High-Speed Showdown (3 page)

“Oh, Dennis, darling,” she cried. “Are you sure you're all right? I can't believe that happened.”

Joe looked over at Frank and rolled his eyes. Had Susan forgotten that she was the one who'd shoved her ex-husband into the water?

“Oh, it happened, all right,” Dennis replied grimly. “Too bad these fellows rescued me. Your trial would have put your photo on page one of every supermarket tabloid in America.”

Susan's face hardened. “That's not very funny, Dennis,” she declared. “You know very well that I didn't mean—”

Dennis cut in. “To murder me? No, I suppose not. Not in front of all these witnesses, anyway. But I'd better remember to stay out of dark alleys.”

Susan glared at him, then glared at Dave, as well, who was still supporting Dennis. Frank saw Dave redden and look down at his feet. He must be wondering what he'd gotten into, and how to get out of it.

Susan turned abruptly and marched away.

“That wasn't a very fair accusation, Dennis,” Magnusson said.

Dennis's shoulders slumped. “No, I guess not,” he said. He reached up and brushed a lock of damp black hair off his forehead. “I'll have to apologize . . . but not just yet.”

He turned to Frank and said, “I owe you one, buddy, you and your friends. I know Dave here, but we haven't met, have we?”

Magnusson stepped in and introduced Joe and Frank, adding, “They're eager to find out more about offshore racing. If you have a little time to give them . . . ”

“You bet,” Dennis said. “Tell you what—are you guys free around two this afternoon? I'm taking
Adelita
out for a practice run. How'd you like to come along for the ride?”

“That'd be great,” Frank said in the same moment that Joe said, “Terrific.”

“Okay, it's a date,” Dennis said with a grin. “Two o'clock, slip B-forty-eight. Now, I'd better go get into some dry clothes. Wouldn't it be awful to blow the big race because I caught a cold?”

“And I'd better get back to my duties,” Magnusson said. “Frank, Joe, stop by to see me later, if you have a moment.”

“We'll do that,” Frank promised.

As soon as Dennis and Magnusson walked away, Dave turned to Frank and Joe and asked, “Hey,
just what went down here? I didn't want to ask before.”

“Dennis accused his ex-wife, Susan, of tampering with his boat engine,” Frank explained. “Then she got mad and pushed him, and he tripped and fell in. That's the second shoving match we've seen since we got here. Are these boat races usually so lively?”

Dave wrinkled his forehead. “Not at all,” he replied. “People do their best to win, sure. That's what races are about. But once it's over with, everybody's usually real buddy-buddy. After all, it's a pretty small circle, offshore racing. Everybody knows everybody, even though we come from all over the map. These meets are our big chance to see each other. No, there's definitely something weird going on around here.”

“Any idea what exactly?” Joe asked.

“Just a mood,” Dave said with a shake of his head. “I can't really say more than that.”

“Well, if you hear anything, will you pass it along to us?” Frank asked. When Dave gave him a curious look, he said, “We don't want our guests to go home with a bad impression of Bayport.”

Judging from his expression, Frank could tell that Dave still thought he was a bit off the wall. But Dave nodded and said, “Sure. What are you guys up to now?”

“I'd better go home and change,” Frank said. “But we'll come right back. And we'll keep an eye
out for you. This is all new to us, so I'm sure we're going to have a lot of questions.”

Dave laughed. “Well, I hope I have a few answers, then. Okay, catch you later.” He turned and walked slowly out along the dock, studying the boats on either side as he went.

Frank watched him for a few moments, then said, “It must be rough for him, coming to a race like this and not being able to take part in it. Come on, let's head for home. I don't mind wet jeans so much, but wet,
oily
jeans . . . ”

 • • •

Joe was glancing through the mail when Frank came downstairs after showering and changing. Frank headed straight for the computer and reached for a boxed set of CD-ROMs. Joe recognized it. He and Frank had bought it only a couple of weeks earlier. It was supposed to contain every telephone directory in the entire United States. So far, they hadn't had a chance to test it.

“What are you doing?” Joe asked. “Trying to look up some girl you used to know?”

“This is strictly business,” Frank replied. “The instructions claim we can use this gadget as a reverse directory.”

“Meaning?”

“You input a telephone number, and it tells you who it belongs to,” Frank explained.
“If
it's listed, of course. You can even search by a particular address, if you want.”

Joe's eyes widened. “So if we have a number,” he said, “we can find out not only whose it is, but we can find out who his neighbors are? This is a little scary, Frank.”

Frank grinned. “It's the information revolution in action,” he replied. “And as usual, the hardest part will be figuring out how to make it work. Here, why don't you look over the so-called ‘Quick and E-Z User's Guide.'”

After a few minutes of study, Joe said, “I've worked out how to look up motels in Montana. Will that help?”

“Only if that leaflet came from there,” Frank said.

“And how do we find that out?” Joe demanded.

Frank showed him the copy of the threatening leaflet Magnusson had received by fax that morning. “You see that tiny line of type at the top?” he said. “Part of it's the number of the fax machine that sent it. It's in our area code, so I'm trying to put a name and address to it. Let's see what happens if I click on that bell icon.”

“Hey, okay!” Joe exclaimed, peering at the monitor screen over Frank's shoulder. “Try typing in the number.”

Frank's fingers flew. After a tiny pause, the screen rewrote itself. Frank sat back, grinning. “There we go,” he announced. “That fax came from Pinkham's Pharmacy, in the 1700 block of
Calhoun Street. Let's go find out what Mr. or Ms. Pinkham can tell us about this.”

As Frank pushed his chair back from the table, Aunt Gertrude appeared in the doorway.

“Not so fast,” she said. “You boys aren't going anywhere until I've seen you eat a good lunch. There are chicken sandwiches with my special peach chutney all ready for you.”

Frank and Joe exchanged a look. They knew better than to cross Aunt Gertrude when she was set on feeding them. She was perfectly capable of hiding the keys to the van to keep them home.

“Uh . . . thanks, Aunt Gertrude,” Joe said.

“That sounds great,” Frank added. As the words left his mouth, he realized that he meant them.

Twenty minutes later, comfortably full, the Hardys were on their way. Calhoun Street was just half a mile or so from the marina. They parked in front of Pinkham's Pharmacy and went inside. From behind the counter, a middle-aged man in a white jacket looked up and said, “May I help you?”

Frank glanced at his name badge. “I hope so, Mr. Pinkham,” he said with a smile, and showed him the leaflet. “We're trying to find out who sent us this. He forgot to put his name on it.”

Pinkham put on his glasses and peered at the leaflet, then shook his head. “Sorry,” he said.

“It was sent from here, wasn't it?” Joe asked.

“Oh, yes, right after I opened this morning,” the druggist replied. “But I can't tell you who sent it. I found it on the floor under the mail slot, with a couple of dollar bills clipped to it. There was a note that gave the number to fax it to. I thought it was a little odd, to tell you the truth, but I didn't see the harm in sending it. It was already paid for, after all.”

At Frank's request, he found the original of the leaflet and the note with Magnusson's number. The Hardys studied them, but nothing seemed to point to the sender's identity.

They were about to leave when Frank had a thought. “What time did you open this morning?”

“Nine,” the druggist told him. “But I'm always here by quarter of.”

As they drove toward the Waterside Inn, Frank said, “So the leaflet had to be put in the mail slot before eight forty-five this morning. I wonder when Connie started passing them out.”

“Not that early, I bet,” Joe said. “You think she . . . ”

“We'll ask her,” Frank replied.

They found Connie in front of the inn, handing out leaflets. This time she had a helper, a stocky guy with dark hair and thick black eyebrows.

“Hi, Frank, Joe,” Connie called when she saw the Hardys. “You guys know Angelo Losordo?”

Joe nodded. “We were in Ms. Vigotsky's history class together. How's it going, Angelo?”

“Okay so far,” Angelo said, with a hint of distrust in his voice.

Frank took the fax from his pocket and said, “Connie, will you look at this?”

She glanced at it, then shrugged. “So?”

“Do you know anything about it?” Joe asked.

“Sure. It looks like one of our leaflets that somebody scribbled on,” she replied. “So what?

“Somebody faxed it to the meet office,” Frank replied. “ ‘Polluters die.' Doesn't that sound like a threat to you?”

“Not necessarily. Maybe it just means that pollution kills. Which it does. Anyway, we've got nothing to do with this,” Connie insisted. “We don't have to fax those guys anything. We're right out here
telling
them what we have to say.”

As if to prove her point, she turned and offered a leaflet to an approaching pedestrian, a guy with brown hair. He took it, crumpled it up, and threw it on the sidewalk.

“Hey, mister,” Angelo said. “That's called littering, and it's against the law.”

“That's where this garbage belongs,” the man growled.

Frank recognized him. Barry Batten, the guy with the medallion whom Joe had tangled with earlier. Batten obviously recognized Joe, too. He clenched his fists as if getting ready for a rematch.

“I should have known you were one of these eco-kooks,” he said to Joe.

Connie stepped between them. Staring pointedly at Batten's medallion, she said, “We know about you, too.” Joe noticed she was purposely projecting her voice to attract attention. “And if you think it'll bring you good luck to wear jewelry made from a murdered whale, you are simply too gross to live.”

“Don't you threaten me!” Batten roared.

“I don't have to,” Connie replied, just as loudly. She looked around at the gathering crowd, then added, “As for your precious boat race, forget it. You might as well go home now. I'm going to make sure it'll never happen.”

4 The Tension Mounts

Frank saw a look of rage take over Barry Batten's face. He raised his right hand over his left shoulder, as if he was about to give her a backhanded slap across the face. Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw Connie's coworker, Angelo, drop into a tense crouch, preparing to jump Barry. In another moment, the argument was going to turn into an open brawl.

“Hold it,” Frank said, in a low but commanding voice. He put his arm out horizontally, blocking Angelo. “Joe, take Connie somewhere quiet where you can talk.”

“Frank Hardy, if you think you can order
me
—” Connie began.

“Butt out, pal,” Barry said, overriding her. “I can handle her kind anytime.”

Frank wanted to roll his eyes in frustration. That's what happened when you tried to separate two angry people—more often than not, they both decided to turn on you.

Dave Hayman appeared. Even though he was half Barry's age, he looked just as disgusted as Frank was by the childish behavior of his fellow racer. “Come on, Barry,” he urged, taking his arm. “All you're doing is giving these people the attention they want. Get into a fight with them, and you'll watch them being interviewed on the evening news, spouting all that stuff about how boat racing is bad for the environment. Is that what you want?”

Barry hesitated. “Well . . . ”

Dave lowered his voice, but Frank caught the word “champion.” Whatever Dave said, it worked. After glaring once more at Connie, Angelo, and Joe, Barry turned away and walked up the path toward the inn. Dave caught Frank's eye and gave an almost unnoticeable wink, then followed Barry.

“The nerve of that dude,” Angelo said, from behind Frank. “Why'd you stop me from decking him?”

“I'm glad he did,” Connie said before Frank could reply. “That would have been horrible for
our image. The whole purpose of Earthquest is to make people more responsible citizens of the natural world. We're not going to do that by starting fistfights.”

“Sometimes you can't do one without the other,” Angelo said sullenly. “Do you really think you can reason with somebody like Batten?”

“I know we have to try,” Connie told him. “And if he
won't
listen to reason, we'll make sure people know it.”

Frank was very interested by this glimpse of Connie's strategy—or at least of what she wanted people like him and Joe to believe was her strategy. He made a mental note to find time for a longer talk with her. Right now, however, he was more concerned with the faxed threat. Could that, too, be part of Connie's strategy? To disrupt the boat races in the name of the environment?

“You wrote this leaflet especially for the powerboat meet, didn't you?” he said, in what he hoped was a casual voice.

Connie frowned. “Well, sure. Why?”

“How long have you been giving them to people? Was today the first day?” Frank continued.

“Hey, what is this?” Connie demanded. Her frown deepened.