The Gravesavers (17 page)

That was enough. Nana Vinegar taking my side and feeling sorry for me. I was feeling sorry enough for myself.

I reached for more newspaper clippings and leafed through the stories of the disaster. I had pinking shears.

I paper-clipped more on my clothesline and added to the walls.

Maybe it’s awful to admit, but it made me feel a bit better. I polished my skull and put her back in my treasure drawer. I plumped up my pillow. Then I
reached for the box I’d shoved far away. The one that spooked me. The tiny cardboard coffin. I took a deep breath. I snapped off the criss-cross of red elastics and opened it.

I was wrong. I didn’t find more bones.

I found a beating heart instead.

John Hindley’s.

J
UMP AND
H
OPE

The ropes held me fast. A woman scaled the ropes below me. Maryanna.

I watched as she stopped a few rungs over, steadied herself as best she could and then ripped her nightdress from her ankles upwards. She fashioned ties out of the tatters and bound herself to the mizzen.

Down below to our right, a mass of purplish seaweed floated in a whirlpool of waves. The hide-and-seek moon appeared then and everything was illuminated. Maryanna screamed. It wasn’t seaweed.

Bodies, floating together as if caught in a net, bobbed back and forth. Dead. All of them.

Then, Maryanna started singing. Yes. She was
singing.
By this time her hair was wrapped around the ropes, frozen there like a tangle of snakes. A necklace sparkled against her throat. A ring glittered on her finger. Her lips were blue and soon the song was nothing more than a rusty croaking. Whispers. Whispers. Whispers.

“John—stay awake! Miss Rayborn—keep the songs coming.”

It was Frith, climbing up to us as he’d promised.

I drifted in and out for a spell, but when my hands let go and I flopped over backwards I came to.
Catch me catch me catch me can.

“Dad?” I flapped about, a human sail.

“Rise up!” Frith shouted. “Get back in the mizzen.”

But I had no will left to do his bidding. I closed my eyes for what I hoped would be eternity. A wave slapped me fierce and directly in my line of vision, my mother’s cradle appeared, floating on top of the waves as if rocked by an invisible arm. I gathered all my strength to right myself then, using my leg muscles the way I did whenever I climbed up into my father’s arms.

Maryanna was silent; her eyes wide open with that same startled look I’d seen on my brother’s face. The ring still shone. Every few moments, its light circled my head, like a lighthouse beacon nudging me awake.

On a hump of rocks several hundred feet away, a straggle of men had made it to safety. I watched others try—hand over foot—to shinny the length of the lifeline they’d rigged from the remaining deck. As the hours passed, it was clear very few would be strong enough to make it there. And then, even then, some were washed away once they got there.

Eventually, light leaked through hairline cracks in the dark clouds.

“Hang on! They’re coming!” Frith was alive. There was a boat, a small one, tossing about in the swell. “Jump when I tell you!”

I used my knife between my hands like a saw and tried to hack through my ropes. I fumbled and it was lost.

Five times the men in the boat tried to get in position beneath the mizzen rigging. Then I lost sight of it.

“Now!” Frith screamed. And I jumped. I put all my weight in the jump, leapt out into the air, feeling the rope whip out from my ankles. Just before I hit the water, I took a deep breath, all that was left in me.

John Hindley’s heart was pounding, on a brittle page of newsprint.

–
Lone child survivor
–

What followed was the description of how he’d been saved in the nick of time, fished out of the water after hours clinging to the ropes of the mizzenmast.

Then, on the next page, his picture.
A face. John Hindley.
Staring up at me from speckled newsprint. His eyes laser-beaming into mine. I recognized those eyes. Eyes filled with sorrow and secrets.

I placed his picture in my treasure drawer. Next to the baby’s skull.

I told Nana I was going out for a long run after supper.

“You’re going to waste away to nothing burning all that food you just put into your belly so fast. There must be some kinda rule like when you can’t go swimming for an hour after eating. But all right. Get yourself home before dark.”

Dressed in a green sweatshirt and beige splash pants, the perfect camouflage and trés chic athletic wear, Cinnamon Hotchkiss, girl sleuth, set out upon her mission.

My mission was clear to me. I had to see if Hardly Whynot was at the Fullerton mansion. John Hindley’s picture made me more determined than ever to save the gravesite. I was trying to think big and get Hardly’s name on the petition. And even better would be publicity from his name and some money from his wallet!

Nana’s binoculars thumped against my chest as I jogged around the bend and out of sight. I’d
convinced her I wanted to watch some birds! At night? But she bought it. Then, for the first time all summer, I turned into Poplar Grove Lane. The cottages were crowded together at the upper end of the lane that twisted and turned like a maze I had to guess my way through. Finally, I came to a fork in the road that branched off in three directions. I chose the middle road, winding my way through yet another puzzle of cottages until I reached a long stretch of woods behind a high cedar thicket. This was it, the boundary line for the Fullerton mansion.

A black iron gate aswirl with sailing ships marked the entrance to the estate. The gate was locked shut and the house was well hidden from view. A row of old-fashioned streetlights made it look like something from the last century. The lampposts were new, and mounted on each, I spotted surveillance cameras. I sprinted past, hoping I would be just a blur on the monitors. The theme song from
Mission: Impossible
played in my head.

Farther along the main road, the wrought-iron fences joined up with a high stone wall that snaked into the woods, past a grove of apple and pear trees. This was the place. I ducked off the main road and followed an overgrown trail that looped between the wall and the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. The trail was wide, but I hugged the stone wall and was
tempted to crawl on my hands and knees. It was a long way down.

The wind was blowing something fierce and I didn’t remember the trail being this snarled when I was here with Corporal Ray. After a bit, I spotted a section of the house. Inside a screened-in porch was a table made of twigs and wooden deck chairs painted pink and yellow. A hammock made of fishnet was suspended along the side of the porch. A telescope was mounted on a tripod. Perhaps Hardly Whynot had an interest in the stars.

The chauffeur was mowing the front lawn. Anchored at a wooden dock was an impressive outboard—more like a yacht—as well as a rowboat. A buoyed sailboat bobbed on the waves close by. Then I spotted
him.

Sure enough, at the side of the boathouse, a man was hanging up life jackets and floating devices. Hardly! Or so I hoped. I lifted the binoculars and tried to focus, but he kept ducking out of view. I didn’t know how I could position myself so I could get a good look. If I jumped up the wall, they’d spot me for sure. If I climbed through the crack in the wall to get closer, I’d be on their property. The No Trespassing signs said there was a thousand-dollar fine.

My only option, it seemed, was the tree above my head. Up I went, nimble as a squirrel, and out onto a
branch. I was halfway along when I realized that the branch hung out over the edge of the cliff. I froze. Completely. Frothy waves eddied below me and made me dizzy. The water seemed half-solid—like a heaving floor of jade green marble. Then the weirdest feeling came over me. I felt like jumping.

Okay. Okay. Breathe. Breathe. Back up. Slowly slowly slowly.

“Come on! It’s my turn! Gimme!”

I almost jumped out of my skin and slipped, just catching myself in time.

The Cackleberry Women! The four of them were on their hands and knees making their way to the crack in the wall. And laughing like fools. By the sound of them, I’d say they’d all been dipping into that blueberry wine again.

From out of nowhere, the biggest, meanest, blackest Doberman pinscher I’ve ever seen came tearing up the yard headed right towards them. If I hadn’t been so scared myself, I would have fallen out of the tree laughing. The sight of those four, in their high heels and designer clothes, hightailing it out of there, falling and grabbing each other, was like watching one of those prize-winning home videos on TV.

But the dog stopped at the crack in the wall and barked up at me! It must have smelled the sweat rolling off my forehead.

The man from the boathouse shouted to Mafia man, who stopped mowing and headed straight towards me.

He stood for several seconds at the wall, looking around. He patted the dog and told it to be quiet.

“What you see out there, girl? A spy? Come on, Hannah, it’s probably a fox.”

He returned to his mowing, and I inched my way back to the tree trunk and slid down, grateful to be on firm ground again. I ran, all right. I just barely avoided running into a huge patch of poison ivy.

Hannah! It hit me. “Hey Hannah” was a famous Ladybugs song. Well, my mission had been successful after all. How much more evidence did I really need?

My brain was whirling faster for another reason, too. Up in that tree I’d spotted Elbow Island. From that height it looked like an arm, beckoning. There was a flash of orange through the trees. Max? Yes, it was. Rowing towards the island in a small dory.

I was more than curious. Maybe—he’d take me the next time?

Nana would never let me.

But if Hansel and Gretel could do it, so could I. Find some way to escape from the clutches of the old witch.

M
IND
F
OG