The Secret of Skeleton Reef (8 page)

“It's a possibility,” Frank said. “I'm getting the impression a lot of secrets are lurking out on Skeleton Reef.”

Dusk was deepening into night an hour later as Frank drove the Jeep up a steep hill on the southeastern part of the island. Thunder rumbled above. Over dinner it had been decided that Frank would pay an unexpected visit to Pierre Montclare's house while Joe and Jamal walked to the bungalow where Peg Riley lived. The boys had gotten both addresses off the list Frank had stolen from the
Destiny
.

Rain began to pour on the canvas top of the Jeep. As he turned on the windshield wipers, Frank wondered if the storm was similar to the one that had driven the
Laughing Moon
onto Skeleton Reef so many years ago. It was completely dark when he spotted a lonely house atop a hill. It had to be Montclare's place.

Frank parked in front of the house, a large and elegant structure, then darted through the rain for
the front door. He knocked loudly and waited, but there was no answer. Remembering people in the Caribbean did not always lock up, Frank turned the knob and found the door was open. He entered.

The floors of the spacious living room were polished wood, and most of the furniture was wicker. Two fancy floor lamps were casting a halogen glow, suggesting someone was home. “Hello,” Frank called out. There was no answer.

Across the room was a door to a veranda, and Frank saw Montclare standing on the veranda, gazing at the torrential rain. Absorbed in thought, Montclare had not heard Frank enter the house. “Excuse me, sir,” Frank said, approaching the veranda.

Montclare turned quickly. “What are you doing here?” the dark-haired man asked. Right away, Frank thought there was something troubled or haunted about Montclare's expression.

“I'm real sorry to barge in like this,” Frank said, “but, well, it so happens I'm very interested in journalism, and I got to thinking that this whole treasure hunt would make a fabulous story for my high school newspaper. So I, uh, wonder if you could answer a few questions for me.”

“I do not like questions,” Montclare said with a sigh. “However, I feel bad that I caused you to be injured today, so I will give you a few minutes.”

The rain was pounding so loudly on the roof above the veranda that it was difficult to hear.
Frank could see the veranda faced an expanse of large-leafed trees that resembled palms.

“How did you get into the treasure-hunt business?” Frank asked, pulling out a notebook and pen.

“I own a banana plantation,” Montclare said, gesturing at the trees. “See, acres and acres of thriving bananas. For a time the plantation was bringing me great profits. In fact, here in the Caribbean, bananas are often referred to as ‘green gold.' ”

“I didn't know that,” Frank said, pretending to drink in every detail.

“Anyway,” Montclare continued, “a little over two years ago, Sandy Flask came to St. Lucia. He went around to local businessmen, asking them to invest in his expedition. Everyone refused but me. I had some money to spare, and it sounded like fun, so I agreed to single-handedly finance the treasure hunt. It was agreed that if he found the treasure, which was by no means certain, I would receive fifty percent of the profits. You might say I was financing my search for real gold with green gold.”

“It looks as though your gamble is about to pay off,” Frank said. “Big time.”

“It may,” Montclare said with a nod. “But it will be several years before I receive any of the profits. And now that has become a problem for me.”

“Why?” Frank asked after a burst of thunder.

“Just recently,” Montclare said, “the U.S. and
European markets began purchasing all of their bananas from Central America, and therefore my plantation is now losing money. Also, over the past two years, I have been pouring more and more money into the
Laughing Moon
expedition. I assure you, finding pirate treasure is not a cheap enterprise. So you see, now I am in very bad financial shape.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Frank said.

“Yes,” Montclare sad wearily. “Very bad financial shape. I have had to cut back on my staff. Indeed, that is why I hired Chrissy Peters to help me with my books. Because I could no longer afford a full-time accountant.
C'est la vie
.”

“I see,” Frank said.

“I'm afraid this financial situation has put me in a very bad temper lately,” Montclare said. “That is why I was acting so moody today. Come, let's go inside. I am getting wet.”

Frank followed Montclare into the living room, where they both sat in large wicker chairs. Without a word Montclare dropped his head into his hands and began massaging his temples. Frank studied the Frenchman for a few moments. He does seem moody, Frank thought. Am I looking at a man just worried about financial matters, Frank wondered, or am I looking at a man worried about something even more serious—like believing he murdered someone last night?

“Are you all right, sir?” Frank asked.

“No,” Montclare muttered, mostly to himself. “I am feeling guilty about something. Mentioning Chrissy just now brought it back to me.”

Frank knew a little about psychology. He knew that sometimes people with troubled consciences wanted someone to whom they could confess their crimes. If that's what he wants, Frank thought, I'll give it to him.

“Guilty about what?” Frank asked.

“Something I did last night,” Montclare said almost in a whisper.

“What was it?” Frank asked softly.

Montclare lifted his head and stared toward the veranda, watching the rain slash at the banana plantation below. “Last night,” Montclare said, slowly forming his words, “Chrissy found some wrongdoing in my records. You see, I was so worried about money, I . . . juggled some things about so I could pay a little less in taxes. Chrissy . . . she . . . she noticed this, and she began teasing me about it.”

“So you feel guilty about cheating on your taxes,” Frank said, a little disappointed.

“No, not that,” Montclare said, turning to face Frank. “I was so uptight about my money problems that I yelled at Chrissy for teasing me. I'm afraid I was quite cross with her. She began crying, and then . . . then she ran out of here.”

“You only yelled at her?” Frank asked.

“That is all,” Montclare said, looking away. “I
fear that is why she did not show up for work this morning. I imagine she wanted to steer clear of me for a few days. Or perhaps she wanted to teach me a lesson by slowing down the expedition. All in all, it is not that momentous a thing, but, still, I feel guilty for hurting her feelings. She is a lovely young woman. Probably the nicest person on the crew.”

Frank took all this in, wondering if it was the complete truth. The money part could have been a lie designed to cover Montclare's guilty behavior, and the Chrissy part could have been a lie designed to explain Chrissy's mysterious absence.

“If all that was hurt were her feelings,” Frank said, “I'm sure she can forgive you when she returns. That is, if she ever does return.”

“I hope so,” Montclare said quietly. “Yes, I hope so. Now, please, perhaps you can leave me alone. I . . . I have a little work to do.”

“Thank you very much for your time,” Frank said. He noticed the rain had stopped as he got up to leave.

• • •

Joe and Jamal had ducked into a village pool hall to escape the downpour. Once it had let up, they began walking along a dirt road toward Peg Riley's bungalow. “I think that's it,” Jamal said, pointing to a small house peeking through some leaves. The boys walked across the drenched earth to the bungalow, which was surrounded by trees and
shrubbery. The paint on the bungalow was peeling badly, and the roof was merely a sheet of corrugated metal, but the address checked out.

No interior lights were on, and no one answered Jamal's knocks at the door. Jamal tried the door, but it was locked. Joe pulled a long piece of metal from the pocket of his khaki pants and slipped it into the front door cylinder. With a few deft turns, he managed to unlock the door.

Joe and Jamal stepped into the darkened bungalow and carefully wiped their feet on a mat. Joe made sure the door was relocked. Then Joe and Jamal flipped on flashlights they had brought from the bungalow. They began to look around, Joe in the living room, Jamal in the bedroom and bathroom.

It seemed the living room was furnished mostly with lawn chairs and milk crates. Joe didn't find any treasure lying around, but then he hadn't expected it to be out in the open. Noticing a book on the floor, he pointed the flashlight on it. His heartbeat sped up when he saw the book was
Treasure Island
.

Then Joe's heart skipped a beat. Someone was unlocking the front door.

Joe froze in the dark, trying to figure out what to do, where to hide. He heard the key turning just as Jamal creeped back into the room.

“There's a closet right here,” Jamal whispered.

Joe moved toward Jamal's voice, being careful not to bump into anything. Jamal quietly opened the closet door. As the front door swung open, Joe and Jamal stepped into the closet and pulled the door shut. Nice timing, Joe thought.

Joe heard footsteps on the wooden floor. Then he saw a puddle of light spill under the closet door. When he heard the footsteps move farther away, he eased the closet door open a few inches.

Across the room Joe saw Peg Riley. She was standing inside the kitchen, a small area adjoining
the living room. Peg was putting on a pair of rubber gloves, the type used for washing dishes. Then Joe noticed a plastic bottle sitting on the kitchen counter. Squinting, he was able to make out the words Muriatic Acid on the bottle.

Peg knelt down and opened the metal cabinet beneath the sink. She pulled two rubber buckets from the cabinet and lifted them to the counter. Then Peg began pulling objects from the buckets.

Joe saw shiny silver coins, half a pewter plate, a tin fork and spoon, fragments of a ceramic teapot, an antiquated pistol, and balls of lead that he assumed were ammunition. Then Peg brought out a necklace composed of gold links. Dangling from it was a medallion shaped like a dragon. The dragon's eyes were two sparkling emeralds, and the dragon was spitting fire simulated by three brilliant rubies.

Joe realized these were relics from the
Laughing Moon
, their encrustation cleaned off from soaking in the acid. He watched Peg fill several clear plastic bags with tap water and pour some salt into each bag. Finally she placed the relics inside the bags and sealed the bags with knots.

Peg picked up the plastic bags, then switched off the kitchen light and carried the bags out the front door. Joe and Jamal waited a moment before stepping out of the closet into the darkened room.

“I think we can sneak out through the bathroom window,” Jamal whispered.

“Hang on a sec,” Joe whispered as he moved to a window in the living room. He wanted to know where Peg was going with the stolen relics. Peeling back a sheet being used as a curtain, Joe peered outside.

Peg was standing by the side of the bungalow, directly in Joe's view. Because the living room was dark, Joe knew it would be difficult for Peg to catch sight of him. The redheaded woman picked up a shovel and began digging.

“What is she doing?” Jamal whispered.

“Believe it or not,” Joe whispered back, “I think she's burying the pirate treasure.”

Peg dug a small hole in the ground, and Joe could see there were other plastic bags already lying in the moist earth. Peg placed the new plastic bags in the opening, then began shoveling dirt over the hole, her green eyes gleaming with determination.

“X marks the spot,” Joe whispered.

“She's probably coming back,” Jamal whispered. “Come on, let's hit that bathroom window.”

Joe and Jamal carefully made their way across the dark room and entered the bathroom. Joe pulled the door partly shut. The bathroom window seemed large enough for the boys to fit through, and Jamal started to open it. But the window was stuck. Joe helped, but together the boys still could not budge it.

“It's not locked,” Jamal whispered, “it's just jammed.”

Then Joe heard Peg come into the bungalow.

With a forceful heave, Jamal and Joe pushed up on the window. The window seemed to give just a bit, although it still was not opening. Jamal let out a grunt as he pushed harder. Then he closed his eyes, angry at himself.

Joe and Jamal froze a moment to see if Peg had heard the sound.

“Hello!” Peg yelled from the living room. “Hello! Is anybody there?”

Joe and Jamal looked at each other in tense silence.

“If someone is in this place,” Peg called out, “you'd better fess up right now. I've got a bottle of acid in my hand.”

Jamal held up his hands to Joe, wondering if they should declare themselves. Joe shook his head. He was thinking. It was a tight spot to be sure, but he had squirmed out of tighter before.

“I'm warning you,” Peg called as she drew nearer to the bathroom, “this stuff will burn your face something terrible!”

Jamal looked desperately at Joe.

“Hello!” Peg called, slowly drawing closer. “If someone is there, you'd better tell me right now. I don't like folks barging into my house, and I won't hesitate to throw this acid at you.”

As Peg spoke the last few words, Joe gave the window a powerful upward shove. This time the
window slid open, the shove timed perfectly so as to be covered by the sound of Peg's voice.

“Hello!” Peg shouted. “Are you in the bathroom? Is that where you are?”

First Jamal, then Joe squeezed out the window. As Peg kept calling, the boys raced across the dampened ground, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the bottle of acid. When the dense trees finally gave way to the white sand of the beach, Joe and Jamal fell on the ground, panting.