Meanwhile Darius must have slipped past us somehow, because a few moments later he finds a light switch on the wall and flicks it on. Not a string of bare overhead lightbulbs this time, but something much more exotic. Something marvelous and melancholy and mysterious.
We’re inside an underground chapel with an elegantly domed ceiling dotted with faintly luminous stars. The lighting is soft and low and indirect, like something you’d find in a movie theater or a museum. The gently curved walls are divided into panels by fluted Greek columns, and each panel is a painting of a shimmering lake at twilight.
It’s as if we’re on an island, surrounded by calm waters. And in the center of the island, raised on a marble plinth, are a pair of marble coffins with life-sized figures carved on the lids.
A male figure and a female figure, lying side by side.
“Not coffins,” Darius says confidently, in full lecture mode. “Sarcophagi. Commonly used by the Egyptians, and later the Greeks, to inter their dead. Common in this country well into the twentieth century. Obviously Mr. Dunbar spared no expense.”
“It’s so beautiful,” Deirdre says. “And so sad.”
“Promise me we’re not going to pry those open,” I say, pleading.
Darius gives me a look that is part amused, part triumphant. “We don’t have to. It looks like Donald Dunbar anticipated that someone might eventually find their resting place, and prepared accordingly.”
He approaches the center of the chapel, within touching distance of the carved figures on the lids of the sarcophagi, the marble coffin things. He turns to the female figure and seems to focus on the pale marble face.
“Check this out,” he says, beckoning us over.
Flashlight at her side, Deirdre edges closer. And then my sister lets out a little shriek. A shriek not of fear, but of wonder.
“Oh my,” she says, at a loss for more powerful words. “Oh my oh my oh my.”
My first thought is maybe there’s something gross or disgusting. Bones showing through the marble, something like that. But that’s impossible, and besides, Deirdre and Darius don’t sound grossed out. Quite the opposite.
They make room for me, and then I see it for myself. The carved figure of the woman—an image of Lucy Dare, recognizable from her photographs—has been decorated with an astonishing jeweled necklace, lying in a shallow groove carved around the figure’s neck.
The Dunbar diamonds, missing for a hundred years, are missing no more.
In addition to the necklace, the figure of Lucy Dare holds a carved tablet in her marble hands. Deirdre reads it in a voice hushed with reverence.
“Take this gift of love if you must, and do good if you can, but please leave us in peace.”
Deirdre adjusts her camera-equipped baseball cap and holds the fabulous necklace up to the soft lights. It glistens like a small, perfectly contained waterfall, each diamond a drop of water filled with its own individual source of illumination. The whole thing reflects on the dome of the chapel, diamond facets transformed into a thousand beams of light.
It’s impossible to believe that a thing of such beauty could be cursed. But it makes me understand why so many treasure hunters wasted so much time and dug so many holes, from the original tomb raiders in the 1930s to Winston Brooks, who tore down an entire house, all of them searching in vain for what my sister now holds in her hands.
“I have an idea,” she says, lowering the necklace.
“No, you can’t keep it,” Darius teases.
“Not that. No, never! Their last request was to ‘do good if you can,’ and that’s what we have to do. Part of doing good is to honor the final part of that request: Leave them in peace. Go away from this place and lock the door and never breathe a word about the secret tunnel or the chapel or what it contains. You can say you found the necklace hidden in the house, or buried somewhere else, but please don’t let this become a tourist attraction.”
“Charge admission? I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Darius!”
“I’m kidding. Actually, I agree. It was never my plan to publicize the grave site, if we managed to find it. As a matter of fact, I already have an alternate location for the discovery.”
“Where do you have in mind?”
He’s about to tell us when the door swings open and Scar Man lurches into the chapel, big as murder. The soft lighting almost erases the melted part of his face, which is kind of weird, but the strangest thing is that the big man has his hands behind his back, as if he’s hiding something. It looks wrong somehow, and I’ve almost figured out why when a smiling face peeks around from behind, partially hidden by Scar Man’s bulk.
“Hello, boys and girls,” Jasper Jones says, showing us his shiny pistol. “Look what the cat dragged in!”
“THIS KNUCKLE DRAGGER was skulking around your secret tunnel. Told me he was ‘keeping an eye on the kids.’ I’ll just bet he was. Waiting for his chance to steal the diamonds right out from under you, Darius. That’s what he had in mind. I warned you about that, remember?”
The sudden intrusion is so startling that it takes me a moment to notice that Scar Man has a gag in his mouth, and his hands are bound with oversized zip ties. The big man is in Jasper Jones’s custody, no doubt about it. And he’s blinking furiously and grimacing behind the gag, as if he has something important to tell us.
Meanwhile Mr. Jones moves with a physical strength I never noticed at the tennis club. He forces Scar Man to his knees and whips a black plastic zip tie around his ankles, rendering the big man immobile. Just like cops do on TV.
Does this mean he’s a cop? Maybe working undercover? Was the whole Jack-Sparrow-at-the-tennis-club thing a disguise?
Jones, smiling grimly, slips the gleaming pistol into his waistband.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” he says. “Recovering the Dunbar diamonds? Very dangerous. Impressive, but dangerous.”
Darius looks at Scar Man on the floor, made silent by the gag, and then up at Mr. Jones. “What if he’s telling the truth?” he asks. “What if he was just keeping an eye on us?”
“Don’t be naive. He’s a villain. Just look at him. Look at his face.”
“That was a childhood accident. You can’t judge him by the scars on his face.”
Jones shrugs. “You’re right. Maybe I’m being unfair. It isn’t the scars, it’s how he behaves. That’s what makes him a villain.” He reaches into a pocket, takes out a soft velvet bag, and tosses it to Darius. “I better take custody of the necklace,” he says. “I’ll put it in my office vault, make sure it’s safe until we sort this out.”
Deirdre starts to hand over the necklace, but Darius stops her. “I think not,” he says, looking defiant.
“What’s the matter, Darius?” Jones asks. “This thug is working for your grandfather, or maybe for himself. Whoever employs him, he wanted to get his hands on the Dunbar diamonds. I stopped him. You should be grateful.”
Scar Man squirms, blinking his eyes desperately.
“Thanks,” says Darius. “But we can take it from here.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Jones sounds hurt. “The diamonds are safe with me.”
“But the boys said you didn’t want them,” Deirdre says, clutching the necklace as if she’s changed her mind about handing it over.
“Just for safekeeping,” he insists.
Scar Man thrashes at his feet, desperate to communicate something.
“See?” Jones says. “He’s a violent man. If I hadn’t stopped him, he’d have the diamonds, and you’d all be dead. A thug like that wouldn’t leave witnesses behind.”
Deirdre says, “We should call the police.”
Jones nods in agreement. “Of course. After the necklace is safe. There’s no signal down here anyhow. It’ll have to wait until we get back to the surface. Put it in the bag, Deirdre, it’s all for the best.”
“After we call the police,” Darius insists.
Jones’s voice becomes impatient. “This is getting tire
some, you playing detective. Time to let the adults handle things you could never understand.”
“What don’t we understand?”
“You’re playing into your grandfather’s hands. He’s fooling you just like he fooled me.”
“Darius?” Deirdre asks, not sure who to believe.
“It’s possible. He could be right about my grandfather,” Darius admits. “Maybe Scar Man really was trying to steal the diamonds.”
Jones looks relieved. He steps forward, holding out the velvet bag.
“Possible, but not probable,” Darius says.
Jones looks puzzled. “Why not?” he asks.
“Because you had zip ties in your pocket.”
JONES LOOKS BAFFLED. “Zip ties? What does that prove?”
“It proves premeditation,” Darius says. “Maybe you’re in the habit of carrying a concealed weapon for personal protection, but nobody carries around zip ties unless they intend to use them.”
“Really?” Mr. Jones is incredulous. “I’m trying to help, and you’re focused on zip ties?”
“You told us you were no longer interested in the Dunbar diamonds. That was obviously a lie, because here you are, bag in hand, attempting to secure those very diamonds.”
“I told you, just to keep them safe,” Jones says, exasperated.
“Obviously you had us under surveillance,” Darius says. “You saw us go down into the cellar. You saw Scar Man follow us into the tunnel. And instead of calling the police, you equipped yourself with a gun and zip ties, to restrain Scar Man and whoever else might need restraining. Because recovering the necklace was your plan all along.”
Mr. Jones shakes his head and chuckles. “They were right about you, kid. Smart as a whip. But maybe not smart enough.”
“Really?” Darius says. “Why not?”
“Because you’re the one with the smart mouth, but I’m the one with the gun.” He pulls the pistol from his waistband and waves it around.
“The necklace!” he demands. “Now!”
For a moment it’s so deathly quiet I can hear the pulse pounding in my veins. Waiting for the next bad thing to happen, dreading it. There’s a look in Jones’s eyes that sends a jolt of ice water through my veins. He’s no longer the man with the cute rescue dog and the movie-star smile. It’s as if a mask has fallen away, exposing a monster behind the charming disguise.
Deirdre, trembling, slips the necklace into the velvet bag and hands it to him.
“I don’t understand,” she says. “You’re a multimillionaire, why do you need to steal from us?”
“I’m not stealing!” he snaps. “The treasure is rightfully mine.”
Eyes cast down, her face hidden by the pink baseball cap, Deirdre backs slowly away, until she’s beside me, up against the wall.
“So you’re in financial trouble,” Darius says quietly.
Jones laughs cynically. “You might say that. Or you might say the vultures are about to descend. Lucky for me, you’re so much more clever than your grandfather.”
Darius nods to himself, as if it suddenly all makes sense. “This time you’re the defrauder,” he says, coming to a conclusion. “And you got found out.”
Jones shakes his head. “Not quite,” he says. “I’m sorry, Deirdre. Your boyfriend is right. I’ve been cooking the books on my investment company for years, siphoning off a million here and a million there. But the Dunbar diamonds are going to fix all that. And I’m grateful for your help.”
“So it was you all along,” Darius says. “You’re the one who sent me the bloody note that got this all started.”
Jones chuckles. “My masterstroke,” he says. “And look what it got me! A boy smart enough and determined enough to succeed where his grandfather failed. It was easy, hooking you into the hunt. Like trailing a chunk of beef in front of a bloodhound. A hunting dog can’t help but follow the trail because it’s in his nature.”
“The threatening Father’s Day card to my grandfather?”
He seems amused. “A taste of his own medicine.”
“And the effigy? Was that you, too?”
Jones takes a little bow. Now that he’s admitted all this, he seems to be enjoying himself. “Just a reminder,” he says. “Didn’t want you to run off with the treasure, if you did find it.”
“Put the gun away,” Darius urges him. “We’ll do whatever you want, I promise.”
“Can’t do that,” Jones says, inspecting the pistol as if he’s not quite sure what to do with it. “Distasteful as it may be, I can’t leave any loose ends. Nope. Gotta make a clean break, start over all fresh and new.”
“Mr. Jones,” says Darius, in a let’s-be-reasonable tone. “Surely we can discuss this?”
“Discuss what? How exactly your grandfather betrayed me? Wait, I’ve got it! He knew the tomb’s location all along, didn’t he? And told you where to find it. That’s it!”
Darius shakes his head. “No. It didn’t happen that way.”
Jones shrugs. “All that matters is, you did find it. Professional treasure hunters have been searching for decades, and in the end three kids solve the mystery. What a stupid world!”
“We may be kids but we’re not stupid,” Darius says.
Jones shakes his head, his forehead now gleaming with sweat. “No, agreed, you’re quite the little genius. The four-eyed freckle monster, isn’t that what they called you in school? What, you think I haven’t been keeping tabs on you? Why do you think I’m on the board of that idiotic orphanage? To make sure you stayed there, where I could keep an eye on you.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Darius asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
Jones shrugs. “Covering all the angles.”
“What angles?”
“In case you remembered me as the face looking into the car window to make sure your parents were dead,” he says. “Testimony of a three-year-old would never hold up in court, but revenge spans generations. Can’t be too careful.”
Darius looks like he’s going to be sick. “So you did kill them.”
Another shrug, as if he’s admitting to nothing more consequential than being late with his homework. “Collateral damage. Remember I said your parents came to see me that night? It wasn’t to beg me to help your grandfather. It was to threaten me. Your mother, that conniving little witch, she found out I was embezzling from my own fund, from my own investors. Said she’d expose me if I didn’t ask the court to be merciful when it came to sentencing her dear old dad. So I did what had to be done. Spur of the moment, but it worked. Except for you. My little survivor.”
“Pop Pop was right all along,” Darius says, sounding both stunned and angry.
Jones chuckles. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
He stares at us with deadened eyes, as if we’re beneath his contempt. That’s when I know, an awful empty feeling in my gut, that he has no intention of letting us leave the chapel alive.
Why else would he admit to being a murderer?
I’m so afraid I can barely stand up. Afraid to do something to stop him, and afraid not to. How do you stop a man with a gun if he intends to use it?
“You don’t need to do this,” Darius says, pleading. “Don’t make it worse. You have what you want.”
Jones pats his pocket, caressing the sack of diamonds. “Almost there,” he says, pleased with himself. “Just have to tie up a few loose ends. Did you really think you could simply hand them over and everything would be hunky-dory? There are legal issues.”
“Legal issues?”
“The fact that the diamonds were recovered on your property. Lawyers would have a field day with that, even if you gave the treasure to me of your own free will. I’m an adult, you’re a minor, they’d never buy it. Legally you would be first in line to share in the proceeds. No, the Dunbar diamonds have to be discovered on my property.”
“That’s your plan?”
“My plan is, I win, everybody else loses. Simple, really.”
Darius edges a little closer. “You’ve got what you want. Leave us alone.”
“Get back, freckle boy,” Jones says, waggling the pistol. “Get down on the floor. Now!”
Darius reluctantly lowers himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes are desolate. He’s as scared as me. Scared because he’s figured out how this will end, or maybe because he’s the one who got us into this mess, or both.
My brilliant friend swallows the lump of fear in his throat and says, “You can still walk away. ‘Discover’ the diamonds on your own property, like you say. It would be our word against yours, and possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“Nice try. But that’s just a saying. There’s no such law. Believe me, I’ve been involved in enough lawsuits to know. If this gets into court they’d make me look like a bad guy, preying on an orphan kid, and there goes the money. I’d be ruined, and I can’t have that. I have an image to maintain. Status in the community.”
“The tennis club?” Deirdre says, disgusted. “You’re doing this for the tennis club?”
The pistol swings in her direction. “You’re sneering at me? Really?” He seems faintly repulsed at the idea. “You know the sound of fingernails on slate? That’s what it sounds like to me, an adult with all my success and experience, being sneered at by a snarky teenager.” He makes a claw of his gun-free hand, scrabbling it on an invisible chalkboard. “Scree scree scree!”
Satisfied with his put-down, he takes a look around the chapel tomb, as if for the first time. “Very impressive. And bigger than I expected. Which is going to come in handy. Just think of it, kids. Maybe a thousand years from now some future archaeologist will unearth this tomb. Maybe they’ll think Donald Dunbar and his fiancée were some sort of divine royalty like the pharaohs, and you were underlings sacrificed to appease their gods, or protect them in the underworld. Something like that. Cool, huh?”
“Mr. Jones,” Darius pleads. “Please.”
Jones whirls around, aiming at my freckle-faced friend. “What? Please be quick? You want to get this over with? Okay, fine, your request is granted.”
Who Killed Darius Drake? Page 10