The Ghost Wore Gray (11 page)

That was sad enough. But the rest of the book was even sadder, because it told the story of Samson Carter's death. I had just assumed that since he had survived running the Underground Railroad, he must have lived on to die a peaceful death.

The world doesn't work that way, I guess. It turns out that he had made many trips to the South during the war, serving the Union sometimes as a spy, sometimes as a scout. That was incredibly dangerous, of course, but he used all his contacts and tricks from the days on the Underground and managed to survive it all.

He was an old man by that time. The drawings and photos of him were wonderful—you could see both his sweetness and his strength. I guess you would have needed both those qualities to do everything that Samson Carter did.

Anyway, six months after the war ended, Samson Carter went to the South as a free man, traveling there legally for the first time in over thirty years. He went to visit some friends, and to begin planning his great dream: the Samson Carter Institute, a college for the children of former slaves. The trip was a success. But while he was on his way home he passed through a town where a mob of angry men beat him to death.

They didn't kill him because he was Samsom Carter and had worked so hard to free so many slaves.

They didn't even know who he was.

They just killed him because he was black.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Crisis Level

We walked back to the Quackadoodle in silence, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts. So much had happened, and so long ago. How did it all fit together?

We did have one more piece of good luck at the museum. When we took the book back to Effie, we were so enthusiastic about it that she showed us a thin little paperback the museum sold as a souvenir. “Don't sell many of these,” she said. “They're about as popular as termites in a lumberyard. So I don't bother to show it to folks. But since you seem so interested—”

So for two dollars we had a small version of the Samson Carter story, complete with illustrations.

It was late afternoon when we finally made it back to the inn. I wanted to check on some things in Captain Gray's diary so Chris and I went into the lobby. It was empty. We rang the bell, but no one came. We stood there for a moment, feeling hot and impatient.

“Come on,” said Chris. “Let's check the office. For all we know Baltimore's in there listening to Bruce Springsteen on a Walkman. Probably he just couldn't hear us ring.”

The idea seemed unlikely to me, but I followed her, anyway. As it turned out, Chris was about half-right. Baltimore was in the office. But he wasn't listening to Springsteen. He was lying face down on the floor with his eyes closed. We could see a purple swelling the size of a baby's fist on the back of his head.

The safe, which was normally hidden behind a painting, was wide open. It was also completely empty.

Chris, who is not as squeamish about these things as I am, bent down and put her ear against Baltimore's back.

“He's alive,” she said. “Just unconscious. I'll stay with him. You go get help.”

I could feel my hands begin to shake as I left the office. Ghosts were one thing. Whoever had bopped Baltimore was flesh and blood, and playing for real. Suddenly this mystery didn't seem like such a game anymore.

The first person I found was Gloria. She was kneeling in front of a wooden table, polishing it with an oily cloth. I wasn't sure what I should say. After all, it was
her
husband lying on the floor in there. I tried to stay calm. “Gloria, I need some help.”

“I'm sure it can wait,” she said. “You can see I'm busy now.”

That made me angry. “It's Baltimore,” I said sharply. “He's been hurt!”

What a transformation! The only other time I've seen anyone get to his feet so fast was one evening when I was watching TV with Chris and her brothers and Mrs. Gurley yelled “Dinner!” All six of those boys were on their feet and into the dining room before I had managed to uncross my legs.

Gloria moved the same way now. “Where is he?” she asked.

I told her, then hurried to keep up as she charged down the hallway.

Baltimore was starting to regain consciousness when we entered the office. He had rolled over onto his back. Chris was sitting beside him, holding his shoulders. He opened and closed his eyes a few times, moaning gently as he did so.

Gloria knelt beside him. “What happened, sweetie?” she asked, kissing him on his bald spot.

He groaned, but didn't answer her.

Gloria sent me to call a doctor—and the police. Before we knew it there were six deputies swarming all over the place and getting in one another's way.

“Too much time, too little crime,” said Mona, who had come to see what the commotion was all about. “The only thing worse than having the police department bored is having them overworked.”

The police wanted to talk to us, of course. They asked about how we had found Baltimore. We told them. They asked what we did next. We told them. But they didn't ask if we had anything in the safe ourselves. So we didn't tell them—mostly because we had talked it over before the police got to us, and neither one of us believed that Captain Gray wanted the police involved in this thing.

My father came in while we were giving our statements. He took one look at the scene—Chris and I sitting and talking to a cop with a notebook—rolled his eyes, and walked over to Mona. I could imagine what he was saying: “All I asked them to do was keep things below crisis level. Was that so much to ask? Was it?”

But I didn't feel too guilty. I figured we didn't have anything to do with this.

I was almost right, too.

Dinner that night was a quiet affair. Everyone in the inn wanted to believe that whoever attacked Baltimore had been an outsider. But everyone also knew that it might have been one of the guests. My father gave us several warnings about not getting too nosy and so on. He wanted to know how much we knew about what was going on. But since I didn't figure things out until later in the evening, I could honestly tell him, “not much.”

By nine o'clock more than half the couples that had come for the weekend had checked out. Things looked pretty bad for the big dance the next night.

In fact, they looked pretty bad for the Quackadoodle in general. Between what Porter had told us earlier and what Effie had said that afternoon, I was pretty worried about the fact that my father had quit his job on the basis of what he expected to make from Baltimore. I was trying to figure out what I should say to him about it as Chris and I climbed the stairs to go to our room.

I stopped across from the picture of Captain Gray. “What do
you
think I should do about all this?”

The picture didn't answer me, of course. But as I stood there looking at it something else occurred to me.

“You know, there's something odd about this picture,” I said.

“I don't think so,” said Chris. “He looks just as good in real life, or real death, or whatever.”

“Yeah, but what's it doing here? I mean, when we first saw it, I thought it was just an old picture they had hung here because it sort of went with the inn. But it really has a connection to the place.”

“I see what you mean,” said Chris. “Captain Gray wouldn't have had his photo taken while he was here, at least not in uniform. So where did it come from?”

I reached up to take the photo off the wall.

“What are you doing?” asked Chris. She sounded nervous.

“Calm down,” I said, setting the frame on the floor. “I just want to see if there's any writing on the back.”

Chris knelt beside me. I turned the frame around and sighed. The back of the picture was covered with plain brown paper; it was discolored in some spots, and tearing away from the edge of the frame in others. But there was no writing on it at all.

“Oh, well,” said Chris. “It was a good idea.”

I was picking the picture up to put it back when I noticed a bit of white paper under one of the torn spots. I set the frame back down and ran my fingers over the brown paper. Then I started picking at it, tearing it off in tiny bits.

“
What are you doing
?” asked Chris.

“I think there's something under here,” I said.

“Nine, you can't do that. We'll get in trouble.”

We all have our weak spots. Chris is brave; without blinking an eye she'll walk into places that I would rather run from. But she doesn't like getting in trouble with grown-ups.

“Who's going to know?” I said. Then I peeled away a larger strip of the paper.

“Jackpot!” whispered Chris.

Underneath the paper, taped to the back of the picture, was a yellowed envelope.

I pulled away the rest of the paper that covered the envelope. Working carefully, because the envelope itself was brittle, I removed it from the picture.

I turned it over. It was addressed to “Richard Farnsworth, Innkeeper, The Quackadoodle Inn.”

“Hurry up and open it!” Chris whispered.

I shook my head. “Take it,” I said, thrusting the envelope into her hands. I stood up to replace the picture.

Just in time! We heard someone whistling, and Porter Markson appeared at the top of the stairs just as I was straightening the frame.

He gave me a funny look. “Admiring the ghost?” he asked.

I smiled, trying to look innocent. “He's just so good-looking,” I said.

“She's got a crush,” said Chris, who was leaning against the wall with her hands behind her back to hide the envelope.

I shot Chris a nasty glare. Porter chuckled. “Ah, to be young again,” he said and wandered down the hall.

“You didn't have to say that,” I hissed when he was out of earshot.

Chris grinned. “It threw him off the track,” she said. “Come on. Let's get to our room and look at that letter.”

We scooted down the hall. But when we got to our room we met Isabella coming out of the door.

“What timing,” she said, smiling brightly. “Your room is all set.”

She walked away, whistling cheerfully. Chris and I stepped inside, closed the door behind us, and looked at each other.

“Was she really cleaning up in here?” I asked. “Or was she snooping around?”

“I don't know,” said Chris. “Remember that speech in the kitchen yesterday? She seemed to know an awful lot about some of the stuff that's gone on here in the past.”

“And she's got keys for all the rooms,” I said, following that line of thought. “Do you think she could be the one who stole the plans?”

“It's possible. She and Martha had a lot of time when no one was watching them that evening. I wonder if the two of them are in this together?”

My head was starting to spin. “Let's think about that later,” I said. “Right now I want to take a look at this!”

Trying not to tear the brittle old paper, I opened the envelope we had found behind Captain Gray's picture.

Here's the letter we found inside.

S
EPTEMBER
12, 1875

Dear Innkeeper Farnsworth:

We would like to thank you for your help in locating the grave of Captain Jonathan Gray. It was a wonderful stroke of luck when you found that map. It meant a great deal to us to be able to provide our friend with the kind of memorial he deserved.

Because of this assistance, and because your predecessor was so kind to Captain Gray while he was alive, caring for him during his illness, and providing him with a decent burial, we would like you to have the enclosed portrait of the captain. Perhaps the sad story that goes with it will prove of interest to your guests.

Sincerely,

The Friends of Captain Jonathan Gray

“That must be the tombstone we saw in the cemetery,” Chris said. “People must have really cared about him, to worry about bringing in a tombstone so long after he had died.”

I nodded in agreement.

It wasn't until the middle of the night that I finally figured out what was wrong with the whole situation.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Grave Undertaking

I sat up in bed. “Chris, wake up.”

She sprang to a sitting position. “Is he here?” she asked eagerly. She looked around for Captain Gray.

“No one's here but me,” I said, feeling cranky.

“Then why did you wake me up?” She sounded even crankier than I felt.

“Because I know where the treasure is. At least, I think I do.”

She turned and looked at me with new interest. “Where?”

I told her.

First she laughed. Then she told me I was crazy.

I explained my reasons.

She still thought I was crazy. But she didn't sound quite so certain.

“Anyway,” I said, “we have to go get it. Now.”

That pushed her the other way; now she was sure I was crazy. “Permanently around the bend,” as she put it.

“But don't you see?” I persisted. “We can't possibly dig it up in the daytime. If anyone ever caught us, we'd get in incredible trouble.”

“With good reason. It's sick!”

“No, it's not. Captain Gray wants us to locate the treasure. I'm sure of it.”

“Well, why don't we just get someone to dig it up for us? We'll tell them what you figured out, and …” Her voice trailed off. Chris knew as well as I did that no grown up was going to go dig up a hundred and twenty-five-year-old grave just because some eleven-year-old kid thought there was a treasure buried in it.

It was us, or no one.

“Well,” said Chris, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, “if we're going to do it, we might as well do it now.”

Me and my big mouth! I was so happy about figuring out where the treasure was, I hadn't really thought about what it would mean if we decided to go get it. Now that I had Chris all excited, I started to realize just what I had gotten myself into.