Confessions of a Teen Sleuth (8 page)

We were silent for a long moment and then Ned asked, "So what now?"

I considered this. "We take some time. We reevaluate."

He nodded, and I could see all of our youthful dreams in the reflection of his eyes. "I still love you."

"I love you too," I told him. But I wasn't sure I meant it.

VII THE HAIGHT-ASHBURY MYSTERY, 1967

N
ancy, you did it again!" exclaimed Captain Tweedy admiringly, as he led away another shoplifter from Burk's Department
Store. I smiled winningly and, with a self-effacing shake of my bottle-titian hair, retorted, "Just doing my job, Captain!"

I had been working as a store detective at Burk's for almost three years and had single-handedly apprehended more than five
hundred shoplifters. In those days no one paid much attention to anyone over thirty, so as a woman in her late fifties, it
was easy for me to follow suspects unnoticed. Despite my efforts, theft in the store continued to be a problem, as long-haired
youths streamed through town on their way to counterculture hubs such as Indian City and Ann Arbor.

It had been six years since I had finally left Ned and Ned Junior. We had tried couples therapy, encounter groups, and even
a Masters and Johnson seminar. In the end nothing had helped me overcome the feeling that I just didn't have what it took
to be married. I had broken Ned's heart, and in exchange I granted him primary custody. He loved Ned Junior as much as I did,
and in the end I could not bear to leave my devastated special friend alone. I eventually purchased the industrial flat that
George had been renting out since she had left town in 1955 to get her doctorate at the University of Chicago. It was here
I began my late-middle-age renaissance. I even bought a 5th Dimension album and learned how to macrame.

Ned Junior had graduated from Berkeley and chosen to remain west, settling in an area of San Francisco called Haight-Ashbury.
Our relationship had been somewhat strained during his late teen and college years, as I tried to make a career in store detecting,
but we had ultimately remained close. My analyst said that I had an unusual interest in people and situations that promised
mystery and adventure, and that this led to trouble coping with the mundane activities of ordinary existence. He called it
"teen sleuth syndrome" and even wrote a paper on it that was well received at several national conventions. The heart of the
matter was this: I was obsessed by mystery. Because of this, I found it difficult to take time off from store detecting, which
offered me a multitude of small capers in need of solving. As a result, though I spoke to Ned Junior often by phone, I had
yet to visit him in California. George, who had always taken an interest in Ned Junior, became convinced that I should tear
myself away from my job and surprise Ned Junior with a visit.

"There is more to life than shoplifting!" she had exclaimed over the phone. "And much of it is in San Francisco."

I liked the idea of a surprise visit. It seemed as if it might have the potential to be thrilling, while allowing me to be
secretive and maintain an aura of mystery. I was also a little sore from being on my feet all day. So I agreed.

When my plane landed in San Francisco, I collected my old blue suitcase and got in line for a shuttle bus. As you may be aware,
at that time San Francisco was a great gathering place for young people from all over the country. These young people grew
their hair long and wore untailored, unironed clothing. While I had briefly encountered bohemian types shoplifting at Burk's,
I was looking forward to experiencing the counterculture firsthand. I had stood in line only a few minutes when I was approached
by one of its representatives.

"Hey, sister," asked a shaggy-haired youth behind me in line, "where are you headed?"

I told him the address of the house that Ned Junior shared with several other young adults.

His saucer-sized eyes lit up. "That's in the Haight, man. That's where we're headed." He shot a thumb behind him to three
other bohemian-clad youths. "Do you have any bread?"

"Bread?" I asked.

"Money, man. 'Cause Jim has a van in short-term parking. We just don't have enough gas to get across town, dig? You throw
in some bread and we'll take you to the Haight."

I climbed carefully into the back of Jim's red VW microbus, modestly adjusting my paisley skirt as I tucked my orthopedic
shoes under my legs and took a seat on a stained mattress.

One of the two girls in the youthful company took a seat beside me, grinning widely. "I'm Starfire," she announced. "Jim and
I have a pad together. Coyote, there"—she pointed to the shaggy-haired youth who had approached me—"just got back from five
months in Europe."

I glanced at the other girl, a young teenager with a freckled face and short, sandy curls, who sat curled glumly against the
door. "And who's that?" I asked.

Starfire shrugged. "Oh, that's Foxy. We picked her up hitching on the way here. She's from a farm in New York or something."
Starfire leaned a little closer to me. "There are a lot of runaways here," she confided.

Foxy looked up at me, her blue eyes flashing in defiance. Of course I would have known her pert nose and rolled-up dungarees
anywhere. This wasn't just any runaway; this was Foxy Belden-Frayne, the daughter of Crabapple Farm's own sleuth, Trixie Belden.

The bus came to a stop at the corner of Haight and Ashbury. There was a great deal of activity outside. Young people in colorful
dress filled the streets. A ragtag marching band was performing while a group of young women danced without their tops.

"There's some sort of parade," Jim informed me. "We're going to have to let you out here. Just walk a block that way." He
pointed up a sloping hill.

I leaned toward Foxy. "Do you have a place to stay?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"You can stay with me." I held out my hand. "Come on."

She hesitated for a moment, then took my hand, and we climbed out of the bus into the Summer of Love.

"Do your parents know where you are?" I asked Foxy as we negotiated our way through the circus atmosphere of the Haight.

She clenched her teeth. "Jeepers, no!" she declared with a dismayed grimace. "They understand me about as much as a bobcat
understands a copperhead!" She tossed her curls defiantly.

"Listen," I replied, "I've met your mother. She must be worried sick."

"I know I'm a goop," Foxy shrugged. "Moms and Daddy are tops, and Aunt Honey is the best. But sometimes a girl just has to
get out on her own, you know?" Her blue eyes snapped with excitement as she surveyed the colorful people and shops all around
us. "We just don't see this sort of thing in Westchester County."

We came to a tall Victorian that stood in some disrepair next to a noodle shop. A large banner with a peace symbol painted
on it adorned the front window. I checked the address in my purse. This was it.

Foxy and I climbed the rickety steps of the house. The doorbell was not working, so I rapped on the oval window of the front
door. In a few minutes, a bearded, long-haired young man appeared, rubbing his eyes. I recognized his ensemble as typical
of the so-called hippie scene: blue jeans, an Indian-style shirt, a bandana tied around his forehead, and no shoes.

I put on my most dazzling smile. "Hello," I declared brightly, "I'm looking for Ned Junior. Please tell him that I have come
to call on him."

The youth blinked several times. "Mom?" he asked.

I examined the youth for clues. His hair
was
titian. "Ned Junior?" I asked. "Is that you?"

He looked stricken. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I wanted to surprise you," I explained. "I'm here for a week. Aren't you going to invite us in?" After seeing his long hair
and beard, I understood why he hadn't come home that Christmas.

"Who's that?" he asked, pointing at Foxy.

"That's Foxy Belden-Frayne."

Foxy took a small step forward. "My mom's a pretty famous detective in Westchester County, New York," she explained. She blushed
modestly. "And I'm not so bad myself."

Ned Junior swallowed hard and opened the door a little wider so we could enter.

That night we sat on the floor of the living room eating rice that one of Ned Junior's housemates had prepared with Ned Junior
and eight other young people. They all eyed me suspiciously.

A grim-looking young woman wearing a black turtleneck and blue jeans sat down next to Ned Junior. I saw her jut her chin my
direction. "Who's she again?" she demanded.

"My mom," Ned Junior replied.

The woman's brows shot up. "Nancy Drew?"

"Nancy Drew."

"Man," the woman declared, rolling her eyes, "that is so square."

Ned Junior bit his lip, eyes burning. His housemates continued to stare. "I really wish you'd called first, Mom," Ned Junior
shared for the fifth time. "We have a lot going on this week."

I sat up. "Is there a mystery? Can I help find something for you?"

He sighed. "No, Mom. We're organizing a demonstration for free speech."

"You should plant clues all over the city that people could follow to the demonstration site," I suggested.

"No, Mom. It's not a scavenger hunt. It's a protest. We're expecting thousands of people."

"Any villains?"

He groaned helplessly. "Not like the ones you mean."

"Oh." I examined my bowl of rice sadly.

"You really miss it, don't you?" Ned Junior asked softly. "Amateur detecting."

I shrugged and put on my bravest face. "There just aren't any good mysteries anymore," I replied casually.

A tall, skinny youth in a cowboy hat and Indian caftan sidled up to Foxy. "So how old are you, anyway?" he asked.

"Fifteen," Foxy told him. "I'm a Junior Bob-White."

"What's a Junior Bob-White?" the cowboy asked, confused.

Foxy grinned indulgently. "Our super-special club, of course!" She slugged him playfully on the arm and he withdrew befuddled,
rubbing the spot where she'd hit him. "Jeeps," Foxy whispered to me. "We'd never let any of these kids in the Junior Bob-Whites.
I bet they couldn't birth a foal if the mare's life depended on it!"

I awoke early the next morning and rolled up my bedsheet from the place on the floor where I had slept next to Foxy and four
strangers. The others were all still asleep, so I decided to go for a walk to get some air.

I left the house and headed down to Haight Street. It was early enough that the street traffic was sparse and many of the
small shops had yet to open. I was standing in front of a clothing store, admiring a slimming blue skirt in the window, when
I saw a reflection in the glass.

I spun around, and my heart rose in my throat. "Frank?" I asked.

Frank Hardy turned his head at his name and stood looking at me, jaw agape. He had a heavy beard and was wearing blue jeans,
a blue work shirt, and large moccasin-style boots. He wore his graying hair in a short ponytail, tied with a thin leather
strap.

"Nancy?" he muttered incredulously, his face creasing with delight.

I stepped forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek, liking the feel of his coarse full beard on my lips. "What are you
doing here?" I asked. I glanced around. "Are you undercover?"

He smiled, chagrined. "No. I left the service a few years ago. I run a free clinic down the street." He held out an arm for
me to take. "Let me show you. I'm headed there now."

I took his arm and he caught me up as we walked. "It was Vietnam that finally woke me up," he told me. "Do you remember Tom
Swift's friend Bud Barclay?"

I nodded.

"He was killed on a sortie just over a year ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Bud's death really got to me. I left as soon as I could. Moved out here. Opened this free clinic. We offer basic medical
treatment for the kids in the area. A lot of drug overdoses, that sort of thing. We're all the help a lot of these kids get."

We came to a four-story brick building on a corner. "This is it," Frank declared.

He showed me around the clinic and then took me to a nearby vegetarian restaurant for lunch. We talked for hours about our
lives. Frank told me that Joe and Iola had four children. Joe had stopped drinking and had taken over their father's private
detective agency when Fenton had died of a massive stroke—no great surprise, given all of Aunt Gertrude's high-fat cooking—while
investigating the Mystery of the Masseuse. I told Frank about Ned Junior and Senior and my longing for adventure. Frank had
never married. I asked him why.

"It just never felt right," he explained.

"What about sleuthing?" I asked. "Do you miss it?"

He was thoughtful. "It's not our world anymore, Nancy." He sighed. "It's a lot more complicated out there than when we were
young. Mysteries have changed. Villains today are not so black and white. And the technology is changing all the time. I'm
content to leave the sleuthing to the next generation. Have you heard about this kid, Encyclopedia Brown?"

"But we can be updated," I insisted. "We can be brought up to speed. I just know that we still have a place in this world
as sleuths. Just think how much more we know now than when we were sixteen!"

He smiled sadly. "People don't remember," he declared heavily.

"They do!" I insisted. "I'm recognized all the time!"

Frank put his hand on mine. "It was good seeing you," he muttered gently. "Now I should be getting to work." He slid his chair
back from the table and stood up.

I felt a catch in my throat. "Do you want to meet him?" I asked. "Ned Junior?"

Frank was silent, his face a veil of regrets. Then, slowly, he shook his head. "I don't think I'm supposed to," he murmured.

He turned and walked away. Through the restaurant window I watched him walk off, hunched, hands in his pockets, until he was
out of sight.

When I arrived back at the old Victorian, the house was in an uproar. Ned Junior met me at the door, his face stricken. He
was clutching a handwritten note. "It's Dad!" Ned Junior cried, his bearded face smeared with tears. "He's been kidnapped!"

I calmed Ned Junior down, and he and Foxy explained what had happened. Unbeknownst to me, Ned Senior had also planned a visit
to San Francisco, for a national life insurance convention. Ned Junior was expecting him to arrive that morning by cab for
a visit before proceeding to his downtown hotel. But when the cab arrived, Ned Senior was not in it. Instead, the cab driver
brought a note to the door that he said a man in a hat and overcoat had instructed him to deliver. The note, handwritten on
a white index card, read: