Darius sneers dismissively. “Stonehill is no prison! As a place to live goes, it is entirely satisfactory. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
His grandfather brightens. “Seriously? I’m glad to hear it. I thought you’d be in good hands until they found you a foster home. You were such an angry little boy, they warned me that you might be difficult to place, but I never expected you’d grow up there.”
“I have no interest in a foster family,” Darius says airily. “I’m better off alone.”
His grandfather’s eyes are wet. He suddenly appears to be very tired. “Nobody is better off alone,” he says quietly.
“I’m the exception,” Darius snaps. “Enough of this sentimental junk! Tell me why I should believe that the man you cheated is a threat to me.”
His grandfather sits up a little straighter, clears his throat. “Because he said so. He vowed to ruin my life, and that included my family. It wasn’t a matter of paying back the money he invested. He wanted the diamonds, and nothing else would do. Jasper puts on a good show, everybody thinks he’s a great guy, very generous and involved in the community, but you want to know what kind of man he really is? The day after your parents were killed, he came to the hospital. You were still undergoing tests. Crying out for your mommy and daddy. It was heartbreaking. Awful, awful, awful. So Jasper saunters in, and he takes me by the arm, and he whispers in my ear. ‘This is only the beginning,’ he says. Not Sorry for your loss. Or How is the boy? ‘This is only the beginning.’ And it was. He made sure I was prosecuted to the full extent of the law. No mercy, no chance to pay back the money. And his lawyers made sure there was no real investigation of the accident.”
“What was there to investigate? What proof did you have that Jasper Jones was involved?”
“There were parallel skid marks at the crash site that indicated another vehicle might have run them off the road. The state police investigated, but Jasper brought in expert witnesses who discounted the tire marks, and I had no money to hire expert witnesses of my own. By that time I was out on bail, awaiting trial, and my whole focus was taking care of a little boy who had been terribly traumatized.”
“Huh. Is that supposed to make me feel guilty?”
“No! Absolutely not. I’m just stating the facts. I can’t prove it, but I know in my heart that Jasper had something to do with the crash. He’s convinced that I’m holding out on him, that I have the Dunbar diamonds, and he won’t stop tormenting me until he has them in his possession. No matter what it takes, or who he has to harm. He’s more obsessed with those diamonds than I ever was.”
Darius strides over, dry-eyed and arrogant. “I ask again, what proof do you have? Not whispered threats from years ago, but something that proves he’s currently a threat to you, or to me, or to anyone?”
His grandfather shakes his head, like he’s having trouble accepting that Darius is so cold and disdainful. “Not proof, exactly. But this was sent to me on Father’s Day.”
He fiddles with the bandage covering his leg and extracts what looks like an ordinary Father’s Day card. Creased and wrinkled but still legible.
On the outside, a sappy photograph of a father and young daughter playing catch, and the words The Best Day of My Life.
On the inside, cutout words had been pasted into a message that couldn’t be more clear.
GIVE ME WHAT I WANT, OR THE BOY WILL JOIN HIS MOTHER.
HAPPY FATHER’S DAY.
WE HEAD BACK to Stonehill in the old Suburban. The first mile or two unfurls in uncomfortable silence, until Scar Man clears his throat and says, “That old man loves you, boy. You his main topic of conversation, from the first day we cross paths. His brilliant grandson, and how bad he felt for failing you. The man ain’t perfect—no man is—but he got your best interest in his heart.”
“Oh yeah?” Darius says, staring out the tinted window, watching the world glide by.
The big man shakes his head. “Maybe you got a right to be angry. But if you’re as smart as he say, you’ll stay far away from Jasper Jones. From what your grandpop say, that man is pure evil.”
“I’ll think about it,” Darius says.
The Suburban leaves us near the front steps of the library and takes off in a spray of driveway gravel.
“I don’t think Scar Man likes us very much,” I say, and try to fake a clever chuckle, heh-heh-heh. Probably sounds like I’m puking pebbles.
“His opinion is of no consequence,” Darius says dismissively. “We have a new direction, and a new goal.”
I’m afraid to ask, but for once that doesn’t stop me.
“We’re going to locate Jasper Jones and observe him,” Darius explains, “with the goal of determining if my grandfather is correct in his assessment, or if he’s still lying.”
I’m confused. “But why would he lie to you?”
Darius snorts. “Obviously he still wants the Dunbar diamonds. And he wants me to find them.”
“Huh? How do you figure that?”
“Because he told me not to look for them.”
“I don’t get it.”
“My grandfather took care of me for a year—right?—after the accident? Just him and me? So he knows from experience that telling me not to do something virtually guarantees that I will do it.”
“Really? That just sounds stupid.”
“Not stupid,” he says patiently. “Perfectly logical.”
“Logical to check out a guy who maybe killed your parents?”
He smiles. “I knew you’d understand. Now, please, let’s concentrate on finding the elusive Mr. Jones.”
Turns out that Jasper Jones’s location isn’t exactly a state secret. When I mention his name to Deirdre she sounds impressed. “How do you know Jasper? He’s a really cool guy.”
“I don’t know him, but he was involved with the search for the Dunbar diamonds.”
“For real?”
“Not now,” I say. “Back in the day.”
“So what do you want with him?”
“He’s our designated surveillance subject.”
Deirdre laughs. “That’s obviously Darius, not you.”
“Officially known as the DSS.”
“Really? Actually that’s sort of cool, I think. Unless it gets you into trouble.”
“Strictly an observational mission.”
This time Deirdre can’t help it. She rolls her eyes. “Well, the good news is this: He won’t be hard to find. He lives on the biggest estate on Castle Island. If he’s not there, he’ll be at the Castle Island Tennis Club. He owns the place.”
Couple of things you should know about Castle Island. It’s not really an island—connecting land was filled in years ago—and there’s no castle. What it does have is a bunch of really rich people, millionaires and even a few billionaires. Castle Island isn’t a gated community, exactly, because the scenic roadway that winds through it is a state road, and therefore open to the public. But most of the homeowners have electronic gates and security, including hedges so high you can’t see the houses and the guesthouses and the boathouses and the servants’ quarters.
I’m kidding about servants’ quarters. These days the help are bussed in from the poorer parts of the city, or from Home Depot parking lots where they’re looking for a day’s work. Or anyhow that’s what Deirdre says, and she ought to know, from her experience visiting the homes of her posse from the tennis club.
“I don’t have a posse,” she says, scornful of the notion. “Please.”
“Sorry.”
“You want to do this thing?” she asks, expertly changing the subject. “Come on. No time like the present.”
The tennis club is about three miles from town. I suppose we could have walked it, but it just so happens that Deirdre has a tennis lesson on Saturday afternoon, so it makes sense if we tag along as her guests.
And we travel by hired car, no less. I could get used to this. It feels really smooth having a stepsister with her own Uber account. And for
once Darius keeps his mouth shut. I’ve never seen him back down from anyone, but with Deirdre in close proximity he gets real quiet.
The Uber car drops us off at the gate. Of course the tennis club has a security gate. Have you been paying attention? Castle Island, private club?
Long story short, Deirdre buzzes us through on her card and walks us into the clubhouse, which, no surprise, overlooks the tennis courts.
“We have a family membership,” she says. “Use my name, order a lemonade or whatever. I’ll be on court seven, getting my butt kicked by the pro. The guy you want to see, Jasper Jones? Like I said, he’s a really cool guy.”
“What’s so cool about him?” Darius asks, sounding a teeny bit jealous.
“See for yourself. That’s him at the clubhouse café. Third table from the left. The one with the rescue dog.”
It would have been hard to miss him, even without the cute yellow Labrador. The dude looks like a movie star. One of those actors who are so cool and fun that being older than your parents doesn’t matter. In particular an actor who played a treasure-hunting pirate, hungry for jewels, and who dealt with the dead on a regular basis.
Jack Sparrow himself. He’s the spitting image of Johnny Depp.
WE SIT AT this little table in the outdoor café overlooking the tennis courts, under a bright green umbrella, sipping fresh-squeezed lemonade and pretending not to stare at Jasper Jones. He’s not Johnny Depp, of course, but he sure looks a lot like him, and maybe on purpose, if the length of his hair and his perfect tan and his hip sunglasses are any indication. Although, to be fair, he’s not dressed like a pirate or anything. He’s wearing some kind of silky, pastel-colored shirt that looks like it was made only for him, and pleated linen slacks with a perfect crease. Plus those snazzy sunglasses that are definitely not off-the-rack.
My first thought is, I wouldn’t mind trading places with Mr. Jones. Not only is he obviously rich, but he’s also super casual and friendly. Everybody seems to know and like him. Bartenders, waitresses, club members, they all stop to chat and pet the dog, and bask in that movie-star smile.
Yes, it would be cool to be Jasper Jones.
“What do you think?” Darius asks in a low voice.
“About what?”
“This. Being flies on the wall.”
“Are you sure this is the right guy? Your grandfather made it sound like he’s really dangerous.”
Darius shakes his head. “He doesn’t look dangerous. Unless wearing expensive clothes is dangerous.”
“Dude,” I whisper urgently, “I totally agree. But what if your grandfather is right? What if he’s the one who sent you the bloody note? And that awful card to your grandfather?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out.”
“What are you going to do? Ask him if he’s an evil villain in disguise?”
“Maybe I will,” he says.
But Jasper Jones beats us to it. Before we have a chance to finish our lemonades, he gets up from his table, adjusts his fabulous shades, and saunters directly over to our little table. The yellow Lab timidly follows, keeping up with the leash.
“I’m Jasper Jones,” he announces, reaching out his hand. “Welcome to the club. This is Blondi. She’s a rescue dog, but we’ve been going to therapy dog classes for the last few months and now she likes to be petted.”
The dog looks at us warily, as if sizing us up, and then abruptly settles her head on my knee. I pet her, very gently, and she makes a sound of contentment deep in her throat.
As usual I’m doing my best to avoid eye contact with grown-ups, but Darius meets his gaze defiantly. This gangly kid with thick glasses and a spewing volcano of bright red hair. I shouldn’t say that my friend looks goofy and out of place in the exclusive tennis club, but he sort of does. And he doesn’t care. Not one bit.
“Hello, Mr. Jones,” Darius says, shaking hands. “I’m Darius Drake. This is my associate, Arthur Bash.”
Mr. Jones smiles and says, “I see Blondi has taken a shine to you, Arthur. She came into my shelter a year ago, underweight and scared of her own shadow. Lately she’s come out of her shell and is learning to make new friends.”
“You run a rescue shelter?” Darius asks. “I thought you were some kind of big-shot banker.”
Jones looks amused. “Not a banker, exactly. Wealth management. My day job is helping people find ways to invest their money, but my passion is animals. I don’t run the shelter, I just help fund it.”
The Lab slips her head off my knee and returns to Jones, leaning against his leg as if she’d like to blend right into him. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asks.
“It’s your club,” Darius says, sounding flippant.
Mr. Jones pulls up a chair, settles the dog at his feet. “To be honest, Darius, I recognized you. You probably don’t pay attention to such things, but I’m on the advisory board at Stonehill. Doubtful you’d remember, but we met many years ago, when you were a toddler.”
Darius shrugs, neither confirming nor denying.
Jones smiles with his perfect, movie-star teeth. “If you’d like to play tennis or use the pool, I can get you some complimentary passes.”
That sounds good to me, at least the pool part, but Darius shakes his head. “No. We’re just here because Deirdre says this place has the best lemonade in town.”
“Deirdre?” he says. “Oh yeah. Cute kid. Decent serve; has a solid backhand. Whatever the reason, I’m delighted you stopped by.” He hesitates, fiddles with his sunglasses. “If you don’t mind me asking, how’s Winston doing? Your grandfather, Winston Brooks.”
“What about him?” Darius says.
“I heard he was sick. Something about blood clots? Where’s he being treated? I’d like to send him a get-well card.”
“Maybe you already did,” Darius says.
Jones looks puzzled.
“A Father’s Day card,” Darius says. “Remember?”
“Why would I send Winston a Father’s Day card?” Jones shakes his head and sighs. “Wait, let me guess. Some things never change. He wants you to believe I threatened him.”
Darius crosses his skinny arms and looks Mr. Jones right in the eye. Or at least right in his sunglasses. “The card read, ‘Give me what I want, or the boy will join his mother,’ ” he says.
Jones jerks back in the chair, as if repulsed by the idea. “Be assured I’d never send such a note! I have no reason to threaten you or anyone. What happened with your grandfather, that was long ago and best forgotten.”
“But you haven’t forgotten,” Darius says defiantly.
“No,” Jones admits. “I’m only human. Your grandfather defrauded me. My investors lost money. I lost money. So, no, I haven’t forgotten.”
“And you still want the money back. Or the necklace.”
Jones sighs. “The money is gone and there’s no getting it back. As to the so-called Dunbar diamonds, they’re a figment of Winston’s deluded imagination. The necklace is a mirage he’s been chasing all his adult life, and it keeps vanishing because it’s an illusion. Once upon a time he persuaded me to share in that illusion—hunting for a lost treasure, how exciting!—but I finally came to my senses. No more treasure hunts, no more crazy treasure hunters.”
“You’re saying my grandfather is crazy?”
Jones cocks his head sideways, thinking about it before replying. “Let me put it this way. There’s a fine line between obsession and delusion, and Winston crossed that line years ago. Part of Winston’s delusion involves blaming me for all his problems. He wants you to share the delusion, and that involves thinking the worst of me. So he did what he always does when his back is against the wall: He forged a document—a Father’s Day card, you say?—and pointed you in my direction.”
“We came on our own,” Darius says.
Mr. Jones shakes his head sorrowfully. “You may think you did, but if the past is any indication, Winston has some sort of agenda in mind. His ideas can be very difficult to resist. Bel
ieve me, I know. What else did he tell you about me? What else does he want you to believe?”
“That you still want the Dunbar diamonds.”
“As I said, your grandfather had me convinced, but the spell was broken long ago. I moved on to other opportunities.”
Darius leans forward. “What if I know where they are? Would you be interested?”
Mr. Jones looks startled. He raises his sunglasses, and the resemblance to Johnny Depp fades a bit. Eyes a little too small. “Seriously? You’re kidding me, right? Did your grandfather send you here to ask me that? Is that your mission?”
“My grandfather didn’t send me. Quite the opposite.”
Jones looks resigned, but resolute in his answer. “Let me be clear, young man. I no longer have any interest in those cursed diamonds. They’ve brought nothing but trouble into this world. Trouble for Winston Brooks, trouble for me. If by some miracle you manage to recover the Dunbar diamonds, do whatever you want with them.”
Blondi makes a slight whimpering noise and nuzzles against his leg. Jones caresses her furry neck and the whimpering stops.
“One more question, Mr. Jones,” Darius says. “Did you kill my parents?”
JASPER JONES LOOKS stunned. He takes a deep breath and sighs. “No, of course not. Absolutely not! Your parents died in a tragic road accident. But Winston refused to believe the facts. He put the blame on me.”
Winston. Mystery Man. Pop Pop. Darius’s grandfather has so many names it’s hard to remember them all. That alone is suspicious, right?
Darius asks, “Why did he refuse to believe the facts?”
Jones considers the question. “I guess you’re mature enough to know the true circumstances, and you certainly deserve to. The truth is, your parents came to see me the night they died. It was your mother’s idea, begging mercy for her father. She wanted me to intervene somehow, to get the charges dropped. They were a very appealing young couple, by the way, and of course they had a cute toddler along—you—so it was very hard to refuse. But I’m afraid I had to do so. I wasn’t the only one who was defrauded—all of my investors took a loss. It wasn’t up to me to interfere with the course of justice.”
Who Killed Darius Drake? Page 6