Dunbar was devastated. He withdrew from public view and became a recluse, rarely leaving the grounds of his estate. His mills and factories gradually went under, and most were eventually torn down and sold for the bricks. Years went by. People sort of forgot about the Dunbar diamonds, until he died thirty years later, and the fabulous necklace was not found among his belongings. There was no record of it ever having been sold, so where was it?
That’s when the speculation and rumors really got going. A story circulated that the necklace had been buried with Lucy Dare, as a token of his eternal love, and a few years after Dunbar croaked, her supposed grave was dug up, and guess what? No coffin! Either her coffin had been whisked away before it was buried, or Dunbar, fearful of grave robbers, had her buried at some secret location. So they decided to dig up Dunbar’s grave, just to be sure he was really there, and guess what? Bingo! Also no coffin!
That’s when the search for the Dunbar diamonds became a search for the real graves of Lucy Dare and Donald Dunbar. Treasure hunters came from all over, with all sorts of maps and theories, and according to Mr. Robertson, they dug more holes in local cemeteries than a scurry of rabid chipmunks. (That’s what a group of chipmunks is called, a scurry. Who knew?)
Anyhow, nobody ever found the grave or the missing diamonds, and the whole thing gradually faded away until Darius’s grandfather came along with a new theory about the location, and he revived the old treasure hunt for just long enough to forge a document, engage in financial fraud, and go to jail.
That’s my book report, Darius. Take it or leave it, but either way, Bash Man is on the case, with or without candy bars.
(I hate that name but it sort of works, right?)
I KNOW WHAT you’re thinking: This fatso dude is an idiot. A double-scoop dipstick, risking his life for a Snickers bar. Because anybody with half a brain can see that looking after a brainiac freak like Darius Drake is bound to get dangerous, sooner or later.
In this case, sooner.
Monday after school we go over to the library and check out the old newspaper files that nobody has bothered to put online, to see if we can find out anything else about Darius’s grandfather Winston Brooks. Maybe identify an associate or friend who might know where the old treasure hunter is now. What nursing home or whatever.
Darius wants to call it “Operation Mystery Man.”
“It helps to name a thing,” he explains. “Gives it focus.”
“How about ‘Finding Pop Pop’?” I suggest.
Darius frowns. “Hey. I’m the brains, you’re the brawn, remember?”
“Oh yeah? For your information I have a brain. And Operation Mystery Man is lame. In my humble opinion Finding Pop Pop sounds better.”
“In your humble opinion.”
“In my humble opinion.”
Darius sighs and shakes his head. “It has a brain and an opinion. Who knew? Okay, you win; Finding Pop Pop it is.”
To be honest, some of the stuff could have been researched from school, using online databases, but Darius wants to avoid the prying eyes of teachers. Even if it means messing up our own eyeballs by staring at microfilm files in the oldest part of the library. In case you’ve never had the pleasure, microfilm is old-style film on a spool—actual photos of each page of the printed-on-paper newspaper—that runs through this ancient projector screen. Sometimes the film is blurred or hard to read, hence the aching-eyeball problem.
“What year was your grandfather arrested?”
“The year my parents died. So what we’re looking for must have happened in the months before that. Let’s say the window is six months prior. Start there and go forward. I’ll start at the end and work back. We’ll meet in the middle.”
Less than an hour later, I come upon a front-page story about strange events that had occurred in Dunbar Acres, not far from my mom’s house.
TREASURE HUNTER WINSTON BROOKS REFUSES TO be discouraged by failure, but the fate of the missing Dunbar diamonds is, for the moment, out of his grasp. Working from information provided by Mr. Brooks, his investment partners purchased a relatively new home located on the Lucy Dare cul-de-sac, in the Dunbar Acres subdivision. The cul-de-sac was named for the legendary recipient of the famed diamond necklace. According to Brooks, the diamonds should have been buried somewhere on the property. The entire fifty-acre subdivision was once the site of the Dunbar estate, which was razed in the 1970s. Mr. Brooks subscribes to the theory that famed inventor and factory magnate Donald Dunbar constructed a memorial tomb for the remains of his beloved, Lucy Dare, somewhere on the estate, and that the new home, a four-bedroom colonial, marked the secret location. But despite destruction of the house, deep excavation by heavy equipment, and further exploration with ground-penetrating radar devices, no sign of a grave or tomb was unearthed.
The project was halted by investors, who have lost faith in Mr. Brooks’s theories about where the diamonds might be located.
“This was a bad day,” Brooks admitted, but he vowed to continue his hunt for the treasure, with or without the backing of investors. “The diamonds are out there,” he said. “This location has been eliminated, but there are other, even more promising leads.”
Asked to elaborate, he declined to do so.
Listening to me read the article out loud, Darius shakes his head in disbelief. “They tore down a perfectly good house?”
“That’s what it sounds like, yeah.”
“No wonder his investors were ripped. What a waste.”
“Yeah, but if they found the diamonds, he’d have been a hero.”
“Except they didn’t, and the whole project was based on a document he forged. Financial fraud is the same as stealing. He deserved to go to prison.”
“That’s harsh.”
Darius shrugs, as if he couldn’t care less. “An interesting fact, but it doesn’t get us any closer to locating Mystery Man.”
“You mean Pop Pop,” I remind him.
“Whatever.”
If I didn’t know better, I might think Darius didn’t want to find his grandfather at all.
WE’RE LEAVING THE library and heading into town, thinking hot dogs and milk shakes, when an older-model Chevy Suburban pulls over, blocking our way. The tinted window rolls down, revealing the man with the melted face.
“Get in,” says Scar Man, his massive hands on the steering wheel.
“To what purpose?” Darius edges away.
The big man snorts. “To the purpose I don’t pound you into the ground like a tent peg, you little punk.”
“Run,” I suggest.
Scar Man rolls his eyes. “Yeah, go on, run. I ain’t chasing you, not today. But let it be known the old man wants to see you. I’m doin’ him a favor carrying you is all.”
“You know where my grandfather is staying?”
“This is your last chance. See him or don’t, no matter to me.”
Yes, I know. It’s the wrong thing to do, getting in that Suburban, but we do it anyway. It’s not like Scar Man is some random serial killer. There’s nothing random about him. And it’s not like we’re taking a ride with a stranger, because we know who he is. Which I guess means I can scrawl his name in my own blood, leaving a clue for the cops if things go south.
Bottom line, Darius wants to see his grandfather, and if that means trusting his life to the man with the melted face, he’s willing to risk it. So we get in the back as instructed. Fasten our seat belts as instructed—turns out the big man is a fanatic for road safety.
Darius says, “How is he?”
Scar Man shrugs. “He been better. But it seem like the old dude ain’t going to kick the bucket anytime soon.”
“Huh,” says Darius, who looks like he’s doing calculations in his head. Like he can plug new information into some kind of formula, arrive at a conclusion. “How come you’re helping him?”
Scar Man eyes us in the rearview mirror. Eyes like shiny black pebbles, and about as friendly. “That my business, boy.”
&
nbsp; “He’s paying you to look after the house, right? Like protection money?”
The big man snorts. I never heard a bull snort, but it must be similar. “Not everything about money,” he grumbles. “Most, but not all.”
“So you and my grandfather are friends?”
“We acquainted. From prison, okay?”
“So you’re doing this for free?” Darius says. “On a purely statistical basis, factoring in your reputation, I would judge the odds of that to be approaching zero.”
“Huh? What you say?”
“You doing something for free. I highly doubt it.”
The big man snaps his teeth like a pit bull eager to bite something, or somebody. “Time to shut up,” he snarls.
The rest of the drive takes place in silence.
ACCORDING TO SCAR MAN, Winston Brooks checked into the Winter Pine Rehabilitation Facility under an assumed name, Howard Carter. The rehab facility isn’t the run-down nursing home I’d been expecting, but an expanse of modern, single-story buildings linked like wheel spokes around a central treatment area. We find Mr. Howard Carter, aka Winston Brooks, in one of the residential spokes, in a nice room with a view of an artificial duck pond.
Just to be clear, the pond is artificial, but the ducks are real, quacking enthusiastically as they sport around the shallow pond.
Darius Drake’s grandfather is a surprise, too. I’d been expecting a frail, sick old man. In my mind he would look something like Mr. Burns on The Simpsons, bald and bent over a cane. Instead, Winston Brooks has a head of thick, silver-streaked hair, worn in a neat, rubber-banded ponytail that ends between his shoulder blades. There are lines on his face, sure, but other than a bandaged leg, he looks fit and athletic. Not young, but not really old old. And strong for sure, like maybe he had lifted weights.
Oh yeah. Prison.
As for Darius, he doesn’t know what to do. Whether he should shake hands—the man he once called Pop Pop has offered—or slap his grandfather’s face for abandoning him to an orphanage and not coming to reclaim him as soon as he got out of prison.
I’d sort of been hoping they would hug it out, but there’s no chance of that. Darius ignores the hand and keeps his distance. Mr. Brooks remains seated in a tall-backed chair, as if unsure what to do next. His left foot and leg, bandaged to the knee, are supported by an ottoman. There are crutches nearby. You can tell the leg still hurts him, even though he’s trying not to show it.
“Long time no see,” he says uneasily. Then he inhales deeply, as if savoring air that had touched his grandson.
“So. Who is Howard Carter?” Darius asks, folding his arms across his skinny chest as he stares straight ahead. Revealing no emotion. Cold as stone.
“Archaeologist,” his grandfather says. “Discovered King Tut’s tomb in 1922. I needed to check in under an assumed name, and that seemed as good as any.”
“Who are you hiding from?” Darius asks. “Me, by any chance?”
His grandfather looks startled. “Good Lord, no! Never that.”
“Then why use a fake name?”
He shrugs, as if ashamed of himself. “Hiding from my past, you might say.”
“So you did it. You were really guilty?”
Without hesitation, Mr. Brooks nods. “Oh yes. Guilty as sin. Guilty of forging a document and using it for financial gain. Guilty of cheating on my taxes. Guilty of arrogance. Guilty of self-delusion. Guilty of thinking that the ends would justify the means. Guilty of believing that if I managed to locate the Dunbar diamonds, nobody would care if the document that helped find them was a fake. That’s what I told myself.”
Darius stands there with his lips pursed, not responding for the moment. For some reason his reddish hair looks brighter than ever, as if maybe his brain is on fire, just beneath the roots.
“And who are you?” his grandfather says, turning his attention to me.
“I’m, ah, Arthur. Arthur Bash.”
“My associate,” Darius interjects.
“Associate? Vincent mentioned that you had been accompanied by a large, um, imposing-looking friend.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by imposing-looking, but it was better than being described as a fat boy, that’s for sure.
“When did you get out of jail?” Darius asks.
“Prison, not jail. About five months ago.”
“And then you—what?—sent me a bloodstained letter?”
Winston Brooks looks startled. “What bloodstained letter?”
“The letter that said ‘Who killed Darius Drake?’ with a return address of 123 Rutgers Road.”
Mr. Brooks looks like all the blood has drained from his face. “This is worse than I thought. Much worse. There’s only one man who could have done such a thing.”
“Scar Man?” Darius asks.
“Do they still call him that? How cruel. No, no, never him. He has a fearsome appearance, but I assure you that Vincent Meeks is a man of honor.”
Darius snorts. “Honor among thieves?”
His grandfather winces. “Unlike me, Vinnie was never a thief. He was serving time for assault. A fight with some lowlife who had been taunting him. He was appealing the conviction on grounds of self-defense, and I helped him with some of the legal research. I got to know the man and his history—the disfigurement is from a childhood accident—and we became friends. He had been trying to persuade me to make contact and make amends, but I wasn’t ready to face you, to be honest. Afraid you wouldn’t remember me, and if you did, you’d hate me.”
“I doubt you’re worth hating,” Darius says dismissively.
“My boy, I would do anything to change the past. But I can’t. Please believe that.”
“I’m not your boy. If it wasn’t Scar Man, then who? You said there was only one man capable of such a thing.”
His grandfather looks very distressed. “If I tell you, it will only make it worse.”
“I’ll find out,” Darius says resolutely. “With your help or without it.”
Mr. Brooks shakes his head. Clearly he doesn’t want to say.
“What happened to your leg?” I ask, trying to break the tension. “My mom is a nurse.”
He shrugs. “Blood clots formed in my lower leg. They call it deep vein thrombosis. Anyhow, a clot broke free and went up into my lungs. Almost killed me. The lung thing they fixed, then I almost lost my leg—no blood circulating.”
“But you’re okay now?” I ask.
“More or less,” he says vaguely. “Another operation or two and I should be good to go.”
Darius doesn’t appear to be interested in his grandfather’s medical history. Or his grandfather, for that matter. Which is weird because our whole mission was to locate the guy. Now we find him, and Darius is like—what?—too bored to care? Or maybe too angry about the bad stuff that happened when he was little?
Whatever, the situation is about as comfortable as having your underwear dusted with powdered fiberglass. And yes, that happened to me the only time I went to summer camp.
“If you’re not going to tell me who sent the note, why did you send for me?” Darius asks, in a tone that says he couldn’t care less.
“To beg you to stop looking for the Dunbar diamonds.”
“We’re still in the research stage.”
“You need to drop it. You need to let it go.”
“No chance,” Darius says, folding his skinny, freckled arms across his chest.
“I’m begging you.”
“Why should I listen to you?” Darius asks.
“Because your life may be at stake. I can’t believe it, after all these years. I thought he’d moved on to other things. I thought he was done with me. That’s the real reason I didn’t contact you, because I didn’t want to attract his attention. But it seems too late for that now.”
“Who are you talking about?”
Winston Brooks’s complexion has gone from pale to sick. The words seem to stick in his mouth. “Jasper Jones,” he says, enunciating
carefully. “The man who killed my darling daughter and her husband, and almost killed you.”
DARIUS APPEARS TO be stunned. “My parents were killed in a car crash,” he says. “Not murdered.”
His grandfather nods. “Yes. But they were driving my car. Your dad’s van was broken down, so I loaned them mine.” He buries his face in his hands, and then shudders, as if awakening from a nightmare. “I’ve never been able to prove it, but I have reason to believe someone ran them off the road, thinking it was me. Or to punish me in the worst way possible.”
“Jasper Jones. The man you cheated.”
The old treasure hunter sighs. “Believe the worst of me if you must. But I’m begging you, stay away from the Dunbar diamonds.”
“Because you already know where the diamonds are hidden?”
He shakes his head firmly. “No, no. If I did, I’d hand them over to Jasper and be done with it.”
Darius jams his hands in his pockets and walks in a tight circle, like a small, angry planet orbiting a sun it doesn’t trust. “Let me see if I can follow the logic,” he says. “I’m close to solving the puzzle that ruined your life, and you beg me to stop. How does that make sense? And why should I believe anything you say?”
Silence. If only I could melt into the floor, or turn invisible, or maybe go deaf. Because hearing them talk around each other is like getting poked with a sharp stick. It hurts in familiar places, even though I’m not an orphan like Darius, or a felon like Winston Brooks, aka the Mystery Man, aka Pop Pop.
“I really messed this up,” he says, forlorn. “Seven and a half years inside, all I thought about was making it right. I had this fantasy we could continue where we left off. You were my little buddy, Darry, in that year after the accident, before I got sentenced. It was just you and me, both of us grieving but making the best of it. And then they took you away and put me away. Sent to our own prisons, you might say.”
Who Killed Darius Drake?: A Mystery Page 5