The Missing Skull Read online

  THE

  MISSING

  SKULL

  JOHN WILSON

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2016 John Wilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Wilson, John (John Alexander), 1951–, author

  The missing skull / John Wilson.

  (The seven prequels)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1158-4 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1159-1 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1160-7 (epub)

  I. Title.

  PS8595.i5834m57 2016 jc813'.54 c2016-900487-2

  c2016-900488-0

  First published in the United States, 2016

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016933637

  Summary: In this middle-grade novel, Steve travels to northern Ontario and ends up looking for the skull of a famous painter.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by iStock.com

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  19 18 17 16 • 4 3 2 1

  To the memory of Tom Thomson.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  “But they’re the best band in the world. Dave Grohl is awesome, and this’ll be my only chance to see them.” I’m trying to keep my voice calm, but it’s tough. If I start to sound whiney, Mom will overreact and I won’t have a prayer of going to the Foo Fighters concert. I have to show her how rational and mature I can be.

  “I’m sure they’ll come back when you’re a bit older,” Mom says as she begins to unload the dishwasher.

  The dishwasher’s a good sign. If she’s doing something while she talks to me, it means she’s not taking it all too seriously, so I have a hope. “The Foo Fighters are famous all around the world,” I say slowly. “They tour everywhere. It might be years before they return to Toronto.”

  “They have an awfully silly name,” Mom says, rattling cutlery into the drawer.

  Mom’s sudden change of direction throws me momentarily, but how dangerous can a band with a silly name be?

  Mom turns from pulling dinner plates out of the dishwasher and looks at me. I think I’ve made it. She’s going to say yes, but then her brow furrows. “You’re awfully young to be going to a rock concert on your own.”

  My stomach lurches at Mom’s mention of my age. This is the big stumbling block. I throw out all my best arguments at once. “My birthday’s coming up. I’ll be thirteen by the time of the concert. You could drop me off and pick me up afterward. I’ll have my cell with me, so I can call when I get to my seat, at the intermission and at the end. Besides, I won’t be going alone. Sam will come with me.” This last is stretching the truth a bit. Sam is probably going through exactly the same process as I am right now, but we decided that if we each presented the other as being allowed to go, it would increase our chances.

  “Grohl’s amazing. He writes most of the band’s songs, he’s a multi-instrumentalist, and he’s played with everybody. Including Paul McCartney,” I add, knowing he’s Mom’s favorite singer. She looks interested, and I feel confident. I should probably shut up at this point, but sometimes my mouth just runs off on its own. “He used to be the drummer with Nirvana.”

  Mom doesn’t know many modern bands—she’s more of a Beatles or Rod Stewart sort of fan—but she has heard of Nirvana. “Didn’t the singer from that band, something Cocaine, kill himself?”

  “Kurt Cobain,” I correct softly.

  Mom goes quiet and stares at me. I hold my breath. She shakes her head. “You’re just a bit too young, Steven. Maybe in a couple of years.”

  “It’s not fair,” I say. I’m speaking too loud, but I’m disappointed and angry at having worked hard for nothing. “I never get to do anything. You’d let DJ go to the concert. You let him go to Central America at spring break.” I’m standing now, my fists clenched and my anger building as much at my perfect brother as at Mom. “DJ gets to do anything he wants.”

  “That’s not fair, Steven.” Mom’s standing by the open dishwasher door, a sparkling casserole dish in her hand. “You know DJ wasn’t on his own. Your grandfather took him for a treat.”

  “It was almost like being on his own.” I say it bitterly, though secretly I’m disappointed that I haven’t been taken anywhere yet. “If anything had gone wrong, what could Grandfather have done? He’s old.”

  I turn and storm off to my room. Mom calls my name, but I ignore her. I try to slam my door dramatically, but the effect is spoiled by the pile of T-shirts and jeans spilling out into the hallway. I kick them out of the way, push the door shut and collapse onto my bed. Before I even have a chance to feel sorry for myself, the door opens and my annoying twin brother, DJ, pokes his head inside. “You and Mom having a fight?” he asks.

  “Noooo,” I say.

  “It’s about that dumb concert you and that nerdy kid Sam want to go to, isn’t it?”

  “Sam’s not nerdy just because he’s into Warhammer.”

  “So it’s not nerdy to spend your life on your own, painting monsters and then sitting around a big table with other nerds playing with them?”

  I want to defend my friend, but when DJ describes Sam’s hobby that way, it does sound nerdy. I change the topic. “Foo Fighters are cool. Just because you’re into dead guys like Elvis and old wrinkly dudes like the Stones doesn’t mean that everybody else is dumb.” I emphasize this point by hurling a pair of balled-up socks at DJ.

  He ducks out the door, but a moment later his head reappears. “Elvis is the King,” he says and closes the door before I can find something else to throw at him.

  I drag out my phone and call Sam. He answers right way. “Any luck?” I ask.

  “Nah,” Sam says. “Mom says I’m too young to go on my own.”

  “Same here,” I say.

  “I even suggested that Dad come with us so we wouldn’t be on our own, but he said he would rather have his teeth pulled out without anesthetic.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah. Still, maybe there’ll be a big game night on the same day, so I’ll go to that instead. You should take up gaming, Steve. Warhammer’s sooo cool.”

  “I’ll think about it, Sam. Talk to you soon.”

  I hang up and sit, thinking. I’m annoyed at not being allowed to go to the Foo Fighters concert, but I knew it was a long shot. What’s really bothering me is DJ.

  At spring break, Grandfather took him to Central America for a holiday. It isn’t that I want to hang out for a week with my grandfather. Sure, he did some cool stuff
when he was young, but he’s an old guy now, and I can’t see him and me wanting to do the same thing on holiday. It’s DJ who bugs me. He’s been unbearable in the months since he came back, saying what a wonderful time he had but refusing to give me any details. He won’t even tell me what country he went to, saying that I’d just blabber about it to Mom, and he doesn’t want her worrying about the cool stuff he did—like he discovered pirate treasure or something. Still, he did go somewhere, and anywhere in Central America has to have been better than what I’m doing, which is hanging out all summer in Toronto, with only my paper route and Sam for excitement.

  When Grandfather took DJ, he said my turn would come because he planned to take all six of his grandsons on a special trip when we were around twelve or thirteen. It’s almost time to go back to school, and he hasn’t said another word about it. I drag over my laptop and pull up a Foo Fighters video on YouTube. At least it’ll distract me from thinking that I might have to spend the night of the concert gaming with Sam and his nerdy buddies.

  TWO

  When the doorbell rings, I don’t get up to answer it. I know it’s Grandfather showing up for lunch, and Mom will get to the door first anyway. Then they’ll sit and talk about family for half an hour. Mom will call me when lunch is ready. So the knock on my door comes as a surprise.

  The door opens and Grandfather steps in. He’s wearing a dark suit and red tie, as if lunch with Mom, DJ and me is some sort of big deal, and he’s holding a padded envelope under one arm. His hair is white, neatly brushed, and when he smiles at me, the wrinkles that cover his face deepen even more. Grandfather’s in his eighties, but he keeps himself in shape and doesn’t even use a cane. His mind is sharp, and he can easily beat us all at Scrabble and Cranium. He claims it’s because he’s spent his life doing crossword puzzles. He’s the oldest person I know, but when I look in his eyes, there’s a sparkle that says he doesn’t feel that way inside.

  “Hi, Steve,” he says. “Well, you’ve finally got your room exactly the way you like it,” he adds, glancing around at the mess on my floor that Mom is always trying to get me to clean up.

  I’m about to say something about this being my space so I can keep it any way I like, but he sits on the end of my bed, hands me the envelope and says, “I’ve brought you a present.”

  “Thank you,” I say as I tear the end off the envelope. An old hardcover book falls onto my bed. It has a brightly colored cover and is by Rex Stout, a guy I’ve never heard of.

  “It’s Fer-de-Lance, the first Nero Wolfe mystery,” Grandfather explains. I guess it’s obvious from my face that I have no idea what he’s talking about, so he continues. “Nero Wolfe was a hero of mine when I was your age. My parents gave me this book for my birthday when it was first published in 1934, and I read every title after that, thirty-three in total, until the last one in 1975. I know you like mysteries, so I thought you might enjoy this one.”

  “Thanks,” I say again. I’m slightly disappointed that Grandfather’s given me this big old hardcover book. A paperback or even an ebook would have been more convenient, but he probably thinks he’s giving me something special since it was his so many years ago. “What does Fer-de-Lance mean?”

  “It’s the name of a highly poisonous snake. I know it’s not a very modern present, but I wanted to give you something that was precious to me and that will fill your spare time when we go on our road trip.”

  “Road trip?”

  “Sure. Remember I told you that I was going to take each of my six favorite grandsons on a special trip?”

  I nod. “But you only have six grandsons.”

  “Then that just proves you must be my favorites. Anyway, DJ’s the oldest, so he had his trip at spring break and now it’s your turn.”

  “DJ’s only fifteen minutes older than me,” I say, vaguely annoyed about Grandfather’s buying into DJ’s claim to be the older brother even though we’re twins. “And DJ got to fly to Central America,” I say, unable to hide my disappointment that all I get is a road trip.

  “True,” Grandfather says, “but I can’t give each of you the same adventure. Besides, there are no airports where we’re going.”

  “Where are we going?” A spark of interest flickers in me.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be a mystery then, would it?”

  “I suppose not,” I say, feeling drawn in despite myself. “When are we leaving?”

  “How does tomorrow sound?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No time like the present.”

  “How long will we be gone?” I ask.

  “A few days, maybe a week. And before you ask, I’ve already cleared it with your mother. Did you have any important plans?”

  “I was going to hang out with Sam. We were planning on getting tickets to a concert next month, but Mom says we’re too young to go to it.”

  “What’s the concert? I doubt it’s the Toronto Symphony at Roy Thomson Hall?”

  “No,” I say, again not quite sure what he’s talking about. “It’s the Foo Fighters at the Molson Canadian Amphitheatre.” I expect to get the puzzled reaction I get from most adults when I mention the Foo Fighters, but Grandfather surprises me.

  “Interesting,” he says. “A rock band named after what pilots in the Second World War called unidentified flying objects.”

  “How do you know that?” I blurt out before I remember that Grandfather was a pilot in World War II.

  “I know lots of things,” he says with a smile. “But lunch will be ready in five minutes. I’ll go and see if I can help set the table.”

  “Okay,” I say as he stands and tries to find a clear path to my door. As he closes the door, he adds, “Don’t forget to pack the book. It’ll be a good opportunity to discover Nero Wolfe.”

  Okay, on the one hand, I’m getting my trip, but on the other, do I really want a week with just Grandfather somewhere within driving distance of Toronto? He’s done some cool stuff and he can tell a good story, but a week of stories? It’s not like he’ll be able to play soccer with me or hike anywhere—he’d probably fall and break a hip or something. I can see boredom looming.

  I decide to give Sam a quick call. “Grandfather just arrived for lunch,” I say before Sam can launch into his latest Warhammer adventure. “He brought me a book,” I add, knowing that Sam is the only person I know who reads more than I do.

  “Cool. What’s it called?”

  “Fer-de-Lance,” I say, checking the cover. “It’s by a guy called Rex Stout. He wrote about a detective—”

  “Nero Wolfe,” Sam interrupts. “He’s this brilliant guy who’s so fat he never leaves his apartment, but he solves every crime he’s told about. He’s a genius, like Sherlock Holmes. In fact, there might be a connection. Did you notice that Nero Wolfe and Sherlock Holmes use the same vowels in the same order?”

  “Oddly, Sam, I didn’t notice that, but I’m really glad I have a friend like you who can point these things out.”

  “Thanks,” Sam says, my sarcasm totally lost on him. “Rex Stout wrote thirty-three Nero Wolfe novels. He’s been called the best mystery writer of the twentieth century. He lived in—”

  “You’re getting this off Wikipedia?” I ask.

  Again Sam’s nerdy chuckle. “Of course. I’m not old enough to have collected every piece of interesting information in my brain.”

  “It might be interesting,” I say, “but Grandfather could have bought me a new copy. He got this one for his birthday in 1934.”

  “Wow, that is old.”

  “Anyway,” I go on hurriedly before Sam can launch into some other piece of useless information, “we can’t hang out tomorrow. He’s taking me on a trip.”

  “Cool. Central America, like DJ?”

  “No, it’s a road trip.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a mystery.”

  Sam’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “A myste
rious road trip. Maybe he’s taking you to Port Hope. I hear it’s lovely at this time of year. My grandmother lives there—perhaps you could introduce them.”

  “Seriously, Sam? You’re asking me to introduce my grandfather to your crazy grandmother?”

  “Why not? It could be the romance of the century.”

  “Do you want my reasons in alphabetical order or just as they come to me?”

  “Steve! Lunch is on the table,” Mom calls from the kitchen.

  “Be right there,” I shout back. Then to Sam, “I gotta go for lunch. I’ll call when I know what exciting place I’ll be this week. Have fun in your Warhammer world.”

  “I will,” Sam says. “I’m almost done painting the Chaos War Mammoth. It’s awesome. I’ll show it to you when you come back. Something to look forward to while your grandfather’s dating my grandmother in Port Hope.”

  “Now you’re getting creepy.”

  “It’s one of my specialties. Don’t forget to take clean underwear.”

  “Goodbye, Sam,” I say as I hang up.

  THREE

  “This is the way to the cottage,” I say as I look up. We’ve been driving for about an hour and have almost reached Barrie. Another hour north will take us to Port Carling—what passes for civilization near Grandfather’s cottage. “We come up here every year. This isn’t a mystery.” We’re in Grandfather’s old Jeep Cherokee, and I’ve been busy playing tunes on my iPod and messing around on my laptop.

  “The mystery’s past the cottage,” Grandfather says. “I just need to stop off there and pick something up. Did you bring the Rex Stout book?”

  “Yeah, it’s in my bag. Why’s it so important?”

  “Oh, it’s not important. I just thought you’d enjoy it, and I know how fast you can read. I didn’t want you to run out of reading material. You up for grabbing some lunch in Port Carling or Bracebridge?” he asks before I have a chance to ask anything else.

  “Let’s go to the Old Station,” I almost yell. “Their pulled-pork sandwiches are awesome.”