” He pointed to the north. “And the Proverbs and me will go straight across. We’ll join up on the other side. Anybody sees anything, just holler. This island ain’t so big we’ll ever be out of earshot.”
At one time in the past, the island must have boasted only seven trees, hence the name. Now it was thickly forested with gnarled old trees that overhung the water at high tide. They made progress difficult, almost as tedious as the trek across the island through thick juniper and undergrowth. Eventually, however, the searchers met up on the western shore.
“Anything?” said Wruggles, whose party had been waiting when the Carvers and Petersens hove into view almost simultaneously.
The Petersens shook their heads.
“Nothing,” said the Carvers.
Constable Wruggles turned to Bean. “Well, too bad, young man. It was a good notion. Maybe we should check out Gunpowder after all. Sunset’s still twenty to thirty minutes away.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Bean. “She must have come here. I just know she did. Let me think a minute.”
“Well, while you’re thinking,” said Wruggles, “why don’t we hoof it on back to the other side of the island? The Proverbs and me beat a pretty good path on our way across.”
“Cost us an arm and a leg, you might say,” said Mr. Proverb with a feeble smile as he rubbed the scratches on his arms and legs.
“Wait a second,” said Bean. “I’ve just got to think .... Ab, what would you do if you were stuck on this island, didn’t have a boat, and wanted to get off?”
“Hey, look at the huckleberries,” said Spooky, pointing at some bushes just off the beach. He went to investigate.
Ab thought. “I guess I’d try to flag somebody down and hitch a ride. There’d be plenty of sailboats out on a day like this.”
“There were,” said Mr. Carver. “We saw a couple on our way across in the cutter.”
“So, it wouldn’t have been that hard for a pretty girl to wave down a boat and get a lift to the mainland, or even over there to Islesboro. That’s just a few miles,” Bean deduced.
Wruggles picked up the train of thought. “From Islesboro she could take the ferry to the mainland and hop a bus to Portland, or Bangor, or Boston, then to an airport ... ”
“She could be almost halfway to Katmandu by now,” Mrs. Proverb observed.
“But,” said Wruggles, “there’s no clear sign she was ever here.”
Bean refused to be swayed. “There has to be,” he said adamantly, wracking his brain. At last he had an idea. “What way was the wind blowing today, Dad?”
Mr. Carver thought a minute. “Mostly south southeast.”
“That’s it,” said Bean. “If Mierette brought Monty’s boat here, there’s only one place she could’ve put in.”
“The cove where we landed, over on the east side,” said Wruggles. “So?”
“But,” Bean continued, “if the wind was out of the south southeast, any sailboats would have come up between here and Islesboro, on the west side, because they’d have to tack on the other side, and there’s no room between the island and the shoals. So—”
“She would have had to carry all those paintings across the island,” Mrs. Carver surmised.
“Not necessarily,” Bean countered. “Dad said it was about half tide when they found the boat. That means it was even lower when Mierette got here. She could’ve walked around on the beach.”
“Which means her footprints were washed away,” said Abby.
Mr. Carver nodded. “No evidence.”
Spooky rejoined the group with a big grin on his face. “How ’bout this?” he said, holding up a huckleberry-stained piece of paper, which he handed to Bean. “It’s for you.”
Bean, with a curious glance, hesitantly took the paper from Spooky. “For me?”
“I found it tacked to a tree up there,” said Spooky, nodding toward a little clearing near the huckleberry bushes.
“What does it say?” chimed Mrs. Carver and Abby together.
Bean carefully unfolded the paper and read aloud: “‘My Dear Young Man.’ That would be me,” he said, smiling at the little knot of humanity clustered around him.
“Bean,” said his mother severely, “read the letter or I’ll read it for you.”
He cleared his throat sheepishly and continued: “‘My Dear Young Man, You were so close, I could almost feel your breath on the back of my neck. Almost. Yours with Respect, Mierette.’”
“No doubt about it,” said Mr. Proverb. “She was here.”
Constable Wruggles slapped Bean on the back. “Well, Bean, looks as if you got it right again. You ever think about turning your mind to police work, look me up.” He smiled.
“Thanks,” said Bean. “But it doesn’t get us any closer to Mierette. Seems as if this is where the trail ends, as far as we’re concerned. As she says,” he waved the paper listlessly, “almost.”
“Close, but no cigar,” said Wruggles.
“You could call the bus companies and see if they’ve had any passengers matching her description,” Mrs. Proverb suggested.
“You won’t find her,” said Bean as he stood staring west across the bay. The sun was almost setting behind the Camden Hills. A sudden breeze sprang up to wave the orb good-bye. “Not ’til she wants to be found.”
EPILOGUE
BEAN AND AB CAME RUNNING UP the wood walk with heavy feet. “Don’t slam the—” Slam. “Door,” said Mrs. Carver. She and Mr. Carver had been standing by the stove, talking.
“Guess what?” said Bean.
“Look at the paper,” Ab commanded.
“Mierette won a fortune,” said Bean.
Mr. and Mrs. Carver tried to focus on the newspaper that the kids were waving in their faces. Mr. Carver finally grabbed it from their hands. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Everyone sit down and let us see this.”
He sat in the big rocking chair by the window and his wife sat on his lap while the kids huddled around.
“It says she was a private detective,” blurted Bean, unable to control himself.
Ab corrected. “A bounty hunter.”
“Same thing, ain’t it?” said Bean.
“Isn’t it,” Mrs. Carver said automatically, trying to read.
“It says Maud worked as the assistant director of the Princep Gallery in Boston,” said Ab, determined to get her two cents in, “and that she was in love with the director, Clifton Bright.”
“That’s the ’CB’ on all the paintings,” Bean reminded everyone.
“It says she loved him, but he didn’t ... didn’t ... what’s that word?” Ab seized a corner of the paper and searched through the paragraphs. “‘Reciprocate.’ He didn’t reciprocate.”
“That means he didn’t love her back,” said Bean.
Mrs. Carver lobbed a glance at Bean over her glasses. “Thanks, Bean.”
“You’re welcome,” Bean said with a smile.
“Now, may we read this for ourselves?”
“Sure,” said Bean. “Go ahead.”
“Yes, go ahead,” said Ab. But she couldn’t resist adding, “Wait ’til you get to the part where it says why she robs the gallery.”
“Who? Maud?” said Mr. Carver.
“That’s right,” Ab said enthusiastically. “It was just as you said, Mrs. C. People will do anything for love. She stole the paintings to get him back for not loving her. She just left that one ... ”
Mrs. Carver remembered, “The Weeping Widow.”
“That’s right,” Ab said again. “It was kind of a hint. But Mr. Bright was not bright enough to get the message.”
“Neither were the police,” said Bean. “It’s all right there in the newspaper.”
“Is it really?” said Mrs. Carver.
“Yup. Go on and read it,” Bean beseeched impatiently.
“It says she covered up all the originals with h
er own canvasses and paintings,” volunteered Ab.
“That’s why they were all different shapes and sizes,” said Bean. “Because they had to fit over the original ones.”
“And then she started selling them,” said Ab.
“‘Every one a masterpiece,’” Bean said. “It was another clue.”
“Was it?” said Mr. Carver, who had given up trying to read the paper. “What else does it say?”
Bean assumed the narrative. “It says she didn’t expect her own art would get so famous. So now she’s rich, or will be when she gets out of jail in ... Hold up the paper, Mom, I can’t read it.” She held it up. “Five years,” he read. “That’s a long time. But when she gets out, she’ll be rich.”
“She sold the Winthrop House to Mr. Proverb, you know,” said Abby. “Said she never wanted to come back here again. Said island people are too strange.”
“We’re too strange?” exclaimed Mr. Carver incredulously. “Talk about the halibut calling the clam seafood.”
“The sale comes later, much later,” Bean said, rapid fire. “She kept records of everyone she sold one’ve them paintings—”
“Those,” his mother corrected.
“Those paintings to. They’ve all been contacted, and the original masterpieces have been returned to the Princep Gallery. But all of those people still have a masterpiece, a Maud Valliers original.”
“Go figure,” said Mrs. Carver with a wry smile.
“And Mierette gets the reward money,” Bean announced. “That’s what bounty hunters do. They find stuff no one else can find, and get a percentage for a reward.”
“Guess how much Mierette got,” Ab challenged. “Guess.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mr. Carver. “Fifty thousand dollars?”
“Higher,” said Bean.
“Higher? Really?” said Mrs. Carver. “A hundred thousand?”
“Higher,” said Ab.
“Higher than a hundred thousand?” Mr. Carver said in disbelief. Suddenly he was sitting up straight. “Two hundred thousand?”
“Seven and a half million dollars,” Bean blurted out.
Ab scolded him. “We were going to make them guess,” she said.
“I couldn’t help it,” Bean apologized.
“Seven and a half million dollars?” Mr. Carver repeated. He opened the paper and read. “‘The insurer valued the collection at seventy-five million dollars, of which sum Michelle Cullahany ... Michelle Cullahany? Who’s that?”
The Secret of the Missing Grave Page 20
