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Royal says, “Sir, could you tell us about the symbol in the center?”
“It was our symbol.” He smoothes his wrinkly hand over the branded wood with the shield and the skull covered by crossbones.
Lally asks a few questions about what it means.
Mr. Higbee grunts a reply, mumbling about the Pirate Defense League.
“Did my grandfather originally bring you a piece of paper with the symbol that he drew?” Royal taps the table.
Mr. Higbee makes a dismissive sound.
“Do you know anything about Royal and Magnus’s grandmother? Emmanuella Almeida?” Lally asks carefully.
“She was a lovely woman. She and my Francie were friends. Shame she went missing.”
“Chip didn’t talk about it. Do you know anything?” Royal asks.
“Why? What are you looking for?”
“He knows,” I whisper.
“We’re looking for answers. My brothers and I are trying to piece together a puzzle Chip left us.”
I’m surprised Royal speaks so close to the truth.
Mr. Higbee grunts and then sits down at the table before fussing with something on the underside. He pulls out a shallow, hidden drawer, and passes the paper to Royal. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
Peering over Royal’s shoulder, the page is the same size as the journal paper. The sketch is distinct and matches the pencil lead rubbing from the journal too.
Royal stares at it for a long time and his thumb rubs over a sequence of numbers in the lower right-hand corner. “Did he mention what this is?”
“You should know,” Mr. Higbee says.
“Thank you, sir,” Royal says, not pressing further.
We say our goodbyes.
Just when we reach the door, Mr. Higbee hollers, “It’s not what you don’t see. It’s what you can’t see.”
“Chip off of, uh, Chip’s block,” Royal mutters at the cryptic farewell.
While we walk back to town, I think about Chip’s will and what he left each of the boys.
“Why do you suppose your grandfather left Ryan a pen with a plume?”
“Maybe it was a special pen,” Lally says. “Special because he used it to draw that symbol.”
I shake my head. “That was done in pencil.”
“So is this number down here,” Royal points to the journal page Mr. Higbee gave us.
I shrug, not sure why I’m so hung up on paper and pens.
“Should we still try the others—Mr. Williams, Mrs. Lipman, and Mrs. Cross?” Lally asks.
“Actually, look.” I point to the bench overlooking the water, dedicated to Mr. Cross.
The three of them sit there as if expecting us.
