Terror at High Tide (10 page)

“We're looking for background checks on three men, Con,” Joe said. “Roberto Scarlatti, Harrison Cartwright, and Jonah Ferrier. Anything you have on them would be much appreciated.”

“I'll see what I can do, Joe,” Con said. “Expect a call back in about an hour.”

“Thanks, Con,” Joe said. “You're a real pal.” Joe hung up, then turned to Frank. “Maybe we should call the dune buggy dealer while we're waiting to hear back from Con.”

“Good idea. Ferrier's secretary told us the dealer's name: Freddie Applegate.” Frank pulled out a phone book from a shelf under the phone and leafed through the listings for the letter
A.
“Here it is—home and business. Since it's Sunday, let's try his home number first.”

Frank dialed Applegate's number. When Applegate answered, Frank introduced himself and told the dealer what he needed: the names of all the people who had bought blue dune buggies with red lobster insignias from him. After jotting down the information, Frank thanked Applegate and hung up.

“So, what's up?” Joe asked.

“Applegate said that he only painted four blue dune buggies with those lobster designs,” Frank said. “He sold all of them—one to Jonah Ferrier and the other three to names I didn't recognize. Applegate also mentioned that the dune buggies could then have been sold secondhand, but he wouldn't have those records.”

“We could try to chase the other three people down,” Joe suggested.

“I'm getting tired of wild-goose chases,” Frank said. “Let's head over to the
Island News
first. We might find some old clippings there about the
Ebony Pearl.
I have a nagging suspicion that the shipwreck somehow relates to the museum theft and the kidnapping, and if we can find more pieces of the puzzle—”

“We might be able to crack this case,” Joe finished with a grin. “Come on—let's do it.”

Ten minutes later the Hardys were sitting in the library at the
Island News,
thanks to a quick call from Callie to the librarian okaying their
visit. Huddling over the microfiche machine, Frank and Joe reviewed articles about the
Ebony Pearl
that had appeared in the
Island News
forty years earlier.

“Man,” Joe said, “look at this. It says that all of the ship's officers went down with the ship—the captain, plus the first and second mates, and the purser—”

“That's the rule when a ship sinks,” Frank cut in. “Passengers go first into the lifeboats. The captain is always the last to leave the ship.”

“And here's a photo of the crew,” Joe said. “The captain's name was Ross Harper,” he read from the caption. “The first mate was Luis Rodriguez, the second mate was Henry Zukerman, and—Frank, listen to this—the purser's name was Carter Harris. He was twenty-three years old.” Joe looked up from the paper. “Frank, does that name ring a bell?”

Frank sat up straight as he considered Joe's question. “Carter Harris,” he said. “That sounds sort of like Harrison Cartwright, with the first and last names switched.”

Frank leaned over the microfiche machine and studied the photograph. “If this man Carter Harris were alive today, he'd be in his early sixties—same age as what Cartwright would be.”

“There's
got
to be a connection,” Joe said with
mounting excitement. “I mean, this guy in the picture sort of looks like Cartwright—though it's hard to tell because forty years have gone by.”

“Let's go back to the Great White Whale and wait for the background checks from Con,” Frank said. “Then we'll head to Cartwright's. There might be a hideout on the property we couldn't see from the air. Plus, there's the eastern edge of the cranberry bog still to search.”

“Good plan,” Joe said, pushing back his chair. “Let's move.”

Back at the Great White Whale, Frank and Joe were walking through the front door when they heard the telephone ringing. Frank sprinted across the lobby and lunged for the receiver. “Hi, Con, thanks for getting back to us,” he said, catching his breath.

Frank was silent for a full minute, scribbling notes as he listened. “We owe you one, Con,” Frank said, and hung up. Turning to Joe, Frank recapped what he had just heard. “Con told me that Harrison Cartwright bought a house on Nantucket thirty years ago, so we know he's been here for that long. But there's no record of his background before that—where he lived, or anything.”

“Interesting,” Joe said. “Maybe Cartwright
is
Harris. After all, the cuff link was found near his property, and Scarlatti said it could have been a
ship officer's. Maybe Mr. Geovanis pulled off Cartwright's cuff link while he was being abducted.”

Frank looked thoughtful. “Cartwright has part of his little finger missing. That's the kind of thing that would make a real impression on a ten-year-old kid. Could Mr. Geovanis have recognized Harris after all these years?”

“And Harris didn't want to be recognized—so he kidnapped Mr. Geovanis?” Joe shrugged. “Sounds possible, but who knows?”

“I wish we could get into the museum and look around for Mr. Geovanis's manuscript,” Frank said. “Alicia's right—I'll bet it would clue us in to what's going on. But remember, the police have closed up the museum.”

“That's never stopped us.” Joe's blue eyes twinkled. “Let's get in later.”

“If we don't find answers at Cartwright's, maybe we'll have to. Though odds are the thief stole the hard copy of the manuscript from the shelves and deleted it from the computer. I don't remember seeing any manuscripts in all that mess—just papers and files.”

Joe chewed his lip as he thought. “What about the other suspects, Frank? Did Con tell you anything about them?”

“They're just your typical hardworking tax-paying citizens—nothing special in their back
grounds, no police records. Scarlatti and Ferrier are under forty, so they're too young to have been on the
Ebony Pearl.
There's no obvious connection between them and the ship. But they're still not off the hook—Mr. Geovanis's disappearance may have nothing to do with the ship.”

“Let's head over to Cartwright's,” Joe said. “We need to ask him a few more questions. But first give a call to Alicia—we have to borrow her Jeep.”

“Good thinking,” Frank said, picking up the phone. “We've learned the hard way that mopeds are no match for a dune buggy.”

Half an hour later Frank and Joe were in Alicia's Jeep, heading toward Cartwright's place in a thickening fog. The thunderstorms had finally blown out to sea, and the morning air was still and humid. The sky was a steel gray color, and blankets of mist shrouded the fields and sea.

“There's not much chance the sun will burn this fog off,” Frank muttered, flicking on his headlights. “It's too thick.”

He turned left into Cartwright's driveway, a narrow rutted road that ran between tangled masses of trees and vines. After driving about a quarter of a mile, Frank saw Cartwright's enormous house rising up on a bluff overlooking the water.

“Wow,” Joe commented, taking in the house
and the Jaguar convertible pulled up by the front door. “Cartwright sure isn't hurting for cash.”

“If Cartwright was in fact the ship's purser,” Frank said, “then he would have been responsible for the passengers' valuables. He could have stolen jewels and money from the safe before the ship went down.”

“And lived off his ill-gotten gains ever since,” Joe said. “Using a new identity so no one would know.”

“It does make sense. By the way, Alicia doesn't know why Cartwright's missing part of his finger—I asked her this morning,” Frank said. He brought the Jeep to a stop next to the Jaguar. Then he and Joe climbed out and strode up to Cartwright's front door. Frank used the brass door knocker, then the brothers waited impatiently for an answer.

“Someone has to be home—there's a car here,” Joe pointed out.

“But no one's coming to the door,” Frank said, peering through a window.

“Let's head over to those trees by the eastern edge of the cranberry bog,” Frank suggested. “The trees Bud couldn't get to.”

Frank and Joe hopped into the Jeep and drove back down the long driveway. After parking the Jeep on the side of the main road, they stepped out and jogged down a dirt road that cut along
the eastern side of the bog. Soon a narrow patch of trees and brush appeared about twenty feet ahead on the left. The trees were dense, their leaves dripping with moisture in the fog.

“I can't see too far,” Joe said, “just the trees nearest me.” Glancing around, he caught a glimpse of something dark and square to his left. “Frank, come here,” he called. “I think I see a shed.”

Joe heard a roaring noise, like someone revving the engine of a car. The sound was coming from a break in the trees. At that instant a blue dune buggy with a red lobster insignia zoomed out of the brush. A man wearing a black ski mask was at the wheel.

“Frank,” Joe called, “look out!” His heart hammering, Joe raced for the Jeep, with Frank right behind him. “We're almost there,” he called as he saw the main road before him.

But before the Hardys could reach the Jeep, the dune buggy roared up next to them, blocking their way. With a rush of fear Joe realized that the dune buggy was corralling them. Like a cowboy herding cattle, the man was driving them right back into the bog.

Joe knew their only hope for escape was for a car to come along the road at that instant, but there was nothing in sight. Running back down the rutted road, Joe stumbled on a loose rock.
With a sinking sensation, he realized that the dune buggy had stopped right next to him.

The man leaped out of the dune buggy and faced Joe squarely, blocking the path to the main road. Joe saw a glint of silver. The man had a knife, and he looked ready to use it!

Joe lunged at the man, jabbing him in the chest with his elbow. Stunned, the man reeled backward, knocked off balance. Joe lunged for the man and yanked off his ski mask. It was Harrison Cartwright.

In an instant Cartwright recovered. Springing up, he came at Joe with his knife. Joe scuttled behind the dune buggy, then landed Cartwright a surprise kick to the side.

Cartwright fell down, dropping his knife. But before Joe could kick it out of the way, Cartwright jumped up, pushing Joe off balance toward the bog.

This guy's in good shape, Joe thought, grimacing while he struggled to fight him off. Joe felt his
left leg slipping down the side of the ditch toward the soupy water. He had to do something fast—if he fell into the bog, Cartwright could easily nail him.

Making a final effort, Joe dug a toehold in the dirt with his sneaker. Regaining his balance, he brought his leg back up and kicked his assailant, knocking him down. Then Joe heaved Cartwright into the bog.

Joe didn't wait around to hear the splash. “Frank!” he yelled, looking frantically down the dirt road. No answer.

Joe heard the squeal of tires, then something red flashed into view at the top of the rutted road. It was Frank at the wheel of the Jeep.

“Am I glad to see you!” Joe said as he vaulted over the passenger seat door. “I didn't know what happened. Are you okay?”

“That joker came at me with the buggy,” Frank said. “I dodged it just in time, but I hit the ground hard. I'm okay, though.”

“That joker happens to be Cartwright. I pulled off his mask. Then I pushed him into the bog.”

Frank shot a glance at Joe. “It's just a matter of minutes then before he climbs
out
of the bog. And now that we know who he is, we'd better get out of here.”

Gunning the engine, Frank drove down the
dirt road just as Cartwright, dripping wet, was dragging himself from the swampy water.

“We've got to get to that shed before Cartwright and see if Mr. Geovanis is there,” Frank said. “Do you remember where it is, Joe?”

Joe peered into the fog, trying to make out the dark boxlike shape he'd seen behind the row of trees. But everything looked the same in the bleak misty landscape. “We're going too fast, Frank. Maybe we passed it.”

Glancing back over his shoulder, Joe caught his breath. Harrison Cartwright was at the wheel of the dune buggy, and he was gaining on them fast.

“Oh, no,” Joe said. “Cartwright looks like one angry dude. Why do I get the feeling he's not finished with us? Floor it, Frank, or he'll catch us.

Pressing the accelerator hard, Frank drove the Jeep full speed ahead. “I'd like to get help from the police,” Frank said, “but there's no way I can turn around. I wonder where this road leads?”

“Alicia's cell phone!” Joe cried. “It's in the glove compartment. We can call for help.”

“Nope,” Frank said grimly. “She put the phone in her backpack when she first got the call from her dad. Remember—she said that she wanted a phone with her at every moment?”

The Hardys were silent for a minute, listening to the roar of the dune buggy some fifty feet behind them. “We must have passed that shed a while ago,” Joe said. “There aren't any more trees on our left, and I don't see the bog, either.”

Frank glanced around. Mist blanketed the land to either side. All Frank could see was his own Jeep, the dune buggy, and a short patch of road ahead. “We must be on the moors,” Frank said.

“How much gas do you have?” Joe asked. “I wouldn't want to get stranded out here with just Mr. Charm behind us for company.”

Frank glanced at the gas gauge. “It's half full. I think we're okay—as long as this road brings us back to civilization in the near future.”

“Whoa,” Joe said. “Look sharp, Frank.”

Twenty feet ahead—as far as Frank could see in the fog—the road took a sudden turn to the left. “Hang on, Joe.”